The National Interest

When your trip to the countryside is spoiled by the rain, the thing to do is nip into the nearest National Trust stately home, where treasures and curios of all kinds reveal some of the more intimate details of English history. It’s the museum world’s equivalent of the celebrity gossip column. On such a day in North Wales (they are frequent) I went to explore Plas Newydd, the home of the 7^th Marquess of Anglesey.

The lady at the ticket desk took the customary opportunity to try to raise the value of the transaction by offering to sell me printed guides and histories but I declined them; I had another plan in mind. My father, who used to embarrass me by his habit of striking up conversations with strangers, would never have bought a booklet. His preferred approach to history was the handed-down verbal tradition, nicely spiced with nods and winks. I knew that, in each room of the house, there would be a knowledgeable and enthusiastic guardian who, if asked, would tell all they knew about the place and its history and I intended to use my father’s method.

I got a result straight away when the lady in the grand hallway told me that the Marquess still lives there (in a rather nice five-roomed flat upstairs) although the Marchioness retreated to Knightsbridge and has not been seen since the estate was ‘given’ to the National Trust. She, apparently, could not stomach the fact that visitors no longer needed royal connections in order to gain entry to the Plas.

In the next room I was drawn to the 1890s photo portrait on the sideboard: it is of the obviously gay Henry, the 5^th Marquess, posing in a very elaborate and fanciful theatrical costume. My interest elicited the story of how he spent his way to bankruptcy and caused the main estate in Staffordshire to be sold off in the 1930s. The family subsequently had to eke out a living from what was left in Derbyshire, Dorset and Anglesey. I suggested it was unfortunate but, since it had all been stolen by the Normans and then dished out to their friends anyway, this could be seen as a step in the right direction towards the redistribution of wealth to the English natives. The guardian chose not to take me up on this line of discussion looking, instead, to anticipate the queries of the next visitor.

Nearby was a specially designed and constructed ‘rent table’ which evoked, to me at least, a scene of the tenant farmers shuffling, in line, into the estate office where they respectfully doffed their caps and stumped up tithes to their God-given master who, depending on his predilections, might either re-invest it into the estate or squander it in fashionable London society. This time, however, I kept my thoughts to myself.

I then turned my attention to an old photograph of two very young girls. “Yes” said the guardian “that’s Kitty and Henry, taken in 1924, when they were two”. “Henry?” said I, “Was it her nickname?” “No, it’s the present Marquess. It was common, in those days, to dress little boys as girls so as to fool any would-be kidnappers. Girls had no inheritance, you see.” Another photo of the same vintage showed the four older sisters dressed, boyishly, all in identical dungarees and with pageboy haircuts. “It was the fashion of the day” she explained. But this wasn’t just fashion – this was ultra-cool fashion and not representative of society in Anglesey at the time. This was London calling and these girls were dressed to impress. They had work to do, attention to attract and inheritances to bag.

The eldest of them, Caroline, in her teens and already looking like the beautiful, bisexual tearaway of later repute, broke the heart of (among others) Rex Whistler. His extraordinary, fantastical painting, which covers an entire wall of the long dining room, includes allegorical references to their relationship which, without the conspiratorial assistance of the room’s guardian, I would certainly have missed. Thanks, Dad.

A Night Out of Town

It was only a few weeks ago that I was afflicted by an inflammation of the lower lumbar joints which made walking so painful that I couldn’t make it to the corner shop. The condition is now much improved. Maybe it was my recent trip to Arles - which is not so far away from Lourdes - that brought about the cure but, in any case, mountain hiking is back on my life-agenda. So, as in days of old, my companion and I stuffed the campervan with kit and fired up for a journey to the mountains and a tentative attempt at a peak or two. While the south and east of the country experienced a sun-drenched heat-wave, we headed, resolutely, north and west towards Snowdonia, where the cooler air coming in off the Atlantic was turning into mist and light precipitation on the very slopes of our aspirations.

Our first evening there was spent in planning a two-day expedition which involved ‘wild’ overnight camping. A large part of the enjoyment of this type of activity derives from the anticipation and planning of it.  Another part comes from the assembling of equipment and kit and, yet another, from the satisfaction of using the stuff. The final part comes from the actual hiking. It follows that it is important to get the balance right: too much equipment means a burdensome rucksack and a curb on one’s pleasure; too little and one is exposed to the vagaries of mountain weather and terrain. Some people pack sawn-off toothbrushes and portion-controlled paste in sachets, thereby saving a few grams towards the accommodation of essentials such as flasks of wine and malt whisky. Those who are inclined to be obsessive should take heed: days can be spent in attempting to resolve this equation and there is a real danger of their never leaving the camp site.

We did eventually get going and walked up to and around a remote lake where we pitched our tiny tent (weighing in at only 1.3 kg) on the only piece of level ground we could find – a grassy ledge overlooking the lake. The clouds had cleared and a photo of our beautiful site would have made a perfect cover for a brochure advertising tourism in Snowdonia. It would not, however, have shown the midges which live in the grass. They like to emerge every evening and morning to plague campers who are intent on eating al fresco. There are several species of midge, only some of which bite and, of those, just the females. This might be useful information but for the fact that they are so microscopically small you cannot distinguish one from another.

Those parts of our bodies that we could not clothe were smeared with bug-repellent but midges are very successful at driving people to distraction, regardless of counter-measures, and so it was that we were obliged to retire early (seven o’clock) to the tent. There was relief and a moment of smug satisfaction at the fact that the ventilation panels are micro-mesh and midge-proof, but this was followed by the realisation that we were now prisoners in an extremely small nylon bag. We whiled away the time talking over our day, eking out our quota of alcohol and taking turns at sitting up, stretching out and turning over until sleep finally overcame us – at around eight thirty.

At eleven thirty I was awake, listening to a little creature scratching at the tent and hoping it would move on. At twelve thirty I decided to venture outside and shoo it away – only to find no creature but a clump of rough grass brushing against the gently flapping fly sheet. Thus disturbed, continued sleep was elusive, so I looked forward to the daylight (five thirty) and the resumption of hiking.

After a quick breakfast of green tea, cereal bars and midges we struck camp and moved on to enjoy some glorious hiking and some discussion, like others before us, of ways to beat the midges. Back in town I read about a device which is effective at attracting and trapping midges by the million. I just have to figure out how to get it into my rucksack. 

Artsy in Arles

Lest it be perceived that, during my week in Arles, all my energy was expended in seeking pleasure in bars and cafes, I would like to make it clear that there was a higher motive for my visit. It was the opening week of the annual international photography event which hosts a multitude of exhibitions, lectures, discussions, prize-givings, launches, workshops and the like. I had been lured there by friends whose world is photography and who, over the years, had convinced me that I would enjoy the place with its historic Roman legacy, the Mediterranean climate, the craic and, perhaps, even some of the photography. 

So it was that I found myself, an outsider with inside connections, shaking hands over pink wine and canapés with photographers, technicians, critics, publishers, curators and gallery owners. I even ventured into a few of the photo exhibitions although, being something of an ingénue, I had no idea whether they were among the most critically acclaimed: I leave those value judgements to the professionals. I did, however, consider myself fully qualified to evaluate the refreshments served at the various events and it came as no surprise to find that the excellence of the canapés was in direct proportion to the wealth and prestige of the sponsor. One evening we would be smiling politely at each other over plastic containers of cheap wine at the opening of an unknown artist and, the next evening, jostling greedily for the champagne and chef’s offerings at a prestigious prize-giving in a five-star hotel. For the hangers-on, or ‘liggers’ as we are sometimes known, each of these occasions is to be appreciated, of course, but - the better the quality the more the appreciation.

  

For such pleasures, however, a small price can be expected and this is usually exacted in the form of having to listen to speeches. At one small gallery the exhibition opening ceremony took place in the narrow street outside because the showroom was too small and too hot to contain a crowd. The passers-by were mostly tolerant of the crush but, just as the mayor was welcoming us, a motorcyclist wove through our throng twisting his throttle-grip intermittently as if revving up to start a race. The mayor’s speech, apart from being unintelligible to me (my French is rudimentary) was also rendered inaudible. Nevertheless a round of applause ensued which coincided nicely with the exit, from her front door, of a local resident who made a graceful half-bow in recognition of this unexpected acclaim. The curator then took a turn at speaking, competing for attention with a man on a bike, who looked as if he was on his way home from work and desperate to get to his dinner regardless of artsy inconveniences. There might have been a serious incident but timely, evasive actions ensured that only a few drinks were spilled and Gallic curses exchanged. Well before the next speaker started his address I had made up my mind to slink off and shun the free wine in favour of a safe and comfortable seat somewhere with a refreshing beer and a decent supper menu. I never did get to enter the gallery.

  

Nor did I get to take any photos (or ‘make any work’ as the professionals might say) of my own. I put it down to intimidation. In Arles there was a massive number of cameras – as you might expect – and, in particular, an abundance of those with retro styling: black, 35mm-styled bodies, many with massive lenses bolted on to the front, hung around the neck with serious webbing. Even the niftiest, neatest, tiniest, technology-packed, glinting jewel of a camera looked like a toy in comparison. I kept my ten-year old, clunky relic well hidden for fear of ridicule. And nobody was to be seen taking photos with their phone – at least, not in public. 

Cafe Life in Arles

There may well be statistical proof that not all young Frenchwomen smoke but it didn’t look that way during the week I spent in Arles at the beginning of July. I have heard it said (by young Englishwomen) that they smoke in order to stay thin because they  eat, without restraint, le foie gras, les glaces, les croissants, le cake and numerous other delicacies forbidden to would-be slim people. Whatever their motivation the smokers of Arles most certainly have a sympathetic environment. Every bar and cafe spills its tables and chairs out onto the street so that its customers may casually add their exhalations to the sultry, Mediterranean miasma.

Those ancient, unplanned, miniature streets play host to drinkers and diners regardless of any traffic. One day I watched an oncoming motorcyclist approach a lunch party whose tables were stretched across the street leaving barely enough room for pedestrians to pass. I expected a confrontation but was amazed by the way he and the unconcerned diners at the end of the table made an accommodation so that he was able to manoeuvre through the narrow gap without dismounting - and without a drop of vin rose being spilt. No comment was passed nor word spoken. The party resumed lunching and la patronne, seated inside, lifted her plaster-encased leg onto a stool positioned deliberately in front of an electric fan.

The centre of Arles has no familiar ‘chain’ establishments among the abundance of bars, cafes and restaurants although I did see signposts to McDonald’s pointed towards the outskirts of town – a place too far to contemplate venturing for such meagre incentive.  With such a profusion of bars and eateries in the crowded streets and squares I was faced daily by the problem of which one to choose. Every lunchtime and coffee break presented this dilemma- made no less difficult by the local entrepreneurs, who all seemed to offer the same dishes at much the same prices. Of course I could base my decisions on the appearance and ambience of the competing establishments, which was fine for the first few undiscerning days of my visit. But later in the week I began to tire of three choices of wine- red, white or rose- and basic cuisine and began to comb the side streets for more challenging menus.

This strategy didn’t always succeed in delighting – there was a memorable, over-priced disappointment in a Michelin-recommended restaurant – but, when it worked, it felt like a minor triumph. There was a ‘mom and pop’ restaurant where the waitress mimed for us the ritual method of preparation for the toasted bread accompaniment to the fish soup; there was the sheer delight of drinking a bottle of Cotes du Rhone which, for once, did not disappoint and there was the charm of being waited on by people who were friendly yet professional.

Arles, like so many places which depend on visitors to drive their local economy, has its own dilemma in maintaining a balance between being itself and becoming a caricature. One sign that it might be resisting theme-park status is the dogged determination of the majority of businesses to remain closed on Sunday and Monday regardless of the hoards of potential customers roaming the streets. But there are spectres on the horizon: on the last day there I had lunch in a very French, tourist-free restaurant where, from the first floor terrace, I spied across the road Paddy Mullins Irish Pub.

I wonder: if all the Irish pubs in the world were to incorporate would they constitute a bigger business than McDonald’s?

Driving Over Pheasants

I sometimes walk past a pub which advertises “Live DJs Every Friday!” and, each time, it causes me to speculate as to what a dead DJ would sound like. This type of thinking can become an obsession. For example, the expression “free range eggs” troubles me because it is the hens that range freely – not the eggs. Although I work hard to overcome this pedantic tendency, my forays into the countryside don’t help. Driving around the North Yorkshire Moors recently I spotted so many “free range eggs” signs that I might have suffered an apoplectic fit had it not been for another minor phenomenon which distracted my attention: that of road-kill.

There were hundreds of dead creatures splattered on the minor roads, victims of un-witnessed hit-and-run incidents. There they lay, undisturbed and in varying degrees of decay, with occasional crows picking at them. At first I took a gruesome interest in the corpses, trying to identify the flattened creatures and estimating how long ago they had been squashed – not easy to do when you are driving quickly past. I did however manage to establish that, except for the occasional badger, the victims were mostly game birds. The feathers gave me a clue – that and my realisation that we were in game-shooting country. From what I know of the micro-economy of the region, it does heavily depend on hunting, in which case there are slim pickings ahead for those looking forward to “the glorious twelfth”.

Four of us were driving across The Moors, counting the corpses and musing on this threat to the viability of the local economy. We were en route to the port of Whitby for a touristic experience. “So, what’s Whitby famous for?” asked the ‘northern virgin’ of our party. “Fish and chips” we three replied, “Oh, and Count Dracula” said I. “When he had himself shipped over from Transylvania in a coffin, he was unloaded at Whitby and concealed in the Abbey, a spooky-looking, jagged ruin sitting up on the cliff-top”. “But that was just a story, wasn’t it?” she countered. “Yeah, well – it’s still famous for it” said I, indignant at such southern complacency. In the event our visit was a muted, out-of-season experience. The weather was blustery and cold, the Abbey ruins were closed and none of us really fancied fish and chips so we ate crab salad in a pub instead. The view of the harbour was more appealing seen from indoors and over the top of a pint of Black Sheep ale.

 We drove back via a different route and, although the scenery and the corpse count were much the same as before, we were treated to something a little different. As we approached an obscure hamlet there was a road-side sign warning of ‘Free Range Children!’ “Obviously they mean freely ranging children!” I raged – to no avail, since nobody else had seen it and, in any case, the hamlet was devoid of any (living) thing. The next village advertised the more commonly found ‘Slow Children’ but, by this time, I was looking forward to bed and past caring about punctuation.

A few days later I read about a list that had recently been compiled. Eminent U. K. historians had been asked to evaluate the myriad sites of historical significance to be found in Britain and to rank them according to their perceived importance to the historical development of Britain. I don’t remember numbers 2-10 but, to my mortification there, at number 1, was Whitby Abbey! Count Dracula was not mentioned. The reference (as everyone should know) was to the fact that the Abbey was the site of the AD 664 Synod of Whitby when the Anglo-Saxon King of Northumbria, Oswy, opted to swap from the Celtic Christian tradition to the Roman one, the long term consequence of which was to bring England into line with the European mainstream. The next time I need to impress a ‘northern virgin’...

Conversation on The Moors

Two miles from the nearest hamlet, off a B road and up a long, snaking track, lies the farm which was to be our campervan site for three nights. It’s on high ground above the market town of Helmsley on the edge of the N. Yorkshire Moors. Many sites are in such places, on working farms, so it is an opportunity for us to see how life is lived in the real countryside. Lonely is how I would characterise it.

It was spring–time and the lambs had just been born. The whole of England was enjoying fine, sunny weather but, despite that, ours was the only van on the site. The farmer, relieved at seeing humans again since their retreat to the towns last autumn, was talkative in a way that one observes in those who don’t spend much time in company. When we told him where we were from, his response was a twenty minute account of how some relatives of his nearly went there, or at least the airport near there, once but didn’t. I have come to accept that these one-way conversations are often the real price one pays as ground-rent for such lovely, remote places. But we had arranged to rendezvous that evening for dinner in Helmsley with our relatives who had travelled from London so, with apologies for having to curtail the conversation, we left the farmer half way through his account of the birth of each of his lambs and walked the three miles into town.

The next morning I asked the farmer how much we should pay for the site. “Oh, wife deals wi’ books like. You’ll ‘a’ see ‘er, onny she’s tekkin dog out” is what I think he replied. When I caught up with her later she invited me into the kitchen to complete our transaction. Because her accent was less pronounced than her husband’s - or maybe because she had a full set of teeth – I soon got her drift, settled the account and turned to small-talk about the weather. The topic is usually considered to be a good starter for conversation because it’s uncontroversial – unless, that is, you are the contrary type who prefers cold, rainy days to warm, sunny ones. On a farm, however, the topic is far from uncontroversial – as I should have known by now. Too much rain, not enough rain, blah, blah, blah...

And so I got stuck in an endless loop of weather-talk, becoming increasingly anxious for a gracious way out of both the conversation and the cosy (dark and pokey) kitchen. My dilemma became more acute when she confided that the unseasonably warm weather had caused her to break with tradition and switch from flannelette to cotton bedding earlier than was usual. I could see the direction this might take and was keen to extricate myself before the topic of underwear came up, so I pretended to take an interest in the dog – there is always a dog in a farmhouse kitchen. It was a smart move in one way – the underwear minefield was sidestepped – but I then had the problem of trying to follow the minute particulars of this dog’s pedigree. In situations such as this I try to keep a light in my eyes and not allow them to glaze over completely – it’s another life-skill that I have acquired. In the end, however, I resorted to the excuse that I needed to get my boots on and start our planned hike before it got too late.

That evening, as I was preparing to barbeque, the farmer “happened to pass by”. There was something unfamiliar about his appearance which, as he came nearer, was explained by the fact that he was not wearing his flat cap! He was holding it, carefully, as it was full of hens’ eggs he had just collected. “So that’s what those caps are for!” I quipped. Whether his responding smile was of amusement or bemusement I could not tell; but, either way, I was in for a detailed explanation of the egg-laying habits of his hens. I was careful not to ask too many leading questions lest I should become obliged to lay another place for dinner.

Sleepy St. Ives

We were waiting, as arranged, in the Sloop Inn for our friends to arrive from London. The place was busy and had a Friday evening feel about it – a blend of relief and anticipation – for this was a mixed crowd of locals relaxing after work and in-comers looking forward to their holiday activities. We, falling into the latter category, were settling in with a couple of drinks and listening to the conversations around us. The locals gossiped and swapped stories about their daily lives while the TV on the wall was tuned to a football match. A young crowd of visitors talked excitedly about parties, surfing and rugby, revealing a somewhat different set of interests.  We were easily persuaded to buy raffle tickets so as to curry favour with the locals and encourage them to think well of us tourists. The couple at the table next to ours did likewise but, getting up to leave soon afterwards, generously offered to give us their tickets. ”We’ll not be here when they draw the raffle at nine o’clock” they said. “Thanks but nor will we” I replied, “Best give them to someone else”. I was to regret these words at five past nine as I watched the delighted recipient of the tickets collect the prize. Our friends arrived a few minutes later. Thus began our visit to St Ives, Cornwall.

Having been a few times before I already knew a thing or two about the place - enough, perhaps, to come in handy in a pub-quiz. You never know when you might be called upon to join in a pub-quiz, so here’s something new I learned about St. Ives, albeit on trust from my very good mate and entirely unsubstantiated otherwise. As we walked the few yards from the Sloop Inn to our beach-front apartment he assured me that the air there is full of negative ions which, despite what you might think about their negativity, are beneficial to one’s health. In particular they promote a good night’s sleep.  On arrival we dumped our bags and slid open the glass doors to the balcony, stepping out to admire the moonlit seascape. A slumbering seagull was startled into flight as, with a greedy intake of the health-giving air, my mate urged “Never mind the painterly quality of the light. Get a lung-full of those ions!”

As well as such invisible assets, of course, St. Ives has many well-known tangible ones. Amongst these are two beaches, several olde world pubs and an important painting heritage (which includes an outpost of The Tate Gallery, Barbara Hepworth’s former home/studio, a beautiful 15^th century parish church with an unusual ‘wagon’ roof - and a lot of pasty shops). Yes, all of these I have seen and marvelled at but, on this particular visit, they were mostly neglected, except for the pasty shops, which provided nourishment on more than one occasion. Principal among these was a walk along the coastal path to Zennor. The weather was unusually fine for the time of year and the scenic beauty of this stretch of coast is well known so it was an easy sell and the walk turned out to be a refreshing delight for our city-dulled senses. The extra-large, jumbo pasties, however, proved to be something of a “commitment”, according to my friend, and more than one seagull was grateful for the unwanted crusts.

Later, back at the apartment, the sun setting over the glimmering sea was to provide the backdrop for a perfect, traditional, English seaside dinner of local, freshly-caught fish. Unfortunately, however, we had left it too late in the day to get to St. Ives’ last-remaining fish shop, so we compromised on the menu, starting with Champagne aperitifs and continuing with Spanish omelettes, Greek salad and more French wine. The subsequent feelings of well-being and drowsiness were to be expected, although there were those among us who argued the effects were due more to the negative ions. Either way, it was unanimously agreed that the “St Ives treatment” should be available on the National Health, thereby saving untold millions in drug prescriptions for insomnia.

Post script. Pub-quiz question: who is the patron saint of St. Ives?

Shropshire Time Warp

The wise mother of an old friend of mine famously dismissed camping as “a complicated way of getting wet” and, after several failed attempts to disprove this theory, I am nowadays inclined to agree with her - which is why my preferred accommodation, when exploring the countryside, is my campervan. I have noticed, however, that the recent, extended spell of dry, sunny weather, combined with a spate of public holidays, has resulted in a rash of ‘reverse city breaks’ and I can reliably report (from the swivelling seat at the front of the campervan) that the practice of camping is currently thriving - which is good news for the local economy of many a rural community.

In our own exploration of the rural idyll, we met up with friends on a fully booked-out campsite just outside Bishops Castle - that gem of a small market-town in the Welsh Marches. We parked our campervans in a formation reminiscent of pioneer wagon trains on the American prairies, served ourselves gin and tonic, weighed up our neighbours and evaluated their varying types of equipment. Some, I concluded, would have brought with them a pop-up privet hedge had such a thing been on sale in their local camping centre. One item we all had in common, however, was fine, dry weather - an essential requirement for a satisfactory camping experience.

Those of you who are perplexed as to the purpose of camping will now be asking questions such as “So what?”, or “Then what?”- the answers to which are of a soporific nature and, perhaps, best left to professors of sociology. Those of you who are not troubled by such esoteric issues will probably want to know more about the facilities on offer since it is well known that they vary considerably from one place to another. This particular site had the advantage of being on a hill-top and, therefore, had great views of the surrounding countryside. Balanced against this, however, was an almost total lack of water pressure in the showers and a merciless exposure to the prevailing wind (neither of which is of concern to campervanners, by the way).

Any niggles, in my view, were cancelled out by the site’s close proximity to Bishops Castle which boasts (among other attractions) that Holy Grail for lovers of real ale - The Three Tuns, Britain’s oldest licensed pub and brewery. As if this were not enough, my delight was compounded by the discovery of a pub around the corner which was staging a three-day event of live music with a bar dedicated to locally made ales and ciders. That evening, unable to recruit a companion, I rolled down the hill solo to take advantage of this unexpected culture-fest. Entry was free (a mixed blessing, since free entry usually promises amateurism,) so my expectations in respect of the performance were modest as I tried to make up my mind whether to have an evening of ale or cider.

Having decided on the ale, I began to take notice of the assembling audience. It comprised people of all ages and types. In front of me a small group of excited Hooray Henrys joshed each other, one of them declaring that this was the best pub he had ever been in - ever! Their city accents cut sharply into the softer burr of the local voices and they were oblivious to the anxious-looking chap of around forty who stood nearby wearing a top hat over his shoulder-length hair and a one-piece black body-stocking with a white skeleton printed on it. Most of the rest of the audience, apart from a couple of single ladies out together, had not really bothered to dress for the occasion which was a shame because, when The Smoking Aces finally  took the stage, it was apparent that they had gone to a lot of trouble in that respect.

Their act offered very authentic-sounding, crowd-pleasing 1950’s rock ‘n roll - complete with appropriate costumes and a replica cylindrical, chrome, slotted microphone. Far from being amateur, this was a polished performance by talented musicians and the audience loved it. The Hooray Henrys were captivated by the irresistible simplicity of the rhythms, their clumsy, drunken dancing revealing its origins in the clubbing circuit, while the man in the skeleton suit claimed his dance-partner and showed off their exhibition-standard jive techniques. The two single ladies swayed rhythmically and looked around occasionally, hoping, I was sure, for a dashing partner to approach with a smile and a polite “May I?” All the while, grey-haired old-timers, having long ago given up on the jive, tapped their feet, smiled wistfully and inwardly assessed the authenticity of the songs compared with the original recordings stashed in their attics.

The end of the gig coincided happily with the limit of my capacity for ale consumption and I made light work of the ten-minute up-hill trek with the encore reverberating in my head – The Smoking Aces’ inspired version of the original ‘Hound Dog’ as performed by Big Mama Thornton. Bow-Wow!

E.U. Harmony

He appeared at the open door of the restaurant as we studied the menu posted in the window. He was dressed in lederhosen, sported a neatly trimmed beard and was clutching a packet of cigarettes and a cell-phone. We had been in Germany only for a few hours and here we were faced with what appeared to be a caricature of the place. I have been to Berlin a few times but I now began to wonder whether Berlin really is part of Germany - in the same sense that I had previously concluded New York is not representative of the U.S.A. nor London of the U.K.

He identified us as English-speaking foreigners, made himself known as the owner of the restaurant and tried to tempt us inside by explaining the menu in our own language. While we two adults feigned polite interest our 14 year-old charge (on whom we were later to rely as our translator, since he had studied one term of German at school) could barely conceal his disbelief at the utter lack of cool embodied in the sight of an adult dressed in what appeared to be the costume of a young boy playing a walk-on part in ‘The Sound of Music’.

Earlier that day we had driven, as a family group of seven, across the invisible border from Belgium. We had stopped for lunch in a picturesque town square where we ate schnitzle  (the only word on the menu which we understood) and paid in cash - the credit card machine being broken. Now, after a lengthy walk through the forest, it was time for us to choose a place to have dinner. We peered into the gloomy interior, uninspired by the menu, and walked away leaving the caricature to light his smoke and make a phone call. Following the bend in the river we found ourselves suddenly deep into the ancient, perfectly preserved tourist town of Monschau. It looked like the kind of place where lederhosen might be de riguer and the Pied Piper could be expected to appear from a side-street.

In Belgium we had been accustomed to choose from a plethora of establishments offering the whole range of dining experiences from chips to haute cuisine. In Monschau, however, our inspection of the menus displayed outside the numerous hotels and restaurants revealed a uniform offering of thick slices of meat served with potatoes - one exception being an establishment with a speciality menu comprising exclusively spargle, the seasonal delight known to us as asparagus. Spargle as a dessert held no appeal beyond plain curiosity so, with hunger pressing and there being no perceptible difference in menus, we eventually chose a venue simply by its visual aesthetic.

I enjoyed a particularly fine glass of chilled Moselle as an aperitif. It was not so easy to find good red wine to match the thick slice of steak - nevertheless we sated our hunger and proffered credit cards only to be told by the unflinching maitre de that the card machine was “broken”. A trip to the cash dispenser, one last look around the Disney film-set and we drove the few kilometres back to our accommodation for the night. Next morning the buffet breakfast offered more choice than all of the dinner menus of the previous night combined though, when we came to settle the bill, we were not surprised to discover that the credit card machine was not working. 

Later that day, at a restaurant back in Belgium, I asked my host why there was none of that wonderful Moselle on the wine list. He explained convincingly that, having “invited” themselves across the border twice during the 20th century, neither the Germans nor their produce were very welcome even now. As we paid - with credit cards - and made our way home I was left to reflect that any misgivings I might have regarding cultural diversity being eradicated by the European Union could safely be discounted.

Madrid - Candy Lee, Rod and Me - Final Episode.

And the bad news? It turned out that Candy Lee had the most appalling hangover. Her bravado of the night before had considerably exceeded her capacity for red wine. She had overslept and was suitably contrite and apologetic; nevertheless it was plain to see that she would be indisposed for some considerable time while remedial treatment as applied. It was therefore agreed that we would leave her in peace and come back for her at 14.30. 

Rod and I, relieved at having a resolution to the mystery of the missing American, now turned our attention to revising our respective day-plans. My earlier resolve to take in some high culture, which was not overwhelming to begin with, had somewhat dissipated after the dramatic start to the day. We mulled over our options for a few minutes before coming up with the universal solution to men’s dilemmas – we decided to have a few beers. “We should go to Plaza Mayor”, said Rod. “It’s the ideal place to sit and watch the world go by”. The sun, shining down in its early spring-time splendour, lent its appeal to his proposition and we set off satisfied that we had made the right decision. “Perhaps it’s too early for beer” I said presently, eying the deserted rows of chairs outside the cafes in Plaza Mayor, but we had drunk our fill of coffee so we ordered beer anyway and took grandstand seats. We watched as demonstrators with banners began to gather around a temporary stage at the opposite side of the square and a helicopter passed overhead. After a while they started to play pop music through the loudspeakers and some spectators drifted in. Just nearby a pot-bellied character in a Spiderman costume appeared, placed his plastic shopping bag on some steps and proceeded to wander around in aimless circles as if bored.

About half way through our second glass the music ceased and the speeches began; Spiderman was joined by Mickey Mouse and the two of them began to look more purposeful as tourists appeared with their cameras. By then, however, the unintelligible speeches blaring across the plaza were beginning to grate on our ears so we called for our bill. As we left, Spiderman was taking a break, sitting on a step and smoking a cigarette. I guess he was going to be there for the day. We retreated to a more peaceful (and less expensive) side-street where we found the ideal place to continue our leisurely enjoyment of Madrid. Rod recommended a local speciality, bocadillo calamari, which he remembered savouring on his visit years earlier. He was right again - it was delicious.

But the time had come for us to rendezvous with Candy Lee and she was ready this time, looking as though nothing had happened, bags packed and ready to go. Both she and Rod had to find other accommodation for that night while I, reluctantly, was off to catch the Metro to the airport. I envied them their continuing stay in Madrid for we had only scratched the surface. (Hey! Wasn’t that one of those phrases we had to explain to our Spanish friends back at La Alberca?). Rod had a mind to travel on to San Sebastian before returning to Canada, Candy Lee had to get back to Florida and I to Manchester. Nobody said “See you later!” but we all wanted to.

Madrid - Candy Lee, Rod and Me - Episode 3

Morning came much too soon but Rod was busy in the bathroom, struggling with the loose shower-head, as I stole a little more snooze time. “I’ll pick Candy up and come back for my bag”, he said. “OK. I’ll be in the cafe on the street corner”, I replied, having removed my earplugs and resigned myself to the fact that sleep was over. Down in the street I did what I do best – I bought a big, fat newspaper, ordered coffee and settled into a corner of the cafe. Beyond that, my plan was to offer what assistance I could to resolve the phone dilemma, bid goodbye to my day-tripping companions, then make my leisurely way to the Prado to re-acquaint myself with its treasures. I might, I thought, even call at the tabaqueria across the street for a Gran Canarias cigar to enjoy solo, mid-morning.

It was way past 09.00 when Rod finally appeared – alone. “She’s not there!” he said, mystified. I ordered coffee for both of us while we pondered this unexpected complication. Rod began to elaborate: “The guy at reception doesn’t speak English so he showed me the register. Her name is there but he insists there is a man in that room number.” “That was fast work”, said I, “She was alone when she went in the door last night”. Whether alone or in company, we concluded that she must still be there, so we drank up, consigned our bags for safe keeping to our landlady and her dog and made our way down to the Hostal de Paris – or whatever it was called – to rescue what we could from this fast-dissolving scenario. We felt bad about leaving Katie at the estacion, bewildered and without phone contact, but could think of no other effective course of action.

The reception guy at Hostal de Paris was patient and helpful, once more going through the circular arguments - mainly by gesturing - over Candy’s whereabouts. Standing there, at the desk, I noticed that it was right next to room number 1 and then I had a glimmer of remembrance. Candy had told me, somewhere, sometime in between glasses of red wine, that she had been offered a transfer to another room because hers was right next to reception which was prone to noise and disturbance. I reckoned that, if she was in room number 1, she would certainly have heard us by now. Rod, at once enthused by this new possibility and, at the same time, frustrated by the difficulty of getting the reception guy to understand the concept, was on the point of knocking on every door in the place. We were all spared that indignity by the reception guy himself who, in another flash of inspiration, remembered that, in Hostal Americano, two floors above us, there was an English-speaking receptionist who might be prepared to help out.

We rushed, hopefully, up the stairs where we found a serene, charming young man prepared to oblige us by agreeing to mediate in solving the mystery of the missing American lady. He deserted his post to accompany us back down to Hostal de Paris and explain the dilemma, in Spanish, to his counterpart. “Ah!” said our man at the desk and, after laboriously checking all his booking entries (yet again), picked up the phone and dialled another room number.  We all waited in hope for the magic words senorita Americana to fall from his lips. When he put the phone down he was smiling. The good news first: It was Candy he had spoken to and we were invited to knock at her door...

Madrid - Candy Lee, Rod and Me - Episode 2

Back at La Alberca we had watched several of our colleagues perform a very funny - but cautionary - enactment of a sketch showing the legendarily skilful pickpockets of Madrid at work. As we walked arm-in-arm late at night through Chueca, however, the atmosphere seemed gay, in both senses of the word, and we were part of the scene – carefree and schedule-free. “I don’t feel threatened at all”, said Candy Lee “Where shall we go now?”  “Let’s walk down to Puerta del Sol”, said Rod, drawing on his previous experience of the City and trumping my very limited ambit. Our walk took us past the sex workers who mingled, seemingly at ease, with the throngs in the streets as they do in parts of Berlin but not, as I noted, in London. We took to wondering how much they charged for their services but none of us dared approach them to ask.

Despite the magnificence of the architecture and the grandeur of the urban space, Puerta del Sol failed to excite us that night so we meandered into the side streets in search of the more intimate, charged atmosphere that we had enjoyed until then. We found ourselves in quiet places, however, where any life was hidden behind closed doors so we decided to return to the buzz of Chueca to continue our search for a desirable watering hole. It proved to be a good decision as the one we found had an air of authenticity and antiquity about it – dark brown wooden floors, furniture and panelled walls - and the wines were advertised in big, white letters on black boards. Like all the best bars it offered a welcoming atmosphere, friendly staff, good food and drink and the all-important ingredient – happy, noisy customers.  We had simple tapas and more excellent red wine while we talked on and on about the week at La Alberca and the characters we had met there. Events began to blur and a fourth bottle was sensibly ruled out in favour of an ‘early’ night on account of the 09.00 rendezvous with Katie at Estacion de Atocha. “I need to get some cash” said Candy. “I can see an ATM just outside the window” I said. When she came back, we drained our glasses and left.

It was while we were walking the few metres to Candy’s hostal that she noticed her phone was missing. We went through the usual rigmarole of questioning her: When did she last use it? Did she leave it on the table in the last bar? Did she have it before we set off for Sol? Did it fall out of her pocket as she put her coat on? These are not easy questions to answer at the best of times but after a bar-crawl they become impossible. We went back to the last two bars, empty now, except for the staff enjoying a nightcap with their colleagues. No, they had not seen her phone – sorry. So, having retraced some of our steps physically, we now tried to visualise the rest. Nobody really wanted to believe it could be so but had the legendary pick-pockets got the better of us after all?  Had there been any close physical encounters with strangers during our perambulations?  We drew a blank; maybe – maybe not.

Still, in the end, a lost phone is a lost phone and Candy’s stoical response was “Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out in the morning”. She was still smiling as we saw her through her street door and bade goodnight.  Rod promised to collect her at 08.30 – just a few hours away – for their busy day to come: an early rendezvous, a trip to Toledo and a phone crisis to resolve. “Best get some sleep, eh, Rod?” I suggested.

Madrid - Candy Lee, Rod and Me - Episode 1

Maybe I had spoken half a dozen times to each of them, Candy Lee and Rod, during the week at the “Pueblo Ingles” but it was enough to form a rudimentary friendship out of which we agreed, on a loose commitment, to hang out together during our outbound transit time in Madrid. Of course there were others that I had warmed to during the week but the coincidence of plans just worked out this way.

Rod and I turned up at the hostal I had booked on my incoming trip. Rod was busking it in true, freewheeling style and had come along in the hope of there being a room for him. The proprietress and her dog greeted us with neither recognition nor any outward show of cordiality. She explained that there was no single room for Rod but, on seeing our disappointment, offered us a family room to share instead. A deal was struck and Rod, graciously insistent that I take the double bed, sat himself on the furthest single, a piece of which promptly clattered to the floor. We didn’t feel inclined to spend time fixing it.

Meanwhile Candy Lee had judiciously booked a room at another hostal, the location of which was a mystery to all three of us. From there she had promised to arrange the evening’s social activity - a demonstration of the Flamenco at a restaurant. During inbound transit she had become enraptured by this art form at the welcoming party, which Rod and I had both missed, so she was intent on setting this right for us that night. Such open enthusiasm can be very contagious.

Rod and I scrubbed up, despite the absence of a plug in the sink and a wall-attachment for the shower head, and made our way to the reception area where a huge, flat-screen TV had appeared since my last visit. (It seems the investment budget had been allocated, this year, to the receptionist at the expense of the guests - perhaps the current European Championship football tournament had some part in that decision.) I led the way down the ancient, worn, wooden stairs and out across the square to the magnificent cerveceria of my previous discovery. I looked for Rod’s approval before allowing myself some satisfaction then we found a table, ordered beer, tuned in to the buzz and awaited joining instructions from Candy Lee.

 Part way through our second round I drew Rod’s attention to the fact that a group of half a dozen water-colourists was seated behind him using his figure as a model. He turned and exchanged smiles to show that no personal space was being invaded - although we still found ourselves paying for our third round. By this time we had admitted to each other that, whilst meeting up with Candy Lee would be fun, the proposed formal entertainment held less appeal. By round number four the water-colourists had packed up and left, after shyly showing us their impressions of Rod’s back. They were, as I suspected, amateurs. Text message contact had finally been established with Candy Lee who told us she had been detained at the shops but promised to get a cab, straight away, to the cerveceria.  We were reassuring ourselves that it must now be too late for the planned entertainment when the beaming Candy Lee arrived - it turned out her hostal was practically next door. We tried to appear disappointed as she explained that she had failed to book the Flamenco restaurant but it was evident that she was unfazed and up for an alternative experience.

I took this second opportunity to show off my local knowledge and led the way, retracing my route of a week earlier, to the next authentic Madrid experience - the wine bar. “How do you know all these places?” asked Candy Lee. I made a knowing, man-about-town gesture and swept us confidently through the door to a central table. The obliging, English-speaking waiter was not on shift this time but the young girl attending soon got our drift as we pointed our way through the menu. We began to discuss a plan for the next day which involved a return trip, via high-speed train, to Toledo. I opted out of this one, since my flight home was to be the following evening and the potential for missing it would create an opportunity for unwanted stress. Also it involved the unlikely event of meeting Katie at the railway station at 09.00. We had no phone contact with Katie and the station was an enormous, unfamiliar complex; but neither of these factors seemed to deter my companions whose commitment to Katie, the exploration of Toledo and, it seemed, the thrill of the high-speed train ride did not waver through two bottles of excellent red wine. When we called for the bill it was not with any intention of retiring. We tipped generously, North American style, then hit the street still hungry for Madrid...