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R & R after an exhausting two months decorating the house! Friends Ian McD and Marianne Velmans made us six in this enormous, very comfortable villa with a pool of course, a welcome necessity.

Finale was our local town, down the terrifying mountain about twenty minutes away with supermarkets, butchers and other exciting comestibles to aid the considerable talents of all our cooks! Only one lunch away from home the whole week, otherwise a stream of haute cuisine, a tricolour of much wine, not to mention gin, gushed forth as the bottle banks got ever fuller! Perfect.

Cefalú was our nearest bigger venture; we had our away day lunch there. A beautiful if somewhat crowded little town founded by the Greeks in the 4^th Century BC.

Terrifying moments

Everyone was dressed in black – except us. We were both wearing dinky little shorts and colourful shirts, clearly tourists as we swept into the main square in our little red Fiat hire. Straight into an atmosphere you could cut with a knife.

It was creepy, almost sinister. As we entered the café the room fell totally silent and all eyes gazed in our direction. Never have we drunk coffees so fast; we paid and retreated to the car to resume the drive.

The road winds up the escarpment to the plateau along the SS118, very isolated; here are still the remnants of the vast Latifundium, empty spaces where the landed estates run by the Romans with their slaves fed the needs of Empire.

Not a soul in sight. I have changed down into second and am traversing the steep, winding road which passes through the spectacular mountainous landscape; Tony is half asleep with the map on his lap. Suddenly without any warning, a man jumps off the embankment out of the maquis, lands on the bonnet of the car wielding a sawn-off shotgun.

It was terrifying. I do not know what he wanted or what he might do but we both shrieked and I accelerated up the hill, knocking him off the bonnet onto the road – and didn’t stop.

He dwindled in the rear-view mirror; I saw him get up, shouting and gesticulating with his gun. Soon a bend in the steep road hid him from view and we stopped to look at the damage: an enormous dent in the bonnet. We managed to press this out and spent the rest of the holiday looking over our shoulders for bandits and/or carabanieri . We eventually, in great trepidation, handed the car back to Avis at Catania Airport fully expecting to be arrested on hit-and-run charges.

But this is Sicily where testosterone runs all motorcars and I am in the middle lane. The man on my left is absolutely not giving way and I am being dangerously squeezed.

His wife is in the passenger seat. He starts to shout across her at me.

I have nowhere to go.

He leans across his wife, opens the glove compartment and produces an enormous revolver which he waves across his wife, through the window, in my face.

I am electrified.

The wife starts to shout at her husband and pushes his hand up and away. The husband stalls his car and an opening comes up ahead of me which I shoot into, sweating.

There are two other gun stories, one in Libya and the other in a Greek restaurant along the Harrow Road near Westbourne Park. How prosaic is that? But it could have ended in tragedy since ordnance was let off.

Friends Dave Lucas, Sue Samson, Tony and I are eating a great meal at Dave’s local “Greek” the name of which escapes me.

We are sitting towards the back.

At the front, in the window, as part of the décor, is a table set with napery, cutlery and a bottle of Moët in an ice bucket designed to attract passing custom.

All very civilised and calm.

Suddenly a car comes screaming down the road, a man leans out of the window and fires off a pistol, shooting up the restaurant, the Threshers Off Licence next door and another shop down the road.

Two bullets penetrate the “Greek”. Both through the plate glass. The first bullet decapitates the top of the champagne bottle which explodes in a spectacular spray of foam; the second penetrates the floor boards literally inches from Tony’s leg.

Later, after the police arrived and the blue tape closed us in, the bullet sticking out of the floorboard could easily be identified as 9mm Parabellum. So, a Glock? A Luger? Who knows? And what was it all for?

We never found out.

One of the questions the cops asked us was, “Do you know anyone who might want you dead?”!

So, Friends, guns. You never know do you?

One more?

Rather tame this time: In Tripoli during a short window of cooperation between Colonel Gadaffi and the West during the Blair years. I was employed by Martin Randall to play Julius Caesar in a redacted, 90 minute version of the play of that name with a professional ensemble specially staged at Leptis Magna where there is a two thousand seat, ruined theatre by the seaside.

Martin Randall specialises in cultural tours. A truly brilliant tour operator, very high end, on this occasion a cruise visiting Roman remains along the North African Coast from Tunis through to Crete stopping in such places as Sabratha, ancient Carthage among several, and including Leptis Magna.

We joined the cruise after rehearsing for two weeks in London. Tony was able to come too which was nice. We rehearsed during the days leading up to arriving in Tripoli.

Just imagine the arranging? The bribes? The connivances and the intricacies involved in getting all this on the road, once actually in Libya? With different, warring factions within Gadaffi’s government – some didn’t want us, others did. It depended on which son was prevailing. Anyway for a while we were in but we had to have a series of minders from dockside to vomitorium. “Our Man In Tripoli” drove us in a protected minivan. I was sitting in the passenger seat. As we left the dock area he leaned across me to the glove compartment where there was an enormous and I mean enormous wodge of cash, $ollars, €uros and £ounds and an even more enormous Glock which he put between his knees for the journey to the ruins. Payoffs were made all the way down the line but the gun, thank heavens, was never used.

What an experience.

Back to Cefalú – on all of my visits there, guns or no guns, the Cathedral is the most beautiful building, Sicilian Romanesque; it’s presbytarium adorned by Byzantine craftsmen with mosaics quite as brilliant as the ones in Monreale, another Norman marvel in the hills above Palermo.

The exquisite Cathedral at Monreale.

In 2019 Friends Judith (Krummeck), Douglas, Tony and I hatched a plan to meet in Southampton and cross the pond to New York in one or other Cunard liner, it didn’t really matter which. Investigations were made and we were to have embarked the Queen Mary 2 in June 2020.

But along came Covid and that was the end of that – we thought. Cunard were extremely helpful, refunds were made and best wishes for another plan were expressed all round.

It all came together and now we are on our way in some considerable splendour, the four of us, to NYC where we will spend a day or two before they go home to Baltimore and we head north to Cape Cod where we will rendezvous with daughter Sarah and son-in-law Ivan who will be driving down from Ottawa to be with us for a week.

We boarded yesterday, the 23rd June. There was a terrible moment when it looked as though Tony would have to stay behind. Though he had a valid ESTA, he had forgotten that his newly issued passport and the numbers on the documents did not match.

Pandemonium.

Judith, Douglas and I board and Tony said he’d catch us up.
The hours go by and no online approval is forthcoming on an emergency application. Cunard are adamant – no valid ESTA, no boarding!
I am already planning an airfare for him to join us in NYC at the end of the week and having a minor nervous breakdown!

Stress levels are through the roof! But at last the site pinged and permission was granted, so we are all set.

“Phew!” as they say on Wordle.

Yesterday I waved goodbye to my beloved Martita on whom major electrical surgery has been performed to no avail. She cannot be revived. Her mighty heart still beats but her nervous system is shot and no MOT can be declared. Sadly I completed the SORN documentation and submitted it to the DVLA vehicle tax service in Wales.

she struck an elegant figure among her peers in Mistley and as she swept across the Continent, to Portugal, all over Spain; in France and Italy, through Switzerland, Germany and the Low Countries, heads would turn and hearts would burn in admiration and envy.

Even being rudely addressed as “that hair-dresser’s car” did not stall her. For eleven years she has carried us forth. Her marriage of eight years ended in divorce when a hire-purchase arrangement collapsed and she briefly attended rehab in Slough before I met her online. It was love at first sight, never once dimmed by clumsy supermarket trolleys, careless driving and bumper bumps, inflicted by others I hasten to add, and not me.

She has loyally carried friends low and high, old and young across Europe and Britain pre- and post-Brexit: Dutch aristocrats around the Castles of England, South Africans to the Battlefields of Flanders, doughty Welshmen to Snowdonia and beyond.

Martita……..never to be forgotten. How can you be replaced? And with what?

The main project this Spring has been the redecoration of our home on The Green. There has been much chucking out, carpets, curtains, books – plenty of “muckdungus” as my Scottish grandmother used to call it. The place has not been touched for 23 years as we have always believed that to travel is preferable than to make-over! But, hey………..

“There is a tide in the affairs of houses
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the colours of their rooms
Are bound to fade; on such a full sea
of Sudbury Yellow & Theatre Red are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.” 

But I am fairly certain that Brutus was not advising Cassius on new color schemes!

So – out with the old and in with the new. Kevin Gleed our Maître Décorateur is undertaking this nerve-racking journey in three tranches: top, bottom and outside. He is on the bottom at the moment. The top was completed three weeks ago but it took us that long to empty the bottom to free up space for him to wave his paintbrush around and reach those parts that other brands could not!

The new carpets (Brian Birt Carpets of Clacton) are in; Lulu Meston from The Curtain Exchange has measured for drapes; Zoey Bates will re-upholster; Tom the Plumber, Jon the Carpenter and Bob the Electrician have all joined a cast of thousands in this projet de renouveau! And don’t forget Haj the Oriental Carpet Specialist enjoined to repair and clean 80 year old rugs.

We have retreated to London as Mistley is uninhabitable now – just when we really needed Martita to fetch and carry.

But eventually we were sensible; abandoned all romantic notions of fast, stylish open air travel and have adopted a grey, Hybrid Hyundai Kona called Henrietta who will carry us further into our 8th decade safely and anonymously. We shall be invisible in this sweet young four year old and will be happy to sing that famous song from Chicago :

Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda Been My Name:
Mister Cellophane.
‘Cause You Can Look Right Through Me
Walk Right By Me
And Never Know I’m There…

Henrietta Hyundai-Kona

OTHER NOTES

Drawing towards midsummer now and the annual visit to the Holland Park Opera with friends, Sue, Dave, Sarah and Hannah, a lovely tradition; with Rossini’s The Barber of Seville and a fine picnic on the terrace what could possibly go wrong?

heat looking at ruins and determined to have his ward for himself. Into the mix comes Paul Grant’s charming, wily Figaro with all his tricks and that wonderful aria. 

Lovely.

It was curated by the writer Iain Sinclair whose book Pariah Genius: John Deakin, The Psychobiography of a Photographer.

Oh dear. Not a cheerful visit.

As this is a diary I just want, really for my own benefit, to add a short list of things enjoyed this Spring, in between the sweep of paint brushes. I share them with you dear Friends.

Two books I found fascinating, both by Adam Sisman: John le Carré: The Biography published in 2015 and it’s “coda” published after le Carré’s death in 2023, The Secret Life of John le Carré. I had no idea what a complex individual he was, what a womaniser;  how difficult it was to extricate fact from fiction in this inextricably interesting life. Great read.

Some Television:

Australian actor Scott Ryan, who juggles his eventful line of work with fatherhood, a new romance and caring for his ailing brother. Operating his own moral compass and despite some of his terrifying actions emerges as an entirely lovable character.

Friends – give it a whirl!

Both Zone of Interest, Jonathan Glazer’s unforgettable and brutal Auschwitz drama and Occupied City  Steve McQueen’s production of his wife Bianca Stigler’s book Atlas of an Occupied City, Amsterdam 1940-1945  are simply electrifying. McQueen’s documentary is well over four hours long, an exhausting but astonishing marathon well worth watching.

And of course Shōgun! We read the book (no. 3 out of 6 in James Clavell’s Asian Saga) in 1975; we saw Richard Chamberlian as John Blackthorne in the mini series back in 1980 but this new series is a must-watch. More Japanese than English. With its exquisitely structured narratives and spectacular, rich and accurate production values. I would have binged again but this time I had to wait a little as Disney+ tantalised us with weekly releases. Lets hope they do the same with Clavell’s other five Asian stories.

Some cinema:

We both very much enjoyed Made in England: The Films of Powell & Pressburger, Martin Scorcese’s homage in a richly enjoyable documentary style to their glorious films and their complex relationship. It made us immediately want to see some of them again including I Know Where I Am Going  which was new to us.

Melancholy, wistful, multilayered, we were transfixed by this haunted, bedraggled story. Enchanting.

And some theatre too, Friends!

Enjoyed them all despite the flaws, starting with Opening Night, Ivo van Hove’s production of Rufus Wainwright’s over-extravagant, musical adaptation of the Cassavetes’ 1977 film about a Broadway star, Myrtle (Sheridan Smith) in a mid-life crisis meltdown on the eve of a Broadway Opening night. 

What a stupendous ensemble, truly brilliant performances, Sheridan Smith glitters; but somewhere I couldn’t quite be convinced. Ivo van Hove always seems to over-embelish. His use of TV monitors and other digital trickery for me just confused the issues and, whats more, pulled focus. While I could see what he was trying to do, for me it just didn’t quite succeed. The play received mixed reviews and tripped at the box office. It was pulled early, sadly. I’m sure with more tampering it could have been fixed!

The staging was absolutely brilliant we thought, very clever and we came away completely satisfied and hope that the upcoming General Election where the NHS as an issue, has a premier position, may save its life somehow!

Originally from the Geffen Playhouse, New York where Bryan Cranston tests the bounds of free speech, it was recast here and played powerfully to good houses.

An enjoyable evening ending in culinary triumph à la table de Cathie et Richard Griffin. Thank you both: looking forward to the next round!

And Friends, thanks for listening. Midsummer is upon us with more adventures.

PEDRO

This picture has no purpose other than that it amuses me!

It’s been a while, Friends! We have been away for sixty days; Spring is well sprung in Mistley!

Brother David died two years ago on the day we were to depart for Auckland to visit Other Brother Michael, wife Janine and nieces Caity and Laurien – all grown up, soon to be married.

David’s death meant an obvious and sad postponement.

And Stuart, too, lives in New Zealand. We were eight years old when we met, unwilling habitués of a prep school, Cordwalles, in Pietermaritzburg a long, long time ago. He a sad little chappie all the way from Zambia, missing his Mum and Dad, flown all the way to Durban with a label round his neck. Mine lived only 36 miles down the road but I missed them just as much. We were fellow mourners.

The cast list continues: actor and yoga mistress Lynn Webster and husband Rod Oram** both dating from early London, LAMDA days and The Financial Times 40 years ago, now in Auckland.

And not to forget Eileen Thorns that was – Lavranos that is, once from Durban – mark that, Friend Diane Wilson – and formerly at the CAPAB theatre company where I started all those many years ago. She directed lunchtime theatre, school tours and library programmes and flogged our outreach talents across the whole of the Cape – thousands of miles of countless libraries and schools across a province the size of France. 

Exploring all the way north along the impressive 55 mile “90 Mile Beach”!  to Cape Reinga.

Then down to Whakatane along route 2 through passes and mountain scenery along roads still showing signs of the terrible floods a year ago, to Gisborne now mended. It was completely cut off from the rest of the country for at least a week.  Napier next where in 1931 the country’s worst natural disaster, the Hawke’s Bay earthquake, devastated the region killing 256. The city was prettily rebuilt in the low-rise deco style and every year the town holds its Art Deco Festival celebrating its rebirth.

We picked up a car there driving down to Masterton leaving Michael and Janine to their own devices for a few days agreeing to meet at the unpronounceable town of Taumarunui  on the edge of the Pureora Forest Park.

Masterton: Helena is two years older than me. Her family where our neighbours in Pinelands, Cape Town. Her Dad was from Warsaw. Her Mum was Italian, from Turin. How they landed up across the fence from us is a tale on its own. How my own Mum and Dad landed up there is an equally fascinating story but it made them unlikely neighbours these Anglo-Scottish-Polish-Italians and that story will have to be told another time. Needless to say I was plonked into Helena’s sandpit along with Janek her brother. Apparently my Polish was better than his though I now remember nothing.

Years later, at UCT for a BA and a dramatic launchpad, I introduced Stuart to Helena, they partnered each other at a Rag Ball, fell in love and married; I was his best man. He was at the Medical School, became a Doctor; Andrina was their first and only born, herself my friend and sometime habitué of earlier blogs, living in London, teaching primary school kids.

Sadly a marriage that burned for thirty years but became a dying star.  

Ce la vie. 

It does to Victoriana what Napier does to Deco. The fascinating Cobblestones Museum showing an example of the early settler village shed light on how colonists managed to survive so far from home and in such a different climate. Here I succeeded in losing both my driver’s licence and Forex Card! “Age thou art shamed…..!”

We met with Brother Michael and Janine in Taumarunui, that unpronounceable town on the little north-south railway line between Auckland and Wellington. They’d found the most fabulous place to stay: Omaka Lodge.

Here in this beautiful location we were the guests of hosts Scott & Chris, gardeners and chefs of note; a boutique experience. This picture does not do justice to the garden which reminded us very much of Christopher Lloyd’s Great Dixter, not the house but in its landscape layout and style.

Down the hill and round the corner is the Forgotten World Highway a spectacular journey through some of the country’s most beautiful and remote locations with its backcountry ghost towns, pristine native bush, rugged hills and deep hidden valleys, along the now-abandoned Stratford to Okahukara railway line; a 142km construction through 24 tunnels, 90 plus bridges – all hand-built.

This little clip gives you a taste. At each stop for teas, pees and lunches we were told intriguing stories of people from a bygone age, of local histories, some funny, some tragic but all dramatic. Our journey started at the Whangamōmona Hotel, headquarters of the self-proclaimed and quirky Republic of Whangamōmona!

Three weeks flew by and it was time for a last few days in Auckland and our flight to Sydney. Thanks lovely Friends & Family!

______________________________________________________________________________

**ROD ORAM

I have to intrude here and sadly tell you that after I’d written this section and soon after our lovely meeting, we were horrified by the tragic news that our friend Rod Oram, husband to Lynn and father to Celeste had a fatal accident on his bicycle In Auckland. Some of you may remember him when he was with The Financial Times. A vital force and wonderful man. It seems inconceivable. Our hearts go out.

https://newsroom.co.nz/2024/03/20/prominent-columnist-and-environmentalist-rod-oram-dies/

______________________________________________________________

Australia couldn’t be more different. We have been to Sydney before but not to Melbourne or Adelaide – now on the radar. Once again Friends and Family in different places: Allan Momberg in Sydney was our cultural signpost and culinary advisor. We visited Art Galleries, walked our socks off round the city, the botanic gardens, the older bits and the modern pieces.

Bearing in mind the difference in collection sizes across the world, their talent to make a little go a long way is actually more satisfying in many ways that the ocean of visual plenitude that Europe and America provide. There is a greater use of thematic display of cross-disciplinary artefacts. Somehow this makes periods in cultural history seem more accessible and we found this technique being deployed in all the galleries we visited. The added dimension of “First Nation” cultural contribution in these times of more concern over the European penetration of culture in the imperial/colonial past also adds richness. Aboriginal and Maori histories are often prevalent in New Zealand and Australia.

In Sydney there was an exhibition of Louise Bourgeois’ work in the astonishing postmodern, glass and steel Art Gallery of New South Wales Extension itself built over an old World War 2 oil bunker buried in the hill (Domain) beneath and part of the exhibition space – The Tank. This was drained and cleaned up. It reminded us of the huge Basilica Cisterna built by Emperor Justinian in the 6^th Century.

Personally, apart from her sculptures, I find her works rather impenetrable and was more impressed by the building that houses them than the exhibition itself!

We were struck by The White Rabbit Gallery too. Startling to say the least – The White Rabbit Gallery was opened to showcase Judith Neilson’s White Rabbit Collection, which has become one of the world’s most significant collections of Chinese contemporary art.

This is the new extension on Domain. Impressive to say the least though controversial. I need you to note, dear Friends, the Westfield Skytower on the left, location of a recent terrorist outrage. We went up it in an attempt to conquer Tony’s vertigo. 268 metres above sea-level, the highest open platform in the southern hemisphere! Great views! He was very brave!

We took the train to Melbourne proud of its new status as the largest city in Australia having overtaken Sydney – but in area alone, not population. The train took ten hours. Very comfortable; great views though the landscape was fairly gentle – and very brown and dry. Eucalyptus everywhere of course with its gentle green colour. In my whole life I’d never seen either a kangaroo or a koala bear, except in zoos; and after this trip can boast that I still haven’t really! A glimpse of one maybe in the Cleland National Park outside Adelaide but I don’t think that counts. I was expecting them to be jumping around the countryside in their droves and nibbling away in the eucalyptus tree – but not a sausage! Well we shall just have to go back again one day soon and say “third time lucky”!

Melbourne feels totally different to Sydney. As a South African I’d say Melbourne is to Sydney what Cape Town is to Johannesburg (though Johannesburg, frankly, is a dump compared to the glories of Sydney. More of that later!).

It’s a laid back city. We wandered around it and along its riverbanks, galleries, and gardens; there was lots of good food.

We went swimming from the beach at St. Kilda and found Jake Schulmeyer whom absolutely none of you, well, apart from two, know; I mention it because it was one of those beautifully serendipitous moments, touching and sweet.

we were transfixed by some rather excellent conversations between the likes of Kathy Lette (The Revenge Club), Suzie Miller (Prima Facie), Anne Enright (The Wren, The Wren), Édouard Louis (Change) in conversation with Ruth Mackenzie.

The Arab-Israeli conflict and Gaza were well represented and there were interesting talks and debates involving Avi Shlaim (Three Worlds : Memoirs of an Arab Jew), Tareq Baconi (The History of Hamas) Ilan Pappé (The Israel/Palestine Question) and of course our own Mary Beard & Polly Toynbee were there, also Yanis Varoufakis, Richard Denniss, Joëlle Gergis and Thomas Keneally – by now a ‘national treasure’ – all Straight Talking!

And don’t forget Richard Ford!

A Grande Dames of Letters at the town hall included Mary Beard, Anne Michaels, Jane Smiley and Elizabeth Strout. An interesting evening. The entire writers week well represented women who dominated throughout. Yay! For a change!

And don’t forget JM Coetzee!

My name drop, you see :  Dorothy Driver, married to JM Coetzee, is an old friend of Tony’s from Rhodes days. They have lived in Adelaide for some years and we were invited to dinner at their home one evening, enjoying their company. John was also part of the Writers’ Week nomenclature but he was ‘on’ after we had departed to South Africa so we couldn’t see him perform.

Back to the Festival:

All five of us sat gob-smacked and were the more so the following day when much of the press both international and Australian seemed to think it was brilliant. How could we be so wrong; though it was clear that many in the audience were with us in their confusion and disappointment.

Marina Abramović Institute’s Takeover:

On one of the floors at The Cube was a sale of “Limited Edition”, posthumous casts by Salvador Dali. One was a snip at AU$1,500,000! So, after you have tasted and purchased your wine you simply slip downstairs with your credit card and pop a posthumous Dali into your trolley. Easypeasy!

While we were in OZ the AU$ was about two to the pound.

But time to move on. We loved Australia; much of its landscape and the way of life, the weather and general rhythm speak to our ‘SouthAfrican-ness”, I guess. It is a far more relaxed society than Britain. Blimey – we are so uptight and wound up here with our extraordinary preoccupations with class and privilege. I’m sure no-one here will deny that Britain is not a comfortable place at present. Our ruling classes are getting it all horribly wrong and muddled up. Nothing works without some sort of problem!

This is not to say that Australia does not have its problems too. Like New Zealand there are burning race issues that percolate their societies but it seems to me that next to other parts of the world these are as tiny drops in the ocean of trouble and strife.

Yes – Australia is like South Africa but without the massive guilt we carry as Europeans for the appalling impact our arrival in Africa caused.

And then we arrived in Johannesburg. Oh my God! The long, exhausting flight didn’t help our shock at the state of the city. It was never beautiful but at least it functioned. Now it doesn’t any more. There is no water because the systems have been burglarised. You turn the taps on and nothing comes out; there is no electricity because of the uselessly corrupt power distribution company Eskom’s on-going inefficiencies and the perpetual, greed of the Kleptocratic State, the ruling nomenclature having by now, thirty years down the line, accrued quite literally trillions of Rands at the expense of the very people whom they are meant to protect and represent.

The roads are ghastly; the traffic is dirty and messy; there is rubbish and graffiti everywhere; the railways have collapsed because the overhead copper wiring has been stolen – miles and miles of it; and the rails too.

Some 3,000 kms of rails have been ripped out, melted down and sent to China (probably); there is murder and tragedy lurking. We know because we have been first hand witnesses. There has never been an incident-free visit to South Africa!

Towards the end of our time there Tony and I drove up from Durban to Hilton along the old R103 route, once the road linking Durban with Johannesburg and roughly paralleling the original single track railway line as they both meander up from Durban through the kloofs –  Wyebank, Hillcrest and Botha’s Hill overlooking the extraordinary beauty of the Valley of a Thousand Hills, through Drummond and Inchanga. When we travel this route I always think of the opening paragraph of Cry, The Beloved Country which still makes me weep:

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa.

On this day we climbed up through the hills along the old road which was in surprisingly good nick. Until Camperdown and Cato Ridge that is. Here the new main road, the vast, multi-lane motorway to Johannesburg is undergoing major changes and the green signboards along the R103, never good anyway, simply vanished and, along a route I must have driven hundreds of times, we got lost fetching up in a terrifying township, Mpumalanga (the name means ‘sunrise’ in Zulu), once Hammarsdale, invisible on the map, a throwback to the Apartheid years when such ‘people dumps’, part of the vicious Group Areas Act that ensured perpetual poverty and exploitation of Blacks, were established. Now grown into a huge, ghastly menace on the land. The roads almost impassable; poverty a malevolent presence where deep hatreds brood, where there is no work, no hope and too much Tik.

A sort of terror grips you when you start to realise you are hopelessly lost, you are the only Whites and you pray you will not be stopped. We have been there before. Last time. In Mthatha.

We were not stopped but two days earlier we later found out that another man, confused by the appalling road signage, had also fetched up in Mpumalanga, lost, and tried to get his SatNav up on his phone. His car was attacked, he was beaten and his phone taken.

Then they cut off his hands.

But this was all later. Back in grubby Jo’burg we are fortunate to have lots of lovely and close friends and you fall into their generous embrace with relief though the realities are never far off. We stayed with Anthony Akerman and Andre Hattingh in gracious Greenside where every infrastructural shortcoming has been trumped by installations – JoJo Tanks, Solar panels, generators, gas-fired demand heating, lots and lots and lots of keys, of security, of entry codes and security procedures.

Anthony’s new memoir Lucky Bastard was published while we were with him – a very moving account of what it means to be adopted and Ivan Vladislavic’s new book, The Near North, is about living – and walking – in Johannesburg, was released in the same week and here we are below at the Johannesburg Country Club with Minky Schlesinger, his partner. Minky had not a little to do with the founding of The Market Theatre as Pat Schwartz’ book, mentioned earlier, attests. And who should we find among the pictures in Pat’s book but none other than Edward Russell-Walling! On the right and back in the 70’s!

Anthony arranged a lunch and, Friends, we saw some of you and loved it. Can I name you? Kathie Satchwell (Constitutional eminence grise), Jan Kennedy – an intrepid traveller and only person we know to have been airlifted out of Libya by the Italian Airforce – Peter Terry of course and Phil Godawa. All with stories which I wish I could tell but can’t.

And Kate – can we call you Searle again? – at Kolonaki for lunch, with her new man, Etienne. So happy for you. Has your golf improved?

And Cousin Avril with Peter de Montille at Nice on 4^th – so great to see you cuzz. Avril is a cousin on my Mother’s Scots-Rhodesian side of the family. There is never enough time, is there!

Alison Lowry dear friend and ace-editor – so elusive but will we ever forget the frogs in Goa?

We’d not been in Jo’Burg since before Covid so this was a real catch-up with many missed friends and family.

An amazing evening with Clan Heaney in Linden. An explosion of energy across such a big, loving family with you, darling Julia, calmly sitting at the centre of it all in this your 70^th year. What a lovely evening. The Ubers come and go…..”talking of Michelangelo” Ha!

Actually thank goodness for the Ubers. There is no public transport to speak of anywhere in South Africa, well, none that I’d feel confident to travel on without being murdered. So, yes, the Ubers certainly did come and go.

Off to KwaZulu-Natal, flying to Pietermaritzburg in a little Embraer that barely fitted us and our luggage : I must tell you that when we boarded at Oliver Tambo, the biggest woman, very jolly, with the hugest embonpoint, draped in swathes of colourful silk tulle was cantilevered up the tiny fold down stairs and took her place across two whole seats in the front row, the seating in an Embraer being 1, 2 across, whereupon a special, long seatbelt was installed to enwrap her vastness. It was whispered that she had indeed paid for two seats. Amazing.

We picked up the first of our rentals at Oribi Airport (Pietermaritzburg) – yes, there is yet another drama involving rentals in SA, there is always one every time we visit – and drove down to Kloof to be with Sister Sally, Bro-in-law Alan and Nephew Jamie for a day or two before an early start to drive up to Phinda in northern Zululand, picking up Friends Penny & Nick at Shaka International, they having just jetted in from England, to join us there, putting up at the matchless Phinda Mountain Lodge.

The whole point of the Phinda experience is the drives. Early morning and evening, two a day, we completed six of them with our brilliant Ranger, Declan and incredible Tracker, Menzi. 

Cheetah – Beautiful creatures : my favourite.

During the day at these lodges you loll about by the pool reading books and generally eating far too much; a gentle, restorative experience tucked away in the deepest bush. Though nature is red in tooth and claw, there seems to be a coexistent peace, trembling on the edge of the next natural drama.

And there can be dramas, often! Look at this clip taken at Pilansberg where a few days earlier Friend Helen Bourne had been visiting these very elephants!

We dropped Penny & Nick off with their friends in Glenwood, Durban, once a genteel rather plush, old part of the city just below the University campus, now a terrifying jungle of appalling roads, rubbish, threat, razor wire and electric fencing. No-one leaves their cars parked outside – they’d vanish in minutes! So we didn’t stop too long there and anyway the rental had developed two slow punctures and we had to change cars at the Avis depot in Pinetown before driving up to Hilton, kuiering  with Friends Lorenza & Mike Cowling,  hooking up with Bobby & Kippie Keal plus Clan and with Sarah ‘Chinese Bangles’ Carlisle.

Sarah’s family have a house in Underberg, in a large garden with spectacular views towards the whole Drakensberg range along Garden Castle, Rhino’s Horn, northwards towards Giant’s Castle and Njesuthi. There was much walking, talking and conviviality – the endorphin-junkies among us putting the sloths to shame. Sorry Friends!

Such a wonderful family of friends; what a special time it was.

He lives in Glenwood, Durban; that terrifying part of town!

No Cape Town this time – it’s impossible to go everywhere and see everyone though I wish we could.

That is one of the problems of having a Diaspora of Family and Friends.

Thank you one and all.

Napier, Hawkes Bay. February 2024.

This is a green Mamba. They are found in southern and eastern Africa, and are shy, evasive creatures. It’s possibly one of the most poisonous snakes on the planet and its neuro-  cardio-toxic venom is lethal.

They won’t seek out human interaction. But if cornered or confronted, they will strike.

But here is a thing:

In 1957, when I was a little boy of five or six, my father was sent from Cape Town where we lived, to Durban in what is now KwaZulu-Natal, to help run the shipping division of John.T.Rennie & Sons which, after the Suez Crisis, was expanding rapidly.

I’d never seen a snake before. My mother had of course, having lived partly in Southern Rhodesia. There are plenty there.

There are plenty in KwaZulu-Natal too, of every variety imaginable; and they terrify me.

My father and mother found a beautiful house in Kloof on the escarpment, facing east towards Durban and the sea, which could be clearly seen twenty miles away. They made a garden out of the large tropical grounds, much of which sloped to the edge of the kranz plunging a thousand feet to a wild valley.

It was a beautiful place, Casetta Rondini, so named by the owner builder, Noël Hobbs, an Italophile from London, and Professor of Architecture at Durban University: Swallows House because of the annual arrival and departure of the migrating swallows that built their mud homes under our eves and dipped in and out of the swimming pool morning and evening during the hot humid days of summer.

A big pantechnicon arrived one day from Cape Town and all our furniture was brought into the house. We moved from the Moorlands Hotel and came to our new home in Peace Road, Kloof along by the golf course.

That is not my mother, nor brother David but the dining room and the playpen looked exactly like that.

Towering over him was this enormous green snake it’s head in the classic raised position that I later learned meant it could be none other than a Mamba. To this day the memory chills me.

My mother saw me looking, turned and in an instant became a shrieking banshee.

With the ridiculously inadequate tenderiser-mallet, a short handled affair, she ran to the dining room with every protective, maternal  instinct on high alert.

David was afflicted with polio and could not stand up, something at that age that, anyway, babies find difficult to do unaided.

That is the day, in my memory, that anxiety first made its presence felt. The fear of the moment was palpable; I have always been terrified of snakes.

And there were lots of them in that garden. During the cooler months in Natal, that we were pleased to call winter, dry and not at all humid, the house seemed to be a magnet.  I remember an enormous puff adder sunning itself in the laundry, my mother oblivious of its presence, her back turned away as she bent over the Hoovermatic; the gardener was

The Boomslang that resides in trees is another back-fanged, highly toxic creature. Here is another story even more fantastic:

A poor photograph of David & Gladys Suttie. (née Adams, a well known Natal family of missionaries and entrepreneurs, of Scottish descent.)

She invited us to tea one afternoon. It was served with some ceremony under the Jacaranda tree on the lawn that sloped down to the 16^th green of the nearby golf course. A beautiful, peaceful summer afternoon. The tray was laid out on the garden table, a beautiful china tea service, there were some biscuits and a cake; all very proper.

My mother saw it but remained calm, “Gladys………..” she said, but got no further.

“I know dear, I know its there, just stay still for a moment.”

We were electrified.

The snake slithered along and off Gladys’ arm in amongst the china laden tray.

In a trice Gladys leapt to her feet and rushed into the breakfast room along the veranda. On the wall in a special cradle was a small shot gun used for scaring off rodents and other creatures.

Brandishing this weapon she advanced rapidly down the garden, “Marjorie, move the children, get out of the way!”

Once we were clear, Gladys let both barrels off directly into the tea things. There was a spectacular explosion of shot and chinaware, smithereens doesn’t do it, and a very broken, dead snake.

I think we came to tea on another day!

Talking of Boomslangs, my brother-in-law, Alan, is a wild-life enthusiast whose favourite animals are the big cats – lion, leopard and cheetah which he photographs and follows all over Africa. Alan’s other favourite is the Black Mamba which he says is one of the most beautifully evolved creatures on Earth. He knows of my fears and constantly teases me about “arboreals” when we visit KwaZulu-Natal. Many of our finest adventures have been in his company, arranged and conducted by him, in Namibia, Botswana and South Africa.

He has taken us twice to Phinda, a private game reserve set beautifully in three camps among the green-clad, granite kopjes and sand forests of northern Zululand.

I only know of three people ever actually bitten by a snake. Funnily enough two of them were in Europe – not Africa at all.

[Notes: Bites from Blunt Nosed Vipers usually cause life-threatening systemic hemodynamic disturbances, reduced functionality of the kidneys, and other serious symptoms, including hypotension shock, oedema, and tissue necrosis, at the bite site.]

The other European bite was in France. Be careful where you picnic, Friends, on your way south! The wheat fields of northern France have all sorts of creepy things hiding in them, including the common adder. One of these shot out of field near one of those Aires that we all enjoy picnicking in and bit my Friend John’s niece on the leg landing her in hospital for a few days.

Who would have thought!

Do you want any more? I have a few. Okay. Let me tell you about the Fezi:

Our friend Carol Hayman introduced us to a lovely couple, neighbours and friends of hers in Dullstroom, Mpumalanga. During dinner I couldn’t help noticing a vivid cicatrix on his wrist.

The whole place was woken up. The nearest hospital was in Nelspruit (now Mbombela) ninety miles, a good two hours away by Landrover – far too late to save his life.

Richard Branson’s helicopter happened to be on the stand nearby and he was flown the distance in forty minutes where he was treated.

A near thing, Friends.

Why am I telling you all this? Probably because it is a diversion from the nasty news that has welcomed us into 2024 which we may see & say but which is certainly not sorted! By the way have you ever tried texting or calling the numbers they endlessly broadcast? In the tunnels? Not a peep, Friends. Not a peep! How do you sort if you cannot say?

Christmas has come and gone and here we are at the end of January. Tony’s whole family, the whole bang shoot – Canadians jetting in to join – gathered. It was great.  We looked across at this brood and could not believe our eyes. Seventeen of us sat down to dinner.

I have had my knuckles wrapped, Friends, by several of you who complain I don’t mention enough intimate, small scale events. Some of you hate being mentioned at all. Others don’t mind as long as surnames are kept out.

Not  forgetting dearest Sue or “Cleating” as I call her – and I am “Sheeting”. That’s a story for another time! Quite a funny one. To do with sailing and how bad we were at it!

And Jane B. too – the movies of course. We are more than making up for the effects of Covid and lock down on our movie-going habits. Much better than streaming.

The Lesson with Richard E. Grant  & Julie Delpy being rather good in this witty and entertaining gem.

The Finnish Auteur Aki Kaurismäki’s  gently comic Fallen Leaves we adored and it inspired us to track down other films of his.

A Nearly Normal Family. Riveting Scandi-noir from Sweden. The lengths families will go to cover up their crimes.

Though I nearly didn’t watch it, speaking of normal families, The Crown turned out to be a good one, hats off to Imelda Staunton. The same could not be said for  The Tourist which bemused us even more than the first series set in Australia. 

How the production team managed to find enough still and sunny days considering the realities of the weather there, is nothing short of miraculous; and once Douglas Henshall departed it rather lost its allure.

Pop up books apply also to the traditional and now annual Nutcracker ballet which never fails to please; particularly with daughters Julie and Sarah in tow. A perfect afternoon with the usual tears of joy during the pas de deux.

There is nothing easy about Richard Strauss’ Elektra. Definitely from a dysfunctional family. The tragic shenanigans at the court of Agamemnon: regicide, adultery, betrayal, revenge, incest and even, yes, love, make this the perfect platform for the largest orchestra in opera (110 pieces) with a huge, emotional sound that literally tingles the blood. The last, vast notes fade as Elektra leaves a blood spattered stage in a dance of  madness and, though one is not sure, goes to her death. How Nina Stemme finds the sheer strength to project this vast role over such an enormous sound I do not know, and she is on stage for pretty much the entire 90 minutes of this one act opera. Brava…. Bravissima! It was under the direction of Antonio Pappano, the darling of Royal Opera audiences,  soon to be departing for the LSO. So, not too far away thank goodness.

I was intrigued at the age restriction placed on it. Suitable for children 12+?  I would have put it at 18! There was no restriction on Hansel & Gretel!

And what of Faggots at the Southbank?  Our friend Joy Smith, a harpist of note and poly-instrumentalist was in it and invited us along. Based on Larry Kramer’s 1978 novel of the same name, we were not sure what to make of this piece finely executed by a talented and clearly committed ensemble. It’s themes in the frame of a musical drama-comedy seemed to us curiously  quaint and out-of-date, with Woke and gender orientation squashed into a theme that was once purely gay. Homosexuals reclaiming Faggots. I am not sure it quite knew what it was trying to say but enjoyable nonetheless.

NEW ZEALAND

Brother David’s death a year ago put an end to our visit then to New Zealand to visit Brother Michael and the nieces (all advancing in age on every front!) – so we have revived plans and arrived here yesterday for three weeks; then Australia for two and directly on to SA after that, returning at the end of March. Our families are in such a diaspora. Two months away from the cold, grey mudflats of Essex can’t be a bad thing.

Onward and upward my dearios, in this dangerous and sad world.

THANKS FRIENDS ALL – SEE IT, SAY IT, SORTED!

Baroness Estée Lauder-Blackwell of Lower Chedworth RIP

Over sixteen years ago my Cousin Rufus heard scritchings and scratchings in the ceiling cavity above his head in his office in Ho Chi Minh City – Saigon to you and me.

He moved to Indonesia many years ago following his immense talent in SFX where he has worked at the cutting edge of digital special effects in the film industry and deployed drone technology with stunning and beautiful effect, forming his Company RUFUS.STUDIO to platform his formidable talent.

Her beautiful eyes gave her the name Estée Lauder and she has grown in love and in loyalty for her father who is My Cousin Rufus.

Estée has travelled the world. Cousin Rufus was mocked by his co-workers for his persistence in rearing this tiny, new responsibility:  she would not last the day; she could not be force fed with a dropper, she confounded the cynics and grew into a formidable presence in her Dad’s life.

She is the only Mynah I have ever heard of that has migrated by jet as she was whisked to and from the humidity of Vietnam and Indonesia to the damp chills of Gloucestershire and to other destinations besides.

For sixteen years!

Incredible.

And she disdained other birds. Cats feared her. Dogs were easily mastered. Her door was never shut and  she did not escape or even want to escape into the foreign skies of England.

Now Estée, beloved of the whole family of Blackwells, Keith-Roachs, Cartwrights – and many others besides – has passed from us into Mynah Heaven.

So sad.

With permission from Cousin Rufus I would like to publish his

Eulogy for Baroness Estée Lauder-Blackwell of Lower Chedworth

RIP Estée Lauder.

You tiny little massive legend.

My beautiful little Myna Bird I rescued as a tiny, featherless chick,

And hand reared in Malaysia.

I couldn’t possibly say goodbye to you, so brought you back to join the Blackwell Family.

An epic character weathering 16 winters in the Cotswolds,

A part of the a world no Malaysian Myna bird has known but you.

Estee:  you lived the most incredibly vibrant life,

Surrounded by cats, dogs and other animals,

Yet somehow you always came to no harm.

You escaped more times than we can remember,

Your cage fell from a tree, setting you free,

And you turned up at the neighbour’s,

Yet somehow survived to live a full, utterly unique life.

We will miss your amazing repertoire;

But most of all we will miss your call, “Wicked! Wicked!”

But now, in the words of Monty Python, you are deceased, you are no more, you are an “ex-parrot”, you have rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible.

As we bury you in this, your favourite patch of the garden,

You will forever be pushing up the daisies.

Fare thee well you tiny magnificent creature.

We all love you and will remember you forever.

Bravo, Cousin Rufus, Bravo!

(Vimeo kindly provided by Cousin Wendy Keith-Roach)

Friends. Greetings. It’s been a while……

It’s difficult to know what to say in these dark times.

Perhaps silence would be best?  The crisis in the Middle East dominates everything at the moment. Since my last post when none of this had happened -though of course the indications, historically, were all there – the world has changed.

On the 7^th October Hamas made its beastly attack on Israel.

So much has been said, written and opined. Modern media makes everyone know best, know what they want to say, know-all.

It is almost obscene as the bandwagon of views parades across our devices in all shapes and forms – and it’s oppressive too.

Only one thing is sure: there is no agreement anywhere; no meeting of minds; no inspired leadership; not a shred of tolerance; no largesse; compassion is not the name of the game and ordinary people – as always –are the bloody victims in the macro/micro-geopolitical games played by leaders cashing in on the fears that have arisen, usually from the lies that are told them by men and women who should know better.

Tell the lie – manipulate the fear.

This video is horrendous but unsurprising. I never disbelieved the Israelis on this.

A lawyer Friend has written, and I repeat it because I think the same way:

“If Zionism is a militant form of Judaism, then at the end of the day Islam may think it is under threat but in truth the only challenges it faces are internal sects competing with each other – as they have done for millennia. I ask you to look at the Millet System by which the The Sublime Porte governed the fractious sects his huge empire encompassed.

Israel on the other hand rightly or wrongly is under threat. Their struggle is existential. Islam’s is most certainly not. One may choose to examine the historical reasons for that but whatever the root causes may be (I take these back to before the Crusades) the fact remains that Israel faces extinction at the hands of its neighbours.  And at the end of the day you cannot escape the fact that Hamas began the fight. They had to know that the Israelis were not going to take this lying down, so the question arises : just what were they hoping to achieve?  They had to have predicted the dreadful and inevitable civilian casualties so whatever political aims they had in mind those had to have been significant in order to justify the cost. The Middle East induces a deep sense of doom and gloom.  It is interesting how the Ukraine has ceased to be the main talking point. A nasty and uncomfortable thought emerges for me : did Putin have a hand in setting Hamas off as part of his Cold War offensive by focusing Western attention away from the Ukraine?  I would not put that past him.  Also he may wish to drain American resources funding more warfare, making it easier for his old buddy Donald “the Orange One” Trump, to withdraw America from foreign adventures (assuming he gets to being in a position to do so).”

My Friend Callum added, “….Hamas patently has little interest in the wellbeing of the citizens of Gaza.  They are intent only on the destruction of Israel.  The Instagram piece speaks for itself…….I rest my case.”

Those tunnels are a disgrace to humanity.

At the time of writing the first group of hostages are being exchanged – but war will continue.

I say no more.

On the 7th October, too, our friend and neighbour, the Auteur Terence Davies died suddenly after a short illness. He was in mid-project with his latest work, a Noël Coward biopic, Firefly. I have included a short piece here by Nick Newman who turned out to be the last person to interview Terence. I should also add that the James Dowling Nick refers to is also one of our neighbours and very much part of the special family of friends that inhabit our village on The Green.

Details Emerge on Terence Davies’ Planned Noël Coward Biopic Firefly

On location here with Cynthia Nixon in A Quiet Passion

With Gillian Anderson on the set of The House of Mirth

But he was a gentle and loyal friend; much loved on The Green where often talk of the problems of film production were far away and a mischievous humour prevailed. “Oh….the Minx…..” he would often say. This could cover a lot of things! Tony was his literary agent and I worked with him professionally once in his radio adaption of Virginia Woolf’s The Waves:

We had known Terence for a long time and we loved him and shall miss him.

Adieu, dear Friend.

We have very suddenly been to South Africa for two weeks; an unplanned event to see close family and friends in Pietermaritzburg – or “Hilton actually!” – Durban and Cape Town.

We found the KwaZulu-Natal midlands looking wonderful in an advanced southern hemisphere Spring.

It was an intensely personal visit, some friends and family are troubled by illness and it was a precious time to be there with them.

We shared the loveliness of the Midlands at the spectacular Benvie Garden founded by John Geekie from Dundee, Scotland who settled in Pietermaritzburg in 1860. Among the farms he collected was Nooitedacht where he created an arboretum importing sapling and seedling stock from around the world through Howdens & Co in Inverness. The nursery still exists today.

Winter rainfall in KZN is not usual. The quirky weather of the world continues – as we all know.

Midmar Dam

Thanks Christopher. A great recital. Bravo Bravo all.

To Cape Town for a brief few days visiting friends Ross & Charles who wined & dined us lavishly at Marina Da Gama before a fine long walk out along the vlei; staying with Damon Galgut and Riyaz & Tobassum in Greenpoint.

Such a poignant visit.

was burgled and yet another cell phone bit the dust! Our insurance company grows impatient with disbelief!

That was on our way to brunch with Helen B. who arrived in Cape Town the day before we left. We went to see her newly refurbed flat. And now I am looking after her London home – and Charlotte too, of course.

Why does everything these days have to be “re-imagined”? Why bother to bend the classics to your own idea? We’ve seen a lot of these sorts of plays in recent years and I am afraid they leave me increasingly unmoved and unimpressed – not to mention rather out-of-pocket! So it was with this version of Lorca’s classic, and the reason why I refused to spend exorbitant funds on it.

One asks the question why would a consummate and extremely intelligent actor like Harriet Walter agree to be in a version like this. She surely needs neither the fame nor the money – she already has both in spades – I imagine?

If you want to say something yourself, write it anew! Don’t bend the classics. It simply doesn’t work. Speaking of bending, if you have not read my description of The Ring we recently visited in Bayreuth, look:

“Sublime music and singing but there was no Gold, no Ring; the Rhine was a large, private swimming pool presided over by the Rhine Maidens whose charges were not gold but young children. It is one of these children that Alberich kidnaps and who is in turn stolen by Wotan and handed in payment to Fasolt and Fafner, the giants and architect-builders of Valhalla who are not giants and arrive in a Range Rover. I could go on but you get the drift.”

The Child is the Ring. I mean……..I ask you?

are effective in their way, but as a whole it’s disjointed.”

Movies? Quite a few. We are at last getting back into the habit and it is much better than streaming. Covid gave us bad habits!

Napoleon felt like a popcorn movie. Beautifully shot, glorious battle actions, though bearing little truth, on a vast screen, lending itself to Ridley Scott’s epic canvas, to real events.

But Joaquin Phoenix was far too tall, far too old and, poor fellow, far two-dimensional. Or at least the script was.

The fact is that whether he won or lost, after Napoleon Europe was never the same.

So, yes, I enjoyed the movie for what it was, a shimmering love affair with Josephine and an obsession with the tactics of battle.

But Austerlitz did not end on an iced over lake at all, nor did cannonballs smash that ice and sink the Allied cavalry! But it looked good.

Now….Maestro ! I am in ecstasies! If you do nothing else try and see this in a good cinema; hurry because it’s a Netflix production and I think may soon be streaming. I went with Friend Jane B. to the Renoir in Bloomsbury where they have brilliant sound and projection facilities. I was blown away. We both were. Bradley Cooper, director, actor and writer of the whole shebang, prosthetic nose and all, along, equally, with Carey Mulligan as Lennie and Felicia produce a moving, complex, passionate double-act that does great justice to the life of this iconic man.

There is one particular scene which finished us both off when Lennie conducts part of Mahler’s 2^nd, “Resurrection”, Symphony with the London Symphony Orchestra, filmed in Ely Cathedral. Exuberant doesn’t cover the energy and musical commitment.

Oh joy! Oh rapture! The hairs on my arms……etc etc. Try it Friends and take some Kleenex.

And what of Saltburn? I thought I was being original in describing this highly entertaining film as sub-Brideshead Revisited meets The Talented Mr. Ripley but seeing the reviews, everybody has thought of it!

Well….it is; but no spoilers other than to say I was completely fooled by it and did not see the twisty ending at all. Barry Keoghan’s Oliver Quick shows us a great new talent on the block.

Two visits to the Festival Hall!

Here he is with his “Marsick” Stradivarius.

The programme notes said it was later banned but this is not true, though Prokofiev along with many Soviet artists fell foul of the looney-tune guidelines for artistic expression: “…too avante-garde and not aligned with the ideology of socialist realism……”

I ask you….?  We thought the afternoon sublime.

A week later and I went again, this time with our Tarry Tours Leader and dear Friend Richard, for an evening with the London Philharmonic Orchestra who were playing Tchaikovsky again though this time, his Symphony No. 1 in the first half, and then a miscellany of songs sung by Angela Gheorghiu who came on stage with a flourish in billowing gowns and an ample embonpoint to delight her many fans who welcomed her rapturously. There were two outfits during her recital!

She has great stage presence though we felt was somewhat underpowered in some of the songs. It’s a huge auditorium and she was not miked (naturally), so it was difficult to hear her. She was completely drowned out in The Godfather’s Love Theme, one of her four encores and her rendition of Granada (really for a tenor) incensed the Spanish family sitting in front of us who booed and shouted at the end, “Sing it properly. No this is not a good choice for you….” A moment of high tension in row NN with other audience members perplexed by their disapproval!

Her most popular encore without a shadow of a doubt, was O mio babbino caro. Which you can see here taken, illegally by an audience member.

A snippet from Saturday‘s magnificent concert at the Royal Festival Hall ❤️ pic.twitter.com/4bFHft0mis

— Angela Gheorghiu (@angelagheorghiu) December 4, 2023

I should say that we were plagued by people around us thrusting their cameras rudely into the air, filming against the wishes of nearly everybody and generally pissing us off! Sorry for the language but hell’s-teeth they are so insensitive and annoying.

Here is an official one:

And just for fun, here is nine year old  Amira Willighagen’s rendition in 2013:

Just come from The Kiln where the unlikely named Two Strangers (Carry a Cake Across New York) is bursting with surprises. It is such a sweet treat: Salad Days meets Home Alone 2.  It’s  a British musical by Jim Barne and Kit Buchan fresh, funny, ironic, inventive and moving. Cleverly staged with a playful set by Soutra Gilmour with an inner and outer revolve piled with suitcases that themselves are pop-up story books in the action; a two-hander with Dujonna Gift (apt that) and Sam Tutty who are perfect foils for each other. Such a lovely afternoon at The Kiln – matinees for seniors: £20 a pop. Great stuff.

Gift & Tutty at a ‘pop-up book’ Chinese eaterie.

Last year and this, incredibly, son and daughter Zac & Julie turned 50! Our celebrations only took place – jointly – at the end of October: a weekend at the Ingham Swan,  ‘restaurant with rooms’, in Norfolk.

Sea Palling Beach

They have a brilliant chef there, Daniel Smith, and his menus – we had four meals there altogether including breakfasts – are uncomplicated but  well beyond the gastro-pub level, attested by the Michelin Guide.

Sea Palling Beach, Ingham.

Water, water everywhere; many roads closed. It is not easy to forget that parts of Norfolk are below sea-level and protected by canals and dykes which the Dutch taught us how to build in the 17^th Century. Through to the 18^th Century Norwich was the second city of England; a busy cultural capital, wealthy and heavily settled by those, including Dutch and Huguenots escaping religious persecution and even émigrés from the French Revolution. Flemish and Hanseatic architecture is everywhere to be seen. Very flat, Norfolk but handsome!

Blickling Hall Estate

Dutch Fair, Great Yarmouth

Have you had enough, Friends? Probably! Thanks for getting this far.

I just wanted to add two more quick recommendations though. At the Tate Modern: Capturing the Moment – A Journey through Painting and Photography was extremely worth a visit and at the recently re-furbed National Portrait Gallery, David Hockney’s miraculous Drawing from Life consumes time deliciously.

To you all, Dear Friends we wish you a Happy Christmas

and please God

A

Peaceful, Healthy & Prosperous 2024!

Pedro & Tonto

Tarry Tours have come to Iceland. Richard got a Home Exchange in Akureyri, the second largest town in Iceland after Reykjavik, in the north of the island, at the top of the Eyjafjörður fjord.

been lucky in our adventures but you cannot win them all and the weather forecast indicates we shall lose this one!

Richard, Tony & I flew from Stansted with Christoph joining us from Berlin.

We squashed into a Dacia Duster at Keflavik Airport and drove for two hours, skirting Reykjavik to Borgarnes on the fjord the town it is named after, putting up at the small Hotel Hafnarfjall for the night – overlooking the Sound across the causeway towards the town.

Spectacular landscapes here. Vast volcanic upthrusts, lava fields, waterfalls and rivers softened by green, cultivated fields dotted with cows, sheep and horses. A treeless bleakness reminding us of the Hebrides and the Highlands of Scotland. Beautiful in their rugged grandeur. Lonely. Isolated.

Such a small population too – only 372,520 – it’s difficult to see how such a small tax base could sustain what appears to be an excellent standard of living. Taxes are high and it is expensive, it’s true. They have one enormous advantage though: an inexhaustible supply of geothermal heat and power, generating by far the largest amount of electricity per capita in the world. None of it fossil fuel. 

The financial sector we don’t mention. The failure of three banks dabbling in sub-prime debt in 2008 and the inability of the government banks to save them almost did for the country.

Strict speed limits here, 30kmph in town, 50kmph on the outskirts and only 90kmph on open roads.

Traffic is non-existent but speed cameras are not!

Akureyri sits at the top of the Eyjafjörður Fjord, the longest in Iceland, smaller than Colchester with a population round 18,000 yet it has a University, a variety of schools, museums, a Botanical Garden, an interesting cathedral, shops, cafes and restaurants. Small but surprising. But not cheap! Wow – it has to be one of the most expensive places we have ever visited!

Tourism is high on the list: there is a cruise terminal and an airport; fishing is important.

We put up in Richard’s Home Exchange in pretty-much the centre of town and near – vitally – the local Netto Supermarket in a nearby shopping mall which supplied us with all we needed for the self-catering we rapidly realised would be vital if budgets were not to be broken in a matter of hours!

The weather so far? Not encouraging. Overcast, raining with outbreaks of sunshine when mists lifted. A lovely gentle light. The purples and russets and pale greens of the bracken and heather giving the landscape a gentle bleakness.

No trees, though there is a programme of planting wherever they may take hold – we are after all a few miles from the Arctic Circle – the old lava fields rocky waves of moss and lichen given an almost luminous green glow in the sometime sunshine.

It is very, very beautiful.

On one day we drove 100 Kms to the glorious thermal spa at Mývatn to soak in the sulphurous warm waters there – the Jarðböðin við Mývatn – these are part of the craters, steaming rocks and boiling mud pools surrounding Lake Mývatn which itself abuts the spectacular lava field of Dummuborgir a few clicks south of the nature baths.

in 1939, the people from Coventry decided to remove the windows, store them safely and that they chose a farm in the countryside not far away; cheap glass windows temporarily replaced them but these were destroyed in the famous 1940 bombing raid.

Then, mysteriously, pictures from three of the windows got separated and ended up in an antique shop in London for sale where an Icelandic antique dealer found them and shipped them to his shop in Reykjavík.

Long story short – they exactly fitted the measurements of the new windows behind the altarpiece and one of them was used behind the altar – the one in the middle.

BUT – wait for it – all change in 1914 when research made for a BBC program called The Great Glass Mystery revealed the tale to be a myth.

The documentary shows the glass was simply destroyed in the raids. A myth may have been scotched, but the friendship between Coventry and Akureyri continues.

A sweet story.

Wood is scarce and much was made of the vast quantities of driftwood that fetched up all over the island, mainly from Siberia. There is still and amazing amount of it being washed up today. But here is an interesting thing, apparently drift wood may look attractive for a lot of things but it is no good for home fires: because it is saturated by salt water and contains a high chlorine content, giving off chemicals and toxins which, apart from being poisonous, also wreck the stove! But you can build houses, furniture and boats from it.

There are other interesting things in Akureyri: Jón Sveinsson – Catholic Pastor, affectionately called Nonni – was a writer of children’s books that were immensely popular and have been translated into forty languages including English. The little home he lived in is there for inspection and next to the little church he guided, in the grounds where a handsome Deco building houses the Cultural Museum.

We made a diversion to Westfjords on our way back to Reykjavik, basing our two night stay in Hólmavík, a small fishing town by the large Steingrímsfjördur, and easy access to some of the most beautiful and, certainly, least visited corners of Iceland. It is dramatic, rugged, nearly on the Arctic Circle, only narrowly connected to the rest of the country, historically difficult to access. Tiny communities. Isolated farms, unpaved roads – and cold. In summer it never gets much above 10ºC and the heating is permanently in the ‘on’ position, in the car and in the buildings!

The other attraction was The Icelandic Sorcery Museum: Strandir was the setting for a witch-hunting craze in the 17th century. Due to its isolation, the locals have throughout the centuries preserved stories of strange beings, ghosts and everyday witchcraft. Hólmavík boasts two centres of research related to folklore and the history of Icelandic sorcery; the well-known Museum of Sorcery and Magic, and the University of Iceland’s Folklore Research Institute.

And The Northern Lights?

A drive out into the darkness from Hólmavík rewarded us with a very faint luminescent weave of light, oh so disappointing and not at all what we hoped for!

Absolutely nothing like this!

I’m afraid on the movie front we have both been unimpressed by Oppenheimer, such a missed opportunity for an excellent moral debate, and Barbie, all pink and silly and old fashioned. Far better is the 1980 BBC Sam Waterston series available on the iPlayer.

Don’t laugh but I have also enjoyed for completely different reasons Mission Impossible and  Indiana Jones. ‘Nuff said!

And then we stumbled on the wonderful Sidney Poitier, Oprah Winfrey documentary which led us to revisiting two of his famous movies which it turned out Tony had never seen: Lilies of the Field and In The Heat of the Night. Good stuff there.

Try and see Maigret  the 2022 Gérard Depardieu version. Though it only got a three star review from Wendy Ide in the Guardian “…..of all the many adaptations of Georges Simenon’s detective series, for both big and small screens, it’s hard to imagine many were as achingly world-weary as this latest.

Did you all see The Woman in the Wall? The BBC’s latest mini-series about the horrors of the nuns of Ireland and what they did to the “unwanted” children removed from their unmarried mothers?

“……A suspense-laden, psychological thriller set in the fictional village of Kilkinure in Ireland, this BBC One show tells the story of Lorna Brady, a chronic sleepwalker who wakes up one morning to find a dead body in her house. She has no idea who the woman is, or even of her own culpability…..”

Gripping and shocking.  Brilliant performance from Ruth Wilson.

So it was off to the Church of St Mary the Virgin in Little Bromley, in the rain, to see their latest offering Robin Hood.

So it was off to the Church of St Mary the Virgin in Little Bromley, in the rain, to see their latest offering Robin Hood.

Gratifying to see how many young were mingled with the “cotton-tops”!

And in the rain too!

Thanks friends, speak soon?

Pedro

THE RING * ABBA * LA CAGE AUX FOLLES * RIGOLETTO * PIAF * DEAR ENGLAND * PATRIOTS * DR SEMMELWEISS*

We have waited sixteen years to get into Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen at the Bayreuther Festspiele and finally, in March this year, we succeeded.

The other opera that’s impossible to get into is Parsifal, also included in this year’s festival along with Tannhäuser but we thought The Ring, coming in round fifteen hours over four nights was challenge enough!

Before I go another line further, do any of you remember, years ago a Comedienne called Anna Russell? She had an hysterically funny sketch explaining to a New York audience the story of The Ring.

Have a chuckle, it’s brilliant:

Lohengrin and, right, Die Meistersinger

works” too affected by Italian opera to be of enough significance, so never shown.

Having prepped ourselves on books, DVDs and CDs liberally provided by Friend John Core, an avid Wagnerite, we set off to Germany via the Harwich ferry to Hoek-of-Holland, driving a 1,288 mile round trip to Bayreuth with a stop each way, there and back, in Kassel and Clervaux (Luxembourg).

I have never experienced such rain – even in Africa. While Italy and Greece burnt and boiled, Germany was engulfed in torrents of rain, hail, thunder and lightening and autumnal temperatures, pretty much the entire ten days we were there. In fact my ageing Merc, Martita is her name – sprung a leak in her roof and we had to wear waterproof clothing some of the way!

The message from Schwarz’s production, as Goodyear saw it, can basically be summarised as follows: 

Society has been led by greedy men and their families, who have raised their children to be focused on useless, material things.

Over several generations, we have become more and more damaged and false in our priorities, as inherited traumas, poor upbringing and a lack of proper education pile on top of one another.

In the present, we – the well-off opera-going middle class – may consider ourselves relatively enlightened. But in reality, we are like the Gibichungs, content as a group to throw our support behind political leaders ever more craven and self-interested, and then swan off to watch the Ring at Bayreuth. We are fiddling while Rome burns, almost literally.

Consequently, nothing serious is being done about climate change. If we continue like this, there will be no “Liebeserlösung”. And those who led us there, will, like Gunther and Hagen in this staging, never be held to account.

So, take a look in the mirror.

Well all that may be true but I am afraid it didn’t work for us at all and fitted neither the Libretto nor the Score.

But, Friends, many of whom may by now be switched off, since Wagner is certainly not everyone’s cup of tea, the overarching music and the singing performances were sublime and worth all the effort.

The most beautiful moment for us was the love duet between Siegmund and Sieglinde in Walküre. The hairs on my arms are still tingling.

Pottenstein

On the way back we stopped for ice creams at Pottenstein with its Medieval castle dominating the village. You can just see it in the photograph here.

Bayreuth and its surrounding countryside was ruled over by a series of Margraves, sort of Dukes or Princelings I suppose. Plenipotentiaries of the Prussian Hohenzollerns and latterly the Bavarian Wittelsbachs, Ludwig II’s family – Wagner’s great patron.

There was a Baroque flowering under the extraordinarily talented Margravine Wilhelmine (older sister  to Frederick the Great of Prussia), the wife of Margrave Friedrich, whose influence in matters architectural, artistic and cultural was immense during their rule, 1735-1763.

They left a brilliant, enlightened heritage and we visited The Hermitage just outside the city, the whimsical Felsspalte or Rock Garden of Sanspareil, the Neue Palais in Bayreuth attached to a park that stretches up to Wahnfried, Wagner’s residence and burial place; the Garden Museum of the Fantaisie Palace was another elegant visit.

Clervaux, Luxembourg

collection which can be seen from the central staircase and landings. The upper floors consist of exhibitions spaces and the atrium gallery, which has a glass roof, contains collections from old buildings. The construction is built with sustainability in mind. I know I over-use this word but the result is astonishing and the depot is where the entire Boijmans collection is currently housed.

Across the road from the depot is the Chabot Museum containing a collection including works from the 1920s, from the Schortemeijer collection plus 26  very disturbing works from the Second World War.

The white villa was designed and built  in 1938 for the industrialist C. H. Kraaijeveld in the style of the New Objectivity, a 1920s German movement.

A very beautiful construction we thought, full of light and space.

It housed the Gestapo and SS Offices during the German Occupation and from it you can see the vast new modern city landscape of central Rotterdam which was completely flattened by air raids. We like the wonderful, brave modern architecture that has arisen from the ashes.

And so to the Ferry at Hoek for the night crossing to Harwich. A great ten days we felt.

And of course……..ABBA!

Yes, dear Friends, I am afraid I am an unreformed, unrepentant ABBAfan, an ABBA-junkie!

This “Voyage” is quite simply jaw-dropping and combines live music with virtual reality to create a unique, immersive show with Agnetha, Björn, Benny and Anni-Frid appearing as digitally-mastered Avatars – or ABBAtars – in this purpose-built space using cutting edge technology and mind-boggling lighting effects.

It is true to say that you could not see the ‘joins’ in the effects, as it were, they were so real and, at the end the four stars appeared as they are today making the whole project even more impressive.

They sang all their famous songs and some new ones besides and the audience – all ages, from 16 to 76 – were in seventh heaven.

I have been an ABBAfan ever since.

***********

But we have never not turned up for a show at all, unless by an accident of omission; tickets drawing pinned to a corkboard concealed behind a recipe!

Until The Third Man – A Musical. To our horror Friends Lois and Helen, tennis fanatics, realised that our booking at that clashed with the Wimbledon Women’s’ Finals. In the meantime Tony and I had read so-so reviews and in fact could not understand why we had elected to go to this show in the first place.

Big mistake. Except that the reviews, actually, were okay: mediocre, 2** and 3 *** ; enough in fact to make the finals match between Markéta Vondroušová and Ons Jabour a more alluring drama than the one at the Menier Chocolate Factory.

And so it proved.

Dear England:

There have been other visits to the theatre: while Tony was off to Ibiza for a 50^th Anniversary school reunion – (in his hippy years, in the 70s, he taught English and History in Ibiza at the Morna Valley School for English ex-patriot children) – I was staying with Friend Helen and managed to fit in two visits to the theatre, both excellent, seeing Dear England a new play by James Graham, directed by Rupert Goold with Joseph Fiennes playing the controversial football manager Gareth Southgate and Patriots with Tom Hollander; a transfer from the Almeida Theatre to the West End, written by Peter Morgan and also directed by Rupert Goold – a busy man! He is everywhere.

Big Mistake! But a riveting evening in the theatre.

When I was 15 I won a prize at Speech Day for Reading & Recitation; these prizes were always books and, that year, one of my books was a Compendium of Famous Lives in History. I read all the lives but the one that most stuck in my mind was the story of the life of Ignaz Semmelweiss, the Hungarian physician and scientist who pioneered antiseptic procedures.

He proposed the practice of washing hands with chlorinated lime solutions in 1847 while working in Vienna General Hospital’s First Obstetrical Clinic, where doctor/surgeons’ wards had three times the mortality of midwives’ wards.

He was eventually tricked into a lunatic asylum where he was so badly beaten by orderlies that he died of his wounds which, ironically, became infected with sepsis.

He was only 47 years old and his work remained unrecognized for decades by the Establishment, until the advent of Louis Pasteur who confirmed his “germ theory”, and Joseph Lister who enforced his practices with great success.

A great story for a play which one of our National Treasures, Mark Rylance, thought too.  He collaborated with writer Stephen Brown and Tom Morris, the Artistic Director of the Bristol Old Vic Theatre.

I couldn’t wait to see it but – oh dear, what a terrible disappointment.

It made me impatient to leave though one stuck it out of course; interesting that there were a lot of departures at the interval and the usual standing ovation now de rigueur, irritatingly, for all performances of every description everywhere, where not forthcoming here. A couple in front of us stood up and then looked round at our non-compliance, frowned in disbelief then looked sheepish when they realised how lonely they were!

I want to close with An Audience with Édith Piaf because this was special. I am also a great fan of the great French Chanteuse whose life was a huge drama, filled with passion and sadness. The tiny little sparrow.

I was for forty years a reader of audio books and on the panel of the Royal National Institute for the Blind’s Talking Book Service, variously in Great Portland Street and now at Camden Lock.

Anyway Dex finally left, moved to Brighton and went into the travel industry, was stationed in Tunisia for years,  came back, has always dealt with people and is a keen singer/entertainer in his spare time.

Pure pastiche but in the best taste.

FRIENDS – IT’S BEEN A LONG ONE! THANKS FOR STAYING WITH ME AND FOR ALL YOUR WONDERFUL COMMENTS AND MESSAGES.

NO EXAMS THIS TIME!

PEDRO

 

We once saw an excellent production at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin of Three Sisters. Memorable because it was the first time either of us had ever seen a professional actor going on with a book.

Three Sisters at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin – 2008.

I mention this because last week we went to see a revival of Somerset Maugham’s 1921 romantic melodrama The Circle which, despite being rather clunky, had some excellent dialogue, amusing moments and some surprises. It survives somehow, and the Richmond Orange Tree Theatre gave it a good run for its money.

Jane Asher did not appear as Lady Catherine Champion-Cheney as she was ill; another actor, wearing the startling wig and costume of Lady Catherine went on with an enormous A4-size script, her part highlighted in pink.

Maugham is supposed to be the missing link between Wilde and Coward – and so it would seem. It was dated but nonetheless fascinating and hats-off to Miranda Foster (Barry Foster’s daughter I believe) for bravely standing in for Jane Asher at a few hours notice.

Tarry Tours – Madeira Mayflower Festival – a 16 kilometre hike along Levada do Norte

It’s been a while since I last posted.  The Easter holidays soon segued into a rainy, cold spring encouraging a quick ten-day visit with Tarry Tours to Madeira where the sun shone, the flower festival, rather underwhelming, paraded on unlikely floats but the walking was good, the Levadas abundant with new growth and colour-colour everywhere – trees and flowers. This is the first time we’d ventured there in Spring, it has always been in Winter; lots of people and we shall probably revert the next time. Mah deah – the Heat! The Crowds!

“Where the play comes alive is in Gielgud’s story and Gatiss’s performance. He sounds like Gielgud but captures something beyond imitation: the pained spirit of a great actor grappling with the ageing process – the old guard, reluctantly, giving way to the new. Gielgud admits to his envy of Burton and shows his insecurity as a director. We see the fear his homosexuality brings in an era when it was criminalised; a hotel room conversation with a sex worker carries great, subtle power. While Gielgud’s inner complications are slowly but searingly explored, much of what surrounds him feels emotionally sterile,” writes Arifa Akbar in The Guardian, “There is a real sense of remove too as we watch actors playing actors who, in turn, are playing characters in Hamlet, or unpicking the meanings of the play, scene by scene. Ultimately, this play-about-the-play leaves us wishing we had been there to see Burton in the real thing.”

We went round afterwards to see Allan Corduner and Johnny Flynn whose Burton impressed us, though how you play such towering personalities as these without sinking into impersonation I do not know. Impossible.

Great to see Allan back in voice and on stage again, playing Hume Cronyn.

Disabled people have sex. Meandering exploration of what dating is like for disabled people is the reality celebrated in Park Theatre’s latest show, Animal, an exceptional piece of theatre that is searingly insightful, soulfully intimate and utterly hilarious.  

ultimately, it is a zippy, poignant play about wanking, though the difficulties encountered by handicapped people are poignant indeed.

Donatello at the V & A, a superb display of some of the sculptor’s works. Great influencer of course, of the sculptors to come in the guise of Michelangelo among others – given that Donatello sculpted the first male nudes since the Roman era, his supposed sexuality, that he was gay, adds prurience to his story.  Apparently his lover ran off to Ferrara which so enraged Donatello that he asked permission from Cosimo de Medici, his Patron, to be allowed to pursue him there and to murder him in an act of passionate revenge!

This was at a time when sodomy or any related homosexual act could lead to hellfire at the stake; but Cosimo was indulgent in these matters and allowed his charge to run off to Ferrara where all ended happily and in much laughter.

This must surely be a topic worthy of a Netflix production! But it upped the ante of our visit to the V&A.

Next?

There have been other books too which I have enjoyed. I am now a Kindle devotee. It’s true I do miss leafing the pages and riffling backwards and forwards when I need to be reminded…but you soon get used to that with Kindle and it certainly helps reduce the weight on travel expeditions!

Another kind of Carr, Philip Kerr this time: a return to Bernie Gunther, this time in Argentina in a thrilling story of Peronista intrigue and vile politics, A Quiet Flame, just when you thought it was safe to venture to Latin America. Good airline lounge reading as is David McCloskey’s Damascus Station.

I am a great fan of Sebastian Faulks too. Where My Heart Used To Beat I discovered the other day though it was published in about 1915 I think. Another beautiful story “……love, loss and passion…..”!

And before I move to Vermeer, I must say that I have been privileged to read Tony’s latest work, finished literally last week, now warm in his agent’s hands, hot out of the Hewlett-Packard, If It’s Tuesday a whimsical, magical-reality story which you will have to wait to experience. I’m not giving a thing away here. Just to say I enjoyed it hugely. Fingers crossed for publication.

VERMEER

A glitch on the Rijksmuseum booking site enabled us to get three tickets for this spectacular exhibition in Amsterdam. The ferry to Hoek is at the end of our local line here, minutes from Mistley. We often use it to get to the Continent and set off a few weekends-ago, sailing on a day crossing and getting to Amsterdam in the early evening for a three night stay during which we walked the crowded city, visited the ever-shocking Anne Frank story at her erstwhile home on the Prinsengracht in its recently refurbished state.

The Vermeer Exhibition was simply breath-taking. 28 out of 37 known paintings, dramatically hung at the Rijksmuseum, leaving lots of space for the crowds: a little larger than we would have liked, I am afraid.

back almost out of existence. No-one seemed to know why though apparently in future seasons they will grow back.

The Mauritshuis, Den Haag.

I have never seen so many bicycles in one place in my life!

Back in Amsterdam then – our visit there was short but sweet and we were able to see friends, dining at the lovely Café Schiller Restaurant on Rembrandtplein on one evening and the oldest Cantonese Restaurant in A’dam on Oudezijds Voorburgwal, on another. Great food and good company; but it is a young person’s city we have concluded! I have never seen so many bicycles, you take your life into your hands when you cross the road! It’s also a victim of its fame and success. 18 million visitors last year and the city can barely cope with the masses and the mess; nevertheless it remains one of my favourite places. We could learn a lot from the Dutch!

Back in Blighty much else to amuse and shock not least the Westminster scene which seems to play like a TV Sit-com these days.

Will Boris… or won’t he…?  Will Rishi….or not? What will Reece-Moggie do?

And could one care less? We are used to being a laughing stock. A rant-in-my-pant is narrowly avoided!

Mincemeat, a Second World War British deception operation. It premiered at Southwark Playhouse as a small scale piece but its success moved it into the Westend; it has only five actors who interchange roles and sexes so that it never matters who is who, who is what and what is what – if you see what I mean. They were all extraordinarily talented and in the end we thought it a clever piece of theatre – even thought-provoking.

And don’t forget our dear Jazz Mentors, Richard & Cathie G. who took us to Jazz at Lauderdale House where  John Etheridge riffed with his friends, entertaining us lavishly with their incomparable talents. A great evening.

Simon Butteriss excellent as King Gama & The Narrator

Two  evenings of Gilbert & Sullivan from the sublime to the ridiculous: Princess Ida at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, an enchanting platform production by the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment under the brilliant baton of John Wilson.

Not a G&S that I know well but certainly one of their best.

Friends – the end is in sight. That is if anyone has ploughed this Bloggy field to its conclusion: but I wanted to mention the ballet rehearsals we attended at the Opera House. Not usually my thing at all as I am not all that keen on modern ballet. I prefer the grand set and frocks of the great classics – not to mention their romantic music; but this was a triple bill –  Untitled, 2023, a brand new ballet by Wayne McGregor; it fascinated with bleak landscapes “invoking infinity” and with music written by the Icelandic composer, Anna Thorvaldsdottir, itself conjuring the bleak spaces of that island. I don’t know her music at all but thought it beautifully evocative.

Using the five movements of Bernstein’s Serenade, Corybantic Games, conceived by Christopher Wheeldon, didn’t really float my boat but the last piece in the bill, Anastasia Act III most certainly did, ‘old hat’  though some may think it. The madness of Anna Anderson whose delusions really serve to underline the tragic awfulness of the murderous demise of the Romanovs in 1918.

Lets lighten up!

I know lots of you didn’t like it but I thought the New Hockney Exhibition at Lightroom in Kings Cross was spectacular. I know this so-called immersive art trend is the thing these days. This one is described as  “visually astonishing, alive with sound and rich in new perspectives”. Well – it is all that – and more; but do you know what: I sat in that four-storey hall for an hour watching the colours and shapes unfolding and it filled me with joy and peace – and not a little optimism. It had real love in it and I cared not a jot for any of the niceties of clever-arse criticism. Those of you who can – get on down there and have a look. It is fabulous.

Thanks for being here, dear Friends. Enjoy the summer now that the Solstice is upon us.

Pedro of the Green

With Friend Jane Balfour at Kings Cross for the Hockney.

March/April 2023

Back in London for a few days. Some excellent theatre, a book launch, Hot off the Griddle – the Alice Neel exhibition at the Barbican and “putting on the Ritz”, a thank you to Tarry Tours for our wonderful Colombian adventure.

Standing at the Sky’s Edge at The National kicked us off to a good start. Originally staged in Sheffield, in 2019, aimed at transferring to The National, it fell victim to Covid but was resurrected last year and now fits perfectly on the Olivier stage.

by its inhabitants ingeniously choreographed as they pass each other across 60 years. We see how the nation’s political gyrations leave their marks on the lives of three families and the city, from 1960 to Thatcherism, Brexit and beyond. The estate chugs inexorably towards gentrification until it becomes the Grade II listed trophy building of today.

student housing while around a quarter of the units in the development will be social housing.

It is funny, and moving and do you know that feeling when an author so absolutely says what you think and feel about so much but you simply don’t have the words, the articulacy to express them? Well, that’s what Sara’s beautiful book does for me.

We are friends and concomitantly spent a week recently in Mompox, one of our stops in Colombia, where I noticed, and I hope Sara does not mind my saying this, that note book and pencil were always to hand, not a camera, (am I betraying a modus operandi?!) and I longed to have a peek at how she does it. On page 15 in the Introduction to the book there is a photograph of a shelf-full of the notebooks on which she based her book. She is brilliant. All her reviews have been too. How lovely. I wish I could travel like that.

Talking of books the other one that I have read that impressed me was Joshua Cohen’s The Natanyahus for which he won the 2022 Pulitzer Prize.

It’s a great read. Go for it!

What can we say about Guys & Dolls?

Everything!

At The Bridge Theatre and wowing London, we adored this promenading  production with its gutsy enthusiasm and the immersive effects of the staging in a radically re-arranged theatre. Nicholas Hytner directing.

The last time I saw Guys & Dolls was in 1982 when Ian Charleson and Bob Hoskins, both now, sadly, no longer with us, were brilliant as Sky Masterson and Nathan Detroit. Julia McKenzie and Julie Covington were Miss Adelaide and Sarah Brown. It was directed and choreographed by Richard Eyre and David Toguri, FORTY-ONE YEARS AGO! I can hardly believe it.

It was also a brilliant show which transferred into the West End with my friend Lynn Webster playing Sarah Brown where I saw it again.

Here at The Bridge Theatre Daniel Mays and Andrew Richardson were stupendous too as Nathan and Sky. Like Charleson and Hoskins, neither Mays nor Richardson have much experience in musical theatre at all. In fact for Richardson this was his debut on the London stage, making his performance the more amazing.

The Dutch actor Celinde Schoenmaker as Sarah Brown was perfect but Marisha Wallace’s Adelaide stole the evening for me. Wow.

Some of the reviews said they thought the re-arranged staging cramped the choreography. I agree. Richard Eyre’s production back in 1982 on the Olivier stage had space for David Toguri’s routines and the iconic Sit Down You Are Rocking The Boat was better there than at The Bridge. It was far more opened out and could breath better.

Nicholas Hytner’s production hints at the possibility that Sky might just be gay and “creates a thrilling spark of subversion but is an isolated moment, gone in a flash, as if a scene from a far more daring reconception” (The Guardian)

Yes!

Tony and I did not promenade and don’t think we missed anything by not doing so.

It was a great evening.

And what about Philip Glass’s Akhnaten?

processes, exploring small amounts of musical material used with extensive repetition.

The new musical style that Glass was evolving was eventually dubbed minimalism.”

But the story is interesting: Pharaoh Amenhotep IV ascends the throne in the sacred robes and double crown of Upper & Lower Egypt, symbolising power over all. In an act of hubris that will result in chaos and tragedy, he becomes Akhnaten and forces monotheism and the worship of the Sun’s disc on pantheism being the old religion, the old order.

The ENO’s production was beautiful to look at but I came away thinking of Opera as an Art Installation.

did not begin to gain critical praise for her work until the 1960s. She was considered by some as “one of the greatest portrait artists of the 20th century”.

She was a member of the American Communist Party and came to the interest of the FBI and HUAC at one point. This may also have explained why it took a while for her to get recognition – she was already in her 70s when that happened.

We both loved her paintings – for us a new discovery: always a good thing.

Meanwhile back in Mistley a trip to the Wolsey Theatre in Ipswich proved amusing. Given the effect of Covid, Inflation & Brexit on the Arts, for a long while the erstwhile Repertory Theatres have been creating cooperative productions to stretch shrinking funds. Ramps-on-the-Moon is one such and we went off to see Village Idiot written by new writer on the block, Samson Hawkins. Presented by Theatre Royal Stratford East, Nottingham Playhouse and Ramps on the Moon, a collaborative partnership of six National Portfolio Organisation theatres led by the New Wolsey, funded by the Arts Council, and including Birmingham Repertory Theatre, Theatre Royal Stratford East, Leeds Playhouse, and Sheffield Theatres.

We weren’t quite sure what to make of it.

The play is set in the Northamptonshire village of Syresham where compulsory purchase orders threaten to tear apart a 1000-year-old settlement to make way for HS2.

Like Jerusalem, Village Idiot has serious questions to ask about identity, nostalgia and modernity.

subsides and the HS2 bulldozers move in, you are left wondering who the village idiot really is.

We enjoyed it.

We have never seen Prokofiev’s Cinderella although of course have heard the music before – so not at all well known to us really. The Royal Ballet’s new production at Covent Garden is sumptuous to say the least and looks good with sets and costumes newly designed by Tom Pye and Alexandra Byrne though some might say a little overdone perhaps.

Russia was in the throes of a fight for survival during the Nazi invasion and there is a darkness in the music that I felt belonged more to tragedy than the fairy tale qualities of this magical story. Romeo & Juliet remains by far my favourite though I am very happy listening to all his music.

An interesting evening and possibly one of the last appearances of the ENO here in London before its forced removal to Manchester.

It won the Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival last year and was nominated for the Academy Award for Best International Film Feature this. A host of other awards have been heaped on it. With justification.

Thank you Friend Mary Mouse for recommending this – heads ups are always welcome, dear Friends.

Francis in A Little Life (see below) – and doesn’t.

The performances in Girl boggle the mind. How does Dhont do it and, indeed the actors too?

‘shifting narrative perspectives’ very confusing. Who is talking about whom and what, for goodness sake, happened to Jude that should cause such trauma, pain, self-harming and eventual suicide?

All this has now been put on stage at the Harold Pinter Theatre where £195 bought me the last seat in the stalls at a Saturday matinee.

It was three hours and forty minutes of gut wrenching  blood-soaked brutality and misery directed by Ivo van Hove, originally in Dutch with sur-titles, now in London in English with James Norton as Jude and  Luke Thompson as Willem. 

There is no question that the staging and performances here are brilliant and brave; the play is true to the book, obviously mightily compressed, but neither Yanagihara’s writing nor Norton performance convey Jude’s inner life and though others round about were weeping and covering their eyes, I did not and remained unmoved by what seemed to me a ‘naïve and psychologically incurious narrative of abuse’ aimed at manipulating my sensibilities.

Like the book it has had mixed reviews but it borders on pornographic and there was a taste of guilt in my mouth at the voyeuristic implications of the play.

These four friends are all supposed to be genius Ivy-Leaguers ; but their responses to the difficulties and horrors of their lives would not indicate that they had any sense at all!

I remain, I am afraid, very unconvinced by either the book or the play; and now I understand there is to be a TV series?

Strewth!

Jonathan Coe Tweeted: “Such a joyous 2 hours of theatre watching The Unfriend last night. Brilliantly funny writing from Stephen Moffat, expert direction by Mark Gatiss, comic performances par excellence from Reece Shearsmith, Frances Barber & Michael Simpkins who practically steals the show …”

It’s a comedy, which follows Reece Shearsmith’s Peter and his wife Debbie, Amanda Abbington, an uptight middle-class couple who go on a cruise and meet Frances Barber’s Elsa, a kooky old American who invites herself to come and stay with them for a week. I cannot begin to describe the situations that arise.

It was hilarious and I am sure may well return to the West End in a longer run sometime in the future.

I hope so.

Thanks Friends. Hope to see you soon.

Pedro.

PS No exams this time, it’s the Easter Holidays.