No, not that stretch of cold water between Sweden and the various half-starved states on the Eastern side but a splendid restaurant just by Southwark Tube on Blackfriars Road. An extremely comprehensive vodka bar, excellent and well-cooked food, nicely presented in modest portions without it being a rip-off, and jazz on a Sunday evening. What more could anyone want ?
Long time no see – almost not since it was 2d to get in through the turnstiles. Bluebells, mostly, but rhododendrons too, and azaleas.
Then along the river path to Richmond – at least a dozen herons on the bank or dozing in trees.
A reminiscent stop opposite old Isleworth and “The London Apprentice”, scene of many a lunchtime pint back in the late 60s early 70s.
The tide was in at Richmond, so we had to paddle a bit- just where I used to ride my bike through the water when I was a kid.
Oh lord, what shall we say about London ? Staying in the heart of Bloomsbury with a view over the private garden behind Bedford Place,
and then, raising one’s eyes, the dome over the British Museum Reading Room and swooping beside it, over and over, the ersatz bird of prey to discourage the pigeons. And hard by, the London Revue of Books bookshop (and coffee parlour), small enough to feel intimate, large enough to have a wonderful selection – poetry particularly good. And Lambs Conduit Street - two splendid pubs
The Lamb
and the shop and office of Persephone books with their piles and stacks of dull grey and white covers mingled with the flash of their exuberant end-papers, bookmarks, postcards. (Persephone doesn’t believe in fluorescent light – daylight and pools of brilliance from table and standard lamps – must be wonderful, if hard on the eyes, on a winter’s afternoon).
Buses, of course, taking us through the early evening rain to south of the river, and back in the dark across the spangled river; to Clapham through the magic names of Battersea and Latchmere; from Richmond through the dull suburbs of Sheen and Putney (though depositing us in the multicultural maelstrom of Clapham on a Saturday evening from which our initial escape bus was prevented by a collision with a suicidally opened car door – no casulaties); and lurching through the narrow streets of the City to Petticoat Lane.
And some trains – the new station at Hoxton first glimpsed with surprise from the neat historic gardens of the Geffrye Museum; from Hoxton’s platforms the high level line on its classic Victorian brick arches curving towards the Gherkin and its attendant temples;the surprise that the Oyster card would take us to Kew.
Petticoat Lane like any rubbish cheap-jack market anywhere in the country but a few hundred yards away the elegance and upmarket variety of Spitalfields Market – delicious food and crafts and hardly a burger or present for Auntie Nell on display, though some quality kitsch.
And the nice women at Oska who provided me with a chair and a free coffee while my partner tried on clothes.
A hymn to the city.
A weekend trip, and then a day on business. A selection of pleasures (apart from those already mentioned):
I can’t remember ever having been in the Wallace Collection before – and it’s actually quite offputting – so much STUFF ! Brings out my minimalist tendencies in a quite overpowering way – it’s just as well they have turned the courtyard into a really nice cafe.
We had actually gone for an exhibition of two treasure hoards from Germany, buried by Jews fleeing pogroms during the Black Death – masses of gold coins and trinkets, some of them absolutely exquisite – buttons and clothes ornaments, what would have to have been sewn on successive garments they were so valuable. And Jewish wedding rings – with tiny gold buildings on. A coin from the Schwabisch Hall mint in one hoard.
The day before, to Constable’s Portraits at the National Portrait Gallery – pastoral portraits, in that many of them are country people, in their best togs, but nonetheless from their ruddy complexions and narrowed eyes, people used to the outdoors and weather. There’s a picture of his father, one of the few where the sitter is looking directly at the artist, which is very powerful. There’s a new identification of an earlier picture as his father, but the sitter looks much older so I’m not convinced. To my mind, these show a painter as accomplished as the one who produces the great popular landscapes – it rounds out his portrait, if you like.
An exhibition of personal WW1 memorabilia at the Imperial War Museum (surrounded by traffic just south of the river, beyond Waterloo). Very well laid out and displayed and absolutely fascinating. Just the right mix of text and artefacts, photos etc. And proper recognition of women and ethnic minorities who served, and of those who stayed at home. Some very poignant and moving stuff – the last letters of men to their wives and children, written in case they should die; the telegrams which announced a death; the accounts of the mothers, sisters, sweethearts who received them. 1 in 10 of men between 18 (I think) and 45 from the UK were killed or seriously wounded ( I must check that, may have misremembered) but a huge number. No wonder Edinburgh in the years after WW2 was full of elderly spinsters and widows.
Also a gallery of Holocaust paintings – quite appalling.
Which actually, I didn’t on this trip to London, preferring to use my free bus pass and enjoy the superior views. But the special poster exhibition at the London Transport Museum (extremely well refurbished since I was there last) was a nostalgic joy. The history of the use of imaginative posters to encourage travel by train, tube and bus was laid out, with useful discussion on technique. Some less successful were included – they weren’t all crowd pullers but their range and variety was quite astonishing, even to someone like me who had been used to seeing them on subway walls. Most of the artists had got the message to keep it simple – not a lot of text, but a simple few word text. Eternally grateful to Frank Pick who commissioned all the early works especially for LT
It’s something of a confession to say I’d never been to the Courtauld gallery before. As I climbed the winding staircase in Somerset House (there’s a a parallel one for serrvants) I glanced into a room and there were the originals of a number of French Impressionist paintings I had long been familiar with from reproductions. A quick scamper through the galleries inclines me to go back at more leisure.
The Turner watercolours were rather good. I love the detail, even in his most atmospheric. Interesting how young he started and how determined to become rich and famous. There’s a wonderful painting of people chasing a hare, the famous one of the wet dog baying on a deserted beach, and some from his tours on the Continent. It’s worth going, and free on Monday mornings.
Stayed at the City of London Youth Hostel near St Paul’s. This wasn’t a new delight isn’t going to be my top favourite YH – no reading lights for beds and a truly mediocre cooked breakfast – just enough, however, to make it unwise to head into the nearest greasy spoon for the real thing.
But Carter Lane is one of those narrow, not quite straight little ancient streets that wind through the City – this one parallel to the river. The area was the classic mix of old and new, with some very tempting pubs. Pity I was only there in the early morning. I had two little finds on my amble from Carter Lane to Somerset House – one was Apothecaries Hall, set round a courtyard -a Georgian delight, the other, after a brief excursion through the temples of Mammon, was a “Roman” spring-fed bath, just on the river side of Fleet Street. It wasn’t open, but the National Trust had kindly supplied an external light switch with which one could light up the interior and peer through the window. There was a bit of dodgy history about it, and no-one really knows if it’s Roman, but it does seem more than likely, given the Romans’ enthusiasm for such things.
And from the Temples of Mammon to the real Temple, where the lawyers hang out, or some of them, in several acres of prime central London land with huge squares and gardens. It’s quite delightful, and open to the public to walk through, at least in the hours of daylight.
There’s a pub called “The Spice of Life” on Cambridge Circus, in the basement bar of which there’s one of those small, formerly smoky venues, which is where you feel jazz always should happen, though 4.30 on a Sunday afternoon is perhaps a tad implausible. The band was Drugstore Cowboy who are described as straightahead. It was good, loud, forceful conventional stuff. The trumpeter,Quentin Collins, could obviously play pure melodic notes if he wanted to, but was too inclined to go for screeching on the edge for my taste. But some good solos from Brandon Allen on the sax, and from the Hammond organist and the drummer.
Time for a quick dash to Pret for a wrap (hoisin duck – v. good) before back to the basement for the Froy Aagre band. Froy does her own numbers, very much in the Norwegian saxophone mould after Gabarek and Seim, but all delightfully tuneful and not overstrained. She had what can only be described as a modest demeanour. For the second half Kenny Wheeler, who is famous and old, joined the band to play some of his numbers. Good stuff, but more mainstream.
And so to Monday night at the QEH, which is not an intimate venue. Iro Haarla is a Finnish harp and piano player whose CD “Northbound” I really like. Unfortunately the music didn’t really come across in this concert. The first number, which has Trygve Seim and Mathias Eick blaring together, was ill-chosen, I thought, and prejudiced a lot of the audience against what was to follow. The numbers ended up all sounding pretty much the same, beautiful and atmospheric though they were. Pity, I like Seim and Eick.
Iro Haarla was actually part of a double bill with the Manu Katche band, which was what most of the audience had come to hear. Although again there were some nice moments and accomplished playing, having the drummer lead the band in this instance led to much to prominent drumming. A bit of an ego-trip maybe ?