Number Seventy News

Apart from Clare Teal’s irritating habit of addressing the audience as “Leeds” which, after Tom Russell’s record number of mentions of Pocklington in a single set, was particularly annoying, I enjoyed most of the concert at the Venue.  Nobody would ever call Clare Teal “small-voiced” (see Stacey Kent) but the full-on approach doesn’t always work.  She has a fine voice and did some great versions of standards and less well-known material. Up-tempo numbers and ballads were equally effective.  I particularly liked her versions of “Love Hurts” and “Breaking up is hard to do” which were hits for Roy Orbison and Neil Sedaka respectively back in the 60s.  Part of her encore was a stomping version of “My Way” which justified the volume. Other numbers were a bit too shouty for my taste. The audience was mixed, but probably with a majority over 50. As always at the Venue, a good sprinkling of students too, since it’s part of Leeds College of Music.  Backing musicians were good (though drummer showing off, as drummers do). Pity that the musicians aren’t given a credit on her website.  

Oh, and Kendall’s Bistro (may not have spelled that exactly right) opposite does first class French-style cooking and has a set price menu for early evening.

Ah, the West Riding !  All that Pennine weather. Actually pleasant enough for autumn as we wound into Wharfedale, stopping at the Wharfedale Inn at Arthington for Black Sheep and Fish and Chips (and mushy peas, of course).  But heading up from Keighley pst Haworth and Oxenhope – a glimpse of smoke down in the valley from the K&WVR – on the roads which gradually climb the contours along the side of the valley, fringed by millstone grit walls, we found deteriorating weather.  We entered the clouds and lost the scenery, except for 100yards of bleak and treeless moor on either side, and the occasional totally isolated row of cottages about which the only possible question is “why?”  But as we came over the top into Calderdale through the mist ahead appeared Heptonstall church tower, grey against a grey landscape and cloudscape.  Fortunately, once we got up to Heptonstall the rain was intermittent, although the grey clouds racing across the top of the valleys gave no hope of sunshine.  Noticed that the Methodist Chapel had numerous umbrella racks.  Also that Sylvia Plath’s grave in the overflow churchyard is sadly neglected, though a few wilted sunflowers and collection of plastic Venus of Willendorf nestled amongst the grass and weeds.  Out beyond the village onto the ridge and then dropped down to find Lumb Bank.  Hughes and Plath had a splendid view from there, in whatever weather, and even on such a grey day the turning leaves were a splendid sight.  Up an old stone trackand further along the ridge then via the hamlet of Slack to the other side where a wood-edge path above a precipitous drop led us back to Heptonstall.  

After tea and cake at Milly’s cafe in Mytholmroyd to the Ted Hughes Theatre at Mytholmroyd school, where Ian Duhig and Anthony Thwaite were reading.  Hadn’t expected to like Ian Duhig’s work much, and didn’t, though he reads much better than he used to, and had deliberately chosen poems which were fairly accessible on first hearing. But any poem which needs a longer introduction than poem is not really trying to be accessible.

And Anthony Thwaite was a disappointment.  He’d chosen to read only personal autobiographical poems but none of them seemed to rise beyond the specific to the universal, nor did they attempt to.  Rather a thin offering, like the day’s Pennine rain.  At least Ted Hughes had some guts to his poems.

Young’s Hotel, which used to provide a mean lunchtime curry back in the 70s, served by two ancient women, possibly twins, who stomped about the place from kitchen to table complaining loudly about customers and their own poor feet, has transformed itself into the Guy Fawkes Hotel.  It has long claimed to be on the site of GF’s birth, though this has been disputed, but only by a hundred yards or so.  It now has some cosy drinking rooms, a real fire or two, and a good selection of real ales.  Rudgates Viking was good on our visit.  The lunchtime menu had some variety also – I had faggots for the first time, which in this instance clearly included liver. As I had never had faggots before, I can’t tell you where they were on a scale of 1-10, as faggots go, but they were very acceptable, especially with mushy peas.  I can’t remember if GF was burned or hung, but I hope faggots weren’t involved.

Have just finished this massive volume, 633 pages excluding the notes. And I was fascinated by every page. It’s an immensely readable, incredibly wide ranging, social history of Britain immediately after the Second World War. The period in which I was conceived and born and so many features of which I remember from my early childhood – I was 4 by the end of 1951.  Kynaston draws on lots of diaries of individuals plus a lot of the vox pop records of Mass Observation.  Accounts of the era of the first post war Labour government are interspersed with the people’s view of their earnest socialist leaders.  I suppose the book could be characterised as a populist skate across the period, but the breadth doesn’t get in the way of the understanding and analysis of what was going on.  Quite brilliant.

So, the pedallers 2008 season came to an end a few weeks ago with a very gentle ride first to the Fox and Roman, which does good food judging by the well-filled and swiftly emptied plates of two of our number, but where the choice of drinkable beers was not great. (Better, however, than the Black Bull on Hull Road which has an impressive array of shiny pumps selling nothing one would want to buy, or drink). But off into the dark of the night and through the utter blackness of Knavesmire Wood, faith and the trusty dynamo showing but a short way ahead, and into Bishopthorpe, where I have already forgotten the name of the pub (could it have been the Woodman?) but which did have drinkable beer and a pleasing not too crowded ambiance. (I seem to remember the decor was striking in some way – but not necessarily a positive one).  And so via the Millenium Bridge to the safe haven of the Welly, where we were joined by those for whom even such a modest excursion is too much to contemplate, and where the Sam Smiths went down very nicely and cheaply.  Watch this space for reports of the pedestrian season, starting after the clocks go back. 

Horrors.  After spending two weeks in the country, back in August, not a single word has been said. So – a major task here.

Ferry from Newcastle to Stavanger / Bergen.  This is such a wonderful way to start a holiday – yet apparently not enough of us do it so DFDS has stopped the route from September.  There’s been a direct ferry from the UK to Norway for at least 150 years so this is an historic disaster.  The voyage from Stavanger to Bergen is a delight – weaving our huge ship between islands, looking down on people sitting on their verandahs, watching the speedboats leaping our wake, mountains in the distance, with still some snow in hollows on the North side.

Bergen – and a taxi driver who couldn’t find an address on a street right in the middle of town, who couldn’t certainly read a map and maybe couldn’t read.  But that aside, a nice flat just above the Floybanen station, and immediately above the best coffee bar in the world.  It rained, as it does Bergen, but stayed fine for a concert at Grieg’s house – Nils Okland, violin and a young piano player whose name I did know at the time.  Grieg had the most magnificent view from his house – west facing across a lake. The concert hall was set on a hillside and behind the stage a huge glass window gave onto a beautiful calm evening inlet of the lake. Magical. Music by Grieg, Ole Bull, and Okland.

Begen – Olso by Train. This is one of the great railway journeys of the world, a line constructed across the trackless wastes of the Hardangervidda and not finished until into the 20th century. It winds up from sea level at Bergen, through Voss to the junction with the precipitous Flamsbana at Myrdal and then over the top.  The trouble is that Norwegian Railways take the perfectly understandable view that it’s more important to keep the trains running than to provide dramatic views. The result is more snow tunnels than one would like, and a particularly long tunnel around the summit at Finse.  So it’s tantalising glimpses of bleak upland, sedge, tiny lakes, and glaciers.  Sorry to be ungrateful, NSB !

Seljord.   The purpose of going to Norway was to see friends, and our daughter.  After a couple of hours on Drammen station (NSB really has not got its connections right – in Germany the connection would have been 6 minutes) we travelled on to our friends on the banks of Seljord lake.  Highlights were an open air concert in the rain by the very accomplished Hardanger fiddle player of the family, umbrellas for performers, audience in the rain in the yard of a beautiful old lakeside farm.  And then the art barn in Seljord – my favourite exhibit a very cross young woman smashing bottles on an endlessly looped video. Trips through the mountains to the Dalen hotel (all wood) – still living in its glory days but taking half an hour to prepare a simple salad.

Around Tonsberg.  Enjoyable journey by car to a village near Tonsberg, where our daughter lives. A house in the middle of a forest of silver birch.  Excursions from here to Tonsberg – ancient Hansa port – modern glass library, most overstuffed second-hand bookshop in the world. Then to Verdens Ende – a promontory stretching into the Oslo fjord where there used to be a lighthouse – wind and rain, rain and wind – but very stimulating. Found a wonderful posh hotel that wouldn’t serve us coffee – but they did recommend a restaurant in a small fishing village which proved to be excellent, if with a most eccentric selection of music including hearty sea-shanties.

Oslo and the Jazz Festival. Oslo weather was on its best behaviour, so one could sit in the park on Karl Johann’s Gata and listen to New Orleans Jazz. Karin Krog and John Surman in the early evening – a delight to hear the grande dame of Norwegian Jazz and to watch John Surman really enjoying himself as a backing musician (with some solos, of course).  Later on, in a pub, the Ralph Alessi Quintet.  Too much waily waily soprano sax here – some nice phrases but no tunes, so not so much my cup of tea. Not my pint of beer too, at almost £6 a pint !  (And Tonsberg station charges you £1 for a pee). Next morning time to see the new Opera House – lots of external inclined planes so you end up on the roof – great views over the fjord and harbour.  Foyer restaurant looked really tempting but I really needed to go and sit in the Jazz cafe – so I did.

Stavanger.  So, by train to Stavanger (another hour at Drammen on the way).  Woods and lakes – and some sea views on the final section.  Stavanger is a European City of Culture this year but we were there on a Sunday so there wasn’t much culture on offer.  We did want to go to the art museum but a bus driver didn’t want to take us and a taxi driver had to have some coaching to get him there. It was actually only just over a mile from the harbour so we walked back.  Real highlight was the Hermeneutic Museum (fish canning) which revealed how massive the industry was in the 19th and early 20th centuries, with exports all over the world and most of Stavanger engaged in the business.  

And so, back to Newcastle. Apologies to any where that feels left out.

To London – turned left out of King’s Cross up York Way – no longer the haunt of drug pushers and whores and small dubious-looking shops you’d want your granny to go in with you for protection. Mostly a building site – the haunt of men in hi-vis jackets.  King’s Place, on the edge of the Regent’s Canal is new, is going to house the Grauniad, and has two concert halls in the basement (well below the level of the canal incidentally). Lovely location. All very nice inside but a bit new and characterless as yet.  Beware the gap between about 11 and 12 when the food outlets have finished breakfast and haven’t started lunch yet – especially if you had breakfast early.  So hungry, off round the other side of the basin to the London Canal museum (which likes you to have the right money).  One of those small, underfunded, endearingly amateurish museums which nonetheless shed lots of light on their specialist subject – and it was pretty interesting.  The building itself used to be an ice-warehouse.  Natural ice imported from Norway, transhipped to canal barge at Limehouse docks and then brought up the Regents canal to Battlebridge basin where the ice was unloaded into two huge pits beneath the building – as well below the level of the canal as the new concert halls opposite.  On what is now the ground level and the first floor the ice was loaded onto horse-drawn drays for delivery all round London – and the horses went up a ramp to the first floor overnight.

By bus to Trafalgar Square – top deck all the way – not as fast as the tube but much more fun. though the final crawl down the Strand got a bit tedious.  National Gallery for the Medieval Face exhibition (CORRECTION THE RENAISSANCE PORTRAIT EXHIBITION – a few hundred years out, there) – well displayed and quite fascinating – the development and purpose of portraiture.  Some quite touching pictures – kids smiling (no-one else does at this period) – old folks without teeth – grandfather and child.

To the Origins craft fair in the courtyard of Somerset House where our friend Uschi from Nuremberg was exhibiting her bead jewellery.  Lots of other small beautiful items there at the fair too – with prices like a bankers bonus. A good place to see people dressed exotically – some to display their craft wares, of course. There was also an installation which showed a continuous loop film of a teapot falling to the floor and smashing and then being reconstituted – all at 3000 frames per minute. Reminded me of a film in the Art Barn in Seljord, Norway, where a very cross young woman smashed bottles unendingly at her feet.

Dinner in an Indian restaurant near Covent garden – food good but waiters London-pushy.  There’s something about capital cities which allows waiters to give themselves airs.

Pocklington used to be a byword for sleepy.  But no more.  In fact for some years now the Pocklington Arts Centre has been putting on a great variety of events, including some big acts.  I’ve been very late in waking up to this – partly out of nervousness about catching the last bus home, partly because I’ve been able to pick up the acts elswhere.  But I’d been missing a treat – quite a small auditorium – nice bar, and the other night – TOM RUSSELL.  Actually, he’s been another gap in my education.  A few years ago, I heard a wonderful song called St Olav’s Gate on the radio, and misremembered it as being by Tom Waits. I spent ages looking at the playlists on Tom Waits albums, wondering why he hadn’t recorded this song. Finally the penny dropped – i looked on the Tom Russell website – and blow me – POCKLINGTON!  And it was a superb evening. Tom was accompanied by Michael Martin, demon guitar and mandolin player, and they went through many of Tom’s best known songs, plus a few new ones.  St Olav’s Gate of course, and my current favourite song about how stupid governments are – Who’s Gonna Build Your Wall ?  We could maybe have done with a few fewer reminders from the stage that we were in Pocklington but maybe he was as bemused by it as I was.  Good to see an American legend, even if he’s only been legendary to me for a couple of months.

What a wonderful film ! It’s not really about who did what but rebuilding a relationship after 15 years, when one of the people is terribly damaged.  And Nancy, the town, looks OK too.

Katy M at the Black Swan folk club this time – stretching “folk” a bit maybe, more country I would have said – but she has a vigorous delivery, pays a mean guitar that sounds like it’s a bass (some musician will know the technical term for that) and looks like Piaf might have looked at her age if it wasn’t for the booze and the drugs and the other nasties.  Like most country singers, Katy’s dog hadn’t come home from the movies, which makes for a jolly evening of train wrecks, car smashes and marital infidelity.  The last number in the second set though (before encores) was “The Highwayman”  (Phil Ochs out of Alfred Noyes).  It’s such a wonderful song, so full of evocative images, a beautiful tune, and for me, lots of memories of evenings with friends at University – a few years ago now (over 30).  Katy sang it beautifully.