A River Runs Through It

The River Thames is not the prettiest of rivers.  It carries silt from upstream and often looks an unpleasant murky brown.  It is healthier now though than it has been for centuries.  Today I finally realised just how historically important this is. It was the backbone of England and therefore the British Empire.  It was alive today in a way it has seldom been for me – because it was in use.  Boats streamed past, from small boats carrying cadets, to a Maori Waka, to steamboats and the glorious boat carrying the queen.  The river seemed at once sentient and much more important. 

London, like most major cities is built on water.  The same river brought the Romans to England, carried people to the tower, flowed past Shakespeare and his Globe, took people away to foreign lands, guided the Luftwaffe unwittingly in the Blitz, brought cargo from the Americas, Asia and Oceania, and glittered gently in the sun as I looked down from the London Eye.  The Thames has flowed for millennia, widening and narrowing, freezing over, thawing out, carrying kings and peasants and thieves and lords.

There is an awful lot of hyperbole bandied about during royal events.  The union flag flies high, people actually sing ‘Land of Hope and Glory,’ there are numerous programmes on the telly with ‘Great British…’ in the title, Victoria sponges, Pimms and cucumber sandwiches suddenly become intensely important.  Patriotic fervour runs high, whipped to a frenzy by a media slightly cowed by recent events and running scared.  What will Kate wear? Will it rain? Will there be protest? Will anyone fall overboard?

I can’t help but think that The Queen, a lovely and distant figure in a glorious hat would have preferred a cup of tea and a hobnob in the country somewhere and that all this pomp and ceremony is not really her thing at all.  But 60 years of duty will prevail, she will stand in the cold for hours as she travels up the river, she will wave at people who think they know her, who think that they deserve a piece of her life because of who her father, and his father, and his father were.  60 years of being polite, of being on show, of duty to an outdated and alien ideal which seems to have little place in this modern world, of being powerful, but having no real power.  Imagine, 60 years in the job!

So I’m glad, on this rainy day in London, the Thames was woken up from its quiet, inexorable journey to the coast and was brought alive by boats and people and bunting and flags and cameras and cider and icecream.  As a celebration of the history that has always fascinated me, it just seems right. 

And I hope someone gave those two pensioners a cup of tea when they came off the boat, it’s a long time for anyone to stand.

Leiscester Square

Swiss Cantonal Tree - Leicester Square, London

The Queen's Garden Party 2012

I’m a sucker.  We know this.  Underneath the cynicism is someone who cries at movies, reads trashy novels and loves overblown ceremony.  It’s true.  I’m not ashamed (well, not too much).

My friend and I applied to go to ‘The Queen’s Garden Party’ at Buckingham Palace months ago.  Members of the Commonwealth living in the UK can apply to go and their names may be picked to put on a fancy hat and join 7000 people in the place grounds. 

My presence was requested by the Lord Chamberlain on perhaps the nicest stationary in the world.  This invitation card scared me into dress shopping.  Lots and lots of dress shopping and shoe shopping and hat hunting.

This frenzy of consumerism had some pretty good results.  Your intrepid explorer actually scrubbed up quite well.  London put on some sunshine after several days (weeks) of rain, A and I met up on the the train and headed to the palace gates looking very snazzy.

The back garden of Buckingham palace is quite unusual.  It looks like someone’s backyard...though most people don’t have a backyard that will easily fit 7000 people in a small part of it.  It’s lovely, and almost completely unpretentious - except for one small thing; the Queen’s tent.  When tea is served and the anthem played, the royal party slowly makes its way across the lawn to a tea tent of their own.  Here they meet VIPs (of whose numbers I was not, strangely) and get stared at like goldfish in a bowl.  What a way to live one’s life.

There were cakes! Lots of cakes! In a survey of guests (me) I can safely say that the little cakes with raspberries were they best.  The wee sandwiches with cucumber and mint were fabulous.  The staff serving petit four was charming and didn’t look harassed at the never ending queues.  Young men in yellow waistcoats took your plate with a smile.  People began to relax and the antipodeans amongst the crowd gave up their chairs in favour of sitting on the ground.  Ice-cream was served, two bands played show tunes and I ate more sandwiches (excellent sandwiches).

I can confirm, my friends, that Queen Elizabeth II is a real person.  Yes, she is very small.  Yes, she has exquisite taste in hats. Yes, Prince Phillip will spend hours talking to people.  Yes, the palace is nice, but not as elaborate as some I’ve seen.  Yes, I had a lovely day, in a lovely park, with lovely cucumber sandwiches. 

Lovely.

Football

A very long time ago, in a land far away, I went to a football game.  Japan 2002 – The World Cup Ecuador v Croatia (a terribly important game) in Yokohama.  It was amazing. I supported Ecuador in the interests of geographic proximity.  A few days earlier I had been to Toyota Stadium to watch the televised Japan v Russia game (just quietly, this was marred by a raving alcoholic flatmate – a story for another day).  In that week I found out something I had hitherto not realised…football (or soccer for you Antipodeans/Americans) can really be quite exciting.  It’s fast paced, the assorted throng is hilarious, in Japan people chant in harmony, there are hotdogs – and beer.

Another abiding memory of my time in Japan during the World Cup is my students – for the most part adults – being terrified by the concept of hooligans…generally English ones.   The promise of these mad fans trashing cities, beating up the constabulary and running amok was all over the news and quite the conversation starter as I recall.  I don’t remember any problems; it costs a fortune to get to Japan and even more to stay there.  Promises of football hooliganism were happily exaggerated.

I have a point here somewhere…oh yes, I quite like football and one of these days I will go to a match in England.  This weekend Fulham was festooned with flags and bunting in honour of Chelsea v Bayern München in the UFEA Champions Final.  I get the feeling I'll be seeing a lot of bunting this summer!

Cheers - What Teresa Drank...

Pimms - A Very Important Wedding

Some Very Important Guests - Battersea Street Party

Tea and Icecream - Prague (-12 outside)

Tea - Somewhere

Tea and Cake - Dublin

Pina Colada!

Ayran - Turkey

Apple Tea - Istanbul

Breakfast - Paris

Coffee and Pancakes - Amsterdam

Amsterdam

Provencal Pitcher

Fish and Chips and Local Ale - St Margaret at Cliffe

La Sabraneque

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I am sitting on a castle wall high above the tiny Provencal village of Saint-Victor La Coste. Below me I can hear the murmur of people talking as they work and the sharp almost metallic sound of stone hitting stone. Above me are the partially restored ruins of the castle; beneath me are the town walls, the small village and mile upon mile of olives and grapes stretching out into the distance.

My fingers ache from the stone I lifted this morning, my shoulders are sore from the unfamiliar exercise of the day. Building dry stone walls is not my usual idea of a holiday, but this is what I signed up for – two weeks of volunteer work at La Sabroneque; an organisation using traditional techniques to slowly restore the town of Saint-Victor La Coste.

Created in 1969, La Sabraneque preserves, restores and rebuilds historic sites. Its first task was the reconstruction of the old village of Saint-Victor La Coste. This was done using the traditional building techniques of the area. This recreated village is stunning; its thick walls and solid, grey stone construction keeping out the worst of the summer heat. It is home for the next two weeks.

I, as hundreds of people before me have also, had volunteered for a two week programme in Saint-Victor La-Coste. This means living and working in the reconstructed town. There are fifteen volunteers today, working on two different areas; one a terrace in the old village, another on a dry stone wall closer to town. Three of the volunteers have been here before; they are the experts, not too removed from their own first experience not to remember that we have just arrived.

Dry stone wall building is, as you would expect, hard work. It’s not so much the physical labour, though that is exhausting, but rather the effort of finding rocks that fit, that are stable, which look right. The morning had been about learning what needs to happen to make a wall stand up. Exhausted and frustrated we finished for lunch, meeting again on long tables under trees just outside the kitchen. This was to become a hub for the group, where we shared beautiful meals of aubergine and tomatoes, zucchini and beans. We discussed the inherent problems with dry stone walling (mainly a lack of patience and skill).

After lunch was the option of helping in the afternoon. I declined and walked up the hill to the peace of the castle. I had recently been in a hotel in elsewhere in Europe, unlike most of my experiences it was overrun by tourists, a nasty, humourless place where people fought over breakfast rolls and pushed to the front of queues. The area, one of outstanding natural beauty was infested by tourists, offending the locals and scaring off responsible tourists. I travel a lot, I love doing it, but I cannot help but think of the impact that I am having on the planet. The thought of giving something back, of treating a landscape with respect was one that greatly appealed.

There is nothing untouched or wild about this part of France. History lies lightly upon it though. Down the road in Avignon you can feel the weight of ages. At Saint Victor, the stone walls could be as old as time or built last week. For forty years the locals have been used to people arriving from around the world, staying a while, drinking pastis under the cooling leaves of the tree outside the local bar or practising school-girl French in the corner store. They stop occasionally to talk about the latest wall, to offer some pithy advice, to see how we are doing. They are used to it.  

On the weekend we escaped the cool, thick walls of our accomodation, into the Provencal countryside, eager for that slice of Peter Mayle idyll. The lavender had been picked, but the fragranced lingered. We visited markets thronged with people. The tomatoes were huge, straggly shaped and not even vaguely reminiscent of the tomatoes at home, lying in their plastic coffins, ripened somewhere between the plant and the shop and tasting of water. The sausages were dried with thyme and oregano. The peaches dripped juice down our arms. Hilltop villages glowered down at the tourists melting in the midsummer sun. We critiqued walls, scoffed icecream and downed litres of water, wine and beer. There is something restful about small Provencal villages. Once you are away from the crowds on the hilltops you are quite quickly somewhere rural and quiet – apart from the ever present ring of stone against stone; and the cacophony of curses in seven different languages as stones were dropped and fingers scraped.

As the days went by I got better at placing stones on the wall, or at least thinking about what might go where. Under the infinitely patient watch of Pascal Parres – a stonecutter who has worked at La Sabroneque for 10 years - it started to make more sense and amazingly, to look more beautiful. It started to be less about me and my ideas on sustainable tourism and more about the jigsaw puzzle of the wall. I have rarely been as happy as when Pascal pronounced one of my stone placements “perfect.” Time slipped away in the routine of the days, work in the morning, lunch, optional work in the afternoon, time at the local bar, dinner, wine, petonque...

I'm not much better at building walls than before, but I have an appreciation for the craft, for experts in obscure fields who love what they do, and for artistry in stone.  

The Northern Line

Starbucks. A beacon of modern England. It's humming with people sipping a days worth of calories in a cup. A double decaf soy caramel latte with cream or some other abomination. I like Starbucks. It's the McDonalds of my generation. I like lattes. It always has a clean loo. And wifi.

Across the road is boots the chemist, a stalwart blue and white presence on the high street. Next door is Marks and Spencer where anemic tomatoes lie in plastic coffins and sandwiches bustle for position in the wonderful land of 'convenience food.'

I'm on the high street in Chelmsford, Essex. Rather conveniently its name us just that "High Street."  It's nice. A high street in England, like all the others. Why are they identical?

Anyway, this is not a ramble about a high street, or Chelmsford, which seems like a very nice town. Rather, this morning I took the Northern Line on the tube from Balham to Bank, at 8am. It was hideous! The type of journey where you breathe in when the doors close and take a collective breath when they open again. Wedged against someone's armpit your intrepid explorer took some time to contemplate London (and for the record, Mr Armpit had defiantly showered and deodorized very recently. Thanks, Mr Armpit). It's become second nature to walk quickly, Metro grasped in one hand, Oyster at the ready. I only ever stand on the right hand side of escalators (even if I'm not in London but somewhere more exotic like Birmingham). I mind the gap; I avoid eye contact. 

It's not second nature yet, but it is familiar. It's also ghastly. A seething mass of humanity squashed together, traveling underground like rabbits (a nod to the season, I really mean rats).

I'm very glad Mr Armpit took a shower. I'm also glad Starbucks has wifi. I might just go find a sandwich...now where was Marks and Sparks?