Reflections on volunteering with Help Refugees

I’ve recently returned from a week volunteering with Help Refugees in Calais. The following is an account of my time there. I give you fair warning this is pretty lengthy – there’s a lot to say and reflect on. I’ve included some photos too. Links and thoughts on how to help are at the bottom, if you want to skip down there.

For anyone not familiar with Help Refugees, they are a grass roots charity created in the final months of the Calais Jungle, and which has been providing basic human rights, such as food, clothes, and shelter, alongside a few French charities from that point onwards. They work out of a warehouse on the outskirts of Calais. There used to be a similar warehouse in Dunkirk also, which primarily served women and children – it suffered a massive fire recently, so now Calais is the sole source of help for the thousands (and there are thousands) of people who have had to leave their homes and are seeking a new one.

Those are some really staggering numbers.

Like most people, I’ve been aware of the growing numbers of refugees attempting to find peace, safety, or a better life over the past five years and whilst I had by no means forgotten the issue, the demise of the Calais Jungle had effectively wiped it from the notice of the Media. I didn’t think I could be of much material help, and had naively assumed that major charities must be working behind the scenes providing aid.

My assumptions were turned on their head a few months ago when I started listening to the Guilty Feminist podcast. The podcast has become a global phenomenon and deserves a post of its own, but for now, I’ll simply say that the episode where a group of long term Calais volunteers are interviewed became the inspiration and catalyst for my own journey. It took a longer than I’d planned to get myself organised, but eventually I was ready to leave.

I was nervous as I set out on the Eurostar, not really knowing what to expect. I’d told anyone who’d asked that I’d likely spend the week sorting clothes or working in the kitchen and never see an actual refugee, as they don’t come to the warehouse. My experience was much more varied than that. I kicked things off by working in Tent world after a morning briefing to the 30 or so volunteers who were there. The end of October sees a dip in short term volunteers generally and it was remarked upon throughout the week how unusual it was to have so many. This might be the guilty feminist effect, or the fact it was half term – there were a number of teachers making use of the break. Newbies were taken on a tour of the two warehouses and introduced to the various mini empires the rooms were divided into. Stopping at ‘Shoe mountain’ we were told that the numerous pairs of wellies were no use despite the obvious benefit of being waterproof. ‘You can’t run in wellies’ said our guide, which was the most sobering thing to hear at 9.30 on a Monday and effectively set the tone for the rest of the week.

For someone who doesn’t much like camping and is fairly short, tent world was a challenge. 1200 tents had already been sorted and packed away tightly, which seems like a lot, but Help Refugees gets through 10,000 over the winter months. This is because although the French have a law that no one can be without shelter over the winter months, the CRS (basically the French Riot police) will still remove people’s tents and belongings if they aren’t about during an eviction.

Imagine if you will a 5ft 2” woman sorting through a pile of pop up tents, opening one with a start (they really do POP), happily finding that all the zips work, the canvas is hole and tear free, and then spending 20 minutes wrestling it back into the compressed shape she found it. It’s not easy. Nor was the four man tent which took three of us almost an hour to fully set up, but the struggle was well worth it when we found the tent to be whole. Not every tent could be approved and added to the keep pile – some had broken zips (which were promptly despatched to the corner known as ‘Sew Ho’ – a broken zip is nothing to the magicians working there), whilst others could only have their poles and pegs salvaged. It’s slightly heart-breaking to consign something to the scrap pile, but it’s vital that the shelter provided will actually do it’s job. It’s hard enough living out in the open without your tent leaking.

1200 tents!

Quality sleep is hard to come by

 I ditched tents in favour of the kitchen the following morning and spent a large part of it peeling garlic. That may sound like a half hour job, but when the Refugee Community Kitchen serves around 2000 meals every day in Calais and Dunkirk, it’s definitely needed. There was a sombre mood to the warehouse, and kitchen in particular, because the 1500 people camped in what was essentially a mini jungle in Dunkirk were being evicted by the police (including the CRS). As far as I could gather from various conversations over the week, these evictions can range from peaceful to traumatic and sometimes refugees spend the whole day simply being driven around the suburbs before being dropped practically where they started. Reports coming in on the day suggested that this eviction was peaceful (as far as that goes), albeit tense, but it still meant a huge number of people were left without proper shelter as temperatures dropped. Technically the authorities are supposed to take them to welcome centres, but often there’s not enough room for everyone, they can’t stay for that long, and many people simply run away when the eviction starts. 

Photo of the Dunkirk eviction, taken by Help Refugees

Coincidently (and I use that word with a great irony) the eviction happened the day before the second anniversary of the Calais Jungle being destroyed. The cyclical nature of these evictions is incredibly wearing and frustrating for volunteers and refugees  alike, and the events I was hearing about really hammered home how little has changed, even though so much effort has been expended to try and move the situation forward. The food set up on that day further illustrates the ways in which Help Refugees are hampered. On a ‘normal’ day food is distributed canteen style, however given the dispersed nature of people, it was decided to pack up individual meals, and a military style productions line was set up. Have you ever helped process 700 boxes of food in an hour? It’s intense, let me tell you! The frustrating thing though is that of those 700 only 100 could be given out, the remaining people in hiding or moved away from the area by the authorities. The remaining surplus had to be composted.

I don’t tell this story to reflect negatively on Help Refugees – indeed it serves to illustrate the biggest challenge the charity faces on a daily basis as it tries to provide basic human rights. However hard everyone works to produce the food, warmth, and shelter, at times it can be impossible to distribute it to those they know are in need, meaning they go without. It’s a one step forward, two step back at times, and bouncing back from that is tough.

Wednesday morning found me back in the kitchen peeling onions. There’s little to say about that which I’ve not already covered with the garlic, although that doesn’t reflect an average day in the kitchen. There’s a wide variety of tasks to complete, I just didn’t do them! I switched things up in the afternoon by attending a very well planned and thorough field training. This is done twice a week, and anyone – no matter the length of their volunteer stint – can attend. Whilst the guidance sent when I applied suggested going out into the field would only happen if a volunteer had been at the warehouse longer than a week, the general rule of thumb seems to be that you should get as involved in as many aspects of volunteer life as you feel comfortable with. The only caveat to that particular week was that only long-term volunteers did distribution in Dunkirk in order to provide the refugees with some continuity. The training itself was excellent. It should be remembered that Help Refugees is a new charity and the only experience they have is what they’ve gained in the past few years. These are not seasoned professionals from Oxfam or the UN, and their commitment to ensuring their volunteers get as much training and welfare support (psychotherapists offer their services once a week) as they need is hugely commendable.

One of my aims for the week was to get a taste of as many jobs in the warehouse as possible, in order to report back and raise awareness of the whole experience, so my last two full days were spent in the woodyard preparing firewood for when the night temperatures dropped to 5 degrees (originally scheduled for early November, but inevitably brought forward to 28^th October). Chopping logs like a lumberjack was not part of this prep – very little wood the charity can get hold of is of this quality. Rather they have to make do with pallets, kindly given by various French companies, but which provide rather less heat and longevity that your average log. (Sidenote: I could go on a rant about bonfire night bonfires about to take place in the UK, and how that wood could be put to so much better use, but it wouldn’t do any material good. You get the point though.) The pallets are pulled apart and then the nails left are either bashed in or pulled out completely so they aren’t able to be turned into weapons. The wood’s then cut up and divided for distribution. A truck load of pallets provide about a month’s worth of wood, but I’m guessing that’s just for average winter temperatures.

I cannot tell you how therapeutic it is to bash a hammer at a piece of metal for a couple of days, whilst it rains!

I hadn’t intended to go in on my last morning, but by the time Saturday came around, I felt I owed it to give as much of my time to the warehouse as possible. It was properly cold by that point, so I went to help sort through the women’s clothes donations. The instructions for what was and wasn’t appropriate were clear, but one struck me as odd when I first heard it. The women liked stylish clothes – skinny jeans for example – and they wouldn’t wear polo necks. I thought this odd at first – I was already wearing 2 jumpers, and I’d been wishing I’d brought some fingerless gloves by that point – so the concept that people might be fussy about what they were wearing felt distinctly odd. Warm clothes are warm clothes after all. Thinking about it as I sorted through the piles of donations, however, I realised that it made complete sense. These people are no different from anyone else – the fact they have been forced to leave their home for whatever reason does not mean they should be deprived of the dignity of choosing what they get to wear, rather than having things pushed onto them. It might not seem like the most important thing when compared with other basic human rights, but when it’s all you have, it means a lot.

I was driven to the station by another volunteer who pointed out a patch of trees near the motorway known as ‘little wood’ which had been used by refugees as a camping spot. It’s now completely fenced off and people are living under the motorway bridges themselves. We passed a group just sitting on the hard shoulder watching the traffic speed by.

I wanted to use this post to give a flavour of life as a volunteer in the hope it might inspire some other people to go out. True enough it can be depressing and frustrating on many levels, but this is only part of the picture. I’ve not talked about the incredible volunteers who give their time and come from all over the place. I met a number of Brits and French, as you might expect, but there were also people from Spain, Italy, Germany and America. The sense of solidarity is strong and links are forged quickly. It is truly an experience worth having, and I can only hope that the situation moves forward in a positive way. The demands laid out in the photo below are hardly asking for the moon, after all.

How can I help:

Donations of money and goods can be made here (see the ‘get involved’ tab): https://helprefugees.org/

Volunteer here: https://helprefugees.org/volunteer/

If you live in London help fill the emergency Lesvos container, leaving on 18^th November: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdhpliLuzK5KbGirCVWSf_Fm99x7aQ4P8HgrYV8OrRPiGX1Sg/viewform

Read the report on the refugee crisis: https://helprefugees.org/news/a-brief-timeline-of-the-human-rights-situation-in-calais/

Write to your MP about the need to reunite refugee families: https://act.helprefugees.org/help-refugees/families-together/refugee-familiestogether/

Reflections on the Prime of Miss Jean Brodie

Last Friday I went to see The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie at the Donmar Warehouse. I'd been sitting on these tickets since April, having sat patiently in a queue online (online queues meaning that you can be as shouty as you want when it's moving slowly, because there's no one about to judge you. Unless you're doing it sneakily at work of course).

Anyway - I was excited. I'd been excited ever since it had been announced, which had coincided with my seeing Lia Williams in Mary Stuart for the second time (in the title role - I played coin toss roulette and won) and therefore felt like all the theatrical fates were aligning. There was no way in all possibility that I was going to miss this performance.

I am very familiar with The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. I've read the book (although I don't remember many of my thoughts on it. It's been a while) and I've seen the Maggie Smith version of the film. Maggie Smith has been burned on my conciousness from an early age, as her delivery of the iconic lines. I knew it would be a challenge for this production to live up to that seminal production. I also knew that if anyone could do it, then a cast helmed by Lia Williams, Angus Wright and Sylvestra Le Touzel, directed by Polly Findlay would be the team to see off the ghosts of the past.

And I was right. Helped, in part, by the new adaptation by David Harrower, fresh life was breathed into this oh so familiar piece. admittedly my mind kept snagging on plot points which had been transferred from one character to another, and the placement of lines. Those bon mots so iconic were liberally scattered about in all manner of places. One - which I am quite sure was said at the beginning of the film - didn't even get a first prenouncement until halfway through. It was deliciously unsettling.

And how right I was to think Lia Williams would do the role justice. She was magnificent. Cool, passionate, disinterested, fervent, broken, warrior-like, turning on a pinhead so you were never quite sure which facet of her diamond like personality you would get next. The play goes further than the film, so that you see Miss Brodie in later life. Her final scene she is sitting for most of it, some brilliant red shoes flashing out at the audience, as if to say 'I'm not quite done yet'. Thinking about those shoes on the way home, I fell to wondering and have come to the conclusion that the costume department are geniuses.

Miss Brodie has three costume changes as the play progresses, and has different shoes for each outfit. Fantastically spiky red heels to start give way to a lower heeled red and beige court shoe, before finally another red pair of shoes, which I think were flatter, but which I couldn't quite see all of. I'm going to assume they were lower. It occurred to me as I wound my way home that Miss Brodie's shoes are a counter to her position within the school she seeks to dominate. As her position becomes more precarious and her hold on her 'gels' and the men in her life more nebulous, her shoes become lower, which should (by rights) steady her. They should allow her to retain her grip on events, to shape them as she wishes. But they don't. Instead she becomes less able to walk the path set before her. It is an inspired addition to the character, who at the beginning of the play dashes about in a whirl of fervent inspiration and excitement on stilettos that might break another's neck, and by the end is brought to a standstill by events, until ultimately she topples, wearing the safe footwear of the aged and infirm.

The rest of the cast all moved about the Brodie orbit with aplomb. Sandy has fascinated me for quite a while, but I saw another side to her in this. There was a vulnerability I don't think has been picked up on in the past. It's well hidden though. Sandy has steel running through her. I don't want to comment too heavily on all of the cast - this is after all not the work of a critic, simply the enthusiastic thoughts of an avid theatre goer. Simply put, I thought the entire cast were wonderful (although I'm still working hard to determine Teddy Lloyd's exact accent!)

Tickets are as rare as hen's teeth, but it's worth trying to get one. A play this light and deep simultaneously doesn't come along all that often. The Donmar is a powerhouse that allows 251 people into its confines each night and surprises them with something fresh every time.

Censorship at the Olivier Awards - open letter to SOLT and ITV

My letter to SOLT and ITV about the censorship at the recent Olivier awards is on the letters page of The Stage, but given free access to the site is limited for non paying consumers, I thought I'd post it here too.

Limited as I was to 350 words max, there were a great many things which I didn't have room to talk about, and which I intend on using this blog to delve into at a later date. For now, though, here's the letter sent to The Stage. Note, I wrote first to Julian Bird, Director of SOLT, but never got a reply. These issues are important, and need to be discussed as frankly as possible.

The Olivier’s are the highest honour the theatrical world can bestow on its community and whilst the atmosphere in the run up to the ceremony seemed to point to an evening of celebration, by the time the ‘highlight show’ finished it became apparent that it was only to be broadcast in the face of heavy censorship.

With the British theatre scene at the zenith of its popularity, surely it is time to broadcast the whole ceremony? The promotional tag line ‘Be Inspired’ should live up to the promise of showing future generations just how much theatre involves people like them.

Having listened to the entire ceremony on Magic radio (warts and all, including the fluffs by Catherine Tate) I was able to hear the passionate thoughts on immigration, diversity, same sex partnerships, the social role of theatre, ethnicity, the Time’s Up and 50:50 movements, and one man’s 13 year dedication to the Young Vic, delivered so eloquently by (amongst others) Giles Terera, Dominic Cooke, Marianne Elliott, Alex Lacamoire, Sheila Atim, Alexandra Burke, Beverley Knight, Juliet Stevenson and David Lan.

Those thought provoking and passionate words were inspirational and uplifting. Sadly, Magic have not kept the recording and so the sentiments so strongly expressed have been lost to posterity, because the TV broadcast gave a bare approximation of the events. It is deeply disturbing that ITV chose to edit so extensively. It would be worrying in any year, but at this particular moment in time, the censorship raises many questions, not least – why did ITV deem such cuts necessary, and does SOLT intend to continue its broadcast partnership with a provider that chooses to silence those who speak out on such sensitive and important issues?

Now is not the time for censorship. The future credibility of SOLT and the Olivier’s rests on the support of those who are brave enough to stand up, speak out, and inspire.

Rising from the ashes - formerly Oxford Reader

Has it really been three years since I last posted? Well, not quite, but it's certainly been quite some time.

I've had a bit of a makeover, having changed my blog title to fit with my twitter name, and got rid of quite a few of the bookish things, because I intend on widening my gaze quite a bit. Who knows what I'm actually going to talk about, nor how often, but it's nice to be back.

Well that was spectacularly dull, wasn't it?!? 

Off to see An Ideal Husband tomorrow night, so with any luck I'll have something proper to talk about soon enough.

An ode to Downton Abbey: Time to say goodbye

*Spoilers ahead - season six mentioned at times*
 
It's a strange thing to want to mark the passing of a television show as if it's a valued member of your life, but when you let a group of people into your homes and hearts through a television screen for six years, it does feel as though you are losing a friend.

Downton Abbey is a bit of a marmite show, with people being very strongly in the love it or hate it camp. My own father, for example, cannot stand it and spends the evening of Christmas Day in another room, whilst the rest of us sit through the ritual of Strictly, Dr Who, Call the Midwife and Downton (inevitably getting through a great many tissues). Perhaps he has the better end of the bargain at times - I was certainly a nightmare to live with when a certain blond haired man bit the dust a few years ago. 

I have loved it since it began. I freely admit that Maggie Smith was the hook that drew me towards it, but before the first episode had finished I was just as much in love with the entire cast and couldn't wait for the next episode - even if I did want to slap a considerable portion of them. More on that later.

What is it about Downton that makes it so successful? Certainly the era of ease and beauty it presented is a delicious piece of escapism during the troubled times of the present day. Economic worries have traveled the globe, which might go some way to explaining the success in so many other countries. It isn't only that which attracts, however.

The costumes are, of course, enough to make even the least sartorially conscious people green with envy. The hats in season one, with their gigantic brims, are wonderful, as are the hair styles. Being blessed with long curly hair, but no talent for styling it properly, I find myself longing for a maid to help. I'd look fabulous, I'm sure. It isn't only the upstairs characters clothes I envy (and with them I am more drawn to the beautiful practicality of Isobel's wardrobe than Cora or Sybil - although, having said that, I'd pay serious money to anyone for Edith's wardrobe when she starts to become a modern business woman). The downstairs costumes, although necessarily simpler, are by no means any less intricate. Mrs Hughes is probably best served of course (which makes certain interviewers insinuations that she looks drab that much more infuriating) and I've got serious envy when it comes to her season 2 wartime dress and her evening uniforms. I could write an entire essay on her wedding dress. I won't. Not right now, anyway. The downstairs clothes are practical, of course they are, but the costume department have obviously gone to great lengths to make them, in some way, relate-able to the character. Miss O'Brien managed to look like an overgrown bat in her dress - which suited her Machiavellian ways - whilst Miss Baxter's dress allows a certain anonymity which suits her wish to avoid her past.

The fact that only Mrs Hughes remains in a corset whilst everyone else embraces the freedom of the 20s might seem to be some sort of cruelty to Phyllis Logan, but in a way it suits the character. As housekeeper she is supposed to be the upright model of behavior to all her staff under her care, and the corset helps to achieve that level of authority, but on a personal level it also taps into her sense of self and her own body image, which has been revealed to be an issue to worry over in this latest series. The fact she has yet to give up the corset serves to highlight the fact she is still proud of her figure even if she believes she is no longer beautiful (which is a load of nonsense, because anyone with eyes in their head would tell you she is stunning. Get Mr Carson a little tiddly on the sherry and he would surely talk your ear off on the subject). I might be a little biased, given Mrs Hughes is my favourite downstairs character.

All this talk on costumes serves to highlight an important point - that if you are a fan of the show, you can get just as invested in the small things as the major plot points, and that all the characters matter. It is a huge undertaking, cast wise, and with at least 17 characters to focus on in any one episode, is it any wonder that sometimes it feels as if things are forgotten and often fans are annoyed when a small moment between their favourite characters is overlooked. Having said that, however, not one of these characters has ever felt like a caricature or underdeveloped. 

They are all complex and none of them can be said to be wholly good or bad (except perhaps for Vera Bates or Mr Green who existed solely to bring mayhem). Mr Barrow and Miss O'Brien might be the best villains of the piece (and Sir Richard Carlisle as well. I quite liked his snobbery and dictatorial manner as long as Mary didn't end her days with him), but they have redeemable qualities just as much as anyone else and care deeply for others - the children and Mr Lang being good examples. Sybil might be seen as the good fairy of the piece, being the joy filled, passionate, purpose driven counterpoint to her two bitchy sisters, but even she was headstrong to the point of stubbornness. Mr Carson can be blinkered and cruel in his pomposity, Mrs Hughes is far too nosy for her own good, and I found Mrs Patmore's pushing Daisy to agree to marry William just so he didn't go to the front with a broken heart to be highly problematic, although I love the two women's relationship in general. Mary, for the most part, is the character I spend the majority of time wishing I could slap, with her high handed manner and cool drawling tones, but her love for Matthew and her protection of Anna are her saving graces, and prevent me from totally hating her. 

It is an interesting fact that whilst not one of these characters is perfect, no matter how much we adore them, it does not actually matter when it comes to liking the show. When I had my own brief aversion, declaring I wouldn't watch it anymore, it wasn't because I disliked the characters, but was rather supremely pissed off by Matthew's death. It was Maggie Smith's delivery of the line 'you have to choose to live or die' in the promo trailer that made me want to return, and I'm so glad I did.

The series has its flaws, of course. It can rattle through the years at an alarming pace (season two being a case in point), it pays very little attention to historical events except when it fits for a bit of exposition (throwaway mentions of women getting the vote or a Labour government), it introduces plot points only to forget them almost instantly (Mrs Hughes's incapacitated sister has not merited further mention) and has produced some of the clunkiest dialogue simply for the sake of giving someone something to say (Edith's 'so it seems, and a happy end indeed' in response to the end of Anna's ordeal ranks alongside the pointlessness of Legolas's 'a diversion' at the end of the LOTR saga - so obvious and unnecessary that it feels like the verbal equivalent of jumping up and down to attract attention).

Downton is at its best in its small, quiet moments. When O'Brien finds her conscience a tad too late after booby trapping Cora's exit from her bath; when Sybil died and the aftermath which included a brilliant moment from Maggie Smith when she walked across the main hall and appeared to age ten years in as many seconds; Matthew's delight at becoming a father; Isobel's heartbreak after her son's death; the hysterical laughter shared between Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes over the lucky escape from Mr Tufton; 'Dashing away with a smoothing iron'; Mrs Hughes challenging Mr Green; Shirley Maclaine's entire performance; Mr Molesley suddenly finding that he's really good at something; Carson's proposal to Mrs Hughes - which I can quote verbatum, I've watched it so often.

I could go on and on. There are so many scenes, characters, words I havn't touched on (Isis! Rose! Russians!), but I'd need a month of Sundays to do it all justice. Perhaps I should do an episode recap when I get the boxset. I've also not dwelt on the problematic characterizations of certain characters, and it will be obvious who my favourite characters are. That is the nature of these things, and a blog is personal anyway.

The object of this ode has been to try and convey my love for a show that, although by no means perfect, has become a cherished part of my life. This year, for the first time, I became part of the online fanbase (I can think of worse ways to avoid doing your dissertation) through tumblr and by writing fanfiction, which has opened up a whole new world of Downton love and hate. People feel things strongly on the internet and although there are, at times, clashes of opinion over characters and their actions, one things remains true for everyone - that is that the show is greatly loved and will be sorely missed when it leaves our screens for the very last time on Christmas night. Asking Santa for a box of kleenex would probably be the best present idea.

There seems to be a certain fear that with the death of the show, the links made through the fanbase will cease to be. To my mind, nothing could be further from the truth. I'd like to use some words from the creator of another global phenomenon. J.K. Rowling said at the time of the premier of the final Potter film that 'the stories we love best live in us forever. Whether you come back by page or by screen, Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home.' It is true, and the Potter fan base remains very much active. The same will, I am sure, be true of Downton Abbey.

It is time to say goodbye, but only to new adventures. The doors of the abbey will remain forever ajar for its followers to push open whenever they wish, and whenever they need the comforting presence of old friends to help them through troubled times. There will always be points to discuss and, just as with Potter, there will always be people for us to introduce the world of Downton to.

I'm going to shed buckets of tears as the final scenes play out, of course I am. But shot through the tears will be a massive smile that this wonderful drama has been in my life and given me such memories. Farewell Downton - gone but not forgotten.
 

Venice - the land of mystery and intruige

I have been to Venice twice before, although I don't have many memories apart from the rain. The last time I went, with my parents, it was mid September and the rain was torrential from the moment we entered the train station until we left. I remember business men in pinstriped suits and wellies, St Mark's square being entirely flooded and crowds of people waiting to get into the Academia, because it was the only dry place in easy reach.

I was, therefore, rather nervous about what the weather would be like this time. A wet Venice is not the best place to be, and the weather on this trip has been really mixed. Everywhere I've been, someone has said 'oh, it's not normally like this'. And I keep hearing stories of heatwaves in England!

Anyway, having got dad to help me visualise my route from the boat stop to the hotel (no taxi to rely on to take me direct to the door here), I felt reasonably confident of getting where I needed to go without getting lost and finding myself at a dead end. Upon arrival at the station, I was greeted with ....... sunshine, hooray! Perhaps I don't curse Venetian weather after all. I found my way to the hotel with no problem at all (very basic, with weird panel instead of door to the bathroom and rocks for pillows, but a stone's throw from St Mark's, so who cares) and then decided to launch myself into the city and see where I ended up.

By a convoluted meandering means, I ended up at the Academia and wandered about for a couple of hours, being completely floored by a Veronese canvas that covered an entire wall and then finished off the day first with an expensive Aperol spritz at one of the pizzaetta cafés and then with a meal in Noemi, a restaurant dad had recommended, where a group of Italians were having a very jolly party (and the head of this party later turned out to be the restaurant's cleaner, so it's no wonder one of the waiters stashed a glass of Prosecco near them, and kept gong to join in the fun when he felt no one else needed him).

The following day, I had no plans other than meeting a good friend who was joining me, but couldn't get a flight out until a day after my arrival for various reasons. So, again I wandered with a vague direction in mind. This time, I ended up passing the Arsenale (and finding many dead ends when I tried to discover a way in ..... not possible, it's a military zone. Keep out! Unless you're a Venetian spy of course), and then wandered right up to the space occupied by the Biennale, which was in the middle of the Architecture part of its exhibitions. It was all very odd, and I didn't get a lot of it, but the exhibition space is surrounded by a park, which is just as surprising as finding central park in New York - it's not something you think of when you think of Venice, this wide open space, without any bridges to cross. (Side note - can one take too many pictures of bridges? I think I may have tested this question whilst I was there.)

It was too hot to be bothered to walk back the way I'd come, so I hopped on a boat and then wandered down a side passage to find a place to eat - and I found a very nice restaurant, where I killed an hour eating something I'm still not entirely sure I ordered (but it doesn't matter, because it was very good anyway!).

I then meandered back and decided to go to the Museo Correr, which is in the corner of St Mark's. And suddenly DRAMA! Slipping my museum pass back into the pocket of my handbag, I suddenly realised I didn't have my phone. Immediate panic. Where could I have left it - the restaurant! But would it be there? And would I be able to get back into the museum, as they'd already scanned my ticket and it could only be used once! One of the ticket ladies noticed my panic, and I explained, and asked if I went away, could I come back in. Yes, she said. Now breathe, breathe and run! She didn't quite push me out the door, but it was close. And then things became like a silent movie - there I was, running through St Mark's, scattering pigeons and tourists in my wake, over two bridges, and back down the side street - at the corner of which was a young boy playing the accordion, and rather aptly playing a tune that sounded dramatic and threatening. 'Run, run, you're never going to get it back. How are you going to contact people' it seemed to be saying. I dashed into the restaurant, explained myself to a bored waiter who gestured to me to go right ahead and look, found my table and ...... there it was, on the bench where I had been sitting. Untouched for the last 20 minutes. PHEW and wow.

So back I went to the museum, smiled broadly at the ticket lady, who looked very happy for me and let me back into the museum, and found myself doing a solo waltz at the side of the ballroom (where, unfortunately, I had some rather amused witnesses).

Elizabeth eventually arrived, after a convoluted bus and boat ride from the airport, and we went out for dinner before collapsing in the hotel, both of us exhausted for different reasons.

The following day, we immersed ourselves in the mysterious world of Venice's past, with a tour round the secret parts of the Doge's palace. Just like the castle in Ferrara, the palace has prisons in its lower levels, which would have flooded at high tides and been generally dank and miserable. We followed our guide along dark passageways and up steep flights of stairs, until we were under the roof of the palace, where the very secret offices of the Council of ten were - very sombre rooms, with no decoration, because they weren't supposed to receive visitors here, just inquire into every level of Venetian society and deal with all the information the spies sent their way. Right at the very very top of the building we were shown the two cells Casanova stayed in for just over a year (for reasons no one, not even him, were ever able to fathom). The first cell he almost managed to escape from by digging a hole, until he was discovered by the guard (and it's just as well really, because he would have dropped into the main office of the constable, and he'd probably have been executed). The second cell he escaped from by means of a priest in the next cell, who made a hole in both their cells and then they tried to escape by jumping off the roof. They didn't jumps, realising the canal below was far too shallow, so they shaved their beards and managed to get out of the palace by means of the main door - Casanova had chosen 31st October as his escape date, knowing everyone bar a few guards would be out in the city celebrating. As they were allowed to keep their own clothes (being noble prisoners, rather than ruffians), they made themselves presentable and then wound their way through the palace, passing many rooms where - had they been occupied - the two would have been caught, and out through the main gate, just casually telling the guards they'd not left earlier. Simple really.

After the tour we made our way through the main parts of the palace, which were grand and lavishly decorated, the better to impress those who sought an audience. We went over the bridge of sighs too (where I my hand out of the small windows and to those taking pictures of the famous bridge) and down into the new prison, built when the numbers of prisoners grew too large for the confines of the smaller dungeons. The Doge's palace is a threatening and imposing place - far more so than any other seat of power in Italy. You don't find much of God's forgiveness here.

From the palace we wandered about, shopping every so often to admire glass or gloves or handbags or lace or ......... Venice is a treasure trove when it comes to shopping. Note we didn't buy anything at that particular point. Instead we had ice cream for lunch and wandered in and out of churches, some with some beautiful paintings and very much marbled up to the hilt. It does make me wonder about the future of Venice. When it finally sinks (and some buildings are very much on the tilt already), what are they going to do with all the art? Will they distribute it to other Italian cities, or will some 'enterprising' soul decide to create a replica Venice in the middle of some American desert, where it couldn't possibly sink. Who knows. I just hope I'm not around when it does start to happen.

Anyway .... onwards. The next day we visited Murano and Burano, famous for their glass and lace, respectively. The boat ride is a fairly lengthy one, weaving around other islands, stopping off at the hospital and the cemetery (where we saw a priest in a speedboat) and then on to glass and lace world. Both islands are mini versions of Venice, but I prefer Burano for its relaxed feel and the vibrant colours of its houses. It's known as the island where the rainbow fell, because each house is brightly painted, and you are presented with a riot of colour as you step off the boat. The museum of lace is pretty fascinating when you think of all the intricate work that was (and still is) done by hand. It was here that my spending spree began. I really wanted to buy a tablecloth for myself, until I remembered I don't own a table and couldn't predict the size of the one I eventually hope to own, so I contented myself with buying things for people who do own furniture. Back in Venice we had an early dinner as we were going to a concert of Vivaldi's Four Seasons - which was alright, but even to my untrained ear it didn't sound quite right, and to Elizabeth's very trained ear, it definitely didn't sound right! But it was a fun experience.

The next day was a busy one as we had various points we wanted to cover. We started off by going to the Scuole Grande of San Rocco. This was one of Elizabeth's favourite places and is famous for its gigantic canvases by Tintoretto, including a very dramatic annunciation. No peaceful entry of the Angel Gabriel with Mary patiently waiting for him to be found here. No - the Angel bursts through the door completely shocking Mary, who looks like she's about to scream in fear. She's not that attractive either and her house is a mess. It's fair to say the place quickly became a favourite of mine too and every other annunciation we saw that day paled in comparison. From there we went to the Academia (my second visit, but I found a few things I'd overlooked the first time) and then moved on to the Peggy Guggenheim museum. Here there was more drama as Elizabeth discovered she'd left her handbag at the Academia. She left me in the garden as she rushed back to look for it. Thankfully she returned, with handbag, not too much time later - she had apparently almost caused a security incident and her tale of proving the bag was hers was high comedy. That's enough drama for one trip I think.

We moved on to the church on the island of Guiadecca, which was built to give thanks for the lifting of the plague in the late 1570s. The weather (which so far had been brilliant) was looking decidedly iffy, and there were storm clouds gathering. It started to rain, and then was throwing it down (although not as badly as on my previous visit) and we decided to get the boat to the Rialto, banking on it having cleared up once we got there. And it did, although it was still a bit drizzly, which forced us into a shop to avoid the last of it. And here my spending began in earnest ..... I saw a vase I loved, but the shipping cost was almost twice the price of the vase itself. So, no, leave it in the shop and on to the next. Where I found some gorgeous amber-brown-gold glasses, and having decided to buy them, went back and bought the vase so the other shop could ship it with the glasses. The package has already reached home apparently!

Things unravelled from there really, and now I have shawls, gloves, some wonderful jewellery and all manner of other things that I might keep or give as presents - depending on how I'm feeling. I almost bought an amazing multi-coloured handbag but decided against it ......

Our final full day was more restful than previous days. We really only had the church of St Mark's to see, and that didn't open until 2, so we just meandered the streets, buying things that took our fancy and eating ice cream until it was time to queue up to get in. The roof opens earlier than the church, so we found ourselves sitting on it, admiring the view out over the square for a bit before going into the church proper. It is an amazing riot of gold mosaics and a fantastic floor, which is sadly mostly covered to protect it from the myriad feet that tramp over it daily (but why carpet covering and not raised plastic or glass, I wonder?). Elizabeth went to the Museo Correr whilst I climbed the campanile (well, I say climbed - they have a lift, which takes away from the fun a little) and looked out over the lagoon. I came down pretty quickly, and it's as well I did, because the bells started ringing out the half hour, and that would have been deafening to stand under!

We had our final dinner in a lovely restaurant, again recommended by dad, and I came to the sudden realisation that it was my last night in Italy. It was slightly shocking to think that time had gone so quickly.

To the airport I went the following morning (Elizabeth had a later flight), where I battled with the badly organised lines and then hopped from Venice to Lyon then on to Bordeaux where I stayed for the night in a slightly dodge hotel (couldn't find the light switch for the corridor, so at one point I was feeling room numbers with my fingers, until I admitted defeat and went back downstairs for help). I had booked a table at a highly recommended restaurant called La Tupina, and the little I ate was wonderful, but unfortunately a migraine meant I couldn't finish my delicious pork, so I ended up in bed very early!

The following morning I caught a train to Poitiers and was met by Norma - a very dear friend - and have been relaxing at her home ever since - well, except for this afternoon, where we were both being taught to dance the waltz by a couple of her neighbours, which caused much laughter. I am to relax here until Sunday. 




 

Bologna - also known as the various train adventures

Please excuse the delay in writing up the various tales of Bologna (and now Venice too). The hotel where I was staying in Venice was basic at best and I wasn't about to spend time in the entrance hall tapping away and paying for the privilege of passers by gawping at me. In any case, there was too much to do and see and just absorb to allow for time spent writing.

But now, I am in rural France in the home of a wonderful ex colleague and there's an amber storm warning, so what better way to spend the time! [Note, there was an amber storm warning when I wrote this yesterday, but aside from some dramatic thunder at 2am, I'm not entirely sure that it came to anything!]

This entire trip has been one of changes and shifts of pace. The difference between Sorrento and the Amalfi coast to Bologna and the region of Emilia Romagna was quite a sharp one. Travelling between the two was an adventure in itself, with an early rise to catch the 8am train around the bay to Naples (and although I know I sound like a grump, that is too early for accordions to be playing, even if they are belting out 'we no speak Americano'). From Naples it was on to Bologna, passing through Rome and Florence before disappearing into a series of tunnels for the rest of the journey. I shall spare you my thoughts on the benefits tunnels would make to the HS2 plans for another day - or perhaps I'll write a letter to the Times ...

So I arrived in Bologna and found dad already ensconced in the hotel and we setter down to make out plans. I was wanting to go to Ferrara because of its links to Lucrezia Borgia and dad had Ravenna in his sights because of some amazing mosaics. Around these things we were to fit everything else that took our fancy including a trip to Verona to see Carmen at the Arena. We didn't do much that afternoon. In fact we took full advantage of the fact that Bologna is much less touristy than other places, with most sites of interest closing for a siesta and had siestas ourselves.

The next morning we set out to discover Bologna. The weather, however, had other ideas and chose to throw it down. Now, Bologna is uniquely blessed with colonnades through much of the city, but this does not make dealing with rain any easier, and there are still large open squares to negotiate, not to mention acres of slippery marble! So, after a couple of mad dashes into churches, we took refuge in a café. The rain chose not to abate, so I agreed to brave it and back out into the downpour we went. The main church of the city is dramatic and was, once upon a time, a threat to the opulence and size of the Vatican. Its ambitions were quashed when the Papal government grew wary and diverted funds for the continued building works to other enterprises, such as the University. Ever since, Bologna had had the reputation for being a little quirky and not quite in line with everyone else.

Because of the rain (which I admit was now letting up a little) and the enforced siesta time we decided to have lunch and I stumbled across a tiny place whose clientele appeared to be mostly people on their lunch breaks (a good sign, if the locals like it). My pasta with butter sauce and fried bacon was sublime. And I'll have to tell you its name later, because they didn't have any cards left and I had to take pictures of a sachet of sugar - much to the amusement of the waiter.

It's quite hard writing up these pieces after the fact, but I wouldn't want to do a report every day, because it would get very boring. There is the danger, though, of missing things out - partly because I've forgotten the order and which restaurant was visited when, and I'm going to have to wait until I get home to properly sort everything out (the number of pictures taken has reached about 4000 now, if anyone is interested).

So, allow me to rush forward to the next day and tell you of our visit to Ferrara, which was our first foray into the countryside (which is very flat and reminds me of Norfolk). This was the seat of the D'Este family, to whom Lucrezia Borgia belonged. She has always had a nefarious reputation of poison and intrusive, but I have to say that if the stories of some of the previous dukes are anything to go by, she was a comparative saint. The family seat in the centre of the town was a medieval fortress, complete with moat and dungeons where the D'Este family kept the enemies they most wanted to keep an eye on - and where one of the Dukes locked his wife after discovering her adultery. They were also used by the Nazis when they were in occupation.

Spook and damp with tiny doorways they were enough to unsettle now, so I hardly dare think what they must have been like in earlier times, with hardly a candle to dispel the complete darkness. The upstairs rooms, by contrast, were sunny and bright and richly decorated. It would have been a very strange world to marry into, although I'm sure Lucrezia Borgia was used to political machinations as the daughter of the Pope.

The following day we had a definite event to work around, as we were going to the opera in Verona. Dad had decided against hiring a car and had booked rooms in Verona for the night. This meant we had a whole day to explore elsewhere.

We thought that Modena and Parma would be interesting (and tasty - what with ham and balsamic being their world renowned exports), so off we went to Parma first, which is a very quiet relaxed town, full of people on bicycles. I am appalled to realise I can't visualise a thing of what we did there. It has melded with Ferrara and other places. My amnesia will cease once I sort out my pictures, and I'll enlighten you all then.

What I can remember it that upon arriving back at the station, we discovered the only route to Verona was via local shopping service to Brescia (as slow as it sounds) then a change of train to Verona. And the next train wasn't for another hour (I have skipped over the half hour wait for tickets - I will not rant about ticket buying in Italy, except to say it is a shambles).

So, a trip to Modena was off the table and we instead made slow and stately progress to Verona. I have been to the city before and think it is a lovely place. Fairly touristy, especially around Juliet's 'house', but its streets are much like Florence and relatively few cars around mean wandering in aimless fashion is easily achieved. The river forms a kind of boundary to the main city, so as long as you don't go over bridges, its not so easy to become lost. As a walking tourist, I appreciate this limit to my investigations! Perhaps I would have got on very well in the medieval world after all - I've always assumed I would prefer the luxuries of the Victorian era, provided I was wealthy and not a maid or governess of course!

Dad remembered the lovely restaurant we had found on our previous visit, which was just as good as the last time. Here we people watched - dad finding a slight doppelganger to his cousin, and we both made speculations about the odd couple at the table next to us. A large older gentleman with a stick thin lovely looking woman, very probably in her early 20s, who ate very little and spoke less. She had no need really, for the man was loquacious in the extreme and even felt the need to read out the entire menu for the edification of his guest. I'm being a touch catty - but it really was a very fascinating interchange.

From one performance to another - it was time to attend the opera. I'd chosen Carmen over other things on offer because I knew the story well so wouldn't have to worry about the absence of English surtitles. The arena is of Roman origin, not as big as the Rome Collesium, but in better repair than that. The stage took up one end, and was rigged with screens - from which a lady dressed all in black emerged periodically to bang a gong. The performance was brilliant, particularly as there was no electronic amplification. It was a bit odd to be surrounded by people who didn't think it was rude if the hummed along or had a bit of a chat mid performance, but it was a great experience nonetheless.

The following day I wandered around Verona as far as my flagging camera battery would allow and then we travelled back to Bologna - a far easer journey as we didn't stop off anywhere on the way.

Our day trip to Ravenna was next on our agenda, so back we went to the train station ...... where the god of train adventures had a laugh at our expense and we got on the wrong train to Rimini - the one we got on didn't stop at Ravenna, whilst the later one, we thought we were getting did. So .... an hour in Rimini, which neither of us wanted to go to in the first place, so we just sat in a café a the station.

It being Sunday, Ravenna had a very quiet feel to it. It's applying for capital of culture in 2017 by the way, so you might get to hear lots about it. All the shops were shut (and I spied some rather nice shoes, which I just took photos of instead), and there weren't that many people about, except for other tourists on the mosaic trail. Thankfully, all the places of interest were open, and were amazing. These weren't your average roman mosaics - all very detailed, but essentially monochrome. No, these were a riot of blue and gold and were brilliantly preserved. Well worth a visit!

Our final full day in Bologna was bright and sunny, and I expressed a wish to visit the church on top of a hill, which we had frequently seen from the train. This was reached by means of a long colonnade of 666 arches, which was built to shield the frequent pilgrims from rain or sunburn. Dad didn't really fancy it, so off I tracked on my own ...... and the view over the hills was brilliant - even if it was an extremely sweaty weary climb to get there! On the way back down I wandered into what I thought was a shop, but turned out to be an artist's laboratory (the Italian description for a workshop). There were a few things on sale, so I bought some rather nice green earrings, and then suggested that if the man wanted to try selling in England, he might like to visit the Christmas market on the Softbank - rather than trying Camden, where he'd been before and not had much success. Once I've found his card, I'll tell you all where to find him!

And that was the end of Bologna ...... well, that was my end, because I got a mid morning train to Venice (which I apparently shouldn't have been on, so had to pay the difference!). Dad, however, had an early evening flight home, so spent the day in Modena - and he later texted to say he'd bought rather a lot of cheese, two types of balsamic vinegar and a bottle of Aperol, so I can continue with my drinking habits once I'm home. Brilliant!



 

Sorrento - the days of wine and Zucchini flowers

Today is my last day in Bologna and I find I am taster behind in my blogging with Amalfi coast and Emilia Romagna adventures to relate before I move on to Venice.

Having spent the last few days travelling to different cities, I elected to spend today in Bologna - I stretched this a little to include a trip to San Luca, which is a church on a hill, which can be seen from the railway in the valley below, and is reached by means of walking up the hill under the cover of a colonnade of arches - 666 in all, although the labelling stops at 657 for some reason. It is as exhausting as it sounds, and at the time of writing this part of the blog, I was a complete sweaty mess. The view of the surrounding hills was worth it though.

So - to rewind a little - let me take you to Sorrento. I was very glad to leave Rome and the train ride to Naples is rather stunning. The rolling hills of Tuscany give way to a rather starker landscape, with rocky crags jutting out all over the place. I think I passed the old monetary of Monte Casino, where my grandfather fought in WW2, which was quite impressive. Arriving in Naples meant a change of train to Sorrento and here I must digress to question the lack of signs at stations and indeed pretty much any city. They don't make it easy by any means!

Anyway, having found the train and bundled on to it with a shed load of people, mostly bound for Pompeii, I then moved slowly round the bay of Naples to my hotel in Sorrento. Here I was to meet my mother and godmother (Carol and Kathy) although they weren't due for some hours. Time to explore the hotel, give in to the urge for a siesta and have a couple of drinks on the terrace whilst watching the sun set.

Mum and Kathy arrived late in the evening so it wasn't until the following morning that we started to plan things to do. The first thing to reveal was the plan for Mum's birthday on Friday - dad having bought tickets to the opera in Naples. This went down very well (and the day was lovely... we went to Naples by boat, I persuaded everyone up to the museum, which was rather further up the hill than I'd thought, and we managed to get the open top tour bus back down on the cheap, because it was their last trip of the day, and Cavaleria Rusticana was great, even if it did take us a few goes to figure out how to get to our box.

Sorrento was very much a change of pace - after rushing about seeing everything it was possible to see in the big cities, here I had to adjust myself to a slower pace of life. If I'd been certain of anything when planning my trip it was that my alcohol levels would rise dramatically - and so it proved. Not that I'm complaining - it was lovely to meander around Amalfi, Capri and Ravello (getting there by various bus and boat combinations) soaking up the atmosphere of the narrow windy streets before pausing for a long lunch.

And the food was something else. I mean to do a separate post about the best places to visit once I'm back at home, but let me say that Il Buck and L'antica - both in Sorrento - are out of this world and make me sad that I just can't manage 8 courses.

The write up of Bologna is going to have to wait, because it's time for me to finish packing and then go out for dinner - after that 6(ish) mile hike up a hill and back again this morning, I am more than ready for my food!