Stormy weather

Someone asked me recently what my daily routine was: I had a little difficulty in replying, but no difficulty in describing the start of the day, since after breakfast and a bath the dogs need to be taken out for their morning walk.  This usually involves a stroll down the steps at the end of the street to Rock-a-Nore, which is the road that runs between the cliffs and the fishermen's huts.  It peters out, after a couple of hundred yards, in a public carpark, beyond which is a rock-strewn shingle beach with sand at low tide.  I particularly like this, since on clear days you get a view east to Dungeness and west to Beachy Head.

But views have been blotted out by weather over the past couple of days: a gale force wind has been blowing and squally showers have been beating against the sea-facing wall of the Shoebox.  The storms have come up from the southwest, shot up to the North of England and today come back for another look at our part of the world.  Today we had to abandon any idea of our usual walk and take a calmer route up Tackleway and round via All Saints Street - but even so my ancient cap was blown away by the wind.

Everyone's moaning about the weather, of course: but it has given rise to some wonderful skies and changes in the light.  My little camera is a humble affair, but these two snaps give you an idea.

Antony Mair

Coastal Currents

A studio beach hut, Saint Leonard's

 

The annual visual arts festival called "Coastal Currents", which extends from 8 to 23 September, has just finished.  Covering a variety of events in Hastings and Saint Leonard's, it is yet another example of local initiative that keeps both locals and tourists happy. 

 

It is not surprising, given the quality of the light in this remarkable town, that there is a high number of artists in the population.  "Coastal Currents" gives them the opportunity to show their work, not only in specially arranged exhibitions in art galleries and other dedicated spaces, but also in the privacy of their studios, which they open to the public.

 

I was sorry to have been so taken up with other things over the 15th and 16th that I was late in trying to catch up with events: but last Saturday I took the dogs for their afternoon walk to the beach huts that are tucked away at the western end of Saint Leonard's.  Some of these are used by artists as studios, and they were showing work varying from gift cards through paintings to glasswork.  Balzac and Oscar got more than their fair share of attention, and it is not ideal trying to look at artistic creations in confined spaces with two small animals in tow, but it made for a great afternoon.  Unfortunately the heavens opened the following day, so I cowered indoors, thus failing to visit the many other studios that were open.  Next year I shall be better prepared.

 

Antony Mair

 

 

Open studio, Rock-a-Nore, Hastings

 

  



"Bronze" at the Royal Academy

 

 

The Trundholm Chariot of the Sun - c. 1500 BC -dating back to the time of the Trojan War and discovered in a Danish peat bog in 1902

(picture reproduced courtesy of the Royal Academy)

  

If you have the chance, go to the Royal Academy in London to see the Bronze exhibition, which recently opened, and which I went to while in London last week.  It brings together a vast range of objects made from bronze, spanning a period of almost four thousand years.  Some critics have objected to its lack of homogeneity, but if you treat it as an assemblage of some of the most beautiful works of art in the world I personally feel that's enough to be going on with. 

Curiously, I had never reflected on the ingenuity that had led people to discover bronze in the first place - after all, it isn't obvious that you should combine copper with tin or zinc.  Someone was very clever to discover that.  And then to learn that, fifteen hundred years before what is now referred to as "the Common Era" (BC to you and me) trade routes were so developed that bronze was marketed far and wide throughout the world - well, I'm gobsmacked.

As for the works themselves - stunning is an understatement.  Many are familiar - Rodin's "Age of Bronze", for example - but many have remained underground until recently - such as the dancing satyr, illustrated below, which forms a showstopping entrance piece.  Also very beautiful were the African bronzes loaned by the Museum of Lagos. 

If I have a criticism at all, it relates to the sheer scale of the show.  I found that I was flagging half-way through.  To see it properly requires at least two, and probably three, visits.  So book now!

Antony Mair

Dancing Satyr - netted by fishermen in 1998 from the sea bed off Sicily
(again, picture reproduced courtesy of the Royal Academy)

Perfect moments

Battle station - the upline

 

Whenever people mention moments on railway stations I think either of T. E. Lawrence mislaying his manuscript of Seven Pillars of Wisdom or of Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard in Brief Encounter: but I had a moment of perfect pleasure yesterday morning, while waiting for the London train at Battle station, which involved neither the loss of a manuscript nor the tugging of heartstrings.

 

Battle station itself is a quiet survival from earlier days: a neo-Gothic building, a timberframed platform roof with fretwork decoration, and a bridge from the "up" to the "down" platform.  In the entrance lobby there was a man selling coffee from a machine plus assorted confectionery.  Having arrived early, I bought a capuccino and an Eccles cake and retired to a bench on the platform to wait.

 

There is something about the combination of a decent capuccino and the first bite into an Eccles cake that anticipates the bliss of heaven.  The second and third bites take you right there.  To quote Pop Larkin, it was perfick.  Which led me to thinking of the elements that lead to such moments of pleasure.  In a way, the capuccino and Eccles cake were the topping of a structure of other factors going back into the past and forward into the future: I'd had one of my little poems approved two nights before at the Brighton poetry group I go to, which still left a residual glow of satisfaction; I'd succeeded in organising the parking of dogs with the sitter in Battle with sufficient time to reach the station ahead of time; it looked as if the sun might come out; and there was the pleasant anticipation of seeing friends in London, going to exhibitions at the Royal Academy (of which more another time) and the theatre in the evening.

 

What brought all of this together, though, were the capuccino and the Eccles cake.  More, please!

 

Antony Mair   



Another festival in Hastings!

 

Happy eaters at the Seafood and Wine Festival

 

 

Yet another event in Hastings this weekend, with the Seafood and Wine Festival, now in its seventh year.  Thirty or forty stands on the Stade serving food ready to eat or selling local produce, including wine from the local vineyards.  From the crowds, it was difficult to believe that this country is in anything approaching a recession.  On Saturday the sun shone, which helped, but on Sunday even a grey sky didn't seem to deter the visitors. 

 

Figures from the town council indicate that tourist revenues are up this year from last - by about five per cent.  And you certainly can't fault the good folk of Hastings for effort.  Long may it continue!

 

Antony Mair

How to make a mistake with a hotel...

Cargo "boutique hotel", Oxford Street, Southampton - drinking and dining perhaps; sleep is more difficult!

 

We made an overnight trip to Southampton on Thursday to have dinner with our old friend Jolie Mulvaney, who was passing through on the way from her house near Ribérac to stay for a few days in New York, via the Queen Mary - hence Southampton.  We'd been told that Oxford Street in Southampton was the place to go for a meal, so in the course of my research it seemed to be sensible to book into Cargo, which said on its website "Our elegant boutique bedrooms are individually designed with luxury and relaxation in mind. An eclectic mix of furnishings combined with high tech comforts provide you with a perfect home from home experience."

 

Well, never believe what you read.  Or alternatively, those who stay at Cargo come from a different place from me.  I had booked a room on the phone, specifying that it should be quiet.  We were given a small room under the eaves, which seemed fine - even if the establishment seemed to be more of a pub with rooms than what I would call a "boutique hotel".  But - luxury and relaxation?  I think not.  I woke in the middle of the night to a lurid green light shining over the door, inside the room.  There was no way of putting it out. The room itself was stiflingly hot - the owners had been thoughtful enough to supply a fan, but it didn't seem to make much impression.  About an hour after I had failed to get back to sleep because of the green light and the heat, the dustbin men came and loaded up a ton of empty bottles below us. 

 

At 7 am the fire alarm went off - sparked off, it subsequently transpired, by a guest overdoing his toast in the bar downstairs.   We had a shower in the diminutive ensuite shower room, where the interior designer had thoughtfully placed a glass shelf just above the washbasin so that you hit your head on it every time you lowered your head.  Then we went downstairs, where some perfunctory breakfast items had been arrayed - doubtless part of the luxury and relaxation supplied, for those who normally think of breakfast as an expresso and a cigarette.

 

The whole experience was dire.  The staff were nice, but untrained (if I say "Thank you" to someone I don't expect the reply "No problem", for example).  I blame myself, really, for not being more thorough.  For £95 in this country you can't expect a lot; another way in which the UK is poor value by comparison with France.  I shall be warier in future!

 

Antony Mair  

 



Manflu delays posting!

I've been laid low with manflu over the past few days - getting through a thousand handkerchiefs, wheezing and generally feeling so sorry for myself that everything else has been laid aside.  This appalling illness (female persons can refrain from comment) has prevented me reporting on the joys of a budget production of "The Magic Flute" at Saint Mary in the Castle recently - the venue for the International Composers' Festival I reported on a couple of weeks ago.

Jenny Miller is a retired opera singer living in Saint Leonard's.  She runs a summer school for young singers from her home, and, as part of this, puts on an opera performance.  This year it was "The Magic Flute" and I was, to say the least, a little apprehensive.  Saint Mary in the Castle is a beautiful setting for a concert - but staging an opera that often involves elaborate stage effects is a different matter.  And would a young person be able to sing the terrifyingly difficult arias of the Queen of the Night without falling flat on her face?

Any budget production involves a certain suspension of disbelief.  Instead of an orchestra we had a grand piano and a keyboard; for scenery a simple if dramatic screen with a central circle cut out of it; and a variety of multifunctional props - chief among them a large and billowing sheet that played so many roles that someone suggested it deserved to take a bow in its own right.

But the combination of beautiful music and accomplished singers - not a turkey among them - ensured success on the night.  Monique Klongtruadroke, from Thailand, succeeded in hitting the high notes as the Queen of the Night, and Bradley Smith's light tenor, as Tamino, was perfect for the setting. Particular mention should be made of Alice Rose Privett, Jenny Miller's daughter, whom we had heard before at a recital, and whose beautiful and expressive singing will, we hope, be heard in more glamorous venues in the future.  In the interim, seize any chance you can to hear her.

Antony Mair

Living in reduced circumstances

Corner of the "Garden", aka back yard

 

The attraction of French property is that you get so much more space for your money: and French provincial houses seem to be built on a larger footprint in any event.  Moving back to a house that is 40% of the size has taken some getting used to.  But I remain amazed by the ability of the human brain and psyche to adapt - and after three months I am so used to our smaller house that I have stopped making comparisons. 

 

You don't need to be aware of the latest discoveries of neuroscience to know that the decision to buy a house is made by the subconscious.  There is that "click" that happens when you walk into the right place.  In the case of the Shoebox, the click did seem to fly in the face of sense.  I am 65, and enjoy cooking and gardening: the Shoebox offers me a kitchen the size of a cupboard and a garden that is no more than a back yard.  What is more, at a time when my contemporaries are thinking (rather unnecessarily, I feel) of transferring to single storey dwellings, we have moved to a house on four floors.

 

So why did we do it?  For two main reasons.  First, the location.  We are on raised ground, in the lee of the East Hill.  This means we can stroll into the centre of the Old Town in two minutes in one direction, while in the reverse direction and in more or less the same amount of time we can be in the wide open space of the Country Park.  Secondly, the light.  The light in Hastings is hard and glittering when the sun comes out - as it does quite a lot.  The sea is always changing colour.  And each of our rooms other than the cupboard kitchen has windows on two walls, so this wonderful light just pours in, while we look out onto fabulous views of the Old Town and the sea..

 

Meanwhile the kitchen is to be totally rejigged, which I am looking forward to.  And the garden - well, I'm still getting used to that.  However, if we are in one sense reduced, there are already a lot of compensations.  The subconscious is rarely wrong. 

 

Antony Mair

     

Fresh from the Paralympics

Goalball - Iran -v- Algeria

 

A kind friend got us a couple of tickets for a goalball match at the Paralympics this morning, so we parked the dogs at their local hotel yesterday afternoon and went up to London for the night in order to be at the Olympic Park bright-eyed and bushytailed this morning.

 

We had watched a fair amount of the Olympics on the television, but were not prepared for the sheer scale of the venue: the investment has been colossal.  The various locations for the events are in some cases a good twenty minutes' walk from each other, but when you bear in mind the size of the crowds that has to be accommodated the space is not too large.  The architecture of the buildings themselves is in some cases stunning - the main stadium is of course impressive because of its vast size, but the curves of the velodrome and the aquatic centre are beautiful.



 

We landed up at the goalball in the so-called "Copper Box", which is much as the name suggests.  Goalball is a game in which two teams of three players face each other across a hard-surfaced pitch, at each end of which is a goal spanning the whole width.  The players are either wholly or partially blind, and to ensure they have no vision they wear tight-fitting eyemasks.  The aim of the game is to throw the ball into the opposing goal.  The defending team are obviously unable to see the ball so have to judge where it is by hearing it.  (We had been told the ball had bells in it, but we couldn't hear any.)  They block the ball by lying full-length in front of the goal.  The ability of the players to orientate themselves was little short of astonishing.

 

We then caught some wheelchair tennis, which was also astonishing.  Serves were being delivered with a speed of 120 mph, and the players' ability to manoeuvre their chairs at speed was remarkable.

 

Much is being spoken of the legacy of the Paralympics in the form of a change in social attitudes to the disabled.  It's tricky, I find, to get the right balance between acknowledging special needs and treating the disabled as no different from anyone else.  But the achievements of disabled athletes in the Paralympics can only be positive.

 

Antony Mair