SICILY: Bouleuterion

 

We had a hire car for the day and following our trip to Pantalica, Nigel wanted to get the most from it and we drove on to the Greek settlement of Akrai.

I hadn’t revised  Ancient Greek town planning recently, so when we came upon the ‘bouleuterion’, frankly I had to remind myself what one of those was – a bakery? – a pétanque court? In fact it’s an area where the city council meets, debates and votes.

In Akrai, the bouleuterion has a little semi-circular seating area overlooking a grassy rectangle. Although I was there to admire Greek city government, I was soon distracted by a gorgeous pink orchid within the enclosure. But as I stepped forward to photograph it, I became very aware of where I was planting my boots – every few inches there were more orchids – we counted, within that small, ancient space, seven different types (pictured below).

What was it about the bouleuterion which fostered such rich flora. Greek attempts at democracy were partial and flawed as we are constantly reminded, but at least they made a start. Perhaps ancient democracy provided fertile soil for rare and beautiful things to grow and flourish.

SICILY: Beware of Bats

 

Before we came away I did due diligence and googled whether there were any health issues we should be aware of in Sicily.  It turned out that the tapwater was potable. All we had to look out for was (when walking in the countryside) ticks, some of which carry a virus. Also, bats – their bite carries a rabies risk. I relayed this to Nigel.

‘Well, at least it should be easy to avoid those!’ How we laughed.

Today, Nigel hired a car and drove boldly on the right hand side of the road along winding mountain tracks.  Our goal was Pantalica, a river canyon where the cliffs were honeycombed with ancient tombs. Our excellent guide, Paolo, showed us tombs dating from the Bronze Age Siculan people, right through to caves re-used as Byzantine churches in the 5^th Century AD. In one place he showed us how the river had been diverted along a millrace.  The mill had been there to grind gunpowder. 

‘Of course, the gunpowder mill was here because one of the ingredients needed for gunpowder is nitrates and nearby is a huge source of nitrates.’ 

‘Really?’

He pointed to a massive cave nearby, ‘Bat guano.’

‘Oh – do bats still live there?’

‘Yes indeed.  There are eight thousand bats in that cave – five different species.’

Nigel and I flicked each other a glance. But in fact, although we saw ravens and warblers and a host of spectacular flowers, we saw never-a-bat. We stood much more chance of slipping on the steep rain-wet limestone tracks than catching rabies.

At the end of the trip, we returned to the hire car and set off on the right-hand side of the winding mountain road, the fog descended and a rainstorm pelted the windscreen, obscuring the way ahead.

‘Phew. So glad we are safe from those bats.’

SICILY: A palace worth living in

 

In preparation for our Sicily trip, I read The Leopard by Lampedusa, about he way the Sicilian nobility declines during the unification of Italy in the nineteenth century. I then watched the excellent TV adaptation, and finally the Fellini film. The opulence of that age, even as it passed, was poignant. 

There is a particular sequence in the book where the lovers, Tancredi and Angelica explore the many unused rooms of the palace at Donnafugata using them as a place to kiss. The Prince who owns the house says, ‘A house of which one knows every room isn’t worth living in.’

I hoped to see one or even two of these magnificent palaces at the Baroque town of Noto. But when we got there, not only was it raining, but the famed palaces were inexplicably shut.

We were ourselves staying in a once-palace in Ortygia. We had one of several self-catering apartments. The owner was renovating the palace a bit at a time, as he could afford it. Which meant that there remained a large semi-derelict wing. One evening Nigel and I ventured into it.

There were many vacant rooms containing odd fragments, such as a huge artificial Christmas tree, light fittings made from old chairs hanging from the ceiling. Here a pile of rubble, there a magnificent marble staircase.

I had my Donnafugata after all.

I would like to report that Nigel and I used the empty rooms as a place to kiss, but in fact, the air of neglect spooked me and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

So I am clearly not cut out to be a member of the nineteenth century Sicilian nobility after all.  I suppose I’ll just have to send back the crinoline I purchased on Vinted.

SICILY: Of Greek Temples and Oranges

Nigel and I had come to Sicily (by train and ferry so as not to contribute to climate change)

I had predicted my favourite trip would be to the row of magnificent Greek temples ranged along a ridge near the town of Agrigento.

Sure enough when we got there, they displayed those graceful architectural proportions, much written about, especially the extraordinarily well preserved Temple of Concordia. The ruins of the less complete temples were picturesque, flickering with lizards, and with many tiny jewel-like flowers bobbing in the breeze from the sea. Incredibly impressive were the vast statues of the telamons, giants who once help up the architrave of the Temple of Zeus.

When we could take in no more, however, we descended to the Garden of Kolymbethra at one end of the Valley of the Temples. Down in a cool river gorge, it recreates a Sicilian small-holding.

We were dried out, and it was good to see frogs floating in a water cistern and to walk beneath fragrant blossom. Serins brightened the air with their song.

Some of the trees were laden with oranges. It was uncertain whether we were allowed to eat them or not, but Nigel and I did, two each. Each orange was an explosion of juice and crowded my mouth with intense flavour.

So although this was the day when I had encountered the remains of six extraordinary Greek temples, what I found myself saying to Nigel was, ‘I shall never forget these oranges.’ 

Of men and logs

 

Nigel went down to a four-day working week. The idea is to find the activities with which he will one day enrich his retirement.

His top pick was volunteering for the Woodland Trust at Heartwood, our local forest. There are hedges to be laid and trees to be planted.  The first time, Nigel took only a spade, but he has now added a camping stool, thermos flask and sandwiches to his accoutrements.

It all sounds like healthy outdoor fun - rather like a camp for superannuated scouts. Meanwhile, at home, I have a lovely quiet day.

On Sunday, we went together for a ramble at Heartwood and Nigel showed me what he’d been doing. 

‘In the woods, folk tend to trample the bluebells which then take a long time to recover. We’re using logs to edge the path and encourage visitors to stay on the straight and narrow.’

Next, at the edge of the woods, we saw an impressive pile of logs.

‘Look! Those are the logs we use to edge the paths.’

Quietly, I imagine the partners of the energetic Heartwood volunteers ringing one another secretly to arrange that there is a great big pile of logs available, enough to keep the working party busy for hours.

While we have another lovely quiet day at home.

One year on

It's a year since Mum died.

I guess, because we lived 300 miles apart, there's a sense in which she remains alive in the same way she always was to me, a presence in my heart rather than in my sitting room.

I have also found more concrete ways for her to continue to be part of my life. 

I brought home some of her calligraphy artwork and have been gradually framing it for myself and the children.

My favourite is an experimental piece which says 'the test of a vocation is the love of the drudgery it involves.'  This was a quote she often repeated, as she enjoyed every aspect of her calligraphy, and even learned how to cut goose quills and to make ink from soot and oak apples.

Amongst the artwork there was also a drawing - a swift chalk portrait of me as a little girl. If it were possible, everyone should have their portrait drawn by someone who really loves them. There can be no likeness as cherished.

And if I want a hug, I can still find her love in the indestructible sweaters she knitted me. 

There are many other ways in which her life still touches mine and I do believe that as time goes by, I think of her more, not less.

Well, well, well

Sometimes we are so busy rushing off on tourism expeditions in other places that we fail to explore our own stamping ground.

For eighteen years, I have walked up and down Holywell Hill in St Albans without showing the proper curiosity.

Last weekend, following a Ver Valley Walk leaflet with Trisha and Duncan, I was gobsmacked to discover that the eponymous holy well still exists.

In the incongruous depths of a housing estate, there it was. Now all neatly block paved, first appearances were disappointing. But peering into its depths, there was a magical glimpse of worn brick clothed in harts-tongue fern and emerald moss. Yes, this was old.

At least three legends are associated with the well.

St Alban, Britain’s first Christian martyr in the 3^rd century AD may have gasped for a drink there on his way to be executed higher up the hill. God miraculously brought the well into being to answer Alban’s prayers.

Or it may be that following his execution, his severed head rolled down the hill and came to rest here, and the spring flowed miraculously from the ground in response.

Later, King Uther Pendragon, (father of King Arthur) had a great battle with the Saxons in the ruins of the Roman city of Verulamium and healed his wounds here by bathing them in water from this well.

Or, as the Ver Valley leaflet pointed out, maybe the well was just a feature of an eighteenth century garden which once covered this spot.

Pah! I choose to believe the myths and miracles.

And I resolve to keep an eye open for what else I have missed while living in this historic city for eighteen years.

Try a new thing

At this time of year, part of me wants to stay in and hibernate, but part of me is ready to greet the new year with new adventures, and that is what happened last weekend.

On Friday, walking near local lakes with Carol and Diane I suggested we take a path that was new to us. We did. We gained views of a sunlit lake and got really close up to watch a goldcrest and redpolls foraging among the alders.  However, the end of the path was so flooded it looked more like a river than the nearby river did, and we had to retreat and go round the long way.

Saturday with Nigel, and again we diverted from our usual route, this time to explore an Iron Age settlement surrounded by a massive earthwork known picturesquely as The Devil's Dyke. We marvelled at the scale of the earthen banks, and read aged (and probably erroneous) signs declaring that Julius Caesar had fought there. Then Nigel managed to create a new circular walk from the settlement.  It ended up being a couple of miles longer than the amble we'd planned and we were both a bit weary and hungry by the time we regained our car.

So there are two alternative learnings I could glean from last weekend:-

• Don't try anything new - it'll cause you inconvenience.
• OR Take a chance on a new adventure and see where you end up.

I would say our experiences support both equally, but what I will say is - it felt GREAT to be trying something new.

Cosy Crime Debacle

 

It was very January today, when I went out for my morning walk - grey and spitting with drizzle.

UNTIL I saw on the pavement a short trail of Scrabble tiles.  

Perhaps I had stumbled into the pages of a cosy crime novel - somebody had left me a clue!

If I were to turn them all rightside up, and anagram them mercilessly, they would tell me what my next move should be.  Or perhaps the name of the murderer. 

This grey day was about to become much more exciting.

I stood looking at them.

On the other hand, lying there on the sludgy grey pavement, the grubby tiles were pretty unappealing.

And did I really want to get my hands dirty?

I sighed and started walking again.

Only another two weeks of January left to go.

Photo at top by Clarissa Watson on Unsplash

Second photo by Clare

insufficiently cutthroat

I've been collecting feedback and reviewing Christmas with a view to improving my festive performance for next year.

 There were many strong points but also some areas for improvement. 

I cleverly arranged for none of the family to have flu or Covid over the Christmas. I booked great weather, so our habitual muddy walks were bathed in sunlight. I managed to display just the right degree of fatigue so that everybody helped with the cooking and produced feasts which were not only low in carbon footprint but also delicious. 

On the other hand, I failed to be sufficiently cutthroat. I dopily omitted to secure a supermarket shopping delivery, meaning that Nigel had to trudge to Morrisons.

I left it too late to buy the Christmas Radio Times, forcing family members to scour a variety of newsagents.

Perhaps at least my failing has a use. It will supply my New Year's resolution. 'Be more cutthroat!' This seems a fitting end to the festive season.

Christmas Do

Whenever a Christmas do comes round, I always want to say, 'Don't be ridiculous. I can't come out. I have far too much to do, preparing for Christmas.'

However, I give myself a talking to, dress up and go out. Last week, I had back-to-back two work do's - mine and Nigel's. There could not have been a greater contrast. One of my adult Latin groups met in the local pub and talked the hind leg off an asinus.

Nigel and his colleagues had three tables in a big top in Bloomsbury offering 'Cirque de Vintage'. Sequinned fire jugglers greeted us, three courses of beautifully presented hot food were served with precision, and acrobats performed breathtaking stunts on the trapeze just above our heads. 

Better than any of that however was the fact that Nigel's colleagues were extremely friendly and went out of their way to include me.

The only drawback from my point of view was that they were strangely unobsessed by matters Classical. 

But in both cases, I'm very glad I left my kitchen and forayed out.

And that is what I shall tell my family when on Christmas day they query the absence of a pudding. 

Always read the waiver

It was Nigel's birthday.  

He had said that he would prefer 'an experience'.

Carenza, Sandy and I took him to The HG Wells War of the Worlds Experience in Leadenhall, London. When we arrived in the foyer cafe, I nipped to the loo. When I came back, each of the others was holding a tablet and adding their signature to it.

'You just need to sign this, Clare. It's the waiver.'

Trustingly, I signed so as not to hold up the show.

There followed two gripping hours, during which the Martians landed, we fled our homes, escaped by sea, attempted to live underground in the sewers, got ingested by an alien pod and spat out, and finally watched the demise of the aliens, felled by bacteria. 

'Some of the virtual reality bits were astonishing,' said Nigel.

'I enjoyed the live scenes where we interacted with actors. They were really good,' said Sandy.

'I liked the steam punk styling of the sets and props,' said Carenza.

'I enjoyed it but I has a bit startled by the bit where we got sprayed with water, and the bit where it was dark and somebody touched my arm, oh, and that big spiral slide we wooshed down! I wasn't expecting that.'

'But it was all flagged up in the waiver, Mum.' 

'Oh wait, you were in the loo.'

So that will be my strategy if ever I am caught in a Martian invasion. Go into the loo and stay there. Clearly it will insulate me from everything that is going on.

Vegetarian Sausage Surprise

Our freezer got congested. It was completely full, yet we had little idea of the contents.

So we've been eating our way through it. 

Nearing the bottom of the top drawer, Nigel was delighted to discover a bag containing three oblongs.

'Look, top quality veg sausages! We can have them for tea.'

'If they're veg sausages, why are they in a plain plastic bag?'

'Maybe it was the end of a pack?'

'Last time you offered me veg sausages in a plain bag they turned out to be venison.'*

'Well I'm eating them.'

'Fine. There are a couple of ancient spring rolls. I'll have them.'

As Nigel fried the sausages, they smelt...unusual.

We sat down to our dinner and Nigel tucked in. However, his knife and fork soon slowed.

'I don't know if I can eat all of these. They're quite large.'

I accepted half a sausage.

The flavour was completely not what I expected, yet also very familiar. 

'Those are bananas!'

'You're right. That's what they are. Umm why did you peel and freeze three bananas?'

'I didn't.  It must have been you.'

The argument continued with no resolution and clearly there is only one explanation. The Freezer Fairy had been at work.

And wherever she is, I hope it gave her a chuckle.

Although we haven't got to the bottom of the freezer yet, so she may very well have more surprises in store. 

*Nigel eats culled venison as being meat with no carbon footprint. 

A real sucker

At the moment, if you visit our house, I will offer (gushingly) to introduce you to the new love of my life. 

Indeed, he might be pottering about in the hallway as you enter.

He is a small robot vacuum cleaner. We did try out some names, but have settled on 'The little chap', said in an affectionate tone.

Hoovering was previously my job. And indeed, I still do the stairs as the robot cleaner has the same limitations as a dalek. 

But thanks to the little robot, I am now freed of the anxiety that my mother-in-law might come calling on a day when I haven't hoovered (most days, in fact).

My friends fear that as a result of this automated home help I may lose muscle tone and become decadent.  I, however, find there is still plenty of housework to be done. The house will now get dusted more often, in theory at least.

No, my only worry is that the robot hoover originates in China. The Chinese now have maps of both my upstairs and my downstairs, information vital to their plan for world domination.

Plus, they now know exactly how much dust there was under our bed, a matter previoisly covered by the official secrets act. 

The Escher car park

Last Friday, we went with Pascoe and Sophie to see Chekov’s The Seagull at the Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh.

Running low on time, we decided to use a disastrously expensive carpark nearby.  For the price we paid we expected the full service – we should be able to:-

1.      Park the car

2.      Find it still there when we returned

3.      Drive away

The play was excellent – strong performances, atmospheric setting.  We didn’t worry about the car - not with the amount that carpark was costing!

We came out and found the carpark had indeed fulfilled the first two of its three functions. We paid at the machine, emitting a communal gasp as we read the tariff.

But the way we had come in was now shut off with a temporary barrier.  ‘Use other exit.’

‘Where is other exit?’

Pascoe set off on a drive round the carpark, only to arrive back again at the temporary barrier.  He set off once more and after following exit signs more attentively, we still arrived there again. 

We began to wonder if the carpark had been designed by Escher.

Or whether Kafka had written the signage.

We must be missing something in the rain and darkness.

Pascoe set off again, with us all chipping in whenever we spotted a sign, and eventually, by a very circuitous route, we reached the barrier.

But it wouldn’t let us out.  It gave the error message ‘No payment possible.’

‘But we already paid.  Oh boy, did we already pay!’

Pascoe backed out and drove towards the other barrier. This one charged us a further £8 before it would let us out, no doubt a charge racked up for the pleasure of driving round and round a dark wet carpark when all we wanted was to get home.

‘I shall never use that carpark again,’ said Pascoe.

And let us hope he never does!

A foraging first

The change in climate means the seasons are less predictable. 

This Autumn is a 'mast year' where beech trees produced a super-crop. Other trees have joined them and nuts, seeds acorns and haws crunch beneath our hiking boots when we are out and about.

There are differing explanations for this abundance. Optimistics say the spring weather was ideal for setting fruit and nuts.

Pessimists say rising temperatures are stressing the trees and they feel themselves to be in danger, so attempt to perpetuate their genes by reproducing. 

Whichever it is, Nigel and I have benefited, at least in the short term. 

We noticed that squirrels, instead of burying merely the usual acorns and conkers in our garden were this year bringing us walnuts.

Then our friend Carys showed us a bowl of beautiful walnuts she had foraged near Oxford. 

We were eager to find some.

Finally, when out on a walk with Pascoe, we came upon a walnut tree and added handfuls of the delicious nuts to our pockets, already bulging with sweet chestnuts.

So for the first time we have a bowl of local walnuts. 

I only wish our pockets had been bigger.

And I hope the trees get a chance to rest and recover over winter.

Ghostly Breathing

A couple of times a year, Nigel and I meet up with our old friends David and Carolyn who live in the North East. We walk, pub and sightsee. 

 This time we tried a new halfway meeting point - the Lincolnshire wolds. 

It would have been great if this had been the only new element of the weekend but there was another novel experience. 

On our first evening Storm Amy cut the electricity and we had a game of hunt the candles in the Airbnb in the dark. We found one set of fake candles which nevertheless looked like someone had set fire to them, and two real ones. But no matches whatsoever. We decided to pass the time by listening to ghost stories on David's phone. 

We were listening to Shirley Henderson reading a spooky tale. Shirley Henderson has a high-pitched uncanny voice and the special effects department had added to the atmosphere with very realistic ghostly breathing in the background. 

Eventually, the tale drew to its chilling climax. However when the story finished, and Shirley Henderson fallen silent, the ghostly breathing continued. 

I raised my phone torch. The rest of us might have been on the edge of our seats, but after a long and exciting day, David was catching forty winks.

A Sliding Doors Moment

 

On Friday, I was out walking with two friends.  It was a five mile country ramble which we know well.

Being women of a certain age, we have noted the most discreet place to visit the bushes should the need arise. On this particular walk, there’s only really one opportunity - where the footpath skirts a wood, there’s a gap in the hedge, and a private path into the wood.  This has provided us with a useful convenience many times in the past. 

On Friday, as we approached the wood, however, there was already something there.  Parked just in front of our gap was a tractor.  Behind the tractor was a substantial trailer. Sitting on hay bales in the trailer were the children of a nursery school, accompanied by an almost equal number of adults.

As we watched, the farmer let down the flap at the back of the trailer and the people climbed down and made their way into the wood, by the very path we would normally take. 

‘They must be doing a nature trail!’

‘Just think though, what if it had happened in the other order?’

‘You mean if we’d got there first?’

‘…and were having a wee when an entire class of children arrived?’

‘Can you imagine? – “Mummy, what’s that lady doing???”’

We concluded that it would have still been an educational experience for them, just in a very different way.

 

 

 

The NO MILK coffee bar

 

We were paying our first visit to Perran in his new residence in Brussels.

He took us to what used to be called a flea market but is now known as a vintage fair and we admired the tables laden with tat and treasures.

A heatwave was boiling up and we were wilting, but it wasn't yet time for lunch.

We spotted a cool-looking coffee bar on a crossroads, a few metal chairs and tables sheltered by parasols on the pavement.

The chalkboard offered espresso, then 'Americano - NO MILK'

'Well,' I thought to myself, 'I won't be having that then.'

Never mind - below was the option of 'a batch brew of filter coffee'.  Apparently it offered 'hints of rose and lemon.' But I was prepared to overlook that and drink some with a slurp of milk.

However, when the man came to take our order, first Nigel (who clearly cannot read chalkboards) asked for an Americano with milk.

The man refused.  Milk would ruin the fragrance. (I'm not saying 'waiter' because his irritation implied he had some skin in the game - perhaps he was the proprietor).

'It's okay, Nigel, we'll have  the filter coffee. That doesn't say 'NO MILK''

'Okay, two of those please.'

But when it arrived, there was no milk.  Nor, despite my best French, was there any milk to be had. In a Fawlty-esque tone of barely-suppressed rage, the man explained the milk would mask the hints of rose and lemon.

'And a good thing too,' I thought.

'We know how it is best for you to drink your coffee!' he finished.

Despite the atmosphere now surrounding our table, we lingered over our small cups of black coffee.  It was too expensive not to.  At least, thankfully, I could detect no rose or lemon.

We never got as far as telling the man that it was oat or soya milk we wanted, not dairy. What would have happened if we had?  Possibly he would have spontaneously combusted in a shower of blue sparks.

Leaving nothing behind except a whiff of rose and lemon.

Golden Birds of Hope

 

When we arrived in Enniskillen, the sun came out and shone throughout our visit. What a pretty place it was, surrounded by lakes and woods and hills, Celtic monasteries and Neolithic megalith tombs nearby, enticing to us holiday makers. 

It did not tally with what we'd heard of Enniskillen in the past - the 1987 Remembrance Day Massacre where a bomb killed eleven and injured sixty-three. However, as we began to explore the area by foot, car and boat, visiting local castles, we found that the long-enduring troubled past had been sprayed with the blood of previous devastating massacres on both sides. 

In the main street of the town itself, the Catholic Church squared up to the Protestant one, each vying to be more massive and taller.

Yet on the front of each, there was the same symbol - a golden silhouette of a swallow, pinned to the wall. And soon, I began to notice these golden birds in other places - war memorials, shops.  

I investigated.

Oscar Wilde, as a boy, had boarded at Enniskillen Grammar School. From his dormitory, he'd looked out on a statue of the first British governor there - Cole.  Like Nelson's Column, it dominated the town. Young Oscar began to imagine what it would be like if the statue would sacrifice his grandeur for the sake of the poor townspeople below. The resulting story was The Happy Prince.

Thus, the gold birds dotted about Enniskillen are a reference to the swallow in the story who acted as messenger for the statue of the prince and delivered his gold and jewels to the people below.

But perching as they do both on Protestant and Catholic walls, it's hard not to see the golden swallows also as emissaries of peace. Nowadays, perhaps instead of gold and jewels, they are bringing hope for the future.

The wrong Rough Fort

We were to drive from Carnlough to Derry/Londonderry. Was there anything we should see on the way?

Indeed there was. On the Limavady to Ballykelly road lay The Rough Fort - one of many donut-shaped earthworks built around a thousand years ago, and still dotting the landscape. Known as raths, they were defensive - farmers and cattle could retreat there when a raid was threatened.

The Limavady rath had been restored by the National Trust and we were eager to see it. The only drawback was that when I entered 'Rough Fort, Limavady' into Google maps, it gave us the route to a housing estate in Moira, many miles away. This happened repeatedly until Nigel grabbed the phone from me and took over.

'That's better,' he said. 

An hour later, we arrived.

Amidst new houses (which had not been visible in the NT publicity shot) nestled a large circular earthwork. We read the plaque, circled rhe earthwork, took a few snaps and got back in the car.

Then we set Google maps to Derry. But it told us that instead of being close to our destination, we were now eighty miles from it.

Despite our best efforts we had still been directed to the housing estate in Moira.

At least there had been a rath there.

But the most remarkable thing of all was that I managed not to say,

'I told you so!'

Until now, that is.