Aberystwyth, mon amour ... and Aberaeron

And so to Aberystwyth, one of those places that's a bit like the Forest of Dean, by which I mean, unless you live locally, you have to make an effort to get there. I'd allowed half a day for a flying visit, with the rest taken up with a trip to Bwlch Nant Yr Arian for my must-see of the holiday, the feeding of the red kites. The Northerner, with his sights set on the funicular railway, felt we might need longer.

Looking towards Blaenplwyf

washed-up jellyfish

War  memorials are usually sober, occasionally grandiose, but this one, by Italian sculptor, Mario Rutelli, is actually rather gorgeous. 

First stop, the castle, built by King Edward I in 1277. It was held by Owain Glyndŵr between 1404 and 1408, and since our knowledge of history is so heavily coloured by Shakespeare, we looked out over the Irish sea, remembered the fictionalised version's boast of being able to 'call the spirits from the vasty deep' and wondered if he'd tried that here.  

restharrow and a bumble bee

thyme and restharrow

sea holly and cat's ear

This is the wonderful Gothic edifice that is the Old College, sadly disused although apparently being renovated. Until recently it housed the University's administrative function, but what a fabulous community hub/arts centre for the town it could make.  

We'd hoped to go out to the end of the famous, though somewhat truncated pier but it didn't open till midday and anyway, rain was moving up from the south ...

... so we went and sat it out in a pub, before walking up the promenade to the cliff railway, which takes unfit, lazy people like us to the top of the (famously steep) Constitution Hill ... 

... from where there was a grand view of the town, made all the more impressive by the drama of the weather. 

Although it was a bit hazy, looking north we could see the southern mountains of Eryri National Park and the Lleyn peninsula. 

The Millennium beacon

Renewed rain drove us from our table on the terrace, where we were having lunch, to the inside of the cafe, and continued long enough for us to rule out the Camera Obscura as a viable option ...

... so we went back down the funicular railway, which Cwtch really seemed to enjoy, despite some alarming judders and clunks. 

Despite not going on the pier after all, as Dogs Are Forbidden, by the time we'd wandered back to the car there wasn't enough time to drive to Bwlch Nant Yr Arian for 3pm kite feeding, so we decided to pop into Aberaeron on our way back to New Quay instead. By now the scorchiness of mid-afternoon had set in, so we had ice cream on the quay - in my case, the famous honey ice cream with pistachio, though the Northerner stuck with raspberry ripple - and walked down to the beach, before repairing to a bar with a shady area, which was deemed preferable by us all. 

A good day out ... but alas, only the occasional red kite soaring overhead. 

Cabbage and Tripe

When I decided I wouldn't be going to Devon this Easter, I didn't know that I would actually have to visit, not for a lovely long walk over Dartmoor or along the coast path, but to attend the funeral of a family friend at St Gregory the Great, in Dawlish.  It was a beautiful day for it, and I'm glad if this made it a little more bearable for his family, for he was a good man and his going is untimely.

So I did get to see some Devon primroses after all, nestling between gravestones. 

There were a few familiar names in the churchyard. 

Harry Percy on this bench: 'the theme of honour's tongue, Amongst a grove the very straightest plant, Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride' Shakespeare says of an earlier lord by that name.  Did this Harry live up to his namesake? 

And then there were Babbages - lots and lots of them, which is quite exciting as Dawlish lies only three and a bit miles north-east of Teignmouth, where Charles Babbage, inventor of the-first-mechanical-computer-that-eventually-led-to-more-complex-designs, settled with his family in 1808.

What d'you mean, tenuous?  They've got to be connected, right?

But then I found myself wishing that they'd been Cabbages instead, to go with all the Tripes buried there.

After the funeral, there was just time to celebrate my aunt's birthday back at the biscuit tin by the sea in Holcombe, my cousin and her partner having driven her up from Cornwall.  

There was the haziest of views of Rippon Tor, Saddle Tor and Haytor Rocks as we drove over Little Haldon Moor on the way back to Bristol, but it was enough to make me hope we'll be back down there soon under happier circumstances.  

Ghosts of the Past In Stratford-Upon-Avon

Off to Stratford-Upon-Avon to see Gregory Doran's production of Henry IV Part I, the play I studied for my O-level in days of yore and still one of my favourites.  First, though, a wander around town where the ghosts of the past loom as large as Hamlet's father's ghost on the battlements of Elsinore.  

  

One of our favourite games is 'What Would Shakespeare Have Seen?' and this time I spotted ... 

... the 14th century sanctuary knocker in the porch of Holy Trinity Church, where he was baptised and buried ...  

... some graffiti with serifs from 1575 ... 

... sunlit cow parsley ... (He's got to have seen the sunlit cow parsley, right?) ... 

... the Garrick Inn (although apparently not a pub in Shakespeare's day) ...  

... and the ancestors of these swans. (Sorry, no bread for you today.)    

Here's another ghost (albeit not a very spectral one) from the past, Ms Angela Prior-Kimball, who recognised me as I shuffled through town despite the fact we hadn't seen each other since she graduated 31 years ago.   

 I suppose this must mean we've hardly aged at all ...    :-)

Then it was off the the theatre.  Here's the review I've written about the production for a couple of local journals.  

Henry IV Part I, National Theatre, Stratford-Upon-Avon

Shakespeare reveals a fascination for doubles in his plays, and in Henry IV Part I the audience is invited to compare the dissolute Prince Hal, future King Henry V, with another Henry, namely Hotspur, the honourable son of his father’s former friend, the Earl of Northumberland, who is now fomenting rebellion. 

Early in the play King Henry expresses sorrow that Northumberland is ‘father to so blest a son … who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride’ while ‘riot and dishonour stain the brow of my young Harry’, and for the play to work properly, we must see the development of Hal as he begins the process of breaking away from Falstaff’s negative influence to become the equal of Hotspur in valour on the battlefield and, later, the victor at Agincourt.    

The problem with this production lies not with Alex Hassell’s portrayal of Hal, which, aside from a rather flippant interpretation of the famous ‘I know you all’ soliloquy, is spot on, but Trevor White’s Hotspur, who, far from being an dutiful and heroic foil for Hal, is a maniacal liability.  He is almost cartoonish in his aggressive impetuosity, with the result that all the tenderness in the scenes with his witty and patient wife Kate is lost and you can’t help thinking that the King might want to reconsider his wish that some night-tripping fairy had swapped the infants at birth. 

Elsewhere, Antony Sher is a gloriously ebullient Falstaff whose assertion that his recruits are ‘food for powder’ as they limp and shuffle across the back of the stage, prompts a look of incredulous horror from Hal and reminds us of the ruthless and predatory side of the dishonourable knight’s nature.  Perhaps the better comparison in this production is that of the young prince and Old Jack.  I look forward to seeing Hal’s inevitable rejection of his companion in Henry IV Part II, which is being broadcast live at Cinema de Lux, Cabot Circus, Bristol on 18^th June.