Two more galleries and a cathedral.

Last weekend we had a trip to the Wirral. This is because number two son had spotted a good deal on a model of car he has been looking for, at a garage in Birkenhead. So we offered to drive them over to collect it, and we would stay a night and visit Port Sunlight. We’ve talked about doing that often enough, so this was a good opportunity.

It’s lovely spring weather at present, and the drive over to Birkenhead was fine. The car was perfect, so after buying us lunch, son and daughter set off back and we took ourselves to Port Sunlight.

Port Sunlight was built by William Lever of Lever Bros., the soap magnate. (It sounds funny put like that, but apparently he deliberately chose to manufacture soap because each unit is relatively cheap and people would always have to buy it.) He used palm oil, not animal fat, and produced soap of much better quality and, importantly, much more pleasant smell, than most commonly available soap, and made a fortune.

He built a model village for his workers, named after his best selling household soap. It’s now run by a trust and the houses are privately owned, but mostly grade 2 listed and it’s a conservation area. It’s heavily influenced by the Arts and Craft movement, and it’s lovely. The houses are very varied in style, there’s lots of open spaces, and though obviously the houses don’t have garages, the roads are wide and fairly empty. It’s quiet and peaceful.

Lever believed in healthy recreation, so there were myriads of clubs and activities, some of which, apparently, are still going, although the open air swimming pool has gone and the girls’ club building is a museum. There’s a Grade 1 listed war memorial with sculptures by Goscombe John, who was Lever’s favourite sculptor.

Lever believed in education and culture for his workers, and built the Lady Lever Art Gallery to house his collection of paintings, sculpture and furniture. He bought some paintings for their potential as advertising! Those feature children being bathed and such like, and of course Millais' "Bubbles". 

We were slightly unlucky in that some of the rooms are closed for restoration – they open again in about a fortnight, so our timing was off. I went for the paintings mainly, but actually a lot of the furniture was superb. I was very pushed as to what to choose for my one thing to take home. There was a lovely sculpture called “Snowdrift” by Edward Onslow Ford, and three small busts by Goscombe John, of his mother-in-law, his wife and his daughter, which were wonderful, but really you needed all three for the full impact. If it had to be just one, I choose the mother-in-law. Lever seemed to have a bit of a thing about commodes – there are lots, and all superb. It’d be awfully difficult to choose just one.

The following day, Sunday, we went into Liverpool. It’s about fifteen years since we were there, and then it was dire. Acres of wrecked houses, litter, empty lots, and a feeling of despair. It made me think of Memphis or Detroit, although of course it wasn’t as bad as those places.  We didn’t pay the bill in the hotel as drunken Northern Irishmen were charging around the corridors all night, banging on doors and yelling. We didn’t dare to tackle them, and nor did the hotel staff, and I couldn’t really blame them.

Well, the good news is that Liverpool is much improved. The Georgian terraces have been well restored, and there are a lot of smart new buildings belonging to one or another of the universities. There’s still empty lots but they have been tidied up so that they don’t look like bombsites (which to be fair to Liverpool, they might be. It was very heavily bombed.) There are some new housing developments, but the population of Liverpool has fallen. 

The main gripe I still have, is that people don’t seem to take a pride in their city. So there is still lots of litter, and central areas, which are regularly and frequently cleaned in Nottingham, haven’t been swept for ages. Also there were some small but telling problems; we drove past one car park because it had a large closed sign, but later discovered it was open; the car park we did choose had the emergency exits partially blocked by junk; the toll machines on the Mersey Tunnel didn’t work properly, and the attendant didn’t seem inclined to sort it out.

We went in order to visit the Walker Gallery and the Anglican cathedral, and they are both terrific, and any city which possesses either one of them, never mind both, has really got something of which to be proud.

The Walker Gallery possesses a better collection than I have seen in some capital cities. It’s very comprehensive too, from really contemporary pieces to some early Italian religious art of superb quality. The special exhibition was the Pre-Raphaelites, so I chose a Burne-Jones, “The Beguiling of Merlin” as my thing to take home. It’s just magical, with lovely lines of Nimue's body, and the trees beside her, and the reclining Merlin.  Have a look:

http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/ladylever/collections/paintings/gallery2/merlin.aspx

But then I realised that it was on loan from the Lady Lever gallery. So it kind of didn’t count, but perhaps it would have to be my thing for the Lady Lever gallery ………….. and so on and on, as if I really was going to be given anything to take home!  

I also very much liked an Augustus John picture of two Jamaican girls, and a Rossetti, “Dante’s Dream”, but settled on  Stubbs, “Molly Longlegs.”  It was a really difficult decision, though.

http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/walker/collections/paintings/18c/stubbs.aspx

Then we went into the Anglican cathedral. Its architect is Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, whose other works include Bankside Power Station, now the Tate Modern, and the traditional red phone box. It’s the most stunning building. Scott won a competition for the design in 1903, when he was only twenty two years old. One has to admire the committee for a bold choice! But it was the right one.

The cathedral was not finally completed until 1978, after Scott’s death. It’s enormously high and huge, and contains some wonderful art works. There’s an Elisabeth Frink sculpture of the risen Christ over the west door. All the windows are superb, and the choir stalls are modern and so, so beautiful.

We hesitated about climbing the central tower, as the building is so high, but then discovered that there are lifts, one taking you up so far, and then another to the bell loft, leaving only a bit more than a hundred steps to climb. So up we went, and it was brilliant. As usual there are two ceilings, so you look up at the sandstone vault from the floor of the cathedral, but above that there are concrete beams. Maybe there’s a steel frame, I don’t know. And the bells are fantastic – there’s a peal of thirteen bells, plus a  huge one called Great George, hung in a pendant position.  Going up inside the tower really brings home to one the scale  of the building.  I remembered we thought it was wonderful fifteen years ago, and this time I thought it was even better than I remembered. 

So a good thing about the trip is that I feel better disposed towards Liverpool than after our last time there; but if I had to work there, I’d probably choose to live in Port Sunlight!

Blood

I have been giving blood since I was eighteen, but on and off. Mostly off, because for years and years I was disqualified for reasons of pregnancy, and having a child under one, and having been exposed to some illness. With four children, this was pretty much the usual state in the family. They didn't even manage to all have chickenpox at once, in spite of me putting them in the bath all together. We still had three bouts.  Then Phil was often away. I wasn't prepared to get a baby sitter so I could go to a blood donation session, and although the centre said children were welcome, I'm pretty sure they didn't mean four all at once. And the two older boys would have had a fight. 

But in spite of this, I've managed fifty seven donations. You can keep going until you're seventy, as long as you are well, so I might make seventy donations. My target was fifty, so I shall be thrilled if I can do seventy. When I retired I considered platelet donation. It takes longer and one has to attend more frequently, but I thought I would have the time. But when the nurse heard I have  number of children, she said she would run the test to see if I was a suitable platelet donor if I wished, but that she was sure I wouldn't be suitable. Apparently it's to do with acquiring antibodies (or something) in pregnancy. I'm more than a bit vague about it, to be honest. But when I thought about it, I realised that I'd never seen a female platelet donor. They're all men. 

Two or three years ago I joined something called the "Interval" study. Donors were allotted a set interval for donations. Mine is every sixteen weeks, which is pretty much the same as previously, when I was donating every four months. Some people are on a twelve week interval. I have my doubts about the study. In some ways it seems a bit wrongheaded. The proportion of people who are eligible to donate blood who actually do so is very small. So maybe it would be better to get more people participating, rather than getting the ones who are already doing their bit to do more. 

The study also means that I get questionnaires on how well I feel and can function, what I eat, and suchlike. Apparently the NHS is an amazing resource for researchers because it has access to  huge and unselected population, whereas of course, a lot of the statistics on health quoted  by other countries are based on selected samples. 

I'm O rh+, which is pretty boring, but they say I'm very useful. And they say "Ooh, you've got lovely veins."  It's difficult to know what to say to this - whether to simper thanks, or just say yes, I know. That sounds conceited, but after all, it's nothing I can take credit for. It's just luck. 

I'm also lucky, up to now, that my iron levels stay just fine, and I have never fainted in my life. Still, giving blood allows me to eat black pudding and steak and kidney pie and feel virtuous doing so - something that, alone, makes it worth donating. 

Two exhibitions

Of the art galleries in Nottingham, we consider the Djanogly, which is part of the university of Nottingham, the best. It isn’t very big, but that’s good because a really big gallery can be far too much. It’s OK in much of Britain because they are free, so one can drop in for a certain amount of time, or in the National Gallery one can decide to visit a certain section. I have been known to drop in just to see “Whistlejacket”.  But when entrance is expensive there’s an awful drive to somehow “get one’s money’s worth”  and not miss a single canvas, even when suffering from visual and intellectual indigestion.

The Djanogly is free and runs some brilliant exhibitions. The one on at present is works of the sculptor Elisabeth Frink. We booked in for a free gallery tour with the curator of the exhibition. It was wonderfully informative on Frink’s methods and inspirations, and although we like Frink’s work, we learned a lot, and looked at the sculptures with much more understanding after the tour. I particularly liked the eagle which she sculpted as the lectern for Coventry Cathedral, and her other animal sculptures of dogs and a horse. They were imbued with the spirit or character of the animal in a way that made them seem to be bursting with life. And I really liked “Standing Man”. I felt that a copy of that in your house or garden would act as your conscience. He was assessing  you, looking at you so narrowly it made you feel a bit guilty.

A couple of weeks ago we spent time in the Tate Modern, largely because it’s virtually next door to the Globe. Otherwise we wouldn’t have bothered.  Where on earth do they get this stuff? And are we paying for it? I fear we are.  And foreign tourists are not, even though the place seems to exist for them. The main turbine hall is full of triangular wooden open boxes, each containing earth from one of London’s many parks. Apparently the art lies in seeing what comes up. It’s an installation by some Brazilian artist. There are many problems with this :

•        It’s winter, you idiot, and it’s inside where there’s even less light. Nothing is growing. Clot.

•        Anyone with eyes knows what happens if you leave a bare patch of earth. You get weeds. You may get something that isn’t a weed and got in there by chance – a crocus for example.

•       The earth from any London park is going to produce much the same as the earth from any other. Some may produce brambles, some may not. But that’s about it.

•         Dropped litter is apparently OK. It’s one of the interesting differences according to the artist. Certainly, the box with the empty crisp packet dropped from the floor above is presently the most interesting box, but it’s NOT ART.

The Tate Britain is excellent though. And the turbine hall at the Tate Modern is well worth seeing, if they haven’t mucked it up with stupidities.  Which they usually have.

Two down, one to go.

I am really excited to be able to report that we are now down to just one Shakespeare play that we have not seen on stage.  That’s Henry VIII still outstanding. The RSC seems to be including The Two Noble Kinsmen as having sufficient of Shakespeare’s writing to count, but we haven’t decided what to do about that, yet.

This weekend we bagged Cymbeline and Pericles Prince of Tyre. Last summer at the Globe we decided to check what was going to be on at the Jacobean indoor theatre during the winter – it’s officially the Sam Wannamaker Playhouse – and were thrilled to discover that they were putting on a series of Shakespeare’s late romances.

We saw Cymbeline first and Pericles the next day; we enjoyed Pericles more. They are similar in lots of ways – unlikely plots, amazing coincidences, people reviving from apparent death, separations, near miraculous reunions, lost and found daughters – and in changes of tone, from near pantomime to deeply emotional. But we felt that Pericles was the better production.  The first two acts of Pericles are by George Wilkins, and you can hear when Shakespeare takes over and the verse suddenly becomes much more flexible. Wilkins is tum ti tum ti tum.

It was really interesting seeing how the indoor theatre worked, too. It’s even more uncomfortable than the Globe, and I shouldn’t think that there’s a single seat from which you can see all the action all the time. There is a little light coming in from the windows, but they are in the corridor round the actual theatre space, and so it’s not much, especially in winter, and there are shutters if they want to completely darken the theatre.  There are six large chandeliers which can be raised and lowered, almost to the floor if necessary, and candles in sconces on the pillars around the playing space. They use beeswax candles, you can tell by the smell, and therefore the light is brighter than you might expect, with a lovely golden glow, and no smoke. Occasionally the candles have to be trimmed or relit after being quenched and the stage hands and cast are remarkably quick, efficient and unobtrusive. No doubt they have special “candle training”. 

 Sometimes the theatre is darkened and an actor uses a sconce with a couple of candles, held in one hand, to illuminate their face. I’m surprised no one has set fire to their wig! They also use a pearly make up at times, which apparently is authentic. I dread to think what they used to get the pearly effect in the very early seventeenth century. I have a sinking feeling that it was probably mercury.

It was all quite an experience. I couldn’t help thinking of the woman, Ruth someone, who does Victorian, and earlier, reconstructions on television. I remember her saying what a help the corset was in supporting her back for a lot of the jobs she had to do, and for the sitting up straight. (Not, of course, if you try for an eighteen inch waist.)  Anyway, I’m thinking of getting myself some authentic stays before our next visit to the playhouse. 

My New Year's Resolution

I don’t really bother with New Year resolutions. I struggle to think of anything I think I might actually keep, for a start. But this year I swear I’m going to keep my one resolution. I am going to give up trying to grow tulips outside on the terrace of the flat.

This is quite a wrench as I do love tulips and they come in such gorgeous colours and varieties; I like the black Queen of the Night ones and the greeny white ones and the little parrot ones and the tall red ones – I would just  love to have them in flower outside my kitchen.  But, unfortunately, squirrels like them just as much as I do.

I’m talking about Canadian Grey Squirrels, here, of course (we still call them “Canadian” because you have to blame someone for the destructive little devils).They’ve completely supplanted red squirrels over most of England. In fact I’ve only see a red squirrel a couple of times in my life, whereas the grey variety are pretty hard to miss. They empty a bird table in ten seconds. If you put out fat balls, they run off with the whole thing the minute it appears. Bird feeders, even those designed to be squirrel proof, might prove a problem to them for a few days, but then the wretched animals will find a way to snaffle all the nuts and seeds at one go.  If you bang on the window they gaze indignantly at you. “Can’t you see I’m working here?” The only way to scare them off is to run outside yelling. This is likely to lead other people to be alarmed, in fact much more alarmed than the squirrels deign to be.  Especially when one runs out in one’s pyjamas.

Unfortunately squirrels are very fond of tulip bulbs. Daffodils and hyacinths are poisonous, so that’s OK – I would positively encourage the squirrels to eat those, but sadly they know better. When we were in our old house, I used to cover the soil over the tulip bulbs with a thick layer of dried pelleted chicken poo. That kept them off!  It smelt horrible, but it lasted all winter, was presumably good for the bulbs, and the garden was big enough for it not to be a problem for us. The terrace isn’t that big, and pots liberally covered with chicken poo so close to one’s windows are not appealing.

Phil was so fed up with their cheek, he sent for a squirrel trap. Unfortunately he hadn’t considered what he would do when once he caught a squirrel. It’s against the law to release them, so if you catch a squirrel you are faced with the choice of killing it or keeping it as a pet. The second option appealed to neither of us. Phil thought he could kill any he caught, but I pointed out that the RSPCA says that the only humane way to kill a squirrel is with a sharp blow to the head. Well, that was never going to happen. The squirrel would be rocketing about the cage shrieking while Phil tried to beat it to death. So we got rid of the squirrel trap.

After it had gone, a neighbour, a pleasant elderly lady, confided that she had a squirrel trap. Having caught a squirrel, she introduces one end of a plastic pipe into the cage. The squirrel runs down the pipe and into the sock she fixes at the other end. Then she whams the sock on the ground. One dead squirrel, humanely killed and already in its shroud. This made us realise we are not cut out for hunting.

This autumn just past, I went into the market for something else entirely, and was led astray by the tulip bulbs. I chose a lovely selection, four varieties, two to bloom together in one pot, and another two to bloom a little later in the other. I also bought some strong plastic netting. I planted the bulbs and covered the pots with four layers of netting, held down with pegs, and secured by plastic string tied tightly over the netting and round the top of the pot.

All seemed to go well. The squirrels paid very little attention to the pots. Then one day, just before Christmas, I came back from a day out to find the netting and string vanished, the pegs cast aside, and every last single tulip bulb eaten. So I really do give up. I can’t stand the disappointment any more.

Nottingham trams

The Nottingham tram network has been expanded – there are three lines now – and although the building has been absolutely agony, with roads closed for months and monumental traffic jams, and shopkeepers along the route nearly suicidal, the end result, I think, is excellent. Of course, being a city resident and old, I don’t  pay, and this probably sways my judgement.  They have thought to put    a park and ride car park at each end of all the lines, and one line is highly convenient for my daughter’s house, and that convinces me that it’s really well planned.

But what I’ve been particularly enjoying has been spotting the names of the trams. It’s kind of a crash course (not literally, thank goodness)  on the history of Nottingham people, and who is considered worthy of having a tram named after them.

Of course, there’s a Robin Hood, but there are a number of writers, which is quite appropriate since Nottingham has just become a UNESCO City of Literature. I have no idea why Nottingham, more than other cities, or what it means for the future, but it’s kind of nice. Anyway, the writers who have trams named after them are Lord Byron, Alan Sillitoe and D.H. Lawrence. None of the still living Nottingham writers have been honoured with a tram. Perhaps there’s a worry that they’ll go out of fashion. I really like Jon McGregor, but he wasn’t born in Nottingham. However neither was Byron. 

There’s also a tram called after a successful screenwriter, William Ivory, formerly a  Nottingham dustman, and one for Stephen Lowe the playwright and director. And while we’re on the stage, there’s a Vicky McClure, named for the actor. She was a member of the Childrens’  Television Workshop, along with Samantha Morton, Jack O’ Connell, Joe Dempsie , and many other successful actors. Oldest son went there – he loved it, and also made quite a bit of cash from doing  bit parts in TV dramas, although he ended up being an accountant.

Then there are scientists. There’s an  Ada Lovelace; she was Lord Byron’s daughter and a pioneer of computing (I did actually understand Bernoulli numbers when I took a little historical walk which included her grave, but as soon as I didn’t need to understand them, they went.)

 George Green has a tram and an engineering building at the university named after him – he was a largely self taught  mathematical genius, and  you can visit the windmill in Sneinton  where he was the miller, and which has been restored. The storage buildings on the site have been turned into a little science education centre. As a lot of his work is on electricity and magnetism, there are lots of fun things to do. It’s quite a good place to take children.

Another scientist with a tram is Sir Peter Mansfield, who developed the MRI scanner. He failed his eleven plus exam and failed to get into grammar school, which just shows how rubbish the system was, and how stupid it is for those Conservative idiots to want to bring back grammar schools. Not that grammar schools have gone away entirely. They are popular with parents who are sure their children will pass the exam and then won’t have to mix with the riff raff. Personally I think learning to cope with all sorts of people is an important part of education.

 There are trams named after quite a lot of different  sporting types. There’s Brian Clough, manager of the Nottingham Forest side who won the European cup two years in succession, and Viv Anderson who was the first black footballer to play for England. There is a tram called Torvill and Dean, after the Nottingham Ice dancers who scored perfect tens at the Sarajevo Olympics. Why they didn’t get a tram each, goodness knows.  Although they did move in perfect unison ha ha.

There are two boxers -  Carl Froch, the world super middleweight  champion, and one named  Bendigo after the all England bare knuckle champion. He was one of triplets who were named (naturally) Shadrach, Mesach and Abednego, and therefore became famous as Bendigo;    and had a serious drink problem in later life. I don’t think he can have been punchdrunk, as bare knuckle boxers couldn’t hit as hard. It would simply break their hand. But some of his fights went on for over a hundred rounds, which I shouldn’t imagine does your head much good. Anyway, later still, he stopped drinking, got religion and became a lay preacher.   So a happy ending of sorts. Bendigo in Australia is named after an Australian fighter who was named after the Nottingham Bendigo.

Sid Standard is also a sporting hero, but he isn’t famous for winning, but for getting kids into cycling. So really a more worthwhile hero than many others. And David Clarke of Nottingham Panthers ice hockey team has a tram.

The latest sporting hero is Stuart Broad, who took 8 wickets for sixteen runs in the Ashes here in Nottingham at Trent Bridge last summer. Actually, it was a bad thing for Nottingham in some ways, because all the people who’d travelled to Nottingham to see the match went home. Instead of five days it lasted two and a bit, so the city must have lost money on it. But I can’t tell you how satisfying it was to see the Australians collapse.  A tram was immediately selected as the perfect tribute to a wonderful display of bowling, and to everyone’s joy at thrashing the Aussies.

One tram is named William Booth, after the founder of the Salvation Army, born in 1829 in Sneinton, Nottingham. There are lots of local people you won’t have heard of, but who have trams named after them as a tribute to their charitable work, which is a really nice thank you to them. One is named after a lady who has volunteered for Homestart, which provides support for struggling families, and when the Nottingham Evening Post asked for nominations for people to have trams named for them, the family she has supported for years immediately nominated her.  And some are named for nurses and midwives who won nurse of the year awards.

A very important  businessman commemorated with a tram is Jesse Boot, founder of Boots the Chemist, still a big employer in the city, and an important city benefactor, helping to get the university started and giving it a great deal of land.

Then there’s the tram called George Africanus. He ran various businesses in Nottingham, including a servants’ registry. He was brought  to Britain from Sierra Leone as a slave in 1766, when he was about three, but died in 1834, a well known and prosperous businessman.  And there’s Sat Bains, who runs a Michelin starred restaurant.  I haven’t been there - whenever I suggest a posh restaurant, Phil says he won’t pay that when he eats better at home. Huh. Flattery.  And stinginess. Still, he's lovely really.

Catch up, October.

I have got really out of the habit of my blog, but I'm away in France, visiting friends, and I have time to catch my breath and spend time reflecting and recording. First, why I haven't kept writing: I think I lost interest a bit, and it became a chore rather than something I do for my own pleasure. I have never cared much whether anyone reads what I write, but the act of writing encourages reflection and enhances memories. Also, I have been extremely busy and usually too tired by evening to do much but flop.

The reason for the hard work is that suitable new premises suddenly became available for youngest son's fancy dress shop. It is very well positioned and has excellent windows, and really rather good shop fittings. So all that was good. We did have to get a joiner in to build some changing cubicles, and a locksmith as one of the double doors wouldn't open, and a plumber to fit the washing machine, and such like. But the only problem was that it was extremely dirty. Luckily August is a quiet time in the fancy dress trade, so Phil, Dan and I turned to, and scrubbed and cleaned, and second son and his lovely wife painted, and between us all we got the place clean, fresh, and, although I say so myself, looking great. And can I recommend Barkeeper's Friend for brass and Sticky Stuff remover as sold in John Lewis? They are amazing. And if you want to see the result:

http://www.themagicmirror.co.uk/

The new shop isn't quite as big as the old one, so Dan had to cull the hire costumes. It hurt him, but a lot of old uniforms went to be sold, as they won't wash, and anyway,  rather few modern people have sufficiently narrow shoulders and waists, even if they are not too tall.  He also decided that he really didn't need two pantomime horses, and then, in accordance with Sod's Law, the third customer across the threshold of the newly opened shop wanted - guess what? - two pantomime horses. Dan managed to convince them to have a pantomime horse and a pantomime cow.

Anyway after hours of work, seven days a week, the shop opened and we went immediately into the university freshers’ fair, which nowadays involves themed fancy dress parties, so Dan was still working seven days a week, and our contribution was to look after Atlas, who was not able to go to the students' union. He is getting really good at the agility course, or the dog adventure playground as we consider it. He really can jump, thoroughly enjoys walking the beam and going over the seesaw, comes through the tunnels like a rocket, but can't see the point of threading through the poles, and has to be lured through with a treat in front of his nose.

We took the grandsons to the Lakes but also the dog, because Dan was still so busy. We enjoyed ourselves although the weather wasn't great.

Ullswater

Eden Valley

 It was better if we went west into Northumberland, so we discovered the Eden Valley, which is lovely and went to Vindolanda, which is excellent. A lot has happened since we last went with our children and a lot more of the vicus has been excavated, and the museum was well themed and displayed. We also went rock climbing, with a good instructor. Thomas turned out to be quite good at it, Marc was nervous, and I don't have a decent power to weight ratio. I was quite pleased with myself, when I got to the top, because it was much, much harder than a climbing wall. But I was less pleased with the photos Marc took. As Phil was off with Atlas, Marc was in charge of the camera, and as he was below me, his photos mainly consisted of an enormous bottom, outlined with climbing harness as emphasis.

Long Meg and her Daughters stone circle, Cumbria

Then when the shop was open and going rather well, Dan completed on the house he is buying. We knew the previous owners smoked and had a dog, so we sort of knew it didn't smell good, but went we went to see it all the windows and doors were open and it was OK. Once it was empty and closed up we realised the extent of the problem. Poor Dan said he lay awake all night thinking he had made a terrible mistake. But the next day, Phil took up the living room carpet and took it to the tip, and I started to wash walls, celings, inside cupboards, light fittings and in fact everything I could see. So we’re half way towards the house being as nice as we thought it could be when Dan bought it, but had to break off for our trip to France which was actually well timed, as it enforced a rest.

We had a lovely time with our friends, who live not far from Orange. There’s one little hilltop town after another, where the Gallo-Romans retreated as the barbarians swept in, and they are all charming. There’s some great wine, too. I have extremely happy memories of a bottle of Gigondas at the restaurant we ate at in Fontaine de Vaucluse. We had a lot of sunshine, too.

Fontaine de Vaucluse

The sausage stall, St Cecile des Vignes

I also had time to read. We recently went to see the Oresteia at The Globe. Clytemnestra was wonderful. Not quite so sure about the way they managed the chorus. But it pushed me into reading Barry Unsworth’s  “Songs of the Kings”, about the sacrifice of Iphigenia. It’s wonderful – slyly commenting on modern politics. I do hope Tony Blair ends up at The Hague – it’s the one policy of Jeremy Corbyn, the new Labour leader, that I am wholly in favour of. 

Anyway, we got back to England rested and ready to get stuck in again. Autumn is definitely well under way.