Living in the Cotswolds

Mother nature vs. Gothic architecture.

Continually drawn to piles of old stones. Castles, Cathedrals, Abbeys, even piles of stones assembled by Mother Nature.

Bath Abbey

Visited Bath Abbey a few days ago and was impressed again by the quality of the stone tracery. This Abbey is very much a tourist attraction, just over the way from the Roman Baths. But, for all that, it remains actively, the spiritual and pastoral centre of the city. Progressively over the last few hundred years, utterly all of the available wall and floor space have been covered with memorials, from small and discreet to very grand indeed. Included is an Australian flag wafting above a plaque honouring one of Bath’s famous sons, Capt. Arthur Phillip the first Governor of New South Wales.

Tintern abbey, on the other hand is quite dead. The fact that it survives in the shape that it does is a testament both to the stonemasons of the time and the conservation work done in the last hundred years. When late 18^thcentury artists like J.M.W. Turner started painting and sketching the ethereal romantic ivy covered ruins of Tintern they triggered a wave of enthusiastic tourism. At that time little was known of either the builders or the original inhabitants of the buildings. Nor was it appreciated that the cute covering of vines, moss and lichen was in fact accelerating the aging process.

Turner’s Tintern

When the Cistercians arrived on the site in the 12^th century, the community consisted of an Abbott, 12 monks and perhaps twice that number of lay brothers who did not follow the prayer and study regime but did provide labour for the farms and building programs. How did it happen that these people, who were pledged to live under the most austere and abstaining conditions, could have built or caused to have built this indescribably grand edifice less than a century later? By 1230 they had built an impressive Romanesque church. And in the thirty years following that, most of the shell of the then new gothic church was erected over the old church, and in 1301 the new abbey church at Tintern was consecrated. Progressively over the next 50 years the remains of the earlier Romanesque church were removed and a grand new Abbotts residence was built. The greater part of that Gothic church remains standing. The Monks had a really good life till 1534 when Henry VIII became supreme head of the church in his realm. Monastic life ended in 1536 when the abbey was surrendered to the king’s visitors and a year later the Abbey and surrounding land was grated to Henry Somerset earl of Worcester. All down hill after that. Till Turner & friends arrived. Now state-owned and carefully maintained.

Tintern today

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Hidcote

It took the eccentric American Lawrence Johnston nearly 40 years to create his garden at Hidcote. He set to work soon after his mother Gertrude Winthrop bought the Gloucestershire estate in 1907. It became his life’s work, becoming one of England’s most influential 20th-century gardens. To provide shelter from the wind he planted evergreen oaks and hedges of holly, hornbeam, beech and yew. These divided the garden into a series of compartments or ‘rooms’, built around two main corridors that gave breathtaking views over the surrounding Cotswolds countryside. Johnston followed the design principles of the fashionable Arts & Crafts movement, but including some French and Italian influence. He intentionally made those areas close to the house formal in design and structure, shaping those further away in an increasingly naturalistic fashion.

Hidcote

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.Meldelssohn by Zoe & Amir

At Hidcote since before Johnston’s time there has been an on-going tussle between a magnificent old wisteria grandiflora and a garden shed. At present the score seems about even.

the Hidcote wisteria

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Another wisteria, this time at Balliol College Oxford, seemed much more contained, elegant and refined in its quest. Oxford is sort of nearly at the edge of the cotswolds, just an hour away. Our day there happened to be bitterly cold and wet, but by no means the worst that the region can present. However, as expected, the best of bookshops provided the most civilised of books, coffee, tea and cakes.

the Bailliol wisteria

Slimbridge

The Slimbridge wildfowl and wetlands reserve was established in 1946 by the late Sir Peter Scott, son of the famous Antarctic explorer. Peter Scott was an enthusiastic photographer, birdwatcher and very active advocate of wetland conservation. This vast and immense reserve is an impressive credit to his memory. Sir Peter had a thing about Flamingos. There are many large colonies of different species living happily un-caged in these wetlands. One of the attractions of the reserve is the facility for hiring a canoe to paddle about the waterways to commune more closely with the creatures. The grandsons were excited. Sweetiepie & I took a change of clothes & braced for random unexpected havoc and total immersion. Turned out that the canoes are virtually unsinkable and brilliant for creeping up on mother ducks leading the little ones out on adventures.

Freddy Kempf and the RPO

Thirty years ago little Freddy made his debut as a pianist with the Royal Phil. at the age of about eight. Last week at Cheltenham Town Hall he was with them once more, this time directing Beethoven’s 4^th and the Emperor from the piano. It is difficult to imagine anything new being found in the Emperor. With eyes closed, it would have sounded enthusiastic and competent. But visually it was mega entertainment with Freddy leaping up and down from the piano with and without baton. A bit distracting from the music, but a great performance. The premiere performance of the 4^th was Beethoven’s last public appearance as a pianist. Totally deaf by that time, of course he wouldn’t have heard a note, by one account, being turned around by someone so that he could see the audience approval. Beethoven would have enjoyed seeing Freddy in action. Opinion of chatterers on the web remains divided as to whether Freddy is related to Wilhelm. Wilhelm would probably have told Freddy to sit down and get on with it.

The Bells

A second bell ringing lesson this week. They say that an inexperienced ringer could cause destruction among the hardware upstairs, so I wasn’t allowed to attempt to ‘get it up’. But did get to pull ropes and make noise. Sorry, no movie – both hands were fully occupied!

Isle  of  Man rendezvous

Couple of delightful days on the island as guests of Andy and Liz. Andy is a nearly retired marine biologist who admits to being the foremost authority in the world on scallops. Of course we had scallops – ‘queenies’ floating in a buttery chorizo sauce, divinely cooked & presented by Liz. Their current passion, apart from lots of grandchildren, is beekeeping. They have all of the necessary high tech gear and are treating the bees with the sort of tender loving care that is enjoyed by grandchildren. In a place like the Isle of Man one expects to find excitingly eccentric people. Seems that, on this island anyway, there are rendezvous points for drone bees. This is convenient for virgin queens whose biological clock persuades them to start a new family. Now, on the island there is an excitingly eccentric beekeeper. She thought it would be a neat idea to show beginner beekeepers how the process works, so she fashioned a contraption in which a helium balloon carries aloft a little cage holding a virgin queen. Bee, presumably. The Isle of Man beekeeping association foregathered to witness the process. For convenience they chose one of the more active drone rendezvous points, which happens to be at the Port Erin golf course. When the inventive demonstrator, with the device tethered aloft, led a party of a dozen beekeepers onto the golf course, the local drones keenly sprang into action. The golfers were apparently not best pleased and asked the beekeepers to leave. The beekeepers insisted that this was a public right of way. The angry golfers won the day and the beekeepers with queen, having uncertain state of virginity, were forced to trudge off in search of another venue. Much more effective demo at the second site. Would never happen at home.

In an few English country gardens

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There are some charming gardens in the Cotswolds. The Highgrove Gardens of Prince Charles, the Whatley Manor gardens and Sudeley Castle gardens vary widely in style and intent. The intent of HRH at Highgrove is environmental sustainability, the style – rambling. The intent of Whatley manor is to impress, the style – impeccably grand. The intent of Sudeley Castle is to avoid the whole estate disappearing down the vast plughole of taxes and death duties, the style – once, long ago, unspeakably grand.

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There is quite a long waiting list to see HRH Prince Charles’ Highgrove Gardens near Tetbury. However, a window of opportunity offered when the gardens were opened over Easter at short notice. Very tight security of course, multiple-step photo ID check, cameras and all electronic gear to be left in the car. They claim that the security is so good that you could happily leave your valuables on the seat with the car door open. Once inside the premises all is serene. It is as though Mother Nature is here roaming free in unstructured clothing, with her children all having a good time. The gardens might not be totally impeccable but the presentation of Jane, our guide is. She makes it clear that the focus of “His Royal Highness” for the last 30 years in these gardens has been to develop the estate with long term sustainably by recycling, organic gardening, solar power and  avoiding GMOs (genetically modified organisms).

“The Prince”, she says, has 14 gardeners to put his vision into practice. Leading up to the house is an avenue of 14 yew trees. Seems that each gardener has the opportunity to sculpt (what is the verb for topiary) a tree according to individual taste.

The fact that the Prince has such a high profile sometimes makes adherence to his vision a bit problematic. He is given many gifts. It is polite and politically correct that the botanic gifts be displayed, as intended, in the gardens. New Zealand gave HRH something like eighty full size tree ferns, which were duly planted in an area intended to resemble temperate rain forest.  The tree ferns were not happy, and the forest of their now dead stumps presents a challenge in diplomacy. The Prince has also been given, over the years, a number of life size bronze heads of himself. These are displayed around the grounds. In allowing this, he claims the intent is friendly personal connection rather than narcissism. Stumperies have been described as “Victorian horticultural oddities” and were popular features of 19th century gardens. The Highgrove Stumpery consists of tree stumps arranged upside-down or on their sides to show the root structure, ferns, mosses and lichens  have been encouraged to grow around or on them. It also provides a home for wildlife like stag beetles, toads and small mammals. Less frivolous are the free range chickens and vegetable gardens that provide healthy organic produce for Highgrove café and for the village shop.

On the other hand, Mother Nature in the Whatley Manor gardens is not only severely constrained by structured under garments, she is also Haute Coiffed to within an inch of her life. There is, or course, no evidence of any children. That said, the gardens are magnificent – no effort or expense has been spared in the quest for perfection. In the grounds, the accommodation and the 2 star Michelin restaurant. The entrance drive to the grounds is lined with about half a kilometer of dry-stone walling that looks so perfect that the cynical would suspect inner reinforcement and outer laser alignment. The Tulips in the rose garden look plastic in their realism, and the topiary might involve computer-programmed surgery. We couldn’t resist lunch in the Bistro. Instead of the lovely conservative lunch enjoyed by Sweetiepie, something malfunctioned in my tiny brain and I ordered three courses of pudding. As follows. Part 1 – Ginger Brulée with matching ice cream and biscuit. Just perfect in every way. Part 2 – Tiramisu with coffee ice cream. Quality, brilliant, quantity overwhelming. At this stage beginning to realise the gluttony of the project. Part 3 – Sweetiepie accepted a second spoon and graciously agreed to help deal with the Poached custard and rhubarb tart with raspberries and rhubarb sorbet. Truly memorable. Rhubarb from the garden, of course. Back in the garden we collapsed into hanging cane chairs to look out over the fountain to the distant hills.

english country garden

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Over hundreds of years the gardens of Sudeley Castle have been nurtured and developed. Not to any sort of perfection, more to a sort of comfortable, mellow, majestic grandeur. The castle has a long, regal and checkered history. Henry VIII owned the castle for many years without taking any real interest in it. His last wife, Katherine Parr lived and died here, and was responsible for some of the development around 1580. More on the building in another post. But the garden was developed in the 19^th and 20^th centuries. After the second world war Sudeley Castle was one of first grand private homes to be opened up to the public to avoid architectural and financial ruin. Since then Lady Ashcombe has been responsible for presenting a slice of history in such a way that the visitors are happy, via their entrance fees, to in effect pay the bills. This garden strikes a good balance between the qualities of ‘Grand’, ‘Formal’ and ‘Relaxed’.

The massive amorphous yew topiaries describe nothing in particular but have a mood of lumbering jovial maturity. Then there is a giant wisteria which has for about a century been unsuccessfully trying to strangle the old wing of the castle. Lady Ashcombe is a patron of the arts in the garden as well as the house. A recent commission was a sculpture in cane by a woman who was inspired by the way that birds nests become an integral part of the host structure. The sculpture weaves in and out of the soaring gothic end window of the remains of the banqueting hall. It is massive (maybe 20 feet high)  and pays homage both to birds nests as well as a dead wisteria that lost the battle. Googling Sudeley Castle sculpture gives some interesting reading.

Bells and clocks

Village life is a bit like Midsommer Murders, but without the murders. – As far as we know.  The Prestbury ecclesiastical parish administers the affairs of the churches, the 730 year old St Mary’s and the other one. The members of this Parish do things like flowers for the churches, maintaining the church, ringing the bells and holding fairs in the grounds of the Priory. The bell ringing that goes on and on for hours without melody, apparently does have a structure and a mathematical pattern. The bell ringing is taken very seriously. In order to perform their duty properly, the bell ringers practice weekly, so that when ceremony demands, the bells can be rung to the standard of the society who rung their maiden peal of true Grandsire doubles comprising 5040 changes on January 30th 1884 ……in two hours and fifty seven minutes

Now it is difficult for a temporary resident of the Priory to keep a low profile. So it wasn’t long before we were invited over to the tower to watch Tuesday night practice. Sarah, the current Tower Captain, explained that it takes a long time to learn the necessary skills to be part of the team. For a start one has to learn how to get the bell “up”. Then there is the fact that there is a vague interval of time between a pulling action and when the bell actually rings. Now, from my uneducated observer’s standpoint it seems that the prelude to the game is for the team of, in our case, eight ringers to dong in turn so that they play a descending scale with even time intervals. The actual game involves keeping the same strict time interval going, but having the ringers change turns so that a weird sort of progression happens with little danger of developing into a melody. The progression goes on and on until they get back to the starting point when everyone, including the surrounding villagers heaves a sigh of relief. Names of different progressions include Triple Bob, Bob major and little Bob major. On that basis alone this should become my new passion. At tonight’s practice about fifteen people attended, two lads age about fourteen years then an even age increase all the way up to young people like me. Thinking to escape into the darkness after a couple of hours, I found myself accepting the offer of tuition for beginners half an hour before next weeks practice. We were planning to be in Winchester next Tuesday, Tuesday after that the Isle of Man. Have to wonder just how serious I am about this new vocation.

the bells

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The other Prestbury Parish is the local government division of the County of Gloucester. This parish council deals with the non-ecclesiastical concerns of the community. Things like drains, monuments, public toilets and the village clock. That elegant piece of engineering, similar to the workings of Big Ben, was installed in the church tower in the early 19^th cent. For the technically oriented – a double three legged gravity escapement.  The church itself takes no responsibility whatsoever for the clock. Old Jim had been the clock winder for years without number until he died fifteen or so years ago. The lads in The Plough found that no one knew who employed Old Jim, just as no one knew who would now wind the clock every couple of days. Then and there they formed a liaison of clock winders. A crank of clock winders? Ever since, the team of a dozen winders have taken turns month about to wind the clock every couple of days. Did I mention the difficulty of maintaining low profile? Ian who is nominally on winding duty this month was called away on family business leaving guess who in charge of the clock for a week. WooHoo!! Magnificent machine. Separate mechanisms and hence winders for quarter hour chimes, the hourly dongings, and the clock mechanism itself. Elegant and all as it is, it does loose a couple of minutes a week. Making it necessary for the winder to give the works a bit of a nudge from time to time. Wondering if anyone ever takes any notice of the time on the church clock. What would happen if a wayward winder would wistfully & willfully whisk whole hours away? What consequence?

In case you were wondering, some of the bells are multitasking, so that during change ringing practice, the clock bell hammers have to be disengaged to avoid both damage to the clock and confusion in the village as to the sacred or secular nature of the noise. Our bedroom, being directly opposite and slightly below the tower, allows us to be completely informed throughout the night.

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the clock

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A Priory in the Cotswolds

We are presently engaged in a fascinating house exchange. Bruce and Maggie are enjoying warm autumnal weather in our home on the edge of the forest in Belgrave Australia, while we enjoy a month in a village near Cheltenham U.K. in the Cotswolds. It is quite possible that nothing significant has changed in cute little Prestbury since the introduction of electricity. The pubs, the post office and the store are exactly as you would expect to see in an episode of Thomas the tank engine. We have the particular pleasure of living in the 15^th century Priory in the shadow of the bell tower of the very old St Mary’s church. Prestbury has the distinction of being one of the most haunted villages in Britain.

It’s best known spectral form is the hooded shape of a monk known as “the Black Abbot” and whose appearances take place mainly at Christmas, Easter and on all Souls day. His ghost is rather conservative in that it seldom deviates from a particular route that begins inside the church and, having kept a straight trajectory through the grounds of the old Priory, (That’s our place!) vanishes into the wall of a cottage on the high street, where he announces his arrival by noisily moving things about in the attic.

Seriously, at the time of writing, it is 9.15 pm on Good Friday, not about to go wandering in the church yard a la Midsommer Murders.

Please enjoy a little wander about a few rooms of Maggie and Bruce’s place. And keep a lookout for the ghost of the Black Abbot.

Oh, and the Mendelssohn by courtesy of Zoe & Amir.

the Priory

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Partly to avoid feelings of excessive grandeur while living in Maggie & Bruce’s lovely home and to see how the other half lives, We went to see the Duke of Marlborough’s shack, Blenheim Palace, in the village of Woodstock. Early in the piece John Churchill – later to become the first duke – had the foresight to marry Sarah who was best buddies with Queen Anne. This of course led to all sorts of opportunities. The most significant being to lead the Alliance that trounced the French in the battle of Blenheim, the turning point in the war of the Spanish succession. About 1704. The Queen gushingly gave John most of Woodstock and 240,000 pounds, quite generous back then, to build the house of his dreams. Now, in the course of wopping the French, John had noticed Versailles. Nothing would have pleased him more than to stick it up the nose of Louis XIV, but alas, the 240 thou didn’t go quite that far. Nevertheless, the estate is seriously impressive.

Blenheim

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Cross Culture

Seminyak balcony, sunset, fish & chips

Di and Garry who have been volunteers in Bali for over two years have a wealth of cross cultural tales. Given the romantic image of the European journeyman artist who goes ‘native’, marries a Balinese princess, and settles down to a life of bliss and mango salad, it is difficult to imagine the reverse. Where a Balinese marries an Ozzy and settles down happily in Perth or Darwin. Loneliness, cultural difference? Not so. Di gives examples of the Indonesians who are delighted to find that a driver’s license is obtained by skill and merit rather than by bribery. Surprised to find that there are actually rules for behaviour on the road and elsewhere. And, overjoyed that people actually obey them. Di has a list of about forty ways to know that you have been living too long in Indonesia. These are some of the more choice:

• When it is exciting to see if you can get on the lift before anyone else gets off.
• You no longer wonder how someone earning $200 a month can drive a Mercedes.
• You have considered buying a motorcycle for the next family car.
• You accept that the waiter exactly repeats your order and the cook makes something completely different.
• Due to selective memory you honestly believe you could return to the western world.
• You believe a limp wrist motion creates a force field that repels oncoming traffic.
• You can walk into the lobby of a five star hotel, unshaven, in jogging shorts, a ratty T-shirt and flip flops and don’t get an awkward glance from the management.
• You carry tissues in your pocket for ‘emergency stops’.

At the Kite fest in South Sanur last weekend, the crowd was of MCG grand final magnitude, but not a public toilet anywhere. The locals are comfortable doing what they have to do where they have to do it. Me? Cultural difference. As for the kites, not much wind, so there was a bit of excitement trying to keep the contraptions aloft. Many of the teams ran too far out among the wet sandbanks trying to delay the inevitable. Not exactly lost at sea, but some did get wet. The other kite in the movie clip is called a ‘Tali’ meaning Tail kite.

splashdown

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Lots of hands-on touchy feely stuff, like massage, manicure, pedicure and fish powered foot cleaning.

fish feet

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On Bali there is only one attempt at a freeway. This is called the Bypass Road. Marked as two lanes each way, but actually as many as four, depending on the width of the vehicles. At times the giddying speed of 70 km/h can be achieved. Left the ring road at the big roundabout near Kuta one night to go through the dreaded Kuta to meet friends in Legian for a meal. Development in Kuta has grown & grown & grown, but the roads haven’t, so the gridlock increases month by month. Lost in the dark, with no street signs & no moon for direction. If you ask a local, ‘Is this the way to Legian?’ They say ‘yes’. But it probably isn’t. Not malicious, just trying to be helpful. Our saviour was a lurching, Bintang beer T-shirt wearing Ozzy who said ‘Legian? Can’t see ya map maaate, but go down that street as far as you can then turn right, first left, then right, left again and your there’. He fell down and said no more, but he was correct. Getting home after the lovely dinner was worse, every half hour we came across a big green sign, charted a new course, hoping for another big green sign. Home in the early hours.

By contrast, the ‘Gubenors house’, sic. sits among the foreign embassies in an orderly part of town. The Australian Consul General’s residence has been particularly security conscious since the bombings, (last year, not even allowed to take mobile phones inside). This week there was an ozzy barbeque celebration at the consulate, to welcome most of the two hundred local students who have been awarded Australian government scholarships to study in various Australian universities. This event marked the end of their crash English course, which they have to master before going to Oz. Groups of students were expected to entertain the guests and absorb Australian culcha.

floor show

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Some things don’t change across culture chasms. Towns the world over have their big icon. Can’t quite pin it down, but there seems to be a sort of common thread. Sanur beach has its ‘Big Prawn’.

the big prawn

Another common factor across cultures is religion. Having just seen Geelong romp home in the last quarter of the grand final, AFL football appears to be the dominant religion in Victoria in terms of weekly ritual, unquestioning faith, and fortunes and real estate amassed by the priests. In Bali the Hindu faith is strong, attracting support from most of the local community, financially and in observance. Most people have their own shrine or temple, humble or grand according to means. Leaders of the kite flying teams will have usually spent time quietly at the family shrine before setting out for a day of action. Decoration of the more significant temples involves carving in stone and wood. And this practice spills over into the domestic scene. There are streets lined with stone-carving and wood-carving workshops.

stone chippers

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Leaping over the culture gap are a local Indo cover band who three times a week put on green T-shirts, include a fiddle and flute in their line up to play Irish folk at the Wicked Parrot, calling themselves the Irish Leprechauns. Coming to the conclusion that things are the same the world over, but hearing Carrickfergus sung with a Bali accent makes me smile, Sweetiepie says please wear earphones when you are editing that.

Balifergus

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Life to a different rhythm.

Vee said:  Fancy actually living in Bali. We only had two weeks there at a writer’s conference. It’s so beautiful…

frangipani

In a couple of months we have hardly seen the seasons come and go, but we have immersed a bit. If we were totally immersed, we would have our own wifi modem at home. At least we are now established at base camp in Sanur. Lovely apartment in quiet shady frangipani/bougainvillea/lotus garden off a little laneway a short walk from the action, such as it is. We have our own cute private rustic outdoor kitchen on the back verandah. With bananas at 50 cents a kilo, paw paw and mango in abundance, beer in the fridge, wifi round the corner, and the jeep parked out front in the shade, collecting a daily scattering of frangipani blossoms. What more could a man wish?

kitchen

After the chauffeur picks up and whisks away Queen Helen, my preferred morning ritual is coffee and maybe gelato (only one) at the Italian Village waiting for the Age to download on wifi. They just smile and bring the laté when I sink into the depths of a club lounge and watch the passing parade, which last week included what is called a cremation. Actually, the very high ornate carriage is only carrying the ashes, and some of the entourage have to use long poles to help it clear electric wires.

cremation

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This is not entirely heaven, as reported road deaths are one every three hours for the whole of Bali, and the injuries are, expectedly, many, many times that. Mostly motor bikes, of course, predominantly young overconfident men/boys. Have yet to see anything remotely resembling an accident, not even screeching brakes. Major oil spill of cooking oil on the road outside McDonalds led to bikes sliding horizontal every which way, but none to add to the stats. We do often see young teenage girls riding to school on motor bikes, the passenger sitting demurely side saddle with hands folded in her lap – looking as comfortable as in an armchair. Happens that wifi is free at McDonalds, and comfortable, sitting on a shady upstairs balcony. The employees are far too polite to interfere with wifiers who choose not to supersize. Customers are mainly skinny little local school kids and the occasional super-size-me archetype. A burly security man often stands, alert, near the fibre-glass Ronald McDonald who sits hogging most of a park bench. Marvelous piece of détente. I wonder what threat they are employed to avert, perhaps the threat of under-employment? Wondering what I would have to do to get him to sit on Ronald’s lap and smile? Today there was an impressive soldier with kalashnikov actually sitting next to Ronald. With a note in my hand I asked if he would mind…  Sprung to his feet with a smile, saying he personally would be happy to oblige, but actually he was meant to be guarding the cash that was being loaded into the ATM in the car park. Now that would have been the ultimate in cultural fusion.

A Norwegian called Knut (rhymes with shoot) lives in a house across the garden from our place. He has taken a lease on the house for a year, with the option to extend, both the house and the lease. First came here years ago, staying in our place, on R & R suffering from a broken marriage and broken back (unconnected). Bali had such a marvelous healing effect that he stayed on, leaving behind two grown up daughters. Started shipping container loads of Balinese art and furniture back to Norway to stock up a gallery that he opened. In signing the long term lease, Anom, the owner said he can do whatever he likes to the house to make himself at home. Predictably, he densely surrounded himself with Balinese furniture and art and built on a new patio lined with pot plants, exotic by even Bali standards. Currently extending a rock garden among the frangipani trees. Meanwhile the daughters back home have both produced granddaughters for him. How does he feel about being so far removed from the little ones? I love them so much, he says, and go back to Norway once or twice a year to stay with them for a month. Now, what a neat idea! Knut is so enthusiastic about extensions to his place because there are no permits and everything happens so quickly. It would be hopeless in Norway, he says.

Knut's place

Water is unexpectedly expensive in Bali. So much so, that serious garden waterers will drill for water. There lies another tale of Oc Heath and safety. Looking at some of the guys in action leads to the feeling, if they were to lose a limb, they would probably staunch the flow with an oily rag and keep working. Compo? Really!

water down below

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Overnight for the best part of a weekend in Ubud. Stayed at Sama cottages, and hung out at Casa Luna. On the walk out of town, there was work in progress. Erecting a house in a reclaimed area of rice field. There were about twenty or more people working on the rice field house, which is a half hour walk out of town. Women carrying in rocks and bamboo on their heads, blokes bringing in bags of cement (semen) by motor bike, more blokes digging foundations and bailing out the water table. All happening. Has been suggested that their success at building is due to the relative absence of Lombards. Lombards? Lots Of Money But A Real D…. Then on to a breakfast of spicy Babbaganush & flat bread washed down with ginger, lime & honey, among the rice paddies at Sari Organic

Bali building

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On another jaunt to Ubud – What luck! An on-street parking spot in the middle of the main drag at lunch time. Schmooze and bully my way across the oncoming traffic to reverse into the space on the wrong side of the road – an OK Bali maneuver. Three quarters of the way into the just adequate space when there is a scraping noise. Funny, as I am nowhere near the curb or either car. While I was in the process of reversing, someone had quickly parked a motorbike in the fast diminishing space and walked away. The bike had been pushed into the front of the car behind. A crowd gathered, as it does. A local appointed himself negotiator and explained to the sheepish motor cyclist and other car owner that the damage is negligible. All parties happy and I slip a note into the hand of the negotiator. Alas, in the confusion of the moment, keys are now locked in the car. Negotiator says we need a stick and invests in a plastic ruler from the nearby mini mart. A team of expert car thieves foregathers. The ruler doesn’t work so one of the team finds a metal bucket handle. Another says that the rubber window seal has to go. Interestingly, without the seal, it is apparent that the door metal is very thin and flexible, a kiddy could get a hand in there. Bucket handle works a treat, high fives all around. Pay off the team, who suggest that drinks would be nice. Happy faces all around except one of the team who launches into a hard-luck story. Gosh! Is it that time already? Must rush. Would have made a great movie clip, but sorry, was preoccupied.

Paris September 2010

Old news now, but watching Cadel Evans ride up the Champs-Elysees at the conclusion of the 2011 Tour de France led to a wave of fond nostalgia for the grand old city. Following pics are from a visit for a week in September last year.

Every day and night for the last 125 years at least someone has prayed in this place. Outside, the masses are photographing the view, buying souvenirs and watching buskers making music or pretending to be bronze statues of pirates. Inside the temple, however, money changers are not allowed, and the camera police loudly enforce the rules. They also ensure that people who would like quiet time to ponder are accommodated in peace. A lingering, thoughtful, tranquil experience, till again passing through the milling throng doing the rounds of the side chapels.

On the way down the hill from Sacre Coeur to the nearest metro station, walked Rue Poulet, a street absolutely full of hair shops. Mainly selling wigs for women and skeins of stick on hair. Also shops that do those hairdos with dozens of long fine plaits – afro sort of thing – notice that in the crowded street there are only a couple of white people. Everyone else is a very dark shade of black. In my increasingly hairless state, might have been a bit confronted, the hairiness rather than the colour of course. Did feel a tad conspicuous, but it was an interesting street. Outside a plaiting shop a couple of cute little girls were doing a sort of clapping song/game. Big black momma inside the shop was anxiously watching me smiling. Sternly came out and shooshed them inside, was having none of my smooth grandpa talk, Ah well, the sad gulf of culture difference.

In the name of pottery some people do strange things

clay man

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Then down to Sevres about a half hour out of town on the metro. This was where they established a shed to produce the massively in-your-face ceramics for the royal court. Funnily enough, the national ceramics museum is a grand building now located in front of what was the kiln shed. A special exhibition is currently running. The best in the world were invited to get involved and show what they could do. It is indeed very impressive. Three Australians involved, Greg Daly, Gail Nichols and Janet Mansfield.

There were a couple of confronting installations, one with about 20 large terra cotta pots of various shapes strangled with leather belts. The other made up of thousands and thousands of pieces of smashed white porcelain tableware, neatly stacked in piles. The 3 impacts, what lovely porcelain it was, what a disaster, but how neatly stacked. Apart from the avant garde stuff there were rooms and rooms of technically and artistically impeccable work.

     

in the grounds of Versailles

Above all, Versailles was intended as a showpiece. It remains a showpiece, the current management are at pains to point out that the monarch of the day was always an up to the minute patron of the arts, presenting the best possible current development of art, sculpture, music and architecture in the world.  So with this in mind, this year, they invited Takashi Murakami to stage an exhibition in the most prominent places in the grandest rooms of the palace.

Showing virtuosity and familiarity with precious materials he has created new imagery, drawing on traditional Japanese sources as well as Manga cartoons. He says “I am the Cheshire cat who greets Alice in Wonderland and chatters on as she wanders around the Chateau. With my playful smile, I invite you all to the wonderland of Versailles.” The sculptures are bright, gaudy, plastic, and so at odds with the traditional older works, however ornate, pompous, grand and glittering they may be. Murakami does make interesting comment. His piece “the simple things” in the Peers salon shows a giant mouth hungrily consuming glitteringly spangled everyday things like Pepsi, Ketchup, popsicles and the like. Outside, in pride of place, on the Water Parterre at the top of the stairs leading down to the Grand Canal stands an absolutely enormous garish glittering golden “Oval Buddha”.

The 2006 film Marie Antoinette starring Kirsten Dunst described the situation at Versailles fairly well. The court at Versailles, overblown with in-your-face excess on all fronts, left Louis XIV in need of somewhere to entertain a few friends with light refreshments, so in 1700 he had The Grand Trianon built.

afternoon tea setting Grand Trianon style

Louis XV gave Grand Trianon to his mistress of the time, Madame Pompadour. He also  built Petit Trianon for her, a sort of retreat/love nest/house with an adjoining hobby farm. Alas Mme. P. died before completion, but the next mistress Madame Du Barry undoubtedly enjoyed both Petit Trianon, the nearby French Pavillion and the Belvedere, a sort of up-market gazebo for gentle afternoon music from the minstrels.

the Belvedere

Meanwhile the Dauphin who was to become Louis XVI married the 15 year old Austrian, Marie Antoinette, who was given as a coronation present Petit Trianon, the French Pavillion, the Belvedere and the model Farm including cutesy animals, dairy and mill as playthings, semi rural bliss. This then was the 19 year old Marie Antoinette’s domain. Personally, I think that Marie Antoinette was not so bad. Think of all the touchy feely stuff in the love nest, the farm and the modest little mansionette. Probably just had the misfortune to have a careless press secretary. Later, back at Henri IV, hostess Chantal, who is a keen historian, broadly agrees with my theories about Marie Antoinette, however she insists “But no sex – remember that she was a devout Austrian”.

Had to peek in at Galleries Lafayette to see what I would buy if I had money. Settled for a black polo neck like Norman Foster wears and a glass of juice hand squeezed from three choice ruby grapefruits by the most charming young squeezer imaginable.

The D’Orsay Museum is always a must, but on this occasion it was to be a short visit as half of the museum is closed for repairs, with some of the collection in Melbourne. With all that action, for the last 6 months, photos have not been allowed in the D’Orsay. What a great incentive to start sketching. Sitting quietly, furtively, sketching in an incospicuous corner provides a good way of overcoming mental ‘museum clog’ or ‘cathedral clog’.

the elusive Perceval glaze

Pottery is never far from consciousness. Was surprised to be reminded of an interesting effect in the fading architectural grandeur of Subak Tabola Inn in the Bali hills. An old nemesis had for years and years been trying to get me to imitate the famous glaze that appears on a Perceval sculpture that he owns. Now the particular blotchy glaze appears be a compromise between oxidized copper green and reduced copper red. Not easy to nail down both effects in the same firing. Perceval is said to have admitted under duress that he achieved the effect by burning old linoleum in his kiln. Have yet to meet anyone game enough to face the wrath of the neighbors by trying the lino trick. But Mother Nature does produce some neat art. When we eventually get home, must have another try for the elusive. last time Lithium seemed to show some promise as a flux, any ideas?

the perceval glaze

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The Kite Flying B team

The locals next door invited me down to the beach for kite practice, next big competition being later in September. As you will see from the clip, the wind was not up to much, but there was a bit of practice in running, jumping and dragging the 100 metre tail into place for take-off. Mr. Anom, who is the owner of the Villa where we stay, and two of the kites, has asked me to be his guest at the next competition. So it seems I have to look no further for the next obsession.

kites – the B team

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The green green hills of Bali

Ahhh. The green hills of Bali. Soooo beautiful. But first to escape the city traffic. For wheels we have a teeny tiny Suzuki jeep of minimal brakes and many rattles. Its lack of power is seldom a problem. The traffic code is very relaxed. They often take the shortest route around traffic islands, sometimes not the one we would have chosen. The occasional traffic light is taken as a hint or suggestion. Have yet to see a right turn arrow at traffic lights, but, if intending to turn right, one maneuvers to one of the rightish lanes, and when the lights turn green, one must start moving, turning across and into the flow of oncoming traffic including weaving motor bikes. I know it all sounds suicidal, but somehow it seems to work if you just keep steadily moving into and through the target area. You imagine that I exaggerate? And this is controlled by traffic lights! Attitude to issues of navigation and Oc health and safety are also very relaxed

a scary place

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navigation by land, sea and chainsaw

Should any nervous new chum be seen to hesitate in the face of this bedlam, they would be taken to one side by a poor but happy policeman and shown a long list, in Indonesian, of infringements and penalties. Not a clue what the infringements are, but the penalties are all Rp 500,000, which is about $60. If one is moved to express generosity toward the poor but happy policeman, the outcome is usually more or less painless. The boat is a little oil-tanker owned by the State oil company Pertamina. It has been stranded on the reef off Bali’s popular Sanur beach since November 6, 2010. The captain and crew stayed on board for a few weeks, but one imagines them eventually splashing ashore to relax in the shade by the beach with a beer and a cigarette. Splendidly relaxed navigation. The falling palm tree was dropped by a team without protective gear – not even thongs. In fairness, they did pull on a rope to avoid concussion to the accompanying little Gamelan band, and deftly jumped clear at the last second.

So, a nervous/alert couple of hours on the busy main east coast road took us to the famous Taman Ujung water palace near Amlapura. The last king of Karangasem, who was very fond of water, built two vast watery weekend retreats. After constructing Ujung in 1919, it is said that he visited Versailles and was so impressed that he made a second bigger water palace, Tirta Gangga in 1947. Both were ravaged by geothermal malevolence of 1963, and again in 1979. There has been some rebuilding, as recently as 2004 but they are still impressive.

water palace

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Then along the quiet rural coast track for an hour to Amed (vowels like amen). Sweetiepie noticed that the scenery was brill. I was focusing on negotiating the hazards of the track around the headlands, often forced down to first gear and slowing, with visions of being stuck forever in a trough between two impossible gradients. However, the spectacular views from the headlands, the towering volcano and the rows of boats on the little beaches of black sands were all worth the strain on the jeep. Amed beach is an unusually pretty place to have a salt works. Works sounds too industrial, it was more a place where salt is lovingly dried. Looks a bit like Murray river salt.

the salt works

Stayed a couple of days at Amed on the beach at a place called Hidden Paradise Cottages. High thatched roofs carved wooden doors, and luxury of luxuries, an outdoor bathroom. So you can multiple task – sunbathe while sitting on the loo! Much better to be lying in a shady spot by the pool reading a book, or eating in the open air dining room right on the beach.

hidden paradise

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Sidemen (vowels like cinnamon) is ear-poppingly high in the paddy fields. Picture book Bali scenery. Indeed it was the place where the European artists who colonized Ubud in the 30s used for a retreat when the partying got too much. Subak Tabola Inn is a great place to stay right in an amphitheater of paddies. The serene hilltop botanical gardens with organic veggies growing among the flowers are impeccably maintained. The architect-designed complex was built about 20 years ago. Now Swiss owned with great ambience for its use as a location for Yoga retreats. No need for fan or aircon at night just natural mountain ventilation. The natural forces of the jungle are progressively eroding the once grand buildings, including the huge covered verandahs with day beds looking over a lotus pond.

Sidemen

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The town of Sidemen has a few places to stay and some Warung eating places, but it is not a loud tourist destination. Yet. Hardly any touristy gift shops, but there are a number ofserious weaving workshops in the town, proud of their passably good single Ikat weaving

Sidemen Weaving

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