The Melbourne Chronicle
Sailing To Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
--Those dying generations--at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– by William Butler Yeats.
I'd been meaning to surprise me Mum with a visit at Christmas for years, just show up and knock on the door . . . surprise, surprise!
The confluence of energies were working their magic . . . my boss had given me a set of travel luggage as a Christmas gift, I'd stumbled across my passport and, Virgin Atlantic was advertising some pretty good deals on flights over the pond. This time choosing not to ignore the message, I decided there and then to book a ticket to England.
It was Christmas Eve day and the flight was departing from Los Angeles at 5:30, time to get my clogs in gear, pack a few things, brush me teeth, put the pedal to the metal and, get up to LA pronto like.
Spontanaity is euphoric. This reminded me of the trip I took with Speedy, Critter and the goth stripper, we decided one afternoon to fly that day to Europe and explore Paris, Venice and Amsterdam. It was the middle of winter and we were ill prepared especially in the clothing dept. Still we had a wonderful adventure. The goth stripper had us all beat in the spontaneous dept, she had simply come around to our office for a chat, asked what we were doing, found we were leaving for Europe and without hesitation said "count me in, let me just nip home and grab my passport"
Well that was another story.
I sped up the freeway to LA, made it in about an hour and three quarters. The airport was surprisingly quiet. After checking in, I headed for the nearest bar, which happened to be the restaurant located in the space-like building next to the main control tower. A good 3-4 hours before departure, plenty of time to calm my nerves with a little cocktail action, ohh yeah, and a xanax, did I mention that I'm not too keen on this whole flying experience? Does 12 hours in a large metal tube with 300 strangers sound like fun to you?
Sitting at the bar were 2 other boozed up gents of similar age as myself. We struck up conversation, ploughed through a good sampling of liquors, told cheesy jokes and made complete arses out of ourselves.
Do I hear "Grow Up Trevor?"
" Last Call for boarding on Virgin flight VS2006 to London . . . and please remember to discard all bottles containing liquid as these are not permitted on any flights per FA regulation code FL16789"
Bummer, I'd purchased a half dozen mini bottles of wodka . . . "I didn't jush say wodka did I?"
Fear of flying aviatophobia, aviophobia, or, I love this one . . . pteromerhanophobia
Some airline and travel companies run courses to help people get over the fear of flying for example, Virgin Atlantic has a DVD, "Flying Without Fear".
Fear of flying may also be treated by the use of psychoactive medications. For individuals experiencing anxiety due to a phobia, the standard psychiatric prescription might be any of a number of different psychoactive medications such as benzodiazepines or other relaxant/depressant drugs.
I dislike flying so much that I choose to self-medicate with both the psychoactive substances, as well as alcohol. Most mental health professionals would advise against consuming alcohol as a medication both due to the strong risk of dependency (alcoholism) and due to the particular physiological effects on the body in air travel. In a pressurized cabin, the lower-than-normal oxygen content of the air will cause an alcoholic beverage to have a significantly enhanced effect on the body--resulting in a perhaps surprising level and rapidity of intoxication from only one or two drinks. Brilliant! That’s the point.
My little cocktail / xanax concoction had the desired effect, fantastic flight! I barely remember a thing.
Mission accomplie
It was 5:30 or so when we landed at Heathrow and the place was as quiet as it was in LA, Christmas Eve is turning out to be a great time to travel.
Apples and pears, overcast grey sky, Boots Chemist, Marks & Sparks . . . I was back in 'ol blighty.
Took the shuttle over to Europacar to pick up my wheels, I'd reserved a car on the Internet while still in San Diego, came with a free upgrade. Nice one, a snappy little brand new Smart car.
Great little machine. Soon got the hang of it, sitting on the right side, operating the gears with my left hand and staying on the left side - Fahren Sie auf die linke Seite - Guidi dalla parte di sinistra.
Within minutes I'd found the M25 and put my foot down. 90+ miles per hour, jet lagged, speed cameras everywhere, could be a recipe for disaster, I slowed down.
I was excited to be back in England and fell into a reverie of sorts.
A couple of hours and I was getting close to the Castle Donnington turnoff. Darkness had descended as I maneuvered my way through the country lanes into the village of Melbourne. This was it, Castle Mews and my mum's little house. The place was dark, where was she? In fact the whole village seemed shut for the night. Realized with the time change it was indeed Christmas Day evening, maybe she was at my sisters.
Not been before to my sisters but had the address, to this day I cannot believe how I found the place. Was great to see the look on Looby's face as she opened the door to me. "What the bloody 'ell!!! Ahhhhh, you bloody nutter our Trev"
" Sorry to bother Looby, just thought I'd pop over and to wish you all a very merry Christmas" " Can I come in?"
As things would have it my older sister Jayne, Rob, Mark and lovely Lauren were also there, the timing was great.
"Anyone know where Mum is?"
"She should be over any minute, she was over at Stewart and Olives'"
Literally moments later the front door opens, Mum rounds the corner into the kitchen where I'm seated.With shocked astonishment upon seeing me, she burst into tears.
"Merry Christmas Mum"
Later that night I lay in the teeny extra bedroom at Mums listening to the Owl hoot, and the Moon and the Earth they were mating, its silver thread upon the window.
Quiet, so quiet in the village.
San Diego was a long way away.
Twas' on the feast of St. Stephen
Awoke very early. "Where am I, What room is this?"
"Are you awake Trev? My Mum asked,Do you want a cup of tea?"
I got my bearings, showered and went down to the kitchen. The same old carriage clock was ticking away on the wall, curios and knick-knacks still in the same place, photographs of my dad on the welsh dresser. It's been a while dad, but I'm here again.
Mum and I caught up over a lovely cup of milky tea, after which I thought I'd head over to see my sister Sarah in Nottingham.
An early name for Nottingham was "Tigguo Cobauc" which means "a place of cavy dwellings." Founded by Anglo-Saxon invaders after 600 AD, parts of the settlement have included man-made caves, dug into soft sandstone. A chieftain named Snot led the Saxons. Snot brought together his people in an area where the historic Lace Market in the City can now be found. The place was called "Snotingaham" 'd1literally, "the homestead of Snot's people" (Inga = the people of; Ham = homestead). As with most English place names, the word has since been modified, to "Nottingham".
You've heard about Robin Hood? Right? Probably seen the movie 'Robin Hood' starring Douglas Fairbanks? Or maybe 'The Adventures of Robin Hood' with Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland? Did you know that there have been over 25 major motion pictures and about 67 TV Specials made about Robin?
Robin Hood is one of Nottingham's greatest claim's to fame, coming in a close second after the well known fact that Snottingham has 7 women to every man, and guess what? They are all randy little buggers.
The legend of Robin Hood first arose in the Middle Ages. Robin Hood is said to have lived in Sherwood Forest, to the north of the town, with the Sheriff of Nottingham as his greatest enemy. They say that legends are almost certainly untrue, particularly in their details, I say fiddlesticks to that, Robin Hood was a real dude, was extremely brave, shagged a gorgeous bird named Marian, was not gay, even though he did prance around in green tights and have a mate named Little John. In Robin's defense, in those days they didn't have mirrors so he really couldn't see what a poofta he looked like.
Three pubs in Nottingham claim the title of England's Oldest Pub. The contenders for the crown are Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem near the castle, The Bell on the Old Market Square, and The Salutation on Maid Marian Way. Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem is supposedly named for its role as a meeting point for those going on the Crusades in the Middle Ages. However, its claim may be due partly to the questionable date of 1189 painted on the side of the inn. A recent television documentary tested the three claimants and found that, while each has its own evidence, none can claim exclusivity. The Trip, while the oldest building and oldest location, was for most of its early life a brewery and not a public house. The Salutation sits on the oldest recognized public house site, but the current building is comparatively recent. The Bell, although not in such an antiquated location, does boast the oldest public house building. There is also conflicting information available: dendrochronology from roof timbers in the Salutation gives a date for the building of c.1420 with similar dates for the Bell. Ultimately, the roots of the multiple claims can be traced to various subtleties of definition in terms such as "public house" and "inn".
Nottingham is a good 45-minute drive from Mum's. Once again all I had was the address and a general idea of what side of Nottingham to head to.
What a lovely townhouse . . . I should have guessed . . . it was the only one sporting a great festive decoration. Sarah, Carl and Harriet have spent many vacations in America, and seen how they decorate their houses.
I stayed and had a lovely lunch while looking out across the park. The last time I'd spent boxing day with my sister was when we were just little kids.
Brilliant to see Harriet again, I've always been very fond of her, the last time I saw her she was into Beanie Babies, now she's a teenage girl hanging out with her mates in Nottingham. That's life!
Trevor: I'm tired.
Robin Hood: What? After a nice refreshing sleep in the green wood?
Trevor: I pulled seven acorns out of my ribs.
Robin Hood: Lovely, fresh air...
Trevor: My teeth ache with chattering.
Robin Hood: Nightingales singing...
Trevor: An owl hooting in my ear.
Robin Hood: Hooting? He was singing you to sleep!
Mill on the Brook
The next morning I decided to have a little meander around the village.
Melbourne has a long and notable history. Its name derives from "mill on the brook". It was recorded in Doomsday Book (1086) as a royal manor. A castle was built here and the license to crenellate (fortify) date backs to 1311. John, Duke of Bourbon, the most important French prisoner taken at the battle of Agincourt (1415), was detained here for 19 years. Mary, Queen of Scots, was to be imprisoned here but the castle was in too ruinous a condition. By the early 17th it had fallen into decay. The parish church dates back to the late 11th or early 12th and is exceptional. The Hall was originally owned by the church and is mainly now 17th and 18th century in construction. In 1837 a tiny settlement in Australia was named after Lord Melbourne. Thomas Cook was born here in 1808, and, more importantly, my Mum has lived here for years together with her little dog 'Rosie'.
If it wasn't for the sight of the automobile, one could well believe it to be 1924, 1945 or even 1893. I trenched my way through a carpet of wet leaves in the small graveyard, pausing to decipher a few of the names inscribed into the slate headstones.
Here lays Rev. Thomas Chase, rector of Melbourne Parish from 1745-1779. Buried with him is his famous son, Samuel (1741-1811), and daughter-in-law, Hannah Kitty Chase (1759-1848) who lived an unusually long life. God Bless Ye.
Most of the stones had been grown over by grass and weeds, decay and mildew held the air. A feeling of nostalgia crept over me, here I was in the present and yet also among the ghosts of an inconceivably distant past.
Within 5 minutes I was in the center of the village; a Bird's bakery, a cafe, newsagent, post office, fish and chip shop, shoe repair place and corner Spa shop.
It was definitely quaint.
Hold on a minute, I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. There is a 1950 Cadillac with Santa Rosa, California license plates parked on the street. I take a snap. Amazing, the first place I lived in California was Santa Rosa.
What a co-inkydiink!
Not too early for a pint eh, heck, I wasn't on any strict time schedule.
I purchased a few post cards at the post office and crossed the street to The Melbourne Hotel. I had been in this place many years ago, it has since changed, gone all-posh and up-market like. That's a bit of an exaggeration, but things were definitely different, a little less cluttered, with modern furniture and a spotlessly clean bar.
A lot of pubs are going this direction in England, which I think, is a bit of shame. I love the traditional English pubs, beamed low ceilings, pewter mugs galore, sticky floors and ruddy-faced characters straight out of a Dickens novel.
I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pint of Pedigree. I noticed a girl sitting at the end of the bar. It was the barmaid when I was here last. She still looked as gorgeous as ever. I didn't ever chat with her last time and probably wouldn't this time either. Probably all fur coat and no knickers.
In small villages like these, you always realize that you are a stranger. I remember that scene in 'An American Werewolf in London' where the 2 American lads go into the pub on the moors, the place immediately goes silent and all eyes turn "beware the moon, and keep to the road."
I supped a few, and briefly chatted with the new owner, Nick. He was a most friendly sort and was obviously doing something right, as the place was doing great.
The rain had begun to pour like mad. I decided to take it easy for the rest of the day, and went back to Mums, just in time for some telly and a nosh.
Denying the existence of asparagus because it’s Curry 2 Nite
"Playwrights are like men who have been dining for a month in an Indian restaurant. After eating curry night after night, they deny the existence of asparagus."
Quite a nice morning. Thought I’d drive around a bit, no particular place in mind. Saw a sign for The Priest House, had a vague memory of that place, thought why not!
The Priest House was mentioned in the Doomsday Book in 1086. Today, it is a country hotel. I remember coming here as a kid when it was a damn good pub, mind you, I could never remember leaving . . . bloody good ale I guess.
Weather seemed like it couldn't make its mind up, one minute it was puffing up its chest ready to let out a nice 60 mile no'r easter, then it would throw in a few dark clouds followed by a brief sprinkling, then it let everything go into a lull, and, on a few very rare occasions even allowed Mr. Sunshine to peek through.
I stood by the banks of the river watching the brown water flow by, reflecting upon my life. The last time I'd stood here I was 15 years old, these waters had been flowing for 31 years, I was here again. Time to get moving before this nostalgic moment would turn into a full-blown depressive episode.
Not long and I was back in Castle Donnington, time for some refreshment, got to be a pub somewhere. Tucked on a little side street I found a fantastic little pub, The Jolly Potter. Ordered a pint of Bitter and a cheese cob, retired to a seat in the corner. The place was full of English ephemera, curious old photographs in dusty frames, old mugs and assorted bric-a-brac.
Was amused for the next hour as I listened to some of the locals chatting, reminising about the good old days. The language they used was as equally entertaining as the content of their stories.
On the other side of the room I was fascinated to see John Keats, busy scribbling away, probably working on his latest sonnet.
Decided to take a slight detour on my way back to Mums, wanted to have a look at Calke Abbey.
Described by the National Trust as a "memorial to the many English country houses that disappeared during the 20th century", Calke Abbey certainly is a grand, neo-classical stately home.
Little is known of the first owner, Sir Henry Harpur, except that he was a Sheriff of Derbyshire in 1625, and the following year he bought a baronetcy in order to establish his place among the aristocracy. The fourth baronet, Sir John Harpur, married well, and it was he that changed the modest Elizabethan house into a magnificent mansion, furnishing it in a manner appropriate to his status. However, when the seventh baronet, a shy withdrawn character, inherited the property, it was to take on the indelible stamp of eccentricity that is still apparent today.
Supposedly after many years, the home was eventually opened to the public.
It was like opening a time capsule, the contents frozen in time. Christmas presents still by the fireplace unopened, a grand dinner was still set at the table unfinished just as if the guests were about to arrive.
The most wonderful and unexpected discovery of Calke Abbey was a mint condition, State Bed, which apparently was never unpacked.
Unfortunately the place was not open, this was the off-season. A shame as I would have loved to take a tour. I have a particular fascination with English eccentricity.
I had just been reading a book, The Underground Man by Mick Jackson. A compelling tale of a mightily eccentric man, William John Cavendish Bentinck-Scott, the Duke of portland a resident of Nottinghamshire.
A repressed hyphochondriac that built an elaborate series of tunnels under his home so that he could travel without being seen. He even instructed his servants to not look at him and walk past as if he was a piece of furniture while he stood motionless.
Arrived back to Mums just in time for a nice pot of tea and a mince pie. Didn't want to eat to much as tonight I'd planned to go for a curry with my niece Rebecca. I was looking forward to seeing Becca again, was also looking forward to a damn good curry. You can find a curry house in nearly every single village & town in England, something to do with our Colonial past I suppose.
Well I’ll go to the foot of our stairs, Rebecca looked fantastic, all grown up an’ stuff. Still had that effervescent personality. She knew of two restaurants down on the high street.
I opted for Curry 2 Nite as it looked like it had a tad more atmosphere. Nice cozy little place. We settled in for a right good nosh, wine, bread, sauces, chicken curry, lamb curry. . . we stuffed ourselves.
Afterward, bloated and rosy in the cheek, I made my way back to Melbourne for last call, followed by a mug of Horlicks with Mum.
Tom Browns Schooldays
Anna and I had met in San Diego, and have been friends for ten years. She moved back to England a couple of years ago, back to Burton upon Trent. Be such a shame not to visit her, it's only about 25 miles from Melbourne.
Picked up the blower and gave her a call, great to hear her voice, told her I was on my way over and to put the kettle on.
Not a car in sight, lovely narrow country roads.
I stopped at a gas station to fill up and ask directions, nice little things that are different, in the states you have to pay before pumping, quite the opposite in the uk, they allowing you to pump before paying.
"Excuse me, do you know how I get to Burton?"
"Of course luv, just keep going straight for another 3 miles or so, you'll see a sign for Repton, turn right and follow the road through the village, you'll come out right into the center of Burton"
Repton is a lovely small village, it's claim to fame being Repton School. Repton is one of the three most highly regarded public schools. Bare with me here, a public school in England is by a quirky twist of definition actually a private boarding school of which the fees often equate to the tune of 25,000 pounds per annum. These are schools for the privileged, the breeding grounds for the movers and shakers of the countries next generation.
I stopped for a while to admire the 12th century building. On a whisper of wind I caught ghosts of the past.
"I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?"
"No," said Trevor; "why?"
"'Cause there'll be tossing to-night, most likely, before the sixth come up to bed. So if you funk, you just come along and hide, or else they'll catch you and toss you."
"Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt?" inquired Trevor.
"Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times," said East, as he hobbled along by Trevor's side upstairs. "It don't hurt unless you fall on the floor. But most fellows don't like it."
They stopped at the fireplace in the top passage, where were a crowd of small boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling to go up into the bedrooms. In a minute, however, a study door opened, and a sixth-form boy came out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and then noiselessly dispersed to their different rooms. Trevor's heart beat rather quick as he and East reached their room, but he had made up his mind. "I shan't hide, East," said he.
"Very well, old fellow," replied East, evidently pleased; "no more shall I. They'll be here for us directly."
The room was a great big one, with a dozen beds in it, but not a boy that Trevor could see except East and himself. East pulled off his coat and waistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of his bed whistling and pulling off his boots. Trevor followed his example.
A noise and steps are heard in the passage, the door opens, and in rush four or five great fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman in his glory.
Trevor and East slept in the farther corner of the room, and were not seen at first.
" Gone to ground, eh?" roared Flashman. "Push 'em out then, boys; look under the beds." And he pulled up the little white curtain of the one nearest him. "Who-o-op!" he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small boy, who held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sang out lustily for mercy.
"Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull out this young howling brute. - Hold your tongue, sir, or I'll kill you."
"Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don't toss me! I'll fag for you - I'll do anything - only don't toss me."
"You be hanged," said Flashman, lugging the wretched boy along; "'twon't hurt you, - you ! - Come along, boys; here he is."
"I say, Flashey," sang out another of the big boys; "drop that; you heard what old Pater Brooke said to-night. I'll be hanged if we'll toss any one against their will. No more bullying. Let him go, I say."
Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey, who rushed headlong under his bed again, for fear they should change their minds, and crept along underneath the other beds, till he got under that of the sixth-form boy, which he knew they daren't disturb.
"There's plenty of youngsters don't care about it," said Walker. "Here, here's Scud East - you'll be tossed, won't you, young un?" Scud was East's nickname, or Black, as we called it, gained by his fleetness of foot.
"Yes," said East, "if you like, only mind my foot."
"And here's another who didn't hide. - Hullo! new boy; what's your name, sir?"
"Watson."
"Well, Whitey Watson, you don't mind being tossed?"
"No," said Trevor, setting his teeth.
"Come along then, boys," sang out Walker; and away they all went, carrying along Trevor and East, to the intense relief of four or five other small boys, who crept out from under the beds and behind them.
"What a trump Scud is!" said one. "They won't come back here now."
"And that new boy, too; he must be a good-plucked one."
"Ah! wait till he has been tossed on to the floor; see how he'll like it then!"
"Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don't toss me! I'll fag for you - I'll do anything - only don't toss me."
"Let's toss two of them together, Walker," suggested he.
"What a cursed bully you are, Flashey!" rejoined the other. "Up with another one."
"Now, I'm as proud of the house as any one. I believe it's the best house in the school, out and out." (Cheers.) "But it's a long way from what I want to see it. First, there's a deal of bullying going on. I know it well. I don't pry about and interfere; that only makes it more underhand, and encourages the small boys to come to us with their fingers in their eyes telling tales, and so we should be worse off than ever. It's very little kindness for the sixth to meddle generally - you youngsters mind that. You'll be all the better football players for learning to stand it, and to take your own parts, and fight it through. But depend on it, there's nothing breaks up a house like bullying. Bullies are cowards, and one coward makes many; so good-bye to the School-house match if bullying gets ahead here." (Loud applause from the small boys, who look meaningly at Flashman and other boys at the tables.) "Then there's fuddling about in the public-house, and drinking bad spirits, and punch, and such rot-gut stuff. That won't make good drop- kicks or chargers of you, take my word for it. You get plenty of good beer here, and that's enough for you; and drinking isn't fine or manly, whatever some of you may think of it.
Decided enough with the ghosts of the past, I moved on.
Found her flat with ease. What a surprise to find her mother in law from Los Angeles sitting at the table, she had been visiting for a month.
Anna lives in the center of Burton in quite a modern flat with her little lad, Josiah. Over a cup of herbal tea we caught up, nattering about San Diego, friends, and how life was different in England. I didn't stay long, but it was great to see Anna again.
Thought I'd venture into Burton's shopping mall, it was just across the street. This was a day or so after Christmas and the sales were on, an absolute nightmare, throngs of people everywhere, and the heaters were blasting in every store. No idea why, but it seems that everyone in England heats up their houses to a most uncomfortable degree. I felt like I couldn't breathe, felt claustrophobic. I was born premature back before nice little plastic incubators had been invented. Mother had taken me home and kept me in a shoebox on the open oven door, this just might have something to do with it!
Drove my Mum crazy by opening the windows to let in fresh air every night.
Found a NEXT store and ventured in. Talk about trauma, I found a shirt and went to the fitting room to try it on. It was one of those fitting rooms that has mirrors on all sides, gives you a 360-degree. What was this hideous thing? It was ME! middle-aged with a humungous beer belly, huge bald spot, triple chin. For some strange reason, I'd been merrily trotting along through life thinking I was still 25, that's how old my brain is still operating. This bloody room revealed the truth; I had become a very, very strange looking old fart.
I threw the shirt on the hangar and bolted for the front door. Get me away from this store, this mall, and these people. I need a drink! The blast of cool air on the street was a welcome, and just a few yards down was a delightful looking old pub.
Went arse over kettle just as I entered. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?
"Half a Pedigree please"
Who was I trying to kid? "Make that a pint please"
Lovely pub, oldy-worldy, flat caps and woolen sweaters. Struck up a conversation with a friendly old fella. World War II veteran with plenty of stories, he insisted that I hear them all. Still had his cockney accent, had moved up to Burton to work at the Brewery and had stayed. He coerced me into a few friendly bets based upon geographical knowledge, especially on the local area. I lost each time and forked out for pint upon pint. Got a feeling he pulls this one of on every suspecting newcomer. Decided it was time to leave once he started to reminisce about his sexual exploits as a young man complete with dramatic body gestures.
Took a stroll around around Burton, wandered the street market, bought myself a steak and kidney pie an' chips, settled in the park for a while.
Quite a nice little town is Burton, in a Coronation Street sort of way.
Lucy in the sky with Diamonds
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
that grow so incredibly high
Time to head back, Mum had arranged for us to meet up with her friend Maria at the pub that evening.
I looked forward to seeing Maria again. What an interesting woman, been all over the world, met all sorts of people, frequents art galleries, enjoys independent art flicks, a voracious reader, likes a good glass of wine . . . this woman is a gas, a hoot!
Cold and wet evening. Mum and I walked over to The White Swan to meet Maria. Lovely old pub with beams and exposed stonework, nice selection of guest beers on tap. I could see Maria in the snug, she was chatting with a couple at the bar, they were all wearing beret's, there was a huge beret party (something to do with France I presumed) being held that night at a private residence in the village.
After many drinks and laughs we decided to head over to Maria's house to meet her daughter and husband.
Maria's house, 'Spring Vale' is a wonderful, rambling old property. It's not uncommon to find a lot of houses in England with names rather than a street address, adds to the personality of the building, and Spring Vale I can assure you has plenty of personality.
Crammed full of books and interesting pieces of art, the house is so welcoming. Pleasantly chaotic, and I mean that in the complimentary sense. You know when you go into a house that is 'designed', not a thing out of place, artwork that is picked for its colour rather than its emotive or artistic significance, just because it matches the carpet, you leave feeling that the place was just a nice looking showpiece and not really a home. Spring Vale is certainly an extension of Maria's quirky and eccentric personality.
The evening was spent chatting, drinking and eating.
Her daughter and her daughter’s husband were just like Maria, fabulously quirky; they were up from London where they both worked in the film industry. Shame I didn't have more time, I was really enjoying their company.
The Three Horseshoes
Louise and Mark had been invited by my half-brother Steve to a meal at a local pub. Not sure how it transpired, but Steve got wind that I was in town and invited Mum and I along. The Three Horseshoes is a lovely ol’ battle cruiser in the village of Breedon-On-The-Hill, just a mile outside Melbourne.
Mum and I showed up, and lo and behold found my older sister Jayne, her boyfriend Rob, my niece Rebecca and her boyfriend Ian to be there. I felt a little guilty invading what was originally planned as being an intimate get-together for the four of them, but a wonderful evening was had by all.
The food was fantastic and the ale flowed. We’d all sleep well that night.
New Year's Eve
Bonne ann'ee, bonne sant'e
"Le temps passe, les ann'ees filent. Quand une nouvelle ann'ee commence, on se demande toujours si elle apportera la paix et le bonheur ' chacun... Fermez les yeux et faites un voeu !"
Was having a fantastic dream, Huge galactic battle, I was on the run being pursued by an evil looking mob of aliens and then . . . (as it does in dreams) Kate Winslet and I were strolling through the fields talking in depth about all manner of things. She was wearing a beautiful period dress and looked knockout. At some juncture I asked if I could just take a quick snap of her. She said of course, proceeded to sit upon a tree stump, lifted her skirt, pulled her pink panties down to reveal all and sundry. Nice one Kate! We then wandered until we found a pond and then layed down, opened a bottle of wine and spent the rest of the afternoon in deep conversation. Next thing I'm in a small rowboat in the middle of the ocean with Burt Lancaster. He looks to be about 30 years old and is wearing a strange and curious medallion around his neck that glinted in the sunlight. We are both dehydrated, the sun beating down relentlessly. Water, I need water. One of the oars was knocking on the side, knock, knock, knock . . .
"Trev, are you up yet?" My Mum was rapping on the door.
I awoke with a nasty little red wine hangover.
Inspiration.
Mum and I decided to drive over and visit my uncle Stewart and his wife, Olive. Been years since I've seen them. I remember back in the late 70's, hitchhiking through France, down along the coast of Spain and then over to the Island to Majorca to visit them. During that time they had a wonderful little restaurant on the isle - The English Rose.
Stewart and Olive are a lovely, interesting couple, Stewart is the splitting image of me Dad, quite uncanny actually.
They live in Barwell; a small town in Leicestershire, about an hours drive away. Very pleasant drive, country roads all the way, the occasional tractor blocking our path. If you love English scenery, and have a few hours to spare, you can't do better.
Stewart couldn't wait to show me the DVD projects he'd been working on. I was absolutely gob-smacked by how fantastic they are. Absolutely top notch digital documentaries on the surrounding shires. He shoots the footage, writes, researches, narrates and edits . . . the whole ball of wax. One of his DVD's is 'Belvoir Castle' (pronounced Beaver, the English language is such a curious thing), here he gets to interview the Duke & Duchess, has breakfast with their graces, Butler serving them with white gloves and all -- Classic! Stewart told me about a project that he was currently working on, sounded fascinating, a covering the Bicentenary Cricket match between The Barwell Cricket Club and Coventry & North Warks C C, an event that has been going on uninterrupted since 1807.
One would never believe that he does them alone, and with such limited equipment and resources. I would have been impressed if these had been produced by graduates from film school with the latest Mac computers etc, that's how brilliant these are.
I'd like to have stayed all day, but we had to go.
Auld Lang Syne
A youth is to be regarded with respect. How do we know that his future will not be equal to our present?
– The Wisdom of Confucius
Good year, good health
Time passes, the years slip by. When a new year starts, one always wonders if it will bring peace and happiness to each one. Close the eyes and make a wish!
We got home from Stuart and Olive's by late afternoon. Mum had plans to go over to her friends in the village to play cards. I've never been keen on this whole woop-dee-doo New Year's Eve thing, nearly always been a right bloody anticlimax, or disaster of some sort. The last time I had a good New Year's Eve was when I was about 12 years old. I'd go hang out at my friend Paul Baldwin’s house, his parents would leave for the evening, we'd end up raiding the liquor cabinet, getting loaded on Ginger wine, sneaking through his older brothers room looking for girlie magazines, laughing our socks off, and howling at the moon. So as you can imagine, not easy to top that kind of revelry?
Thought I'd muster up some sort of enthusiasm for the evening. Not a good idea to drive anywhere so I wandered up to the pubs in the village. Ended up at The Blue Bell Inn. The place was heaving, kids everywhere, seemed like the whole population of Melbourne’s pubescent were out 'on the town' to get boozed out of there brains. Ahhh, I remember those halcyon daze, 14 years old, supping down pints of lager like there's no tomorrow.
Not sure how I did it, but I managed to find myself a perch at the bar. Got into a conversation with three others closer to my age and had quite a laugh.
Left before midnight, thought I'd like to watch the ball drop on TV, get away from the madness.
Wonder what Paul Baldwin is doing right now?
Fairies wear boots
Goin' home late last night,
Suddenly I got a fright
Yeah, I looked through a window and surprise what I saw:
Fairy boots are dancin' with a dwarf
All Right Now!
Yeah Fairies wear boots, and you gotta believe me
Yeah, I saw it, I saw it I tell you no lies
Yeah Fairies wear boots and you gotta believe me
I saw it I saw it with my own two eyes
Woah Right Now!
Yeah Fairies wear boots, and you gotta believe me
Yeah, I saw it, I saw it I tell you no lies
Yeah Fairies wear boots and you gotta believe me
I saw it I saw it with my own two eyes
Alright Now!
So I went to the doctor, see what he could give me
He said, "Son, son you've gone too far,
" 'Cos smokin' an trippin' is all that you do." Yeah
– Black Sabbath (circa 1975)
Had a tearful time saying goodbye to Mum this morning, she's been an absolute love. We'd had, as they would say, some really good, quality time together. But all visits must come to an end, at least for right now. I'll miss you mum, but I will be back, I promise.
By mid morning, I had loaded my belongings into the car and was headed for Brighton.
it was not until the arrival of the Saxons that Brighton's foundations were laid. By the 6th century they were in control of much of Southern England; in fact Sussex means the "kingdom of the south Saxons." The original name of Brighton was "Brighthelmston" and was almost certainly distorted from the Saxon name "Brithelm" or "Beorthelm," and "tun," meaning farmstead. During Saxon times the settlement developed as a modest community with a population of 400, which revolved around fishing and farming. Just thought I'd let you know.
I only had a few days left on this trip and wanted to visit with my good friend Daniel.
Daniel and I had been roommates for years back in San Diego, we'd become just like brothers, our lives on a similar parallel path, similar hopes, fears and anxieties, we must have been cut from the same cloth.
I wanted to avoid the M1 as it was notorious for being one bloody traffic jam all the way, hence, I took the M42 towards Birmingham, then picked up the M40 down to the M25, circled London and hit the M23 south onto the A23 straight into Brighton. Thought I'd throw those interesting, AND useful little details in, you never know when they might come in handy!
Arrived in Brighton in the early afternoon, bloody cold or what! Icy breeze coming in off the ocean.
Welcome to Brighton, gay capitol of the United Kingdom. Strange thing is, during my next few days in Brighton I don't think I saw a single shirt lifter, mind you I did notice a pub "The Hobgoblins Fishing Tackle" sporting a rainbow flag.
So much for Brighton and its reputation, you should come visit Hillcrest or San Francisco!
Daniels flat was easy to find, located on the seafront, a gorgeous old Victorian building. I rang the buzzer, no answer.
Noticed a pub across the way, the Biscuit Factory, and headed in.
Who would happen to be standing at the bar? Bloody Daniel 'Tufty' Jarvis!
"Well knock me down with a feather if it ain't Clever Trevor" he remarked.
Knocked a few back and had a good giggle with Daniel. Nice pub, very Brighton, very studenty, very crusty.
Headed back over to Daniel's flat, about the same size as my pad back in OB, room enough for a bed, a couch and a TV.
Caught up for a while, had a shower (not together!) then decided to hit the town.
Wassail! wassail! all over the town,
Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown;
Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree;
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to the
Daniel had a few of his regular haunts he wanted to share. By the time we got to the 'Cobblers Thumb' or was it 'The Fiddlers Elbow'? Things had gone a little sideways. Sober, Daniel is a lovely chap, but get a few too many down him and he becomes a right bloody merchant banker. It wasn't long before he was insulting and picking a fight with anyone that caught his eye. He's quite a small bloke, sort of like a Jack Russell. There he is snapping at the ankles of Great Danes, the Danes, exhibiting great composure, try to soften his temper, but the little Russell is all fired up.
“Daniel, you are bang out of order, be happy!” I tell him.
I've no idea to this day, how he's missed getting a good hiding. Luckily once again, he walks away unscathed, ready to fight another day.
What a night! Daniel is in a mood for excess. I tried to keep up, all I really wanted to do, was get a good kip. It was probably 5am by the time he'd finished his air guitar renditions of Black Sabbath Vol.4. They weren’t very good!
Go to sleep Daniel, go to sleep you little chocolate teapot.
I tried to sleep on the floor, my mind running in circles. I love Daniel like a brother but vowed to get a room in a hotel the following day.
The following day arrived much too soon, I was cream crackered, two hours sleep—tops. I'm too old for this.
Daniel and I spent the following day exploring Brighton and surrounding area. We had a grand time. The previous evening was soon forgotten.
That night I went in search of lodging. I drove along the coast to Worthing where I found a public house/hotel - The Egremont. Thirty-Five pounds. Great. I took a room for the night, I was exhausted.
The room was small, but seemed pleasant enough. I went up to the second floor and poured myself a glorious hot bath. Huge claw foot bathtub, room to maneuver, I soaked in it until I was as wrinkled as a prune.
Oh my blinkin' aunt, the bed reeked of B.O. A nauseous body odor that permeated everything. It was too late to try and change rooms; I was too tired to get bent out of shape.
In the morning I couldn't wait to bath again, somehow remove the stench I'd had to sleep in all night.
Castles in the sky
Do you ever question your life
Do you ever wonder why
Do you ever see in your dreams
On the castles in the sky
Oh tell me why
Do we build castles in the sky
Oh tell me why
Oh, the castle's way up high
Please tell me why
Do we build castles in the sky
Oh tell me why
Oh, the castle's way up high
I'd made my mind up that would go explore before returning to Brighton, wanted to see some of the countryside, heard the West Sussex Downs were beautiful. Was a grand day, the clouds hung high, was actually very mild. Lovely country roads that connected one village to another, I love this kind of thing.
Oh England, my England.
By lunchtime, I'd stumbled into Arundel, a wonderful mediaeval village, home of the majestic Arundel Castle.
There is nearly 1,000 years of history at this great castle, situated in magnificent grounds overlooking the River Arun in West Sussex and built at the end of the 11th century by Roger de Montgomery, Earl of Arundel.
The oldest feature is the motte, an artificial mound, over 100 feet high from the dry moat, and constructed in 1068: followed by the gatehouse in 1070. Under his will, King Henry I (1068-1135) settled the Castle and lands in dower on his second wife, Adeliza of Louvain. Three years after his death she married William d'Albini II, who built the stone shell keep on the motte. King Henry II (1133-89), who built much of the oldest part of the stone Castle, in 1155 confirmed William d'Albini II as Earl of Arundel, with the Honour and Castle of Arundel.
This was a part of England I wanted to re-connect with.
Found a lovely bakery & cheese shoppe in the village with a fantastic view of the castle. Lunched on freshly baked bread and an assortment of cheeses.
Topped my little Smart car up with petrol and headed for the next downland village.
Felt exhilarating just to be driving through the rolling, green hills and wooded farmland. This area of Britain has been inhabited by man since earliest times and was an important trade route in the Bronze era.
I came across a sign for Devil’s Dyke, how could I resist!
The Devil’s Dyke is a huge area of elevated land; here one can get a splendid view across the downs.
It is here that Julius Caesar defeated Cassivellaunus in 54 BC, if correct; it would make the area one of the largest and most important British Iron Age settlements in England.
Well surprise, surprise, a pub – The Devil’s Dyke Pub & Restaurant. Decided to stop and wet my whistle. Ended up staying and enjoying the scenery for the rest of the afternoon.
The skies had turned dark; I made my way back towards Brighton.
Found myself a great place to stay, The Brighton Hotel, thirty pounds, including breakfast, and right on the seafront.
Once again a very small, but clean room. No body odor, so that was a big plus, no Black Sabbath that was a double plus.
Cracked open a bottle of plonk, sat by the window and listened to the sea as washed across the stones on the beach.
Slept like a log. Ahh, the simple pleasures of clean, fresh smelling cotton sheets, a little disappointed not to get an appearance by Kate Winslet.
The Lanes
Awoke feeling refreshed and full of vigor. Had a piping hot shower, dressed, did a concentrated comb-over to try and hide my bald spot and, headed downstairs for breakfast. Good 'ol English breakfast; fried eggs, fried bread, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, fried tomatoes, black pudding, baked beans . . . think that was it! That'll get the engines going. Breakfast at a hotel in America normally indicates they have a self-service area in the lobby with a coffee maker, basket of old Danish pastries, couple of bananas, and just maybe, a few single servings of cereal.
Outside, it was blowing a gale, so much for the comb-over.
I'd heard about this area in Brighton known as 'the lanes' and decided to take a stroll over.
The Lanes is the oldest area of Brighton.
At one time roads including a South Street were discovered under the shingle beach. This lower part of the town had been destroyed during storms in the 15th century.
Most people think of the Lanes as the area of narrow streets full of shops and restaurants in the heart of Brighton. Whilst this is true, it is also the oldest part of town, dating back centuries to the time when the village of Brighthelmstone consisted of a maze of streets bounded by North Street, South Street, East Street and West Street. Here were the market, the monastic farm, the poorhouse, the fishermen's cottages, and the hustle and bustle of every day life. Many of the buildings are in fact older than they look, having been re-fronted over the years. Each has a story to tell.
What is now a smart restaurant was a hardware store selling tin baths 100 years ago. Laurence Olivier made his stage debut here; this is where the Beatles played. Add 'the oldest public house' in town, (a title hotly debated!); the oldest house (ditto!), Graham Greene's favorite pub and Oscar Wilde's favorite restaurant are here. This is where the smugglers haunts exist. A sprinkling of chapels, including one now a pub, this is a marvelous potpourri of a place.
Probably took a town meeting to work this one out. "Ok members of Brighton Town Council, we need to come up with a name for this wonderful area of our town". "Suggestions please" "We are looking for something both memorable and special, something that really defines this area"
The Lanes, is that all they come come up with?
Anything would have been more interesting, more original . . . but that is history.
By late afternoon I was feeling like having a sarnie and a pint, time to find a pub.
'The Slug & Lettuce' was on the corner. Curios name, why not? I made my way in.
The pub was packed, only a small place. I asked a nice looking young lady seated at a table if she wouldn't mind me sharing with her.
The old man and the Essex girl.
Essex Girl - The stereotypical image was formed as a variation of the dumb blonde/bimbo persona, with references to: the Estuary English accent, white stiletto heels, peroxide blonde hair, promiscuity, loud verbal vulgarity, and socializing at down-market nightclubs in large groups.
"Those are funny looking snouts, where did you get them?"
She’d noticed my pack of Winston’s.
"America, would you like one?"
"Go on then" she replies.
"Are you a yank?"
"No, I live there now, originally I'm from Nottingham/Derby area" I tell her.
"So what ya doin' in Brighton this time of the year?"
Ok leave it to muggings, this is where I start to lay it on thick.
"I'm a screenwriter in Los Angeles.Tarantino and I are supposed to hook up to suss out a little project"
"Really??" Her eyes have lit up.
"Yeah, DiCaprio's already agreed to play the lead, I’m hoping to get Kate Winslet in too.
Did you ever see Quadraphenia? Mods and Rockers film set in Brighton, 1965? Well this is going to be a sort of different take on the same theme. Young man, hates the philistine life, he only feels ok when he's riding around on his scooter with his mates. He's always high, life is one huge buzz. It's a flight into an illusionary world, classic recipe for a downward spiral into madness and despair.
We originally were going to set this in modern day Brighton. Opening with flashback footage of Fat Boy Slim playing to thousands on Brighton Beach, the anthemic sound of Born Slippy by Underworld setting the tone.
Then I realized, this was way too predictable. So now it's going to be set in Brighton, early 17th century, opening with a ballad by Heinrich Schütz as we get a panoramic shot across Devils Dyke."
This bird was a bit of a corker. Funny thing was, she really did come from Essex.
We drank and talked all afternoon. I even got a compliment or two.
"That's a pretty trendy jacket for an old geezer" she said.
As the drinking increased, so did my lines of twaddle.
I know, I'm bang out of order,
I found out that she lived in London, worked as a secretary, and often took the train down to Brighton to do a little shopping, and have a little fun.
She found out about my little pad in Beverly Hills, my sports cars, my circle of fabulous friends, and my charmed life.
That was it, I was in here. Deciding to be really cool, thought I'd play the ace. "Well I've got to go now, I've got a flight in the morning"
She immediately replied " Can I come along with you? I'm enjoying your company"
We stepped out and headed in the direction of the seafront.
The cold air brought us to our senses, we exchanged goodbyes, and I hailed a cab for her, and continued on to the hotel.
I called Daniel and we made plans to meet for a coffee in the morning before I was to head for Heathrow and my flight back to the States.
That evening a melancholy fell over me. I felt confused and lonely. Decided to call it an early night, I had to awake early.
Strange night, my recurring dreams; I’m on a desolate island trying frantically to climb up the rocks to escape the stormy sea that is rapidly approaching, it’s cold and windy. Segue . . I’m walking with my father up a beautiful hill, there’s a lone oak tree on the top, with each step my father gets younger and younger. It’s beautiful and peaceful. And who’s this? From around the tree steps Kate Winslet (just kidding!)
The Wizard of Oz
Auntie Em: Why don't you find a place where there isn't any trouble.
Dorothy: A place where there isn't any trouble. Do you suppose there is such a place Toto? There must be. It's not a place you can get to by a boat or a train. It's far, far away. Behind the moon, beyond the rain.
I awoke to the roar of the wind. I’d left the window open, a heck of a gale was coming in off the ocean, the curtains danced wildly.
Not yet light, was still early. I was glad as I wanted to have a leisurely breakfast before meeting Daniel, before heading back to the airport.
Met with Daniel at the Starbucks in Hove.
My return flight was at 2:30, I had was not sure how long it would take to get to Heathrow, the rain had started coming down, so I had a quick coffee with Daniel, we promised each other we’d stay in touch more often and I hit the road.
Heathrow was packed, people everywhere.
Waited in the checkout line for 3 hours, very different from the flight over.
14 hours in the air trapped between 2 strangers, mmm, lovely!
Excuse me, could you please bring me 7 vodka and tonics please?
Bet Kate doesn’t travel like this!
Early evening and we were circling Los Angeles airport, very strong Santa Ana winds were causing a lot of turbulence.
Eventually we had landed, another 2 hour wait to get through customs, and then I’m outside.
The sky is clear.
The City of Angels sparkles.
It’s a beautiful night.
Epilogue, spoilers & footnotes
Not everything said was true, that’s the beauty of a yarn.
The gorgeous bird in the Melbourne Hotel and I got on famously and had a grand time. Daniel’s guitar riffs were brilliant. DiCaprio had not agreed to star in my project. The Essex girl and I formed a bond so strong that she has now decided to come visit me, and Kate Winslet and I had a fantastic time in first class, sipping champagne and falling madly in love.
Like to pay homage to the writers Bill Bryson and Paul Theroux in inspiring me to jot down this little selfindulgent diatribe. Plagiarism does indeed save time.
Ta-ta for now.
Trevor
arse over kettle
Phrs. Fall over. Also arse over tea kettle
apples and pears
Noun. Stairs. Possibly the most commonly expressed piece of Cockney rhyming slang that is used as an example of such, or used in jocular mimicry. The term is infrequently heard used in genuine daily use
all fur coat and no knickers
Phrs. Of a woman, all superficial appearance and no real substance beneath. Derog
bang out of order
Phrs. Totally unacceptable.
muggins
Noun. A fool, someone easily outwitted, usually said with regard to oneself. E.g."That's right, leave it to muggins here, as usual I'll do the washing up." {Informal} chocolate teapot
Noun. A useless thing. Usually heard in phrases such as "as useful as a chocolate teapot." E.g. "A car without wheels is as useful as a chocolate teapot." Cf. 'chocolate fireguard'
Chrimble
Noun. Christmas. Cf. 'Crimbo'.
chuffed as nuts
Adj. Extremely pleased.
corker
Noun. An excellent thing or person.
cream crackered
Adj. Tired out, exhausted. Rhyming slang on 'knackered'
face like a dropped pie
Phrs. 1. Very unattractive.
2. Miserable looking.
fart in a spacesuit
Phrs. Used in expressions to add emphasis. Heard in phrases such as, as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit or as much use as a fart in a spacesuit.
fit as a butcher's dog
Phrs. Very healthy and strong. [Orig. Lancs]
I'll go to the foot of our stairs!
Exclam. An exclamation of surprise. [Lancs/Yorks use]
lager boys
Noun. Young men who over-indulge in alcohol and consequently become loutish.
mad as a box of frogs
Phrs. Of a situation or person, totally crazy.
merchant (banker)
Noun. A contemptible person. Rhyming slang, meaning 'wanker'.
muggins
Noun. A fool, someone easily outwitted, usually said with regard to oneself. E.g."That's right, leave it to muggins here, as usual I'll do the washing up." {Informal}
