A Pile of Old Stones

I had a two hour window of opportunity while Son the Elder was tea partying in Salisbury today, so I bundled him out of the car and belted up the road to Stonehenge.  

The facilities at this World Heritage Site are as down as heel as ever, although work has apparently started on the inordinately long-awaited 'state-of-the-art Visitors' Centre'.

You do have to wonder about the wisdom of the prehistoric people who chose this site, however - I mean, why so close to the A344 AND the A303?

Actually, considering the stones are supposed to have come from the Preseli Hills, 180 miles away, they missed a trick.  They could have just schlepped them down to Saundersfoot, sailed them across the Bristol Channel, then up the Rivers Torridge and Okement and they'd only have been a stone's throw (so to speak) from Dartmoor.  Which already has lots of stone circles and rows of its own.  You can go up there in August and not see a soul all day.  How much more atmospheric would that have been?   :-)  

As it is, you're no longer allowed to touch the stones, or even go within twenty feet of them.  I have a clear memory of climbing on them as a very young child, and being overwhelmed by their size and age.  My kids never got the chance to do that, thanks to the intolerance and spite of the loathsome Margaret Thatcher, although since 1999 there is access at the solstices and equinoxes.

I wonder if Constable or Turner would have included a No Entry sign if they were painting or sketching Stonehenge today?  And where would Hardy have Tess arrested for the murder of Alec d'Urberville?  In the queue for the toilets?
  

U A Fanthorpe ends her brilliant poem about the stone circles at Stanton Drew with the following lines:

Stand inside the circle. Put
Your hand on stone. Listen
To the past's long pulse.

And I'm tempted to say, how can you get a feel of a place when you can't touch it?  And yet ... there they were, crowds of people wandering; chatting in at least a dozen different languages; listening, rapt, to their audio guides and, less attentively, to their teachers; and posing for countless photos.  Everyone, it seemed, wanted proof that they'd been there, and surely they wouldn't if they had no sense of the exceptional nature of this place.

And me?  Well, I was totally beguiled, even though I've been there more than a few times.  It doesn't seem to matter how much you are herded and monitored, Stonehenge still works its magic.  Standing before those stones in their varying configurations is like jemmying open the door to the past and realising that you are standing on the edge of a precipice.  Whooooaaaa!  What's this about then?

You Know It's Time For A Break ...

... when you spot that the car next to you is being driven by a dog.

Scratchy Brown Blankets and the Case of the Missing No 1

On the way to London on the weekend, Cathy and I diverted to drop a carload of Daughter Number 2's  belongings off  in her new abode and take her out to lunch.  We eventually settled on Hughenden in High Wycombe as a suitable destination, but before we hit the National Trust café, we stopped off in the Church of St Michael and all Angels, otherwise known as 'the Church in the Park', which is just inside the Manor gates.    

I felt a bit disappointed when I saw that it was almost entirely a Victorian rebuild, with the only parts of the original church still standing having been extensively 'restored' by the Victorians, but actually it was very lovely inside, being richly but tastefully decorated in the Gothic style. 

There were various items of interest in the church, including a rather finely sculpted memento mori, presumably of a priest as it is heavily graffitied with consecration crosses.  In a hollow in its chest there is a tiny figure of a man, supposed to symbolise the immortality of the soul.   And like the Delphic Charioteer before him and Peter Finch after, he has very beautiful feet.  

I suspect the casual visitor is supposed to marvel at what is billed as the only memorial in Britain set up by a reigning monarch to one of her subjects - ie Victoria to Benjamin Disraeli, for whom she apparently had the hots - but I was more interested in this beautiful and simple Early English font.  

Best of all, I liked the original church key, which is on display at the back of the church.  The purpose of the small iron ring incorporated in the design?  Well, it was for use during the wedding services of impoverished villagers who couldn't afford to buy one.  

Then, after a cursory glance at the Disraeli family grave in the churchyard and a wholesome and very reasonable lunch in the cafe, we went into the Manor. 

I didn't like the house at all, finding it very ugly and oppressive.  I also felt increasingly uneasy about Disraeli as we went around and he revealed himself to be a philandering and manipulative man of ambition who referred to women as possessions, idolised Byron and filled his rooms with portraits and busts of himself.  Ugh.  

I did like these light switches, though.

Far more fascinating to me was the basement, which houses a museum dedicated to the time during the Second Word War when Hughenden served as a secret intelligence base.  

I'm always taken aback by how nostalgic I feel for an era which ended 16 years before I was born.  I suppose it's testament to how deeply it affected my parents and grandmother; also to their relative impoverishment, since so many of the artefacts on display were so familiar.  It was all utility furniture and make do and mend in my 60s childhood, not swivel chairs and Habitat chicken bricks.
 

I remember these godawful camp beds; Cathy claims she still has two in her attic.  And those horrible scratchy brown blankets!

At least this one has the decency to be in the dog basket.

'Have you 2 or more children in your family? If so, remind your wife to ask at the Post Office for a claim form for family allowances'

This poster reminds me of my sojourn in the Soviet Union.  All very Socialist Realist.

No escape from government propaganda ... 

My mum still has knitting needles like these in her extensive collection.  

... and we had a very similar gramophone in a cabinet, though my parents' lifestyle wasn't racy enough for a whisky decanter.  

There was a Singer sewing machine, obviously ...

... and I learnt to touch-type on a typewriter like this.  (Daughter No 2 wanted to know why there was no number 1. Answer is because you used the lower case letter l.)  

Outside we had a wander around the grounds and a nice sit down and admired the scarecrow in the walled garden before adjourning for another pot of tea.

A bit of a patchy visit then, but no matter we were off to see Leonard Cohen at Wembley ... but that's another blog.   

Leonard Cohen at Wembley Arena, 8th September 2012

I first heard of Leonard Cohen in March 1976 when I was 14.  I was on an exchange visit to France and this boy I liked had an LP by Graeme Allwright, a Francophile New Zealander who'd translated many of Cohen's songs into French in the late 60s.  Consequently, I also fell in love with the songs: 'Suzanne' - 'Suzanne t'emmène écouter les sirènes ... ' - 'L'Etranger' ('Stranger Song'), 'Vagabonde' ('Travelling Lady') and 'Je Voulais Te Quitter' ('I Tried to Leave You').  Once home, I took myself and my pocket money off to Virgin Records, then a cramped little shop smelling of joss sticks and dope near the bus station in Bristol, and bought 'The Songs of Leonard Cohen'.  He's been part of my life ever since.

It seems careless, then, to have left seeing this demi-God in concert for another 36 years, during which time Leonard has apparently continued to do what poetry has told him to do, while I have paid dearly for my propensity to confuse love with something else altogether.  The last few months since his tour was announced have been nerve-wracking.  'Take it easy, Lennie,' I have whispered, whenever I've been reminded of his advancing years. 'Just chill with the grandkids this summer. Don't die yet.' 

The good news is that Leonard didn't die.  In fact, he looks, at age 78, a lot more sprightly than I am, frequently falling to his knees to sing to his audience (and springing back up again) and capering across the stage between sets and encores more like a silvery Puck about to put a girdle around the earth in forty minutes than a geriatric.  In all he was on stage for about three hours, giving it his all - and what an all it was.

In addition to several songs from his new album, 'Old Ideas', he played what must have been the soundtrack to the lives of most of the people in that space - so many standards that it's impossible to believe one man wrote them.  I bet there are singer-songwriters who would give their eye-teeth to have written just 'Suzanne' or just 'Hallelujah' or 'I'm Your Man' - Leonard wrote all three, and 'Famous Blue Raincoat', 'The Future' and 'Alexandra Leaving' as well.  Not to mention all the rest.

And he is such a gent, as evidenced by his witty and self-deprecating banter between songs and his generosity towards his illustrious band and backing singers who are always so much more than mere backing singers.  The sublime Webb sisters performed a solo, and Sharon Robinson a divine version of the aforementioned 'Alexandra Leaving', surely one of the most perfect songs ever written.  Every person on stage had their moment in the spotlight - literally - while Leonard took off his hat - literally - to pay his respects.  

One of the most moving moments was hearing the capacity crowd join in with his rendition of 'So Long, Marianne' during one of two encores, each several songs long.  I felt very emotional throughout the evening, however.  So many of the lines seemed so apposite.  And it felt like I was back in the same place I'd been at 14, waiting for my life to start.  All those intervening years, the horrible errors over which I've grieved didn't matter any more.  I could begin all over again. 

Oh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again ...  

The birds, they sang at the break of day
Start again, I heard them say
Don't dwell on what has passed away
or what is yet to be ... 

Every heart, every heart to love will come, but like a refugee ...

Love's the only engine of survival ... 

And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song 
with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Murder in the Cathedral

Last November I made my first visit to Canterbury and met up with my niece, Ruth, for a tour.  We had lunch first.  Then, as we were heading to the Cathedral, I had a call from Son the Elder, whom I'd deposited in Maidstone to watch a couple of sessions of Robot Wars.  He was bored.  Could I come and pick him up after the first session, please?

Thus, our visit to the Cathedral was somewhat rushed.  Also, I had it in my head that I would get back there this year, so didn't write about it (apart from the amazing graffiti with serifs there).  However, a return trip now seems somewhat more remote that I'd anticipated, so I shall at least post some photos before I forget why I took them.  

As well as ancient graffiti, I have a penchant for  worn flights of steps.  This isn't quite as impressive as the one leading to the Chapter House in Wells Cathedral, but I liked the way the light was catching the edges.  All those feet wot have trod up it, blah blah blah ... 

I'm only picking out a few things, partly because Ruth popped my guide book into her bag at one point because my hands were full and I never did get it off her.

This is a detail from the exquisite 1480 mural of the legend of St Eustace, showing the Roman General Placidus (Eustace) on his knees before a stag, between whose antlers he can see a vision of the crucified Christ.  Various events in the middle section of painting show Eustace's new found Christian faith being tested. At the top, Eustace, his wife and children are roasted to death inside a bronze statue of a bull on the orders of Emperor Hadrian (AD118) for failing to make a pagan sacrifice.  Which seems a bit harsh.  

I loved this stalwart, double-chinned cherub and could easily imagine it making jam when the Cathedral is closed to take to the next meeting of the WI.  

Who'd have thought that The Walt Disney Company moonlighted as stained glass window artists?

More to my liking was this window by Harry Stammers. 

There was, of course, all the wonderful soaringness you need in a mighty mediaeval Cathedral.

This vista lifted my spirits all the way up there with it also.

But my overall favourite part was the 11th century  Crypt, where for some undisclosed reason, you're not allowed to take photos (which meant that I had to sneak a few, obviously.)

This is a wonderfully delicate roof painting, ill-served by me and my camera. 

Not to be outdone by Winchester Cathedral, Canterbury has commissioned a sculpture, entitled Transport, by Antony Gormley for its Crypt.  Whilst it lacks the atmosphere of the stunning flooded Crypt of Winchester, where the figure interacts with, and is enhanced by, its watery surroundings, I still love this recumbent  floating body made from ancient nails replaced when the Cathedral roof was repaired.  

It's more a defined space than a solid, floating above the site of St Thomas Becket's first tomb, where he lay from the date of his murder in 1170 until 1220, when his bones were removed to a shrine in the newly completed Trinity Chapel.     

Talking of which, here's the eternal flame burning at the site of the shrine, which was destroyed, along with sainted remains, on the orders of Good King Psychopath in 1538.  

Time really was running out and I was feeling anxious about not having left to drive back to Maidstone, except that I was really very very anxious, to the point where it was difficult to breathe and then I turned and looked up and saw in front of me a small altar surmounted by a sculpture of murderous swords.  

I hadn't realised until then that Becket had been killed not where the flame was, but here, near the stairs into the Crypt.

'The wicked knight leapt suddenly upon him, cutting off the top of the crown which the unction of sacred chrism had dedicated to God.  Next he received a second blow on the head, but still he stood firm and immovable.  At the third blow he fell on his knees and elbows, offering himself a living sacrifice, and saying in a low voice, 'For the name of Jesus and the protection of the Church, I am ready to embrace death.'  But the third knight inflicted a terrible wound as he lay prostrate.  By this stroke, the crown of his head was separated from the head in such a way that the blood white with brain, and the brain non less red from the blood, dyed the floor of the Cathedral.  The same clerk who had entered with the knights place his foot on the neck of the holy priest and precious martyr, and, horrible to elate, scattered the brains and blood about the pavements, crying to the others, "Let us away, knights; this fellow will arise no more."'       

Edward Grim