Month: November 2013

Holidays and Travel: China 2000. Part Two.

~ beetleypete ~ 10 Comments

By the end of the first week, I had more unusual experiences to recount. I had been for a meal in a Turkish restaurant, in China! It was different, to say the least, being served traditional Turkish fare, by Chinese waiters and waitresses. They even had the large Shisha pipes available, as well as totally authentic coffee. If it had not been for the staff, and the view from the window, we might well have been in Ankara. We had also been out with the previously mentioned hedonist, the Turkish friend, businessman, and ‘diplomat’. I got the feeling that he was a shady character, underneath his urbane, party-going exterior. If Turkey has the equivalent of the CIA, I would bet my car he was in it. We went to his large house, for drinks, before going out to eat. He had a ‘houseboy’, and other servants, and I was amazed at his ability to drink huge amounts of whisky, without any apparent affect on his demeanour. He then took the whole group of us to a Japanese Teppanyaki restaurant, in a very smart area of the city. This was a really exclusive place, and served delicious food, cooked in front of you, on sizzling griddles. I ate until I burst, as everything was so tasty. At the end of the night, this unusual man covered the whole bill, for everyone. When we left, he invited us to accompany him to a bar the following week, and my friend accepted on our behalf.

The weekend excursion was arranged through the Turkish Embassy, a family trip by small coach, to last all day Sunday, and including lunch. We left the apartment early, to get to the embassy by taxi for 8am. There was a group of around ten people there already, and I was introduced all round, instantly forgetting everyone’s name. I was also told the name of the place we were going to; a park in the hills, with amusements for the children,  scenic views and country walks, and a hilltop restaurant. They had been before, as it was a popular summer day out for the more affluent Chinese, as well as foreign residents. I had forgotten the name of it, so looked it up; Muianyu. This is now called The Great Wall Slide, as on the way down, you can see a section of the Wall, at some distance. It was not called this, when I went there, at least I don’t remember that. This place is about fifty miles outside Beijing, so we got to see some countryside at last. On arrival, we went up the hillside on a cable car, that was a bit like a ski lift. The restaurant at the top was basic, but we had a lunch booked, and enjoyed a set meal, in excellent weather. The small rides and amusements were very old-fashioned, and only for smaller children. I don’t think that they are there anymore. We walked around a bit, but did not get close enough to the Wall, as we had not arranged to go to this section. For our group, the attraction (apparently) was the ride back down the hillside, on the famous slide. This is more like a toboggan run, the sort you see in the Olympics, though more sedate. That said, it does reach a fair speed at times, and the individual toboggans are supplied with a large brake lever, to slow you down.  I was encumbered with an enormous, overstuffed camera bag, that I had to wedge in between my legs. I cannot recall seeing any of the Wall, at any time on the way down, as I was preoccupied with not crashing into the rider in front. I did enjoy it, but this was marred to some degree, by getting covered in thick grease, from the brake gears. As this sounds a little crazy, I have included a video clip from You Tube, showing what it is like. It takes over five minutes to descend, and it seems a long time, as you are clattering down.

There is a real time clip, if you want to see it, but I thought it was too long. This gives a rough idea.

The next week started with a suggestion that I ought to arrange some trips for myself, as my friends were busy for a couple of days. I went over to one of the big hotels, and asked about a trip to the Great Wall at Badaling, and the Ming Tombs combined, with the bus agency there. I was assured that it would be a small group, only ten people, and we would have an English-speaking guide. It would last all day, from 7am, and lunch would be provided, with an afternoon stop for refreshments too. At less than $30US, I thought it was OK, so booked up for the following day. I had an early start, and met my group outside the hotel. I was the only English person, along with two Japanese, three French people, and four Chinese tourists, from other parts of China.  The minibus headed out of the city, for the long trip ahead, and I got to see more of the China I had anticipated. Small villages, roadside shops and stalls, and a look at the agricultural lands outside the built-up areas. It was very hot, and I started to feel a little unwell. The rich food, heavy drinking, and constantly being on the move, was getting to me a bit. By the time we arrived at the Ming Tombs, I was not feeling too good. I told the guide to go in without me, and waited in the shade, with a cold drink from the cafeteria there. I was sorry to miss it, after coming all this way, but I had nobody to support me, and felt that I might pass out, or disgrace myself, by being sick. I had to content myself with a wander around the edges, and some of the sights there. It proved to be a wise move, as by the time they got back, I was re-hydrated, and feeling much better.

We pushed on to the Wall, and it was worth the effort. This was a section that I had not seen on TV travel shows, and consisted of small forts, or bastions, connected by long stretches of the Great Wall. I was unprepared for both the sheer scale of it, and also the incredible steepness of the stepped sections. After being shown around some of the first parts, we went for lunch in a lovely old building, with an airy terrace, where we could get some relief from the 38 degree heat, and humidity. The guide then told us that we had two hours to explore, before leaving on the journey home. I suffered badly, mainly from taking too much camera kit. My large Billingham bag was stuffed to capacity. I had three camera bodies, five lenses, a flash, two power winders, as well as an assortment of accessories, filters, and ten rolls of film. In the heat, on the near vertical steps, it became very difficult to manage. Ironically, I shot almost every picture with a Canon T90, on a 24mm wide-angle lens. I could just as well have left everything else behind, and I was taught a valuable lesson that day. The Wall was a sight to behold. It stretched as far as the eye could see. At one stage, I put a 400mm telephoto on the camera, with a  x2 converter, just to see how far it went. I needn’t have bothered, as I later realised that it followed the contours of the hills and mountains for hundreds of miles, of course. I had to keep resting, because of the heat, and also from searching for photo opportunities that didn’t show too many other tourists, which was difficult. When it was time to leave, I was very pleased that I had seen it, as there could be nothing like this, anywhere else on the planet. The afternoon stop was at a cafe that was part of a shopping ‘opportunity’, somewhere that sold expensive Jade souvenirs, and other carved items. I didn’t buy anything, but presumed that the guide must be on commission, as he tried so hard to get us to purchase things. The rest of the evening at the flat was very peaceful, with a visit from another Turkish diplomat, who came for dinner. After he left, we spent some of the time on the small balcony, getting the cooler air, and drinking Jack Daniels, chatting about the old days in London. When I went to bed, I put on the noisy but welcome air-conditioning unit, and slept like a baby.

I decided to stay in the city for my next trip, which was to be to the Temple of Heaven, in a large park in the Chongwen district. This was about as far from my friend’s place as you could get, so I decided to take a taxi. I showed the driver a picture of the temple, from a tour leaflet, and he took me straight to the entrance. I bought a ticket to go in, and looked at a map on a board there. I suddenly realised that the place was vast, it actually covers an area larger than the Forbidden City. There are various temples, including the iconic building seen in so many photos of Beijing. The grounds are full of the most amazing trees, and it is all very peaceful there, despite a considerable number of tourists. I spent a couple of hours there, taking in the most impressive sights. I could easily have stayed the whole day, as there was so much to see. Opposite the gate, was a modern indoor market, full of local people shopping. I crossed the road, and went inside, finally coming face to face with real life in china. There were no tourists or foreigners there, and no prices, or signs in other languages. The sights, sounds and smells were wonderful, and I saw everything for sale, from strange live amphibians (for eating), to jewellery. I bought a small piece of jade jewellery as a gift, once again bargaining with the help of an electronic calculator.

Leaving the market by a different entrance, I resolved to walk back, at least to see how far I got. I had travelled from east to south-west in the city, so I reasoned that a right turn would do to start with. I was soon wandering inside the fascinating Hutong district. This quarter had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. The Hutongs were small dwellings, with outside taps, shared toilets, and no bathrooms. The families lived in one or two rooms, in a communal fashion. Were it not for the modern clothes, I felt that I could have been wandering around in the seventeenth century. People looked at me suspiciously, unused to tourists. Before the Olympics, eight years later, the government demolished many of these dwellings, and forcibly re-housed the occupants. They did not want the outside world to think that people still lived that way, in modern China. Some remain, and are now a tourist attraction. I walked around a large area, as I was no longer carrying all my camera gear, having restricted myself to one camera, and one lens for the day. I did get a bit lost, but in a good way, as I later found myself out on the main thoroughfare again, approaching Tianenmen Square from the west. It was more by luck than judgement though, I am sure. By the time I arrived back, I had been walking all day, including the trip home from the park, which took just under three hours. I was pleased with myself though, as I had got off the tourist trail, and managed to find my way around, unable to ask for help from anyone.

Other trips that week included the TV tower, a very high building affording great views over the whole city, and a trip to a different market, a special souvenir market, run by local people selling lots of interesting stuff from the Maoist era. I did buy a fair bit of stuff, including a classic ‘Mao’ hat, a ‘little red book’ in Chinese, and a nice assortment of posters and painted ceramics. I had to leave it at that, as I needed to cram all this extra stuff into my suitcase. We then went out for the evening trip with the Turkish diplomat, arranged the previous week. It was just the three men, and we started off once again, with drinks at his house. He then took us to the Sanlitun district, where I had been during the day. At night, it was very different, with flashy bars and night clubs, all catering to well-off foreigners, and the more affluent Chinese. He was well-known everywhere, and relished his popularity. This was soon evident, when he was draped in a couple of Mongolian prostitutes, within minutes of arrival. I declined the offers of some of their friends. I wasn’t being prudish, I just found them unattractive; their gaudy make-up, and incredibly flat faces didn’t ring my bell. They did seem very popular with most of the men there though, and I was told that they were ‘incredibly good value’. My friend and I spent most of the evening buying pirate DVD films from vendors who came into the bars. They had every film imaginable, and at $1US each, I couldn’t resist. Most of them played well when I got them back to London, though the three rows of subtitles, Mandarin, Cantonese, and Indonesian, did get wearing, after a while. We eventually left the mysterious Turk alone with his girls, and got a taxi home. I didn’t see him again, and I wasn’t sorry. Despite his generosity, I felt uneasy around him.

Before departing for home, my friend’s Chinese boss insisted on taking us out for dinner. She viewed me as a kind of visiting dignitary, and despite telling her that I was only a Paramedic in London, in a very normal job, she seemed to imagine I was some sort of government executive. Anyway, her sense of hospitality would not allow her to let my visit go uncelebrated. She took us to the famous duck restaurant, Quanjude. Arranged over seven floors, and able to seat 2,000 diners at a time, this is one of the most famous restaurants in China. With the menu in Chinese, she ordered for all of us, telling me that we would have numerous courses, which would all be different styles of duck. It was a veritable duck feast. We had it roasted, boiled, in a terrine, a soup, and fried with noodles and ginger. There were also the shredded duck pancakes, as well as duck livers, and other offal. I managed it all, and found it delicious, with the exception of duck feet. These were served as you might imagine, webbed and clawed, as if they had just been severed from the unfortunate bird, and fried. They were almost impossible to eat, with a texture like rubber bands. The Chinese diners actually ripped them apart with their teeth, but I had no appetite for these , and after sucking them politely for a while, left them on my plate. It was a very enjoyable evening though, and a great experience. After paying the entire bill, the lady mentioned that she would be in London early the following year, and that I could return the favour.

(I am pleased to report here, that I did just that. I collected her from her Knightsbridge hotel, and took her to a specialist English Food restaurant in Bayswater. One very strange evening, I can tell you. She asked me what was good, and I recommended a few dishes, so she ordered them all. Unaware of the starter/main course tradition, she expected to get a variety of small dishes. I didn’t have the heart to correct her, and she must have wondered what was going on, when it all arrived at once. She did manage to eat most of it though, so full marks to her. I spoke to her that evening about how we found eating small dogs distasteful, as they were so loyal, and we had them as pets. She thought about this for a while and then said, ‘but you eat baby sheep’, before forking in her next mouthful. Back in Beijing, she told my friend that she had really enjoyed the evening, and that she found me interesting company.)

My trip came to a close, with a taxi to the airport, where I had to wait in the ‘luxury lounge’ reserved for foreigners. This was the only place where smoking was allowed, and all drinks and snacks were sold at an extortionate price. A small coffee was $5US, and it went up from there. It was their last chance to get your currency, I suppose. I had really enjoyed the trip, though it was more of an experience, than a holiday. I had met some nice people, some strange people, and eaten some fantastic meals, the like of which I have never seen since. I am the first to admit that I did not see a great deal of this vast country, or a lot of the ‘real’ China that I had expected to encounter. But I was glad that I had gone, and even looking back today, I would do it all again.

Holidays and Travel: China 2000. Part One.

~ beetleypete ~ 8 Comments

I had always wanted to see China. Ever since watching films as a child, and later reading about Marco Polo, Kublai Khan, and others, it seemed a place of mystery, and home to a totally different idea of culture. Later interest in the Boxer Rebellion, the Japanese invasion in the 1930’s, and the Communist dictatorship formed by Mao, and I was more than ready to go and see this legendary country. But it never happened. Despite travelling to lots of other places, China had always seemed too daunting, too vast, and also too expensive. Over the years, I often wondered if I would ever get to see the Great Wall, The Forbidden City, and the other spectacles on offer.

In the late 1990’s, an old friend contacted me. He was working for an advertising agency, and he had been offered the management of the Audi contract, through an agency in Beijing. He was off to China, and he would be in touch, and let me know how it was there. His wife and son were going too, as it might be a long contract. After a period of settling in, and adjustment, he contacted me. At the time, I was single, and living in London. I had recently moved to a flat in Camden, subsidised by being in my job. (The LAS) I had a reasonable amount of savings, and a fair bit of disposable income, courtesy of that reasonable rent. I had two weeks holiday booked for September, and with a bit of shift-jiggling, I could manage a few days either side as well. The world was my oyster, and I was looking to do something extravagant. My friend suggested that I come to visit him in Beijing. He would put me up, in his luxury high rise in the city centre. Although he would have to work, his wife would be around most days, (and I knew her already) and he would arrange some weekend trips, as well as some interesting evenings out, after work. I made some enquiries, and found that I could fly direct, with British Airways, for around £700 return. With Visas, spending money, appropriate gifts for my friends, and a reasonable crop of souvenirs, I could definitely do fifteen days, for around £1500, maybe £2,000, at an excessive pinch. I decided to throw caution to the winds, and booked it all. I could never see a time in the future, when I would have such an opportunity again. OK, it was ‘only’ Beijing, but as that was my first choice anyway, so what was the problem?

I went to Oxford Street, and booked a scheduled flight with British Airways, which came in at a shade under £650, for the chosen dates. I also applied for my visa, to be collected from the Chinese Consulate, in Portland Place, a short walk from my flat. My friend was really happy that I was coming to visit. I went shopping in Camden, and bought his son a model car, and his wife some perfume. He would be content with booze, which I would get at the airport. I sorted my camera gear, ready for the photographic opportunity of a lifetime, and arranged all my leave, and finances. When the day came, I was more than ready. I took a cab to Paddington Station, and the Heathrow Express out to the airport. It was nice to be travelling on a scheduled flight again, so much more civilised than some of the package tours that I had become accustomed to. It was a little disconcerting to be travelling alone, though the prospect of being collected by, and staying with a good friend, assuaged any concerns. The flight was long and uneventful, but very comfortable. My arrival in Beijing was exciting, but the time of day meant that my friend had to drop me at his flat, and get off to work, arranging to meet four hours later, for lunch.

I learned the first rule. Do not sit behind the cab driver with your window open. Despite a humid temperature, in excess of 35 degrees, my old pal closed my window, and I soon discovered why. The Chinese spit. They do this constantly, and habitually. Everyone does it, from old men, children, housewives, to attractive young girls. All the time, day and night. Their culture demands spitting, to expel the things in their system that they believe are bad. They see nothing wrong with this, or with contaminating their walkways and paths with gobbets of spit. It is accepted, even encouraged. It is very different to what we regard to be acceptable behaviour, and it takes a great deal of getting used to. I also discovered something else that I had not expected. Six-lane highways, choked with cars, and wall to wall traffic. Tower block offices, western advertising signs, neon, and garish illuminations. Subway, MacDonald’s, Starbucks, and any other Western-influenced product or establishment you can think of. Every high street bank, familiar from the UK, and chain hotels from the same companies known so well here. I was left wondering what had happened to the China that I had imagined. I felt that I could have just as easily been in Chicago, or Hong Kong perhaps.

The flat, right in the heart of the business district, was luxurious. On the nineteenth floor, with panoramic views, tiled floors, and a well-staffed concierge entrance. I was taught my first words in Mandarin; ‘Neih Ho’, and ‘Shei Shei’, Hello, and thank you, both addressed to the immaculate staff in the foyer. I did not learn much more, save for something that sounded like ‘Jella Ting’, said to taxi drivers, when you wanted them to pull over on the right. After settling in, I met my friend in Subway, of all places, for lunch. I told him that I was disappointed, that Beijing was too modern, too western. He assured me that I would see the ‘real’ China during my stay. He also told me about his contract and salary, and the fact that his Chinese female ‘boss’ was only earning $200US dollars a month, and she spoke three languages. She also supported her family on this salary, as well as running a new car, so she wasn’t doing too bad. However, this was only a tiny percentage of what he was getting, over $200,000 a year! So some indication of how economics worked there at the time. It was nice to see his wife and young son again, and we spent the first night in the flat, catching up.

The next day, his wife took me to the shopping district, and to a large department store. We went everywhere by taxi, as it was very cheap, comparable to bus fares in the UK. I got cash from an ATM, a branch of my own bank in England, with the same pin number, and no formalities. I found the Yuan notes colourful, and the exchange rate was good. I bought cigarettes, at half the price compared to England, and we went for a light lunch, in a reasonable outdoor restaurant, that was acceptably cheap. Things that did prove to be expensive, were red wine, and some western sweets, that I bought for their son. We ate at home again that night, and I was introduced to someone from the Turkish Embassy (my friend’s wife is Turkish) who was a heavy drinker, and a complete hedonist. My head was spinning, as here I was in China, and I was eating Turkish food, and getting drunk with an Englishman, and a Turkish diplomat. I resolved to see more of the city, and decided that the next day would be spent exploring.

I started out early, and took the reasonable walk to Tianenmen Square. This was a long time after the televised demonstrations, and excessive reaction from the authorities, that have since given this place an infamous, rather than famous name. It is certainly huge, and home to many official buildings, heroic sculpture, and hundreds of tourists. I was a lone westerner that morning, and could feel what it was like, to be so out of place. Opposite the square, the huge portrait of Chairman Mao, so often seen on TV, marks the entrance into the Forbidden City, the main destination for me, that morning. Built in the fifteenth century, this vast complex, of almost 1,000 separate buildings, was the Imperial Palace of Chinese emperors until 1924, when the last emperor was forced to leave. It has since been a museum, and an amazing one too. To go into detail, would take a complete post in itself, but it is an overwhelming place, that cannot all be seen in one visit, let alone one day. The entrance fee was very reasonable, and the large numbers of tourists, almost all Chinese, really did make it feel as if you were wandering around in a populated city, at the time of the Ming Dynasty. The architecture is fully restored, and each level into the deeper depths of the city, towards where the Imperial family would have resided, is crammed with interesting statues and carvings, with the numerous buildings each housing exhibits. My camera was on overdrive, and I was so excited, I almost ignored the 35 degree heat, that was sapping my energy. I stopped and bought water, and a strange twisty bread confection from a vendor, and had a break. Carrying on later, I realised that I would never see it all, and even after almost five hours inside, I still felt that I had not done it justice.

On the way back, in the late afternoon, I noticed how many cycles, mopeds, and motorcycles were on the roads, and alongside them too. They all seemed to be heavily laden, often having to be pushed instead of ridden, so high and wide were the loads. Crowds of brightly-uniformed children were getting off buses and coaches, returning home from school, and street vendors were beginning to set up for the evening, in the streets around the main station. Crowds gathered around their stalls, which all seemed to be selling food. On closer examination, I realised that they were selling fried insects of some kind, grasshoppers, or similar. They were selling fast too, as hundreds of people walked around with the stiff paper cones, full of the crunchy creatures. And no, I was not tempted to try them. As I strolled back to my friend’s flat in the business district, I took in the sights and sounds of the approaching rush hour. Thousands of people,  and almost all of them, including children, and young women, spitting constantly. The traffic was already at fever pitch, and the strangely old-fashioned looking vans and trucks all belched black smoke into the sky. Looking across at the horizon, the pall of pollution was easy to see, hanging over the natural basin that Beijing is built in, like a cloud of low fog. I had to almost pinch myself. Here I was, wandering in Beijing, as if it was nothing. I could never have imagined this, thirty years earlier. I felt fantastic, but as I was alone, I had nobody to share it with. Perhaps the only downside to being a lone traveller, on that occasion.

That evening, we went to an expensive restaurant, housed on the penthouse floors of the same building my friend lived in. I was raving about my day, and how much I enjoyed this strange city. They were unhappy living there, they told me. They found the Chinese to be ‘difficult’, and were hoping for a transfer to somewhere else. They had not even bothered to visit the Forbidden City at that stage, though they did recommend a trip coming up that weekend, that they had arranged, along with a group of diplomats from the Turkish Embassy, and their families. I ate the best Chinese food that I had ever seen in that restaurant, though I confess to refusing a huge black scorpion, deep-fried, and offered as a complimentary starter. I just couldn’t do it. I had delicious braised eel, snake ‘cooked in its own blood’ (according to the translated menu), and various delicacies, best not elaborated on here. Other than the insects and arachnids, I did not refuse to try anything. We had numerous courses, and copious amounts of alcohol, and I went to bed thinking that it had been a great day indeed, one of the best ever.

The next morning, I took myself off to the famous street market, to buy souvenirs, and to get a feel of everyday life once again. I was a bit early, and many stalls and shops had not yet opened; but as soon as they saw me wandering around with a camera, and a presumably bulging wallet, they waved me in anyway. Disappointingly, most places specialised in clothes. Padded jackets, winter gloves and hats, ski wear, mittens, and waterproofs. This seemed strange in late summer, when I was sweltering, but this part of China does face harsh winters. I did buy a watch with Chairman Mao on it, his arms serving as hands. I still have it, but it no longer works, unfortunately. I had to haggle fiercely, even worse than in Egypt, or Istanbul. The start price was just laughable, hundreds of dollars. The whole transaction was carried out on a calculator, due to the language problems. After spending an eternity with this lady, I finally bought the watch for $10US, about £7 at the time. My friends later told me that I was too easy, and should have paid no more than £1, but it was acceptable to me. I took a taxi to Sanlitun, the embassy district popular with ex-pats, to have coffee and lunch. Taxis were all metered, and no attempt was ever made to rip me off. If you gave the driver a tip, he would be very appreciative. Sometimes I could see them cruising the area, hoping to get me as a return fare, waving at me as they went past.

I had not even been there a week, and felt that I had seen and done so much. The rest of the trip will be covered in part two, otherwise this post will be far too long.

Blogging Progress

~ beetleypete ~ 13 Comments

Every so often, I cast a detailed eye over this blog. It is usually to correct errors, look back over old posts, and occasionally, to update something previously published. As is my habit when I do this, I make a note of how the blog has progressed, and what is being read, as well as what is attracting no readers at all. It is is bit like an occasional health check, or perhaps a car service. Things are reviewed, decisions made, options considered.

Since I started this blog in the summer of 2012, it has attracted over 12,000 views. On most days, there is a ratio of just under three posts per reader, so I can assume that around 4,500 people have looked at the blog. Of course, many of these are the same people, the loyal and regular followers, so I can easily reduce this number down, to a best guess of about half of that figure, say just over 2,000. These viewers have come from more than 80 different countries, with the majority from the USA, UK, and Canada. This is to be expected, when you are writing in English. From strange places far afield, I have had views from Western Samoa, Lichtenstein, Angola, Moldova, and even Mongolia. I love this aspect of blogging. Something typed in a spare room in rural Norfolk, is of interest to a person from as far away as Western Samoa. I can think of little else in my life, which would ever cause this to happen.

I have published 360 posts (361 including this one), which is a lot less than the one a day I originally intended to write, but still a great deal more than on many blogs that I read, or follow. This is not a boast, as quality, good writing and relevance is what counts, not quantity. My daily average at the moment will see about 15 different viewers, reading a total of 45-60 articles a day. This can drop to lows of 4/12 some days, and highs of 25/70 on others. Never less than the lowest, and rarely more than the highest. I am told by WordPress, that I have a current following numbering over 275, including those on Twitter and E Mail only. I can tell you that many of these are follow-only canvassers, trying to get me to buy their products, join their travel schemes, or sign up to SEO services, at a price. Having recently searched the full list of followers, at least 15 are no longer blogging (so not following either). Perhaps 20 other sites are ‘dormant’, as in still in existence but almost never posted on. So, if I discount all the stuff mentioned, I can assume that around 100 of my ‘followers’ just don’t exist, in the way that is important in Blogging.

It has been hard to have to realise that this list of ‘followers’ is little more than an idea, a concept in number only. It is nice for anyone to have lots of followers, let’s face it. Not only is it flattering, it adds to the community feel of the idea of blogging as a whole. I have seen sites on WordPress that have staggering numbers, over 20,000 shown. Yet a perusal of their blog might show that their latest post had 10 ‘likes’ and 14 comments. Not much, out of 20,000.  So, I think we all need to take this idea of followers with a proverbial pinch of salt, and put it from our minds. If I can count on the small and fiercely loyal group that have always been around, I am more than happy. However, like most bloggers I hope, I do like to get comments, or drive debate on posts. The lack of comments sometimes can be disheartening; even if a piece has got a lot of likes, chances are that they are just flicking through the Reader, and clicking ‘like’. Comments are the lifeblood of the blog, so we should all comment more, and keep debates and ideas going, don’t you agree?

I have recently added extra categories, as I have come around to thinking that some readers are never going to just read everything; it is just not possible. Busy lives, subject preferences, lack of interest in certain things, it will all come into play at some stage. Better to have categories that the reader can feel comfortable with, or avoid completely, if they have no interest in that subject. So, maybe more categories, not less, who knows? I have reconsidered my lack of photos and graphics, and decided to stay as I am. Regular readers will have seen that I have now added video clips for all music reviews, and in some film reviews too. I have also inserted some links, where I think that they will assist the reader, or improve the viewing experience. Compared to most blogs, mine remains colourless, and devoid of flash. I think it suits me better that way, not that there is any intended criticism of those others. I just don’t have the technical know-how for some of the stuff, and as I have said before, others do it so much better anyway.

An Autumnal review, without any breathtaking conclusions. I am still happy to be blogging, and intend to continue to do so. I am part of a small community, but it is extremely valuable to me. I thank all my regular followers and contributors, and hope to stay involved in their blogs too. For anyone considering starting a blog, I say, as I always do, just do it. It will improve almost everything about your life, yet take nothing away from it. That can’t be bad, can it?

 

Friends

~ beetleypete ~ 13 Comments

People often talk of friends. They have Facebook ‘friends’, and work friends, and usually, a best friend. But what of ‘real’ friends?

I have been blessed with an abundance of friends. I hope that this is because I have been nice to know, at least on occasion. Perhaps they stick with me despite my faults, as they have character, and I might be worth the effort. I once said, that the definition of a true friend is this. You could arrive one night, covered in blood, with no money, and no decent explanation for your condition. Nonetheless, they would take you in, feed you, give you a comfortable bed for the night, asking no questions, despite their anxieties. You might have done a murder, borne witness to a crime, or been the victim of something unspeakable. Your presence was the only explanation needed. A true friend requires no more.

Luckily, I have never had to test this qualification, though at times, I have been close. Whatever the situation, be it marriage break-up, problems at work, or medical dilemmas, I have always been well-served by my friends. The friends in my life fall into distinct categories. There are school friends, from childhood, and friends from later years, early teens, and first jobs. Then there are the later friends. made through marriage or relationships, and perhaps forged by shared experiences, at work, or elsewhere. Recently, I have added the short list of Blogging friends. Those who have stuck with my life on the blog, through bad posts, as well as good. Shared interests or opinions, or the exact opposite, their friendship has value too.

From my days at school, I can count at least five friends. Classmates, and teachers, people I have known and loved, for more than fifty years. They forgive all life’s changes, and stay with you, for the long haul. They are the platform on which I base the concept of friendship, the root of all ideas and conceptions of that word. Following on, there are the friends from my formative years. They also number less than ten, but are no less valued for that. It is never a good idea, to call too many ‘friend’. They will not prove to be so, down the line. After numerous jobs, too many to recall here, I have less than a dozen real friends from my former workplaces. In many respects, they have an extra value, as they shared things, experiences, and moments of drama, that the other friends had no access to.

Then there are my Blogging friends, perhaps ten, not many more. Those who have seen something in my writing, or have sympathetic ideas. They stick with me, through bad times, indifferent posts, and the ceaseless moans. They like, comment, read, and ruminate. Then they post themselves, delightful articles or photos, their life on a page, for all to see. They are a small group, but though they may not be aware, they mean a great deal to me.

So, I am rich indeed. I have friends from my youth, others from my teens, and many who have endured through my entire life. There are those I have worked with, and shared experiences, often unspeakable, and too extreme to recall here. I have some who were once neighbours, one who started as a paying guest, and at least two who speak another language. There are some, a few, who no longer live in the UK, and many that I have not seen for more than ten years, but I am still content to call friend. There are some of the opposite sex, proving that we can be friends, without sexual encounters, or entanglements. I relish the thought of these friendships, each one unique, in its own way. Whatever else has happened in my life, they are the constant; the theme to my existence as a human, and my proof that there is something beyond comment, appearance, or supposition.

We may not agree on things, and we may have differing experiences; or partners who we cannot get on with. But we endure, we value, and we cherish. This is what human existence is all about, and I applaud it. I am indeed fortunate.

I feel that I should add, for those of you with good memories, that I posted a very similar piece, ‘Friends and Contacts’, about fifteen months ago. I just added this, for the new readers, after reflecting on the subject once more. Apologies for what may appear to be a duplication; it isn’t really, more like a reminder.

Foreign students

~ beetleypete ~ 39 Comments

In 1978, we had moved to a house in Wimbledon, an affluent suburb of South London. The mortgage was manageable, but with interest rates above 12% and climbing, any help with finances was always appreciated. My first wife, then working as a college lecturer, had planned to take on examination marking during the holidays; a temporary, albeit well-paid extra job. I was working as a company representative, on a fair salary, with a new car supplied. Still, we had to run the other car, and the house needed repainting, as well as some other minor jobs. We considered our options to generate extra income, and they were few. My wife noticed an advertisement in the local newspaper. Host families required, for French students visiting the area, to improve their English skills. The remuneration offered was £40 a week, almost 70% of what I was getting, as an acceptable salary. It was only for two-three weeks at a time, but should last for up to eight weeks, depending on demand. This meant a tax-free income of £320 for the summer period, which would pay for the house painting, or tax both cars, with cash to spare. My wife applied immediately.

We were visited a few days later, by a serious man, with a beard and sombre demeanour. He inspected the house and facilities on offer, and declared that he would prefer us to have had children of a similar age to the students. As we were both only 26 years old at the time, this was impossible. However, he was swayed by my decent skills in the French language, and the fact that my wife would be at home. He signed us up, and said that we would be collecting our first visitor the following week. We asked for a girl, so as not to compromise my wife at home, and he confirmed that this would be OK, and that she would be with us for three weeks. We went to the Language School one evening, and met a pleasant 15 year old French girl, who would be staying with us. The brief was to supply accommodation, English food, conversation, and a ‘normal’ life; interaction with our friends and family, and involvement in our everyday lives. The school arranged lots of visits and excursions, as well as language classes most afternoons. There were also evening trips, to the cinema, theatre, and arranged events. Our responsibility would be mostly during and after dinner, and at weekends. We also had to provide a packed lunch, in addition to breakfast, and an evening meal.

My wife had reasoned that it would not cost a lot more to provide the lunch, and one more place at dinner. We should be at least £300 pounds in profit at the end of the summer, a substantial sum in those days. We had a comfortable home, an Edwardian terraced house, with lots of original features. We had a large living room, a dining room of similar size, and two large bedrooms, with the third bedroom being so small, it was used as a study. There was a small neat garden, and parking was on-street, with no garages. This was a very sought-after area, a stones throw from the famous tennis courts, with an underground station nearby, and Wimbledon main line only fifteen minutes walk. We considered it to be an excellent place to live, and the house to be substantial, and desirable.

The first student was somewhat underwhelmed. We had no en-suite bathroom for her use, and no bidet. She thought the house was ‘small’, and her bedroom ‘basic’. I explained to her (in good French) that she could consider herself lucky to be here, but she was unimpressed. It was only after a few days, that she realised her good fortune, as her classmates described being accommodated in shared rooms, in bunk beds, with up to three other children, mostly very young. We could not warm to her. She was sulky and withdrawn, spending all her spare time in her room. There was no point attempting to use the weekends to broaden her experience, as she declined to go anywhere with us, which meant that we had to stay home. At the end of her time with us, we were pleased to see her go, and doubtful that we wanted to continue. The school asked us to try again, saying that they had someone much livelier, and that it would be more rewarding. The second girl was a nightmare. She thought that she was a punk, and acted as if she was. After one day, I managed to ascertain that she was from a very affluent bohemian background in Paris. She lived in a huge apartment in  a fashionable area of that city, with her own two rooms, separate bathroom, and the home had servants as well; a housekeeper, and a cleaner. Indulged by her habitually absent parents, she more or less behaved as she liked, an attitude she brought to our home.

Talking to her in the evenings, when she could be bothered to interact, I found out some interesting facts. As well as the fees for studying English, the parents were paying almost £150 a week for meals and accommodation. This was more than three times what we were receiving. We later discovered that this girl was stashing all the packed lunches we gave her under the bed, as she did not like the bread, or the fillings, but did not want to say so. She was unhappy generally, almost never saw her parents, and had her own bank account, buying and spending whatever she wanted. She was a spoiled rich kid, in every sense of the word.  Her English was appalling, and she made no effort to improve, alleging that our accents were impenetrable. This could not be said of my wife, who spoke and enunciated perfectly, with what we English would call a ‘posh accent’. I was having to speak French constantly, and although this actually improved my skills, this was far from the point of the exercise. The climax came, when my wife went to change the bed. Thinking to turn the mattress for comfort, she found the underside completely stained by blood, as the girl had simply had her period over a few days, before turning it herself; at no time bothering to explain the situation to my wife, or bothering to sleep in pads. We had to involve the school, who removed the girl, before paying for a new double mattress, with some reluctance.

We advised them that we would not be taking any more students, as it was simply not worth the effort. The man came to see us, and pleaded with us to take one more, for two weeks, as he had already arranged it. He pledged to deal with any issues, and offered us an increase in the fee. With some trepidation, we eventually agreed. The last girl was so different from the others, and we took to her within minutes. She spoke good English, and wanted to as well. She had a lovely demeanour, a friendly personality, and she literally lit up our lives. This sixteen year old girl was from Marseille, so she did not have Parisian street cred, or the attitude that went with it. She was not only keen to learn, she wanted to be part of our life, and to go out with us, meet our families, and participate in social events. Despite the fact that her father was an important official in local government, and she lived in a luxurious apartment outside the city, she loved our suburban house, and fitted in perfectly with our lifestyle. She was soon accompanying us to the cinema, and to restaurants, also meeting friends, and going shopping with my wife. Although we were only ten years older, she became like a  cherished daughter to us.

At the end of her stay, we were sorry to say farewell to her, and invited her to return, as a non-paying guest. We informed the language school that we were very happy with her, but that we would not be staying on their books, as one out of three was not worth it. The next year, she came back to visit us, this time for four weeks, as a treasured friend. The year after, we went to stay with her and her parents, in their lovely flat in Marseille. They laid on a wonderful programme of events for us, and we had a marvellous time. The following year, we rented a gite in Brittany, and she came up to stay with us, for two weeks. Our friendship was sealed. I am happy to report that I am still friends with her today, After three marriages, and long absences, we have never lost touch, and never neglected our friendship. She is now fifty years old, looks thirty, and is as vivacious as ever. I also stayed with her in 1990, in her flat in Paris, where she moved for her job. She lives there to this day, now married to a successful lawyer, with two sons. She runs her own company, and retains her wonderful bubbly personality. I last saw her before I moved to Norfolk, and it was as if we had met the previous week.

So, taking in the foreign students had its ups and downs. In her case, it was an up; one that lasted a lifetime.

Countryside Fashions

~ beetleypete ~ 22 Comments

I recently received my Christmas gift from Julie. This was a bit early, but there was a good reason. It is a new pair of Wellington boots. Not just any old boots, but serious winter boots, made by Grubs, all the way from America, where they are designed to endure cold of up to -40 degrees, and to face up to any mud, snow, and rough ground. This may seem extreme for reasonably gentle dog-walking in Norfolk, but experience has taught me that I needed the best. Three hours in the thick of winter, and your feet can suffer badly in conventional rubber boots. These neoprene wonders, with a sole like tractor tyres, reinforced toes, and unbelievable insulation inside, should solve all winter walking problems. With not much change from £100, I certainly hope that they live up to their claims.

Getting excited about Wellington boots, is not an experience I ever believed would happen to me. Life in the countryside, and advancing years, have drastically changed my outlook on fashion, clothing, and what I consider to be acceptable to be seen in. When I was a teenager, I was only interested in the Mod fashions, all the rage in London at the time. Smart suits, shiny shoes, tassel loafers, and high collar, or button down collar shirts. Any casual clothing had to be the right brand, and I would sooner have not gone out, than not looked right when I did. Of course, I did not always have enough money to look the part, but I tried hard to fit in, and to always be considered smart. Trips to the barber every week, ties worn in the latest way, and of the correct width. We would never wear a raincoat, or heavy coat, as it covered the expensive suit we had waited so long to acquire. The suit had to be right too. Narrow lapels, centre vent at the back, covered buttons, ticket pockets, all De Rigueur. This changed constantly too, with jacket lengths, cloth styles, waistcoats, trouser turn-ups, all coming and going. It was hard to keep up, but it had to be done.

Over the years into my twenties, this continued, with wearing suits for smartness changing to wearing them for work; a transition that was seamless. There were occasional fashion blips, best forgotten. The huge wide lapels and flared trousers of the 1970’s, unfortunately recalled for eternity, in the photos of my first wedding. Stacked heel shoes, that may have afforded the benefit of two extra inches in height, but were undeniably clumpy and ugly. A made to measure grey leather coat, bought at considerable expense, out of fashion almost by the time it arrived. Throughout all this time, I never owned a T shirt, or a pair of denim jeans. I would not have been seen dead in a sleeveless jumper, high waist trousers, or a kaftan. I never grew a beard or moustache, and always had short hair. During the next two decades, I allowed myself to mellow. I bought some canvas trousers, and even my first pair of denim jeans. I had a polo shirt, and unbelievably, a cardigan, knitted by my Mum. I was still careful what I was seen in, though as I started to wear a formal uniform for work everyday, I did seek out some more casual clothes for my leisure time. My saviour was always the onset of hot weather, when I could wear shorts, and a cotton shirt, my summer uniform ever since.

Mind you, I still wore suits for anything remotely considered to be a social event. Work parties, meals in restaurants, visiting friends for dinner, and even taking one on holiday. I occasionally allowed myself to drop the wearing of a tie, though I remember thinking it disgraceful (and still do) to see men attending weddings, christenings, and even funerals, wearing casual attire. I carefully avoided the trend for rugby shirts and cargo pants, and certainly did not own a hoody, or a baseball cap. The only trainers I ever bought were all white, and completely unadorned, only to be worn on long walks, usually abroad on holiday. I still spent far too much money on good shoes, and never owned less than four suits. The first T shirt I ever owned, was issued to me as part of an ambulance uniform, after 1990.

As I got older, I started to consider a smart shirt and trousers to be acceptable wear for a restaurant. I began to prefer the fashions popularised by some criminals; heavy leather coats, all-black attire, and overcoats, or trench coats. I cut my now-thinning hair even shorter, and began to look for classic, high-value clothing items that would remain timeless. Fashion had escaped me by then, and it seemed to only apply to someone else, but not to me, not anymore. Once I turned fifty, I would even occasionally carry an umbrella, and I started to look at clothes for warmth, waterproofing, and practicality. Waiting at bus stops, or walking long distances on London streets, has a way of dramatically changing your sense of style. I got a full-length parka, with a fur-trimmed hood, and some heavy, and sensible, walking shoes. Trousers were purchased for ease of care and economy, so had to be washable and easy to iron. Without uniform to fall back on, I had to have a reasonably extensive range of shirts, for all seasons, so they had to come from high street chain stores. I had to settle for acceptable; smart but normal. I still wore the suits when I went out, often to comments of derision, that I was ‘over-dressed’. I didn’t care though, as I wasn’t over-dressed by my standards.

Go forward almost ten years. retirement is looming, and we have bought a house in the countryside in Norfolk. I soon buy a zip up fleece, to combat the cold. Then I need Wellingtons, to cope with the mud. Trousers of choice are fleece joggers, and I need T shirts, to layer under jumpers and fleeces. Socks are as thick as rhino skin, and I have slippers that are lined with lambswool. In 2012, I move here for good. My first thought is to buy more fleeces, more jumpers, and extra T shirts. I have to have a better outdoor coat, so get a Schott parka, with an additional inner quilted layer. I buy knee-length socks, to wear in the boots, and start to peruse catalogues, and the Internet, for extra-warm clothing and footwear. The suits go into storage bags in the wardrobe, and the shoes into a box in the loft. I spend an astronomical amount on a new pair of bootee slippers, wool-lined, with a hard base, for trips to the freezer and garage. Most mornings and evenings are spent wrapped in a snuggly dressing-gown, and it takes me forever to get dressed, with all the layers and zips, when I go out. I even bought a hat; a sure sign that it is all over for me now.

So, farewell Fashion. Welcome old age, and the countryside

Musical Updates

~ beetleypete ~ 3 Comments

I have been posting a lot of musical themes lately, so it occurred to me to look back on some of the earlier ones, and to add some clips, to make it easier for the reader to listen to the music I am going on about. I spent a fair amount of time this evening, and found some appropriate clips to add to some earlier posts. These are;

Pete’s Playlist (1)     https://beetleypete.wordpress.com/2013/02/15/petes-playlist-1/

Pete’s Playlist (2)     https://beetleypete.wordpress.com/2013/04/08/petes-playlist-2/

Concierto de Aranjuez     https://beetleypete.wordpress.com/2013/03/06/concierto-de-aranjuez/

Rhapsody in Blue    https://beetleypete.wordpress.com/2013/04/09/rhapsody-in-blue/

Cover Versions    https://beetleypete.wordpress.com/2013/04/11/cover-versions/

So, if you want to revisit these posts, for any reason, you will now find relevant clips to listen to. I apologise for the previous omission, but I was not completely sure that I was allowed to do this, at the time I wrote them.

Original Britpop

~ beetleypete ~ 10 Comments

When I was a teenager, British groups The Rolling Stones, and The Beatles, dominated the pop music scene around the world. However, there was another vibrant music trend going on at the same time, though not all the bands involved enjoyed the same success. This early British Pop was the proving ground for many of the Progressive Rock supergroups to come. In the 1960’s these groups had a predominantly Mod feel, and dressed in the style popular at the time. They had their roots in earlier Blues music, and this can be heard in some of their cover versions, and use of organs and harmonicas. Some are now long forgotten, others became giants of the music industry. This is where it all started, for most of them.

Go Now.  Originally recorded by Bessie Banks in 1962, her ( I think better) version was eclipsed by this Moody Blues cover, from 1964, with Denny Laine on lead vocals, as the American pop market avidly sought out anything to do with the new craze for British groups. The Moody Blues went on to become one of the biggest bands of their time, though without Laine, who left in 1966. He later went on to join Paul McCartney’s band, Wings. When I was still only thirteen, this was one of my real favourites.

You Really Got Me.  The Kinks were a London group, fronted by Ray Davies, and his brother Dave. They had a style that sounded immediately English, despite influences of both Blues and Rock. They went on to great success, and various splits in the band, though they are still performing, in various incarnations, to this day. This was not their first release, but their first big hit,  reaching Number One in the UK charts, in 1964.

For Your Love.  There hadn’t quite been anything like this single from the Yardbirds, when I first heard it in 1965. This Blues influenced band was to give us some of the most famous names in rock music. Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, and Jimmy Page, all three played with the band at some stage. This song was written by Graham Gouldman, who later formed 10cc, and the connections from this band are too numerous to list here. I thought it was really something then, and I still do.

She’s Not There.  With Rod Argent on organ, and the marvellous Colin Blunstone singing lead vocals, this English group had a huge hit with this song in 1964, on both sides of the Atlantic. Argent went on to form his eponymous supergroup, and Blunstone became one of the most respected vocalists in the UK. His vocal range is demonstrated here, and in the following song suggestion as well. You can tell, I like him.

Say You Don’t Mind. In 1972, the now solo Blunstone released this single. Not a rock anthem, or pop song, rather an emotional and powerful love song. The string arrangement is famous, and Colin’s range is simply wonderful. The video clip is from some years later, and he has still not lost his touch! (There are some synch problems on this video)

All Or Nothing.  Again coming from the London Mod scene, and an undeniable influence on later musicians, especially Paul Weller, the Small Faces had a string of hits, during the short time that they were together. Drummer Kenney Jones later went on to become the drummer in The Who. In 1966, this record went to number one in the UK, and became one of their biggest sellers. Singer Steve Marriott left the band in 1968, going on to form Humble Pie, with Peter Frampton.  Marriott became a heavy drinker, and died during a fire at his home, in 1991. The band re-formed, with some original members, and Rod Stewart as vocalist. Renamed The Faces, they went on to considerable success.

Handbags and Gladrags. Written by Mike D’Abo, of Manfred Mann fame, this is the definitive version of this classic power ballad, sung by Chris Farlowe, in 1967. Farlowe was a powerful Rock and Blues singer, best known for his cover versions of Rolling Stones songs, especially ‘Out of Time’, and ‘Paint it Black’. He had solo hits with versions of both songs. He later joined two of the better-known UK supergroups, Colosseum, and Atomic Rooster. Now 73, he still performs occasionally.

This Wheel’s On Fire. This 1968 version of the Bob Dylan song, by Julie Driscoll, and Brian Auger and The Trinity, was one of the first progressive pop songs to have the psychedelic and mystical feel that became so fashionable within a few short years. Still popular today, and used as the theme song for a long-running TV series in the UK, this instantly recognisable song is a tribute to Julie’s haunting vocal style, and Brian Auger’s arrangement.

White Room. By 1968, pop had gone progressive, and supergroups outnumbered ordinary ones. Cream was a trio of former Blues musicians, with Jack Bruce on bass and vocals, Eric Clapton on guitar and vocals, and Ginger Baker on drums. Their mix of Blues, Rock, and psychedelia, similar to that being played by Jimi Hendrix, was an immediate success, even though by this time they were on the verge of breaking up, after only two years together. This is one of their signature tracks.

So there you have it. A short look at the roots of British band music, and the early days of some of the biggest groups of the last few decades. Lots missed out, I grant you, but that, unfortunately, is the nature of the beast of blogging. The Internet awaits those of you who wish to learn more.

Some songs about the weather

~ beetleypete ~ 10 Comments

As you know, I write a great deal about weather, and how it affects my life, and my moods, since moving to the countryside. I am not alone in this, and when I recalled the Barry White record about rain recently, it got me thinking about all the other songs that feature references to the weather, in all its forms. Here is a selection, mostly quite old songs, that I can remember. You will have yours in mind, no doubt many of them a great deal more modern. I hope you enjoy them, at least some of them.

Autumn Leaves. Originally a French/Hungarian release from 1945, the English lyrics were added later, by Johnny Mercer. There have been countless versions of this song, made famous by Frank Sinatra, and Nat King Cole, as well, as a more recent cover from Eva Cassidy. For purely selfish reasons, and as a tribute to the original French song (Dead Leaves) I offer the Edith Piaf version, sung in both English and French. Heartbreak personified.

Rhythm Of The Rain. Once again the subject of many later cover versions, this 1962 song was written and performed by the American vocal group, The Cascades. Here is their original version, now sounding very amateurish to our sophisticated ears!

Windy. Not really about Wind, rather a girl’s name. However, it is quite hard to find songs written about the wind.  (OK I know, Blowing in the Wind- too obvious!) Here is a well-known song from 1967, from US group The Association, who had a much bigger hit with the song ‘Cherish’.

(Call it) Stormy Monday. This song has different versions with the same title. For me, this blues song by T Bone Walker is the one I always think of, so is included here. I have no idea when this live performance was filmed, but the song dates back all the way to 1948.

Good Day Sunshine. This song from The Beatles featured on the 1966 album Revolver. I am not a huge fan of the group, but this song says a lot about being cheerful in the sun.

Walking On Sunshine. Continuing the theme, this massive 1983 hit from Katrina and the Waves, a Canadian band, pours on the feelgood factor.

Ain’t no Sunshine. It might have sunshine in the title, but Bill Withers wasn’t feeling too sunny when he wrote this Grammy Award-winning song, which was a hit in 1971. One of the great love songs, it is still moving more than forty years later, and his voice is simply marvellous.

September In The Rain. I found more than fifty versions of this song, and had a very difficult time choosing a suggestion for this post. Originally written in 1937, it defines the very term ‘Standard’. I have chosen the Dinah Washington version here, but can equally recommend the divine version by Sarah Vaughan.

Stormy Weather. Written in 1933, and first performed at the Cotton Club, this is another song that has seen countless cover versions over the many years since. Billie Holiday’s version is sung from the heart, and you can feel the pain in her voice.

It Might As Well Rain Until September. There must be something about that month. This song from Carole King and Gerry Goffin, written in 1962, is a pop classic of the 1960’s. Despite its sad theme, it has an upbeat feel that never fails to cheer me up. This is Carole’s own version, released as a single. the same year.

Mr Blue Sky. I have featured this 1977 song before, but make no apology for adding it to this list. ELO, an English group, released this in 1977. It is still played all the time in the UK, and is one of my favourite ‘happy’ songs of all time.

Let It Snow. Ending on a seasonal theme, but I just had to. There are many songs about snow, but this cheesy Christmas classic just screamed out to be included. Since it was written in 1945, it has been recorded by almost everyone. Here is the well-known Dean Martin version, the easy-crooning choice. To make it more interesting, I have posted the video showing Disney’s ‘Bambi’ playing in the snow!

It is a big list, twelve songs, but by no means exhaustive. If you have better ‘weather’ songs, please show them in the comments. And I do know that I should have included Crowded House, singing ‘Always Take The Weather With You’ but that would have made it an unlucky thirteen! Best wishes to you all, Pete.

Holidays and Travel: Rome 2002

~ beetleypete ~ 21 Comments

I had never been to Italy. Despite a lifelong interest in all things Roman, as well as a passing regard for Marco Polo, Garibaldi’s Redshirts, and a fascination with the nefarious exploits of Brigate Rosse during the 1970’s, I had never set foot on the land that also produced the wines I loved so much; Barolo, Barbera D’Asti, and Chianti.

Julie was well aware of my love of Roman History, and my somewhat morbid obsession with the arenas, and the gladiatorial combats fought within them. With my fiftieth birthday coming up, in March 2002, she arranged a ‘short break’ holiday to Rome, as her gift to me. It remains one of the best gifts that I have ever received, and this is the tale of our trip to the Eternal City.

Even the chosen hotel was to be a delight. The Art Deco Hotel, close to the Central Station, so also close to many of the best sights to be seen. Small and friendly, liberally scattered with Art Deco features, both old and new, with a buffet breakfast, served in the bar. We needed no more, as the short trip was all about getting out, and seeing the place, not relaxing in the hotel. The weather was delightful, considering the time of year. Warm and sunny, with pleasant evenings for strolling too. We had a good guide book, and had done some research before leaving England. Having been fortunate enough to have visited many places before this, I was prepared for the possibility that it would not be all that I had so eagerly anticipated. I was more than pleasantly surprised, when it turned out to be in excess of all expectations, and became one of the best places I had ever seen, and one of the highlights of my life, up to that point.

The first destination had to be The Colosseum. I had seen representations of it in so many films, as well as the real thing on travel shows, and films like ‘Roman Holiday’. I had read so many books about it, I felt I already knew the place inside out, and I couldn’t wait to actually stand inside it. Walking there from the hotel, I could feel my pace quickening as we got nearer, finally reaching a spot where we could see it from an elevated position, across the road. The feeling that swept over me was one of awe. In an age where the word ‘awesome’ has become almost meaningless, this place took me back to the real meaning of the word. How it must have looked to a simple Roman, when it could still take my breath away, over 1900 years since it opened. Once inside, I was like a delighted child, almost scampering over and around the parts still accessible to visitors. I took countless photos, and could barely contain myself. Simply one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. I could have spent all four days there. Even typing this now, I can recall that feeling, of seeing something so much a part of history, so well-known, yet still mysterious. I could imagine those toiling in the warren of tunnels and rooms beneath the floor, preparing animals for combat, or dragging the dead from the sand. This was a culture and a time almost incomprehensible to us, yet it laid the foundations of modern Europe.

Until I was actually standing there, I had been unaware how close the Forum was to the Colosseum. The whole area we know so well from films and books, is actually all interwoven, and leads off of a long avenue, that must have appeared truly magnificent, in the heyday of the empire. It is hard to make progress, constantly turning to gaze, and marvel at, the remains of buildings and statues once passed by Trajan, Caligula, Nero, and all those other historical figures. I could hardly take it all in, this veritable feast for the eyes. Not far off, the remains of the Emperor’s Palace, and the grassy outline of the once magnificent Circus Maximus. What a morning, a time to treasure, and to look back on always. Almost by accident, we discovered Trajan’s Column, as we stopped for a coffee, during an unexpected shower. This has been restored, and the carved reliefs, celebrating the victories in Dacia (Romania), are a sight to see; so clear, and easy to interpret.

The next day, we decided to get a tour bus, one that stopped off and picked up, so we could choose to go a little further afield, and have a look at The Vatican, on the other side of the River Tiber. On the way to the bus,we noticed a small cemetery, behind some vendors’ stands. Inside and outside this unprepossessing building, were the gravestones of soldiers and gladiators, some dating from dates B.C. They were lined up along the walls, some with translations of the inscriptions. This small diversion was in some ways, one of the most impressive parts of the whole trip, and I found this small area incredibly moving. The bus took us off to St Peter’s Basilica, and the Sistine Chapel, both sites we considered essential to visit, during the short stay. I was unprepared for the sheer size of St Peter’s. It is simply enormous. I had expected something like St Paul’s, in London, but I believe that you could fit that cathedral inside the one in Rome, with plenty of room to spare. This high temple of Catholicism is so much larger than it seems on TV, or in pictures, little wonder it staggered the 16th century mind. Inside, the wonders continue, including statues as big as houses, carved from marble, and the overall effect of the place is to leave you slack-jawed and speechless. I actually became quite uncomfortable, at the contrast with this display of wealth and majesty, against the poverty in so many places where Catholicism is the main religion and power.

We later joined a long queue to enter the Sistine Chapel, part of the official residence of The Pope, The Apostolic Palace. This long line snaked a circuitous route around the building, passing many beggars, mostly elderly women, who lay in the street, as hundreds of clergymen and nuns passed by, oblivious to their presence. The crowds inside the chapel are significant, and it is not a place for anyone suffering from claustrophobia. The paintings on the ceiling are, once again, so much more powerful that you could ever imagine, from seeing them anywhere else. The sheer scale, and the vibrant colours, it is almost too much splendour. You also have to keep moving, so there is no time to linger on any particular feature. Despite the short time allowed, and the uncomfortable crush that has to be endured, I am very glad to have seen this. We later took in the Spanish Steps, eating in a marvellous restaurant near there that same evening. I threw coins into the Trvei Fountain, and managed to get a photo of Julie doing the same, with all three coins still in the air.

Rome is a place that has almost too much to see. The imposing Castel Sant Angelo, and the modern monument to King Victoria Emmanuel ll, The Arch of Constantine, The Pantheon, in Greek style, and the incredible Santa Maria Maggiore, the list just goes on and on. Outside of the tourist trail, we did not really encounter much of Italian life, as time was too short. We did eat some marvellous meals, in some of the most atmospheric restaurants I have ever visited. My fiftieth birthday was celebrated in the elegant Grappollo D’oro restaurant, near our hotel, and it was excellent. Julie almost destroyed her poor feet, as walking in the heat gave her terrible blisters, but she never complained. There was a lot we never got to see, as time and distance made it impossible. The famous catacombs, much of the other side of the river, the artistic district, and many other sights outside the limits of the city, all had to be neglected. In the short time available, we had a marvellous trip, and almost twelve years later, it feels as if I was there yesterday.

I don’t know if I will ever go back, but I doubt it. I do urge you to see it though, if you have never been. I cannot imagine anyone being disappointed, by this most magnificent of cities.