The week continued on its breakneck course, with plenty of Christmas preparation: cards, presents, carol service preparation and so on. The weather has turned very cold, with a brisk wind, but it is happily bright and dry, both of which get my vote.
On Thursday we went to Sue and Roger Eagle’s in Hempnall for lunch, preceded by a brisk but chilling walk round the village. Then came an excellent spicy cauliflower soup, which would have been enough for me. However, it was followed by a pork main course and a small but rich sweet – at the end of which Dot had one of her funny turns, where she goes into a cold sweat and can’t move. I got her to the loo and she recovered, but not really enough to stay, and I took her home, where she collapsed on the sofa.
From disparate sources we later discovered that this was a case of overstimulation of the vagus nerve, where the the overfed stomach demands too much blood, and leaves too little for the brain. It doesn’t last long, but it’s pretty frightening when it happens. This is the third time Dot has had it. In her life, that is. The most recent time was in the Last Wine Bar.
On Friday she had pretty much recovered and drove me to the Archant pensioners’ lunch after I’d dashed to the supermarket to slot in a £40 shop (thus obtaining an essential voucher) and dropped a Christmas pudding on someone’s foot. Luckily, being a northerner, he hardly felt it.
The pensioners’ lunch was the usual traditional affair, with the wine on offer dwindling to a trickle. Sat on a depleted subs’ table with Robin Limmer and Bruce Robinson on my left, and John Kitson and Terry Reeve on my right. Mr Kitson proved remarkably entertaining. Also present: Sue, Frances, Julie… Sadly absent: Brian Caldecott, attending the N&N for some kind of operation. Shock of the day: among 16 pensioners reported dead in the past year was stone hand Martin Rodwell, who I had met not long ago at Blakeney and who had looked really well. Apparently he got cancer in his liver and pancreas, and died within 11 weeks of the diagnosis. A sobering thought. He was a nice bloke. Always got on well with him.
On Saturday, Norwich City scored three goals in six minutes while I was taking my brother Phil home from a walking visit. He finds it hard to walk more than one way now, which is rather sad. Norwich City beat Huddersfield 5-0. Later I drove Dot up to the Methodist Church on Chapelfield, braving the homegoing football drivers, so that she could rehearse for her evening concert there.
I left the car in the (free) car park and walked home, buying a hook for the bathroom on the way; cooked some food (I had earlier cooked some for Dot); fixed the hook on the bathroom door; and then walked back, arriving with about ten minutes to spare. (The hook is to ensure privacy for Naomi, who is staying with us tonight and tomorrow night; the main lock is defective.)
At the concert I sat with Maryta and Paul, having greeted Neville Thrower, whose wife Mary was on clarinet. It was a good concert, with Dot on second violin looking very good. Tea and biscuits at the interval, and a chat with the oboeist, who is Peter Bussey’s sister. All these CNS connections… Speaking of which, we have been invited to Adrian O’dell’s 70th next May. We know all the top people. After the concert Dot and I went back to the Hendersons’ for wine, tea, cheese and biscuits. Very nice.
This morning had a Communion led by Eleanor, with Howard preaching on the Magnificat. Dot has been dealing with cards and presents this afternoon. I have completed my allocation, but there is still much to do. Like a leaflet for the Midnight Communion, for instance.
Fireworks at the Castle, as seen from Aspland Road
As I sit here writing this, my wife is mixing with Royalty. A governor of Little Plumstead Primary School, she is meeting Prince Edward (Earl of Wessex) as he visits the school as part of a Norfolk tour. She was panicking slightly as she left because she had just received an e-mail saying that all the parking places were booked and she should park at the church. She wasn’t sure where that was, but no doubt it all turned out all right.
The weather has remained fairly wintry – or at least autumny. I guess it will remain so till about next May. Not sure humans were ever meant to live at these latitudes. Things have been quite hectic, even without the royalty.
Last Saturday I secured an appointment with my uncle Paul and delivered a version of our family tree that he had requested. Needless to say, he didn’t remember requesting it, but he remembers very little nowadays except who people are. When I rang him to arrange the visit, my cousin Stephen was with him, and I had a quick chat with him. He was very upbeat, despite worsening MS. After a pleasant half an hour, I left Paul to his Wiltshire Farms meal and the opportunity to examine the tree. I’ve had no feedback yet, but he was very appreciative of all my efforts. I said I had enjoyed doing it, which was true.
In the evening we visited another Paul – Henderson of that ilk – who was singing in the Philharmonic at St Andrew’s Hall at the time. Good programme: Debussy’s La Mer (orchestra only), then Lloyd’s Mass, which was excellent. Afterwards Paul and Maryta came back for coffee as the rain beat down, and I drove them home.
Another busy day on Sunday: first the Remembrance Communion at church, led by Howard and with Eleanor officiating and preaching. Reading of the names was emotional as always. Phil had called off both church and the Seagull because of work pressures; so in the afternoon Dot and I drove to Aldeburgh to see James Knox Whittet’s exhibition of sonnets and pictures relating to Islay. Although we missed the opening, we were there in time to see James and his wife – and sample some Islay whisky.
We followed this with fish and chips next door at the Galleon (also excellent) and a brief walk on the seafront in the darkness before heading north to Lowestoft. Dot remembered where there was a Morrisons garage and so we were able to save some money on petrol (we had a voucher). We arrived in Pakefield early and so drove down to the harbour and got a drink at the Harbour Inn, which was unexpected and pleasant. Then on to the Seagull, where we rehearsed for a while. Very few people present; so I got an opportunity to sing three songs and read two poems. Dot accompanied me on two of the songs, but declined on the third.
When we set off for Norwich I left my glasses behind. After searching exhaustively for them at home on Wednesday (after managing without them for a couple of days, assuming they’d turn up) I e-mailed Ian, who not only had found them but was about to travel to Norwich; so he dropped them off yesterday afternoon, while I was out but Dot wasn’t.
Travelled to North Walsham on Monday for a meeting of the Paston Trustees, during which Lucy outlined plans for yet another grant bid – this time for a project that had to be completed by the end of March next year. I pointed out the ridiculously short time frame, but to no avail. She is bidding for the money.
In the early evening Naomi arrived to stay for a couple of nights while she completed some work at the UEA. She planned to leave at 8.30 the following morning, but it was after 9.30 before she appeared. Still, all apparently went well. In the afternoon I had my urology appointment at Cromer. They were running nearly an hour late, and none of the expected things like x-ray and scanning happened. I had a flow test, which was OK, and a bit of an examination, but failed to convince the doctor that anything was wrong. So no change there, then.
Yesterday we took the MX5 in to the garage because of a rattle that I had been worried about for some time. I went for a run with mechanic Wayne (nice bloke), who diagnosed it en route as a loose caliber pin sheath (not sure that’s the right word) on the left front wheel. We left it while he packed it with grease and made sure there was no risk of anything going wrong when Dot travels to Liverpool in about ten days. When we picked it up again in late afternoon, it was much better: Dot also got some new mats, which were remarkably cheap, given the cost of everything else with the name Mazda on it.
While the car was in the garage I paid some cheques in and then went to see The Pity of War, a short piece written by and starring David Newham on the friendship between Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen and including (of course) some of their work. While waiting to go in I bumped into Sue and Roger, and sat with them. Also said hello to Trevor Burton, another ex-colleague and actor, afterwards, as well as congratulating David.
Unfortunately, though, I had to rush off, because I had an appointment to meet Joy McCall and Nick Gorvin at 3pm to discuss plans for my Iona book, which Joy insists on financing. First time I’ve been to her house, which is impressive – especially the Garden Room. All specially adapted so that she can move around freely in her wheelchair. Also met her husband Andy for the first time and was able to check that he didn’t mind his wife spending her money in producing a book for me. He didn’t.
After some deep discussion and a brief chat about the book, I have agreed to make it thicker so that it can be perfect bound. Joy insists. I think Nick is a bit bemused by the whole thing. I suppose I am really.
Rodney, Angela and Oliver line up for pictures at the wedding
Yes, it’s Tuesday again, and a small pause for breath. Have just had another go at booking airline seats for our Florida holiday – this time a bit more successfully, having obtained our British Airways booking number (strangely omitted from our original documentation). I have also been promised a refund from the agents for seat booking which didn’t happen.
This followed an all-action weekend, beginning on Friday with a day of interviewing UEA students for an internship at the Paston Heritage Society. This was made a little more tiring by having to fetch Lucy from Paston and return her there, and by the chosen candidate being constantly unobtainable by phone afterwards. When I did eventually contact her (by e-mail), she had just accepted a full-time job, so withdrew from the internship. We now have our second favourite, an earnest young lad who seems nevertheless to be extremely competent and has a car!
In the evening Dot and I went to the Norwich Christian Resource Centre to hear a talk by Allison Barnett, of Jews for Jesus, who rather unexpectedly turned out to be a brilliant speaker, deserving of a much bigger audience.
The next morning we met Heather Savigny and Simon for breakfast – something I would consider for only a selected few people – at Grounds coffee bar on Guildhall Hill. Had a teacake and as always some great conversation. They are scheduled to move to Bournemouth next month, but have already found an Indian restaurant there. We have been promised an invitation.
Later in the day was the long advertised event of autumn: Donna’s marriage to Andy at Oaklands Hotel. Many West Midlands accents in evidence, but also most of the surviving Beales family, with the exception of Rosemary. David, Oliver and Amy came up from Caddington, and we found ourselves sitting at the same table as Richard, Maddy and Darcy – lovely girls. Great opportunity to chat with Richard, the next generation coming to the fore. Justin took the official photos, and Heidi sat next to David. Angela was a witness. Vicki and Graham were also there, as was Rodney’s son Chris and his wife Sarah. Great food and drink from Oaklands: we used a taxi both ways. Oliver gained an admirer – four-year-old Darcy, who followed him everywhere. I think he quite liked it.
Our view of the O2 stage
No rest on Sunday, when we were off to London by 10am for the second major event of the weekend: a day with the Coomes, followed by a Leonard Cohen concert at O2. This was all paid for by our ever-generous hosts, including the taxi back from O2 to Leyton, a not inconsiderable sum to which we contributed a small amount behind David’s back. Cohen was as ever brilliant. Here is his set list:
Dance me to the end of love; The Future; Like a bird on the wire; Got a little secret; Everybody knows; Who by fire; Where is my gypsy wife tonight?; The darkness; Amen; Come healing; Lover, lover, lover. After the interval Tower of song; Suzanne; Chelsea Hotel#2; The Partisan; In my secret life; Alexandra leaving (sung by Sharon Robinson); I’m your man; 1000 kisses deep (read as poem); Hallelujah; Take this waltz; then as encores (!) So long Marianne; Going home; First we take Manhattan; Famous blue raincoat; If it be your will (sung by the Webb Sisters); and one verse of Closing Time.
It got better and better, and the O2 was a good venue, though the loos are laughably inadequate: there was a huge queue for the men’s toilet(!). Some peculiar people in the audience: one middle-aged man in a hoodie kept going out for a pint of beer; presumably he thought he was at a cricket match. Another couple brought a baby, but it didn’t last long. Probably preferred Iron Maiden.
Next day we were about to leave the flat much later than expected (Audrey’s partner, Bent, rang to say she was too unwell to be visited) when David arrived home, also not feeling well – he had fallen in the bathroom the previous morning and damaged his ribs. We were on our way out, so continued, assuming (rightly, I think) he would want to be left alone.
Dot at Elveden, waiting for breast of guinea fowl
On our way home we were fortunate to avoid a major hold-up on the A11 Elveden stretch when a car transporter slipped into a ditch and the road was eventually closed. We had been held up by a broken-down car short of Elveden, then stopped for lunch at the farm restaurant. When we emerged there was a huge delay at the lights, and we just managed to squeeze out after ten minutes or so. I suspect the lorry had gone into the ditch trying to get round the car. There ought to be some kind of penalty for causing such major hold-ups (unless it’s me, of course).
The major event of the previous week was my lunch with Joy McCall and a prospective publisher of a book of Norfolk-linked tanka. We met at the Rushcutters and eventually I had adequate fish and chips to match Joy’s fish pie. The publisher (of a smallish outfit called the Mousehold Press) was Adrian Bell, who turned out to be a chess player. The idea, it transpired from Joy, was for Adrian to publish at her expense a number of our tanka strings with photographs of Norfolk to which they were linked. I am supposed to get a running order together and send it to Adrian, which I need to do quickly. Together with a number of other things.
That was on Wednesday. On Thursday I made my second attempt of the week to visit Geoff in hospital (on Tuesday he was somewhere else getting his toes looked at). This time I coincided with Nicholas in the car park, but we were told Sophie had taken Geoff out in his wheelchair. Nicholas knew where they were likely to be, but they weren’t there, and after he left I spent some time scouring the area, in vain. Still, the stroll through the cemetery was quite enjoyable.
Meanwhile, I’m getting tantalisingly close to finishing Amy’s story. This week?
Dot on the path from Spout Hills to the Letheringsett Water Mill.
Life doesn’t get any slower, but at least the weather is something approaching mild today. I stepped outside to go to the supermarket, wondering which coat to wear, and realised I didn’t need a coat at all. Deep shock. We did have some sun last week, but the wind was very chilly, and when we went to Blakeney for a concert on Saturday, it was grey and verging on cold. No, it actually was cold.
The concert, in the church, was good, though: the Mozart Orchestra playing (mainly) Beethoven’s Concerto for Violin. And the violinist, Fiona Hutchins, was brilliant, clearly having a lot of fun, and no self-importance whatsoever. We sat in the third row, and it was great to watch her close-up. She is normally the orchestra leader, and they clearly got on well.
Before that we ate sandwiches in our car on the quay, and then had a quick drink in the bar at the Blakeney Hotel as the tide raced in.
The previous day was much warmer and sunny; so we went to Holt and walked at Spout Hills and across the fields to Letheringsett Water Mill, which was just closing. So we went back up into town and had tea and scone at Byfords (always wonderful), followed by a bit of food shopping at Bakers & Larners. Earlier I’d picked up my new glasses from Boots, who have just texted me to say I missed my appointment. They clearly need glasses.
Going further back into the mists of time, on Wednesday Nicholas talked me through a service I’m leading at the old church on the 23rd. Last night I had a bad dream about leading a service and not having anything with me that I should have. And it hadn’t even been preying on my mind, though I’m not at all sure I can remember everything Nicholas said. It is preying on my mind now, of course. I have to put the order of service together and choose some hymns; then I should be OK. Let us prey.
At the PCC that same evening I met the new parish treasurer, who gave me a document to pin up in the church. Something to do with insurance. Unfortunately I lost it on the way home: I was walking because Dot had the car, which is still in the garage and will be for at least a week, probably more. I am pretending the document never existed. It won’t be long before I start pretending the car never existed.
Sharon had a particularly effective go at my shoulder on Thursday, and it’s been feeling much better since. But I am still awaiting the results of the x-ray.
Busy day on Sunday. After preaching on raising the dead (no visual aids) we went to Adrian Ward’s 60th birthday party at Cringleford, arriving just in time for the food but too early for the only other people we knew (except Adrian and his wife). Martin Laurance eventually turned up, complete with new eye surgery, and later Annette and Teri. In between, Caroline, who read some poems from her Pepys book following a guy who played cello for rather a long time. Dot and I then had to rush away because we were performing at the Seagull in the evening. No music this time, but Dot did assist in a tanka series, and I did a few other poems. Very good young singer-guitarist there called Matthew Shepherd, of whom I expect great things.
And then there was yesterday, when Phil drove me to Coventry/Warwick to visit Andrew. We visited Minster Lodge first and left some money for the man who was transporting Andrew’s belongings from the Langleys. Then to Warwick, and a bit of a challenge finding the entrance to Andrew’s new ward, the Rowans. All the staff very pleasant. Andrew was less manic but still firmly inhabiting a fantasy land – or to be more accurate, several fantasy lands. We had a chat with the ward manager and the consultant, then headed for home, stopping only for an Olympic breakfast at Thrapston. Well, you have to, don’t you?
And now Linda is just finishing Dot’s hair, having cut mine halfway through this blog. Tuesday Group tonight, which I will have to sort out myself, because Dot has a meeting at 6.30pm. She may or may not be back for our meal.
The speed of light – and therefore time – increases again. I don’t care what anyone says: I’m from Yorkshire. Well, no, I’m not, but nevertheless time does seem to be hurtling past, and I don’t seem to be achieving an awful lot. Certainly not on Tuesday, when the Broadband was down for several hours. As we all know, when Broadband is down it’s like a newspaper strike. Nothing happens.
It was also the day the accountant came, and we spent some time trying to open one of Barbara’s files, which was in some outlandish open source software, and compressed to boot. Gave up in the end, because we couldn’t access the internet to find out how it might be opened. Went back to the pigeon.
Last Saturday we went to a concert at St Augustine’s, and on the way discovered that it was part of the Magdalen/St Augustine’s Festival, which aspires to be a kind of mini-Notting Hall. The concert was in three parts, of which we saw the first two – an organ recital, which was strangely dampened and attended by very few people; and some music from a violin, a cello and an organist who doubled as an amazing counter-tenor. More people at that one, and some of it was very good. But I think a few songs from Far Cry would not have been out of place.
On that theme, I have today printed out 24 song booklets for church, each of them containing 20 of my songs (words only). I should be able to produce music versions: I can write music, but I can’t think of any way to do it that would be useful. Lack of imagination and a touch of laziness thwart most things.
I have also been judging the Two Valleys Poetry Competition for the second year running. At first the entries seemed unexceptional, but on closer examination there are a number of pretty good ones, and it’s been hard to make a final choice.
Much of the rest of the time has been spent on being church treasurer, including the usual trip into the city yesterday to pay in cheques. This occurred after a lunchtime visit by the Higbees, before they rushed down to Bedford to babysit their granddaughter, Arianna. Dot did a rather nice curry, following up her triumph the previous night of butternut squash and potato soup for the Tuesday Group. The Higbees also bought a patio cleaner for Dot to try out, and she got so enthusiastic that she did the whole of the back garden area while I went into the city. Effective but dirty, rather like the Roses road train.
Good food day on Sunday. We started with lunch at church – soup and rolls left over from the aforementioned festival – and proceeded to North Walsham for mince pies at Jessie’s. She makes a mean mince pie. Home through pouring rain and up to Loch Fyne for an evening meal, purely to obtain a free bottle of wine for which we had a voucher. Loch Fyne meals are good, though on this occasion service was very slow. But maybe spending £50 to get a free bottle if wine is not the most economical thing to do.
When we were in Scotland, the average temperature was around 6-8C. This week 26C has been recorded at Aviemore, and it was 24C yesterday at Aboyne, where it was snowing less than a week ago. But it’s warm and sunny here in Norfolk too, ever since they fixed the power cut. Odd, Holmes.
I’ve had a blood test followed by a visit to the doctor, with the result that I have an extra pill to lower my blood pressure. Good news on that front: it’s down to 152/94, which is a considerable improvement.
The power cut did rather hamper my compilation of a financial report for the DCC, but I suspect that my version of a financial report (description of how we’re doing) is not the the kind of thing required (forecast of what we’ll have at the end of the year). Yes, I could make a guess, based on what is coming in and what is going out, but since that could fluctuate wildly, I don’t see how it would be much use. I mean, what if we only had a few loaves and fishes?
In much the same news, I paid in quite a large number of cheques to the DCC’s bank account on Tuesday and then dropped some Paston flyers off at St Peter Mancroft Church, where I had a very pleasant conversation with a woman from Kingston on Thames (originally). I then popped into the Forum to see the Norwich 20 Group exhibition and ran into Hilary Mellon, who was pretending to be a steward. Also left some flyers at the Tourist Information office.
On the way home ran into swathes of Celtic supporters, up for an Adam Drury testimonial match. I observed on Facebook that I was OK, since my wife was born in Glasgow, which elicited astonishment from my nephew Sam, who didn’t know his aunt was Scottish. I think I’ll leave him thinking she’s Scottish – at least until he reads this.
On Wednesday evening we went to a Norfolk and Norwich Festival concert at St Andrew’s Hall which was notable on several counts. First, there was a long queue to get in, which in view of the fact that we had paid a considerable amount to get tickets about two months ago, is pretty miserable organisation. It also started nearly 15 minutes late and was about the shortest concert I’ve ever been to, finishing around 45 minutes later. I worked out that it cost us, as a couple, over £1 a minute.
The music – Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony – was good, by Spira Mirabilis from Italy, who operate without a conductor and are extremely excitable, as you might expect. But I thought it poor return for the money invested and was rather disgruntled. We went home and watched an episode of Lewis, which was much better value.
During the power cut on Monday Phil and Joy lent us a flask of boiling water. I walked up to their house yesterday to return the flask (a convenient distance). Trying to keep my blood pressure down.
Gondoliers wait with offers for unsuspecting passers-by: view from our Venice hotel window
We are well and truly back from Italy. Arrived on Saturday night to a brisk gale that made the low temperature seem even lower, and plenty of rain too. Yes, it was an English midsummer. The journey had not been the smoothest. We left our rented villa at Lamole, in Chianti, about 9.45am (8.45 UK time), and arrived back in Norwich shortly before 9.30pm, so the whole journey took more than 12 hours. We have done Toronto-Norwich more quickly.
After a smart piece of navigation we managed to enter Florence on the right side (or left, going up), and although we went slightly astray, we ended up pretty soon at the car rental place. It was raining, and the usual suspects were all selling umbrellas instead of handbags. We dragged our luggage to the station, where we dithered about what to do. It soon transpired there was nothing worth doing because the station was overcrowded and underprovided, and so we thought we might as well get to the airport while Roger and Barbara waited for the Rome train. We got a taxi to the airport, where we arrived around noon. This in itself was a bit of a relief, as the usual Italian penchant for sloppy naming and signposting meant that I had thought there were two airports when there was only one. If you’re going to Florence, don’t be confused. Florence Airport, Amerigo Vespucci, Peretola or indeed Aeroporto di Firenze are all the same thing. Only one of them is a translation of another. No prizes. This did not increase my love of Florence, which was pretty low anyway following a 90-minute wait for our rental car when we arrived the previous Saturday.
At the airport we faced a two-hour wait before we could even check in. The Italians had apparently thought this could never happen, because there were practically no facilities until you had checked in – not even seats. We did eventually locate one row of seats upstairs and grabbed two, plus a bite to eat at the very small cafe. Just after 2pm I thought I would see if we could check in and found that we could. I also found that our flight had been delayed for nearly three hours because the aircraft would not get there until then. This is an example of what has been described as Italian time. It bears almost no relation to any other time. We attempted to check in anyway, but were told that we had to go the ticket office because we would miss our connection. This meant another queue, but with an unexpected bonus at the end. The excellent ticket office guy found a way to get us to Amsterdam in time.
We had to board a flight to Paris almost immediately (sitting separately), then at Charles de Gaulle airport find a new terminal for the flight to Amsterdam. All airports contrive to make transfers ridiculously difficult with poor signposting and the pointless requirement to go through security again, but we eventually made it to the boarding gate, and Dot was delighted because our names were called. We had to show them our paperwork from Florence. At this point Dot began to get very impressed. This time we did sit together – the plane was not full – but further concern materialised because the flight left nearly half an hour late. Somehow it caught up, and we were only about ten minutes late when we arrived at an almost deserted Schiphol. Again difficult to find where to go, but we asked a customs official and eventually found the KLM desk, who were extremely helpful, and we reached the boarding gate with enough time for Dot to buy a coffee, but not to drink it. This time the plane was more than half empty, and we again had a row of three seats to ourselves. Sheer joy. What could go wrong now? Nothing. Phil, alerted by my phone call, picked us up and transported us home, and we were so tired, we didn’t unpack at all. I trotted down to Budgens to get bread and milk, passing through the nightclub girls shivering in their all-season miniskirts, and after a fried egg or two I went to bed. So did Dot, but without the eggs.
The usual suspects inside the Ca d'Oro, beside the Grand Canal in Venice
Having failed completely to narrate clearly and chronologically, I guess I should return to the beginning, but in rather less detail. We left home by taxi at 8.20am on the 10th and had no trouble reaching Amsterdam via Norwich Airport, putting our watches an hour forward in the process. Found a delightful Cafe Chocolat at Schiphol and indulged a little, then took off for Venice at 3pm. Barb had recklessly booked a restaurant for 7pm, so we were under pressure after landing at 5pm. If I’d known how far the airport was from our hotel, I would have been even more worried. Our bags took a while; when they arrived we braved the heat to walk to the Alligula boats about 500-600 yards away. Fortunately we made the right choice, taking the more expensive (£25 each) fast gold boat which gave us time to reach our hotel – following a pretty tricky piece of map-reading – by about 6.30pm. This gave us just about time to get to the restaurant (after a rendezvous with the Murrays), and the meal was excellent – probably the second-best of the entire trip, but very expensive, as are most things in Venice. Afterwards we took a circuitous route home via the waterfront.
The next day was epic. According to my pedometer, which is pretty accurate, we walked over ten miles, covering some key sites in Venice, including the Ca d’Oro, the Rialto Bridge, the Accademia Bridge and St Mark’s Square, as well as numerous lesser known alleys and open spaces. Venice was not really as I expected: a real warren of streets and narrow canals. At one point we got separated. I was a few steps ahead, looked round, and the other three had vanished. I waited and nothing happened. I went back to where I had last seen them (only a few steps): nothing. I waited again, then was forced to assume they had taken an alternative route. Fortunately I had a map and knew where we were going: the Accademia Bridge. So I went there and waited – for over half an hour. Eventually, as I was trying to get through on the mobile, they turned up. Apparently they had paused to look in a shop window, then bizarrely crossed the Rialto bridge instead of of going straight past it to where I was waiting. Then they waited on the wrong side of the river. Once Roger twigged they were on the wrong side of the river, Dot persuaded them to head for the Accademia Bridge, because she knew what I’d do. With the help of a Venetian lady who spoke no English, they eventually made it.
I got to know the Accademia Bridge quite well, and after lunch nearby we booked for a concert in the evening, in a church right by the bridge. We then went back to our hotel, which was a delightful building with very pleasant staff. It was called the Liassidi Palace Hotel, and it would have been perfect, except that the air conditioning in our room wasn’t working, and then one of the strip lights started flickering and making a noise, even when it was turned off. The staff did their best to sort this, but it wasn’t ideal, though we slept better the second night.
But we are not up to the second night yet. After a rest in the hotel we went on another walk organised by Barbara, ending with an elaborate ice cream each. Then back to the hotel for a Bellini, followed by a return to the church (San Vitale) near the Accademia Bridge for the concert, by the all-male Interpreti Veneziani, a brilliant string group (about ten of them) who majored on Vivaldi but did a superb version of Bartok’s Danze Rumene. Really compelling stuff. And still the day wasn’t over: our way back went through St Mark’s Square, which was flooded! We could have taken our shoes off, but Dot had a bad blister which had burst, and I didn’t want to risk it, so we looked for another way, which was surprisingly difficult to find. It was literally like a maze, with many dead ends, but we eventually got to an area we knew and reached the hotel safely just after 11pm.
Wisteria flowering in our back garden for the first time in a quarter of a century
The warm weather persists. Today we are in the mid-20s: one of those warm, calm summer days we don’t see enough of. We’re trying to resist the temptation to hurtle out in the car, on the grounds that everyone else will be doing the same. Still, we might venture a walk later on. We had expected Andrew to be with us this weekend, but he was not well enough to come. In fact when Phil and I went to Coventry yesterday to move some more of his stuff from Gareth’s to The Langleys, we found him to be in a sad state, and although I was intending at first to bring him back with us anyway, the longer we were with him, the worse he seemed, and in the end we decided it wasn’t practical, either from his point of view or from ours. It was sad to see him so fearful. We did manage to get quite a bit of his stuff moved, including three or four storage cubes which have given him more space in his room to accommodate it. I tried to get him to select what he wanted to bring, but he wasn’t able to do it, and eventually I had to make the decisions, while Phil, with a lot of help from Gareth – Andrew’s former carer, who is talking of moving to Portugal to rear goats – shifted the heavy stuff. Phil and I left for home about 4pm, but because of heavy traffic and a couple of diversions didn’t get to Norwich until 7.30pm. Admittedly, we had a meal on the way …
Dot and I completed our nap hand of Norfolk and Norwich Festival Concerts on Wednesday and Thursday. Dot had been at Overstrand on Wednesday morning, but got back in time to take the bus up to Castle Meadow and walk the rest of the way to the Assembly House for a piano recital by Reinis Zarins, who journeyed from Prokoviev to Liszt by way of Schoenberg, which made for some surprisingly hilly scenery. Amazing technique. I was a little surprised that the hall wasn’t full, but the Roman Catholic Cathedral was packed for our final concert of the festival, billed as Tallis in Wonderland (see what they did there?). This was a group of six singers – British, despite their name, I Fagiolini – who used a rather innovative approach to 15th and 16th century music. Unaccompanied voices, but a lot of strange presentation, particularly running round the church and singing from different individual positions, with additional words and singing from loudspeakers. I found the concert annoying at first, but eventually liked some of the ideas and movement; however, the overriding feeling was that it was very, very cold and I wanted them to get to the end as quickly as possible. This was made worse by the fact that it had been a warm day, and so no-one was wearing heavy clothing. The temperature inside the cathedral must have been about 15 degrees colder than outside. Felt sorry for the performers, who had to do it all again later in the evening. Felt even sorrier for the people who were going to come to the second, and presumably even colder, performance. Suggested on Twitter that it should be renamed Tallis on Ice.
We walked briskly home afterwards and snuggled up in front of the television for an hour or so. Earlier in the day Colin had come to re-lay a bit of our drive, which was cracking up. He discovered that our downpipe didn’t go anywhere except under the drive, so he changed plans (after discussion) and eventually – after discovering a gas pipe – went for a kind of stone-filled soakaway covered by pebbles. We are thinking of putting in a semi-circular water butt to solve the where-will-the-water-go problem. Meanwhile we now have a large soil-filled, wood box for vegetables in the back garden – but the really big news is that our wisteria has flowered for the first time in 26 years! It has got together with some honeysuckle and looks really good.
An enthusiastic Amy tries to put a spring in Oliver's steps
At last the weather has turned warmer. Walked three miles back from Joe’s at lunchtime after beating him 3-0 at chess (the first luckily on time, but the other two quite good games), and stepped into John Lewis’s to research TVs for Andrew, adding a diversion to Timberhill to buy Claxton Opera tickets. Very pleasant. The weather was quite good at the weekend too, which we spent at Caddington to celebrate prematurely David’s 38th birthday – actually today. On the Saturday we were joined by Philip Coomes and family, and had a really good time, rather too much of it spent playing football in the garden, which meant I was exhausted in the evening and went to sleep through Dr Who.
Oliver is developing into a really good little footballer, and Lydia and Alistair aren’t bad either. Meanwhile Amy has developed a French accent, though only while talking to her dolls. The various French numbers feature strongly, but although I didn’t recognise any other words, they sounded as if they ought to be proper French words, even if they weren’t. Taught Oliver a bit of guitar after I managed to get it roughly in tune and Dot finished it off. Oliver is also learning cello, and Vicky came round in the evening to give him a lesson. Amy has a keyboard in her bedroom, so it’s just a question of time… On the Sunday we had lunch at the Harvester nearby: just right for a family, though Oliver was feeling rather poorly, with a cold suddenly developing. Had a decent steak.
On the way home we decided on the spur of the moment to call in to see Joan at Baldock. Against the odds, she was in and had a couple of friends with her. They insisted we stay, so we had a pleasant hour or so there. The female friend had been to Wall Hall College, so she and Dot had something in common, though they weren’t there at the same time. Joan has just had another granddaughter (Harriet’s) and is going up to Leeds to see her today.
Yesterday Dot had to go to Acle school in the morning, but she got back in time to come with me to the lunchtime Norfolk and Norwich Festival concert we’d booked for at the Assembly House. Good value at £7. Superb cellist Jessica Hayes paired with Polish accordionist Rafal Luc. An unlikely team, but I thought it worked well, though Dot was not as convinced. Both agreed that the accordion solo of Mendelssohn’s Organ Sonata No 6 was brilliant, sounding just like an organ: tremendous force and amazing dexterity and feeling. Called in at John Lewis afterwards for tea and looking for an iPod dock, but couldn’t find what we wanted: similarly failed later at the Apple Store.
We’ve been fortunate with our Festival choices: on Friday we went to St Andrew’s Hall for the Moscow State Symphony Orchestra, which was absolutely brilliant, especially during the opening Borodin. The final Shostakovich I found less memorable, though it was technically well-nigh perfect. Violinist Chloe Hanslip was great (except in actual stature) for her performance of Philip Glass’s Violin Concerto No 1, which I thought was brilliant. At the end the orchestra did a couple or encores featuring their livewire redhead drummer Alla Mamyko. The percussionists were fascinating throughout.
Granddaughter Amy gets to grips with Bewilderwood while waiting for the boat
The concert by Stuart Townend was announced as something different. I was dubious at first, but it turned out to be exactly that, as the first half-hour or so was taken up by jazz from Mark Edwards and band: superb stuff, very high quality. The musicians generally were top-notch, adding another dimension to Stuart Townend’s fairly straightforward Celtic-inspired hymns and songs. Some of these were extremely good (In Christ Alone is still the best); others were merely good. He did a great deal of talking too, and the concert lasted for three hours, including a 20-minute interval. Bridget and David were there, and Harriet, who took Vicky’s place when she realised it would be too much of a rush after spending the day in London. Holy Trinity was packed, of course.
Dot had just finished a tiring afternoon delivering some philosophy for teachers at a school just outside Norwich. We were both feeling a bit shaky, but it was worth making the effort. Today is wet and dismal, and Dot has gone off to Diocesan House for a conference for aspiring heads. She is giving one of the talks. She is actually a bit of a star, but of course I always knew that. I have one or two things lined up: I am writing a story for Oliver for Christmas, a Christmas dramatic poem for church, a course for editors of church magazines on behalf of the parish pump website and some material for the Paston website to bring it up to date.
