The middle of the holiday in the UK:
'no sung unsung no wine untasted - almost
But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame'
A Night at the Opera actually an Afternoon at the Musicals.
On the trains again London bound. Navigating the underground is much easier without struggling with suitcases, laptop and backpack. I am able to look at all the posters on the wall and enjoy the seething teeming mass of people hurridly bustling hither and thither. I am now a seasoned underground escalator traveller - keeping to the right or striding ahead importantly on the left.
Mr 19 and I get out at Charing Cross, visit Trafalgar Square and then set off along Charing Cross Rd. 'Heaven I'm in heaven' - bookshops to the left, bookshops to the right, old books, new books, interesting books, boring books and ancient tomes 'Happy happy joy joy'. Keep hands firmly in pockets away from credit card and resist all temptation. Blackwells in particular with its huge philosophy section was a favorite but some of the antiquarianian shops also tugged at my heart strings.
It was great down a side street to see a girt neon sign advertising the 52nd Year of the MouseTrap. London is wonderful. Wonderfully dirty that is! Fingernails and hands become engrained with black. It must be just in the air or 'summat'.
We see a sign for a bar/club the 'walkabout' and have Aussie Beer again hooray! A large plate of beans, pork and leek sausages, eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast quench the hunger. It is 2.oopm.
Now the moment I have been waiting for - I am off to the Palace. The Pal ce Theatre actually. Mr 19 and I conjecture that is an Australian that has taken the middle a out of the sign. We collect our tickets and off inside. Up up up up up we go into the top section and sit down. We are in the middle one row from the edge looking down onto the stage!
Les Miserable begins. I am transported into another world. Set changes are flawless and the quality of the orchestral sound and the singers voices are sooooo lush. Sadly an intoxicated scotsman in our row starts shouting out 'go home' and 'shut up ' as Jean Valjean begins his second solo. His very embarrased daughter manages to extricate him out of the theatre. The show continues. I sit in tears for the final 6 minutes full of joy for being there and full of sorrow that my SO is not with me.
So back onto the underground. Then onto SouthWestTrains to Salisbury. We sit and then an announcement 'This Service Has Been Terminated' We move to Platform 4 and 20 minutes later catch a train that has to stop and start due to line and loop disruptions.
Back in Sherborne the Weavers Club has a monthly folk night, we enjoy good beers, mulled wine and whisky. Australian, Irish, American and English folk songs and tunes are well known hereabouts. Sadly tiredness prevents us staying to the end..
Saturday, April 03, 2004
holiday jottings #2
On Saturday March 13th, the sun shone for a few hours and then the clouds and the blustery conditions returned. A few random snow flakes fell and I have got a real feel for English weather - it sucks! Fortunately the relatives are wonderful and the joys of companionship and friendship go a long way to disperse the gloom of grey sullen skies. Trees are beginning to bud and daffodils are everywhere. English gorse and wildflowers are beginning to bloom. Master 19 discovered that gorse is nice to look at but not to grab hold of....
English pints of beer are considerably more potent than Aussie middies, and I am letting the Australian side down badly with my inability to imbibe as much and as well as the English types.
It is a real joy to discover many Australian red wines for sale. Just do not mention the exchange rate to me. I will not want to see the mastercard bill in April.
The secondhand, charity, antique shops and flea markets are an exceptional place to browse and enjoy a wide range of English bric a brac and specials! It is always worth haggling as an extra pound or two will come off the price towards the end of the day...
A day at the races or a night at the football?
Aaah yes 'tis football I am going to write about.
Yeovil Town Football Club in action against the northerners from Doncaster.
In Australia football means Australian Rules, Rugby Union, Rugby League, Soccer or grid iron, for the staunchest Irishman it could be gaelic football.
In the UK football means football, aka soccer to the heathen masses. For indeed the true believers take their football very seriously, they are not half hearted at all. As one approaches the stadium the overwhelming sensation is an enormous amount of noise, metal grandstand walls being beaten, trumpets fanfaring and a bass drum beating out the rythmn of the chants. And chant the supporters do, for over an hour before the game. The chants are punctuated by applause as players run out run by one, during that hour and applaud the crowd by raising their arms above their head and clapping. The crowd claps back.
The fervour is almost like a religious service. The atmosphere has trappings as such: small boys aged between five and ten dart and weave in front of the goal, kicking balls to the goalie, acting almost as acolytes/altar servers. At fifteen minute intervals the names of the players are read out each name is heartily greeted by much cheering, applause,fanfare and the ritual beating of the drum. I almost feel like I am in a holy place. As the visiting teams names are read out boos are the order of the evening.
The game begins, and the chanting and applause is intensified. The chants are sung along to classical tunes, religious tunes and pop tunes - something for everyone! Everytime a goal is stopped or the ball is kicked out of play both lots of supporters applaud in full strength - cheering either the attempt by their own team or the succesful defending action. For the uninitiated it would appear that the whole stadium is supporting only one team. There are special chants reserved for the referee. Interestingly there is a total ban on any racist remarks- immediate arrest is the penalty. It is alright to chant "Go back to Scotland" though. The broad somerset / dorset accent is hard to understand at times, but vulgarity in some chants is very noticeable LOL!
The fervour dies down somewhat at half time. 'Church' notices are now read out - supporters birthday greetings to one another, engagements and weddings! I joke not - the English take their football that seriously. Half time scores from other games around the country are read out. Cheers and boos to varying degrees of noise show what the locals thinks of these games in progress.
Second half of the game and the noise returns in all its fullness. The home team is now losing 1- 0 and despite 4 valiant attempts by the local strikers at kicking goals, the visitors win. As the game ends 60 or so security men and women stand up inside the fence to prevent any pitch invasion. They have been sqautting down for about 10 minutes. As we leave, the diehard supporters are chanting and working themselves up into a frenzy, the local yobbos are not amused. We do not wait to see how they deal with their despair.
Finally it is gridlock, cars as far as the eye can see and no movement. The trip home takes 50 minutes, compared to the 15 minute trip earlier in the evening.
I realise on the way home that this was just a crowd of 8,000 in full voice, imagine a stadium with over 150,000 people all chanting!!!
#######~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~######
some thoughts that help when minds and hearts are low:
Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like
wrapping a present and not giving it.
William Arthur Ward.
"When the tide of life turns against you and the current
upsets your boat, don't waste your tears on what might
have been, just turn on your back and float."
Anonymous
He, who loses money, loses much;
He, who loses a friend, loses much more;
He, who loses faith, loses all.
Never seem more learned than the people you are with. Wear
your learning like a pocket watch and keep it hidden. Do
not pull it out to count the hours, but give the time when
you are asked.
-- Lord Chesterfield
#######~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~######
Its almost Easter, the tridium is the most fantastic three days of the year for me.
The celebration of the Last Supper, Good Friday and the Resurrection Vigil are a continuum that empowers me and allows me to really deepen my faith.
On Saturday March 13th, the sun shone for a few hours and then the clouds and the blustery conditions returned. A few random snow flakes fell and I have got a real feel for English weather - it sucks! Fortunately the relatives are wonderful and the joys of companionship and friendship go a long way to disperse the gloom of grey sullen skies. Trees are beginning to bud and daffodils are everywhere. English gorse and wildflowers are beginning to bloom. Master 19 discovered that gorse is nice to look at but not to grab hold of....
English pints of beer are considerably more potent than Aussie middies, and I am letting the Australian side down badly with my inability to imbibe as much and as well as the English types.
It is a real joy to discover many Australian red wines for sale. Just do not mention the exchange rate to me. I will not want to see the mastercard bill in April.
The secondhand, charity, antique shops and flea markets are an exceptional place to browse and enjoy a wide range of English bric a brac and specials! It is always worth haggling as an extra pound or two will come off the price towards the end of the day...
A day at the races or a night at the football?
Aaah yes 'tis football I am going to write about.
Yeovil Town Football Club in action against the northerners from Doncaster.
In Australia football means Australian Rules, Rugby Union, Rugby League, Soccer or grid iron, for the staunchest Irishman it could be gaelic football.
In the UK football means football, aka soccer to the heathen masses. For indeed the true believers take their football very seriously, they are not half hearted at all. As one approaches the stadium the overwhelming sensation is an enormous amount of noise, metal grandstand walls being beaten, trumpets fanfaring and a bass drum beating out the rythmn of the chants. And chant the supporters do, for over an hour before the game. The chants are punctuated by applause as players run out run by one, during that hour and applaud the crowd by raising their arms above their head and clapping. The crowd claps back.
The fervour is almost like a religious service. The atmosphere has trappings as such: small boys aged between five and ten dart and weave in front of the goal, kicking balls to the goalie, acting almost as acolytes/altar servers. At fifteen minute intervals the names of the players are read out each name is heartily greeted by much cheering, applause,fanfare and the ritual beating of the drum. I almost feel like I am in a holy place. As the visiting teams names are read out boos are the order of the evening.
The game begins, and the chanting and applause is intensified. The chants are sung along to classical tunes, religious tunes and pop tunes - something for everyone! Everytime a goal is stopped or the ball is kicked out of play both lots of supporters applaud in full strength - cheering either the attempt by their own team or the succesful defending action. For the uninitiated it would appear that the whole stadium is supporting only one team. There are special chants reserved for the referee. Interestingly there is a total ban on any racist remarks- immediate arrest is the penalty. It is alright to chant "Go back to Scotland" though. The broad somerset / dorset accent is hard to understand at times, but vulgarity in some chants is very noticeable LOL!
The fervour dies down somewhat at half time. 'Church' notices are now read out - supporters birthday greetings to one another, engagements and weddings! I joke not - the English take their football that seriously. Half time scores from other games around the country are read out. Cheers and boos to varying degrees of noise show what the locals thinks of these games in progress.
Second half of the game and the noise returns in all its fullness. The home team is now losing 1- 0 and despite 4 valiant attempts by the local strikers at kicking goals, the visitors win. As the game ends 60 or so security men and women stand up inside the fence to prevent any pitch invasion. They have been sqautting down for about 10 minutes. As we leave, the diehard supporters are chanting and working themselves up into a frenzy, the local yobbos are not amused. We do not wait to see how they deal with their despair.
Finally it is gridlock, cars as far as the eye can see and no movement. The trip home takes 50 minutes, compared to the 15 minute trip earlier in the evening.
I realise on the way home that this was just a crowd of 8,000 in full voice, imagine a stadium with over 150,000 people all chanting!!!
#######~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~######
some thoughts that help when minds and hearts are low:
Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like
wrapping a present and not giving it.
William Arthur Ward.
"When the tide of life turns against you and the current
upsets your boat, don't waste your tears on what might
have been, just turn on your back and float."
Anonymous
He, who loses money, loses much;
He, who loses a friend, loses much more;
He, who loses faith, loses all.
Never seem more learned than the people you are with. Wear
your learning like a pocket watch and keep it hidden. Do
not pull it out to count the hours, but give the time when
you are asked.
-- Lord Chesterfield
#######~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~######
Its almost Easter, the tridium is the most fantastic three days of the year for me.
The celebration of the Last Supper, Good Friday and the Resurrection Vigil are a continuum that empowers me and allows me to really deepen my faith.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
what i am waiting for my very own email account at google!!!!
what I have been doing a holiday in the South West of the UK:
holiday_jottings
after arriving in the UK in early March:
One Sunday I had to travel via London northwards away from the balmy west country to Doncaster for the Christian Bookselling Conference. The railway lines in Dorset were undergoing maintenance so we were bussed to Salisbury. Or so we had hoped. We arrived at a village called Farmer Giles and several passengers informed the driver that "'e 'ad gone the wrong way", and just back a bit there was the correct turn.
Well back a bit did not eventuate and the bus increased speed, becoming almost airborne at times and clipping the verge of the road and bouncing over gutters.
The drivers face becoming grimmer and grimmer. I wondered whether I was on a haunted bus for a while that was never going to arrive anywhere. Eventually 16 or so minutes later the sign to Salisbury appeared, the bus took the right turn and all relaxed. We arrived with 4 minutes to spare to catch the London train.
On arriving in London it was great to rail on past the Christies Fine Art Auction building. Reaching destination, I had to change to the northern line at Kings Cross, asking both rail employees and the travelling public which way on the underground to Kings Cross elicited blank looks "just catch the underground". I recognised a fellow traveller from the Salisbury train looking blankly at the mass of lines and names on the wall and asked him "Going to Kings Cross?" He replied in an northern accent to the affirmative. Together we managed to figure it out and onto the escalators where I was soon challenged to move over to the right. I explained that I was a new arrival from Australia to the couple behind me who then told me that in London you keep to the right on the escalators so that people can rush past on the left. They explained that I should ask for the 'northern line" rather than Kings Cross.
Finally the northern lad and I got on a train, the wrong one, going in the right direction but across from Kings Cross, fortunately a station just past kings cross had a loop train going back.
Arrived in time for the train going north, my co-traveller turned out to be an army fellow going home to see family before being deployed to Iraq in April. His fear was like a fine tremor in the core of his body, but he made light of it saying he was looking forward to the holiday after the deployment.
So onto Doncaster. The train is an express so we whiz past many stations. I hear a tinkle of laughter from a passenger sitting some rows of seats behind me and think what is Sue from Canberra doing on the train. It dawns on me it is another Scots woman and it is just the lilt of the laugh i can recognise.
The English countryside changes about an hour and a half out of London. The hedgerows thin out and fencing of the ilk seen in Australia takes over. The wire is of a thinner gauge and more wood is used in the fencing. The thatched roofs that are still quite popular in the west country are nowhere to be seen.
A common security firm sign is CIA which made me grin. It was great to see a Chubb security van which was painted in the same way as Australian ones.
So safely arriving in Doncaster I catch a cab to the B and B. English cabs are nowt like the Australian variety. They are custom built with a lot of space in the rear. The driver is separated from the passengers who are actually locked in. In Oz we sit in the front with the driver if one is by oneself, otherwise you get in the back. Struggling to decipher the northern accent I learn a little about Doncaster.
The B & B is new. Very lush as my cousins teenagers would say. Glass Chandalier, gold fittings - I am almost too scared to move as it is a bit posh! No master keys here, three keys for three doors....Entrance, bedroom and outside door into common room. A conservatorium is provided for smokers. I may have a cigarette just to try it. I have not opened the packet I bought at the duty free.
Being Sunday I ring up the Catholic Church to find out about Mass times. I am surprised by the number of Catholic Churches in the area. I ring one recognising the church name as one I passed in the taxi. My accent puts the priest off, he thinks I am having a lend of him. He tells me to take my car out, and I tell him "But father I could not bring my car on the plane it is still in Australia."He has a good laugh on that:"your car is in Australia ha ha ha!" He finally believes me and gives me a walkable route to the church. He warns me to take put a raincoat on as showers will come. I go outside and meet mine host who affirms the directions.
Off I set down the winding road. No footpaths here. English roads in the main have almost no verge. The road ends almost at the fence. Twenty minutes later I spot the first turn which is a road thru a golf course. The showers kick in a gentle but cold drizzle begins for about 10 minutes. I pull my beanie on. I get to the Anglican Church and walk past it as I had been directed to head off onto the lane to the next village. A sign saying NO TRESPASSING Offenders will be Prosecuted greets me. I turn left and follow the now muddy lane away from where I am meant to be going. The best route now appears to be across a meadow, I climb thru some fences, down and out of a huge ditch and have one more field to cross. My shoes are getting mud caked.
A tractor with a burly driver appears and the farmers wife also. I explain that I am trying to get to church. "By the sound of you, you are not English". I cheat and say that "I am an Australian!" I figure that if I talk like one and dress like one and move like one then for once I am happy to be an Australian. It turns out the meadow i was crossing was leading to a girt deep ditch full of water that I would not be able to get across. The farmers wife offers to drive me. I gratefully accept. However, the farmyard is one enormous mud bowl. I have to walk around the grassy meadows to the front of the farmhouse.
Get in the car and I introduce myself. My saviours name is Angela.
She explains that the NO TRESPASSING SIGN means motor vehicles. THe path is a common lane for Pedestrians. A lapsed Catholic she is dubious about a 6pm service at the next village. In five minutes we arrive and she is right the 6pm was on Saturday night. She graciously drives be back past the B&B and after another 15 minutes she deposits me at another church and wishes me all the best. I tell her to visit the bookshop in Canberra as she goes to NZ and Aust every so often.
Roman Catholic Churches in Doncaster area appear dilapidated and run down. High fences and chained gates. No sense of welcome to a house of prayer at all. I wait for ten minutes and decide that there must be no Evening Mass at all. As I prepare to leave a car pulls up and the church is opened, tired 1960's decor greets me. The coverings of the kneelers are curling up, the hymnals and mass books date from the 1970's. A congregation trickles in and finally the priest arrives and Mass begins. Transformation - the singing and the responses and the reverence and prayerfulness indicate that there is something a lot greater than the post Thatcherite depressed North of England here. After Mass people stay and chat and I am offered a lift back to the b&b. I am grateful because I am so tired.
I am asleep by 8pm. And thus I awake at 2.30am. I toss and turn. 'Lost in Translation'comes to mind, but there is no bar here... I ring my SO, but her mobile rings, it is a work call she has to take. I wait some more time and ring again. We have a great chat but then it is time for her to go and meet Ms 5 from School. Fire up the laptop and begin typing. 5.09am comes quickly after typing the above.
what I have been doing a holiday in the South West of the UK:
holiday_jottings
after arriving in the UK in early March:
One Sunday I had to travel via London northwards away from the balmy west country to Doncaster for the Christian Bookselling Conference. The railway lines in Dorset were undergoing maintenance so we were bussed to Salisbury. Or so we had hoped. We arrived at a village called Farmer Giles and several passengers informed the driver that "'e 'ad gone the wrong way", and just back a bit there was the correct turn.
Well back a bit did not eventuate and the bus increased speed, becoming almost airborne at times and clipping the verge of the road and bouncing over gutters.
The drivers face becoming grimmer and grimmer. I wondered whether I was on a haunted bus for a while that was never going to arrive anywhere. Eventually 16 or so minutes later the sign to Salisbury appeared, the bus took the right turn and all relaxed. We arrived with 4 minutes to spare to catch the London train.
On arriving in London it was great to rail on past the Christies Fine Art Auction building. Reaching destination, I had to change to the northern line at Kings Cross, asking both rail employees and the travelling public which way on the underground to Kings Cross elicited blank looks "just catch the underground". I recognised a fellow traveller from the Salisbury train looking blankly at the mass of lines and names on the wall and asked him "Going to Kings Cross?" He replied in an northern accent to the affirmative. Together we managed to figure it out and onto the escalators where I was soon challenged to move over to the right. I explained that I was a new arrival from Australia to the couple behind me who then told me that in London you keep to the right on the escalators so that people can rush past on the left. They explained that I should ask for the 'northern line" rather than Kings Cross.
Finally the northern lad and I got on a train, the wrong one, going in the right direction but across from Kings Cross, fortunately a station just past kings cross had a loop train going back.
Arrived in time for the train going north, my co-traveller turned out to be an army fellow going home to see family before being deployed to Iraq in April. His fear was like a fine tremor in the core of his body, but he made light of it saying he was looking forward to the holiday after the deployment.
So onto Doncaster. The train is an express so we whiz past many stations. I hear a tinkle of laughter from a passenger sitting some rows of seats behind me and think what is Sue from Canberra doing on the train. It dawns on me it is another Scots woman and it is just the lilt of the laugh i can recognise.
The English countryside changes about an hour and a half out of London. The hedgerows thin out and fencing of the ilk seen in Australia takes over. The wire is of a thinner gauge and more wood is used in the fencing. The thatched roofs that are still quite popular in the west country are nowhere to be seen.
A common security firm sign is CIA which made me grin. It was great to see a Chubb security van which was painted in the same way as Australian ones.
So safely arriving in Doncaster I catch a cab to the B and B. English cabs are nowt like the Australian variety. They are custom built with a lot of space in the rear. The driver is separated from the passengers who are actually locked in. In Oz we sit in the front with the driver if one is by oneself, otherwise you get in the back. Struggling to decipher the northern accent I learn a little about Doncaster.
The B & B is new. Very lush as my cousins teenagers would say. Glass Chandalier, gold fittings - I am almost too scared to move as it is a bit posh! No master keys here, three keys for three doors....Entrance, bedroom and outside door into common room. A conservatorium is provided for smokers. I may have a cigarette just to try it. I have not opened the packet I bought at the duty free.
Being Sunday I ring up the Catholic Church to find out about Mass times. I am surprised by the number of Catholic Churches in the area. I ring one recognising the church name as one I passed in the taxi. My accent puts the priest off, he thinks I am having a lend of him. He tells me to take my car out, and I tell him "But father I could not bring my car on the plane it is still in Australia."He has a good laugh on that:"your car is in Australia ha ha ha!" He finally believes me and gives me a walkable route to the church. He warns me to take put a raincoat on as showers will come. I go outside and meet mine host who affirms the directions.
Off I set down the winding road. No footpaths here. English roads in the main have almost no verge. The road ends almost at the fence. Twenty minutes later I spot the first turn which is a road thru a golf course. The showers kick in a gentle but cold drizzle begins for about 10 minutes. I pull my beanie on. I get to the Anglican Church and walk past it as I had been directed to head off onto the lane to the next village. A sign saying NO TRESPASSING Offenders will be Prosecuted greets me. I turn left and follow the now muddy lane away from where I am meant to be going. The best route now appears to be across a meadow, I climb thru some fences, down and out of a huge ditch and have one more field to cross. My shoes are getting mud caked.
A tractor with a burly driver appears and the farmers wife also. I explain that I am trying to get to church. "By the sound of you, you are not English". I cheat and say that "I am an Australian!" I figure that if I talk like one and dress like one and move like one then for once I am happy to be an Australian. It turns out the meadow i was crossing was leading to a girt deep ditch full of water that I would not be able to get across. The farmers wife offers to drive me. I gratefully accept. However, the farmyard is one enormous mud bowl. I have to walk around the grassy meadows to the front of the farmhouse.
Get in the car and I introduce myself. My saviours name is Angela.
She explains that the NO TRESPASSING SIGN means motor vehicles. THe path is a common lane for Pedestrians. A lapsed Catholic she is dubious about a 6pm service at the next village. In five minutes we arrive and she is right the 6pm was on Saturday night. She graciously drives be back past the B&B and after another 15 minutes she deposits me at another church and wishes me all the best. I tell her to visit the bookshop in Canberra as she goes to NZ and Aust every so often.
Roman Catholic Churches in Doncaster area appear dilapidated and run down. High fences and chained gates. No sense of welcome to a house of prayer at all. I wait for ten minutes and decide that there must be no Evening Mass at all. As I prepare to leave a car pulls up and the church is opened, tired 1960's decor greets me. The coverings of the kneelers are curling up, the hymnals and mass books date from the 1970's. A congregation trickles in and finally the priest arrives and Mass begins. Transformation - the singing and the responses and the reverence and prayerfulness indicate that there is something a lot greater than the post Thatcherite depressed North of England here. After Mass people stay and chat and I am offered a lift back to the b&b. I am grateful because I am so tired.
I am asleep by 8pm. And thus I awake at 2.30am. I toss and turn. 'Lost in Translation'comes to mind, but there is no bar here... I ring my SO, but her mobile rings, it is a work call she has to take. I wait some more time and ring again. We have a great chat but then it is time for her to go and meet Ms 5 from School. Fire up the laptop and begin typing. 5.09am comes quickly after typing the above.
Here I am apart from the agonist which btw rules for informed breaking news and commentary on world events albeit from a northern american perspective which at times becomes almost hysteric in its anti- bush fervour:
and also if you do visit make sure you visit the bulletin boards where life is extremely fast paced and fascinating - informed comment on politics, art, economics, anti-semetism, innuendo and much much more
so you want to know who I am..... well it will unfold!
and also if you do visit make sure you visit the bulletin boards where life is extremely fast paced and fascinating - informed comment on politics, art, economics, anti-semetism, innuendo and much much more
so you want to know who I am..... well it will unfold!
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