writing, not drowning

The London collection

If you take the girl or, in my case, the woman of a certain age, out of London, what happens? In this woman's case, London is not forgotten; the binding ties are still there and if someone should ask me how I define myself, geographically speaking, I would have no hesitation in saying, and with some degree of pride, that I am a Londoner, voluntary displacement to Devon almost sixteen years ago notwithstanding. And, in the same way that Italians identify primarily with their home city or town, I think of myself first as a Londoner rather than, say, as English or British. (This continuing connection to London by no means detracts from my affection for my adopted county, Devon, much of which I have grown to love, although some aspects of daily life here continue to perplex me.)

These days, however, time and cost preclude frequent visits back to the old home town and an exchange of messages earlier this summer with one of my favourite London bloggers, rus in urbis, reminded me that it is two years since I was there last . That can't be right, I tell myself. But it is; two whole years . . .

But if I cannot visit London, I can, at least, read about it and I do. On my bookshelves, there is a growing collection of books about London or that feature London, a collection that feeds my desire to remain connected. Thanks to Jerry White's magnificent three-volume history, London in the Eighteenth Century, London in the Nineteenth Century, and London in the Twentieth Century, which I finished reading in June, that connection is tighter than ever. If you want a sense of the many layers and strands, the cultures and nationalities, the politics and professions, the energy and the entertainment - and so much more - that have contributed to the making of London in the previous three centuries, these are the histories for you. 

From a personal perspective, I gained a much deeper understanding of some of my own London family history; my great-great-great-grandfather William Gaunt (born c1782) was a watchmaker, as was his son William, and possibly his father, Joseph, too. In the 1841 Post Office Directory, William was listed as a watchmaker at 2 Bridgewater Gardens, Clerkenwell, (where the Barbican now stands) in the City of London. He was, more precisely, a watchspring maker and, as Jerry White states, watchmaking was 'perhaps the finest example of divided labour in London'. More than a hundred people might be involved in the production of a single watch. Would this explain why, as a little girl, I would spend hours at the workbench in our garage, carefully prising apart old, discarded, family watches, to see how they worked? I was convinced that I could get them to work again; not surprisingly, perhaps, I achieved a solid 100 per cent failure rate.

The maiden name of William's mother, Ann, was Silva, which suggested that she was of Spanish or Portuguese descent but unless or until I can get to the London Metropolitan Archives , I have no way of confirming this. But I do so want to know.

Alongside Jerry White's histories are Peter Ackroyd's London: the Biography, and the psychogeography of Iain Sinclair - Lights Out for the Territory - and Rachel Lichtenstein, including Rodinsky's Room, On Brick Lane and Diamond Street. Ford Madox Ford's (or Ford Madox Hueffer as he was then) The Soul of London, published in 1905, made a temporary appearance on the shelf, courtesy of Devon County Libraries, but free copies are also available online. Then there are the London-based memoirs, such as This Boy, by former Home Secretary, Alan Johnson. It is both revealing and moving without once slipping into sentimentality. Alan grew up in extreme poverty in a part of London I knew well as a child: Notting Hill before it was taken over by the rich and famous. (If we had more MPs of Alan Johnson's calibre and awareness, the House of Commons would be a far better and more enlightened place than it is at present. Just a thought.)

If we consider London as a whole, that is Greater London, then we must include its suburbs, such as the one in which I grew up, at what was then one end of the Piccadilly Line. For memories of a 1950s suburban childhood and teenage years, look no further than Michele Hanson's excellent What the Grown-Ups Were Doing. Michele grew up in Ruislip, which is not that far from where we lived, and almost every page had me smiling in recognition, not least the references to dinner dances at the Orchard Hotel, where cocktails were served decked with tiny paper Chinese parasols. The Orchard Hotel is where our family reunions were always held. Adults only, sadly, although my mum always brought one of the paper parasols home for me, as a souvenir. My cousins and I all have black and white photos of one particular reunion in the early 1960s, organised to welcome home my Auntie Jess and Uncle Jack, who were in London on holiday, having emigrated to the USA after WWII. My blonde mum and sister-in-law and my ebony-haired aunts are all wearing slim-fitting sheath dresses (mostly black) and heavily-lacquered, helmet hairdos; the Brylcreemed, dark-suited menfolk are standing behind them. Everyone smiling for the camera, with not a hint of the sibling rivalries that simmered away just beneath more than one surface. The Orchard, which seemed impossibly glamorous in the 1960s, is now a Beefeater Grill. Enough said. Thanks for the memories, Michele.

But some books about or set in London do not hang around here for long. One doesn't need to be a Londoner to write welI about the city - and many have - and I was, initially, charmed by the quest to discover literary London by a well-known, prizewinning American writer. But the book contained so many factual errors about my city that I promptly recycled it. I'm not sure if anyone checked the text for geographical accuracy before it was published but, if so, they lacked the requisite knowledge of London. Such a shame. 

Still, let us end on a high note and give honourable bookshelf mentions to Graham Greene's The End of the Affair, Elizabeth Bowen's The Heat of the Day, and  Hanover Square by Patrick Hamilton, all set in wartime London; Brick Lane by Monica Ali, Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway, London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins, the memoirs and many of the short stories of Julian Maclaren-Ross and, above all, to Charles Dickens, the great chronicler of Victorian London.

And lest you should think I have overlooked poetry, Poems on the Underground is a good place to start. Although by no means all of the poems are about London, every single poem it contains has been read by any number of London Underground's long-suffering passengers. Sweeteners to ease our subterranean pain and something else for us to look at apart from the shifty character sitting opposite.

Do you have a favourite London book? If so, do tell.

(I could not close without saying thank you to Spitalfields Life, the London blog par excellence, whose Gentle Author reminds me daily of where I am from and what made me. Spitalfields Life is four today and every single blogpost has been a gem. Here's to many, many more.)

Singing in landscape

I had planned to write a bookish sort of blogpost but I was sidetracked after spending the day singing at nearby Coombe Farm: 100 acres of steep-sided, wooded and semi-wild Devon. A rather joyful way to spend a Sunday. 

In the morning, we sang in a circle inside an African tent, while taking occasional glances outside at the intermittent sun, rain, cloud and grey skies. The weather gods were kind to us and the sun came out for our al fresco vegetarian lunch, three delicious courses, all prepared the night before by our choir leader, Claire Anstee. (So talented!)

And the sun stayed out all afternoon, as we walked round the farm

stopping under various ancient trees to sing, taking in views across the Exe Valley en route

and thinking about all the wild creatures who share this land and live here in complete safety: badgers, foxes, Exmoor's red deer and, with a nod in the direction of Edward Thomas, all the birds of Devonshire.

Most visitors and holidaymakers head for Devon's south or north coast but the county's heartland has a quiet, timeless quality, which is perfect for people who want to withdraw from the world, even if only for a short while. For those of us who live here, today was a reminder of what drew us to this place and how fortunate we are to wake up to this landscape each morning.

The highlight of our walk - apart from the singing and the food and the views - was this old beech avenue. Trees planted long before any of us walked the earth and that will outlive us all. Who planted this avenue, we wondered, and why . . . ?

We did our best to tread lightly on the ground . . .

and I began to think how satisfying it would be to run a 'writing in landscape' day in this special place. Maybe, just maybe, next summer?

At Broadhembury: on churches, pubs - and dogs

My dear friend, the Only Blonde in the Village, recently celebrated her birthday and we decided to mark it with a visit to Broadhembury in East Devon. Broadhembury is one of Devon's most historic and picturesque villages and has a fine, centuries-old - and dog-friendly - pub, the Drewe Arms: perfect for a birthday lunch.

Our first stop was Broadhembury's parish church of St Andrew Apostle and Martyr, which was originally consecrated in 1259 but most of which dates from the late fourteenth to early fifteenth century.

How many feet, we wondered, had walked across these tiles?

How many eyes had gazed up at the gilded stars and moons of the barrel vault ceiling?

St Andrew's still has a gallery, where the church musicians would once have played. Suddenly I was 15 again, reading my first Thomas Hardy novel, Under the Greenwood Tree, in which the Reverend Maybold, the vicar of Mellstock, attempts to replace the village church's traditional musicians with an organ player . . .

England's ancient churches are such repositories of local and national history - ecclesiastical, political and social. St Andrew's is no exception. These donation boards offer a window into the harsh and impoverished lives of Devon's agricultural labourers almost 300 years ago: 

Babies, children and adults have been baptised at this font since the 1400s:

The north porch, with its elegant white tracery, reminiscent of the lace made in nearby Honiton since the 1600s:

Above the door, keeping watch on those who enter and leave the church, St Andrew the Fisherman, complete with birds' nest:

The Drewe Arms is just a short walk from the church and is as rich in history as its towering neighbour:

from its low broad door, constructed of solid oak panels:

to the linen-fold panels within:

Despite being a summer's day, it was chilly and grey outside, so the thoughtful hosts had given us a table near the woodburner, for which we were more than grateful. The Only Blonde had the seat of honour, a splendid old oak settle, and we enjoyed a delicious lunch, which was excellent value. (It was such a contrast to our own dismal village pub, which a series of inexperienced and unimaginative landlords have driven increasingly downmarket over the past 10 years or so, to the point at which it was running at a permanent loss. It is now closed, along with the village school, the village shop and the village post office.) 

Dogs are as welcome as people at the Drewe Arms; on a previous visit on a busy Saturday evening, I had seen dogs galore, including an Irish wolfound, a yellow Labrador, several Springer spaniels and a Jack Russell terrier. On this weekday, however, there was only one but he was rather special: a gentle, sweet-natured Doberman Pinscher, who emerged from under the table where he was resting to have his photo taken:

He has cancer but is still well enough to enjoy an outing. The Only Blonde and I exchanged sympathetic looks with the owner. Lump in the throat time.

A few days after our visit to Broadhembury we were talking about our own dogs, two of whom are now elderly in terms of dog years: the Only Blonde's Jack Russell-Norfolk terrier cross, Sir M, and my Edinburgh Boy are both almost eleven. Being a terrier, Sir M could go on for many years yet but I am conscious that the Boy is now well into his third age. He walks more slowly, sleeps more deeply, wades in the water rather than swims, but still enjoys life, albeit at a gentler pace. 

A love of animals runs deep in both the Other Blonde and in me and in our respective families. We grew up with animals, as did our children. We could not, we said, imagine a life without four-legged companions; well, we could imagine it but it would, we agreed, be a far poorer life.

'And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest'

On Monday, my cousin, his wife and I made the same journey from the South West of England to Wales, to the same village church where family and friends had gathered little more than a fortnight ago to say farewell to my niece. And, just as it had on the day of my niece's funeral, the sun poured down on us but even more brightly. It was the sort of weather that one always wants on the first day of a holiday; we could hardly believe that we were now on our way to say farewell to my niece's mother, my dear sister-in-law, whom my cousin and I had known for almost sixty years, since we were children.

But the ancient church gathered us all in and gave us time and space in which we could both grieve and celebrate a long life, a life well lived and a life full of love. The four of us who spoke in her memory, each had our own particular and precious recollections but, without any prior conferring, we were as one in recounting her great loves: family, friends, home, dogs - and all animals and wildlife, music, laughter, jokes, cooking, parties and entertaining. The doors of her home - and her heart - were always open and, over the years, she had welcomed so many across the threshold of both.

One of the passions we shared was music and it was my sister-in-law who introduced me, when I was still very young, to classical music. Her great musical loves included Italian opera, choral music, and the tenor voice; she shared those loves with me, a gift that has lasted a lifetime. But she made music too: playing the piano was the source of much joy and was her escape from the demands of everyday life. 

This being Wales, the music at her funeral was very fine indeed, uplifting us and soothing us like balm: as a congregation, we sang Psalm XXIII, set to Crimond and that great Welsh anthem, Cwm Rhonnda, (Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer). My sister-in-law had sung with the Monmouth Choral Society, many of whose members, including close friends, formed the choir who sang her to her rest - Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus during the reflection and, at the closing, the Sarum Prayer, God be in my head, set to music by Walford Davies. The simplest of words, centuries old, the profoundest of meanings. It mattered not who was a believer and who was not; the beauty of the music gave us a safe harbour for our shared tears and sadness and, above all, a setting in which to give great thanks for her life and for the love we had for her and she for us.

So, this, for my unforgettable sister-in-law, now resting at peace with the two of her beloved children who went before her.

In which Glastonbury prompts me to action

I lost my blogging mojo rather, at least for a few weeks. But I tried not to get all angsty about it. The mojo, I thought, will either return or it won't. Que sera, sera . . . 

In truth I had been exceptionally busy with my two jobs (freelance writer/ editor and purveyor of high quality dog care- ahem) and grappling with shingles and the dodgy shoulders. Jobs now come into the 21st century category of income streams so I have been busy keeping the income streams flowing, which sounds marginally more professional than than merely working. 

I slipped into 'oh, must blog about that - mañana' mode but mañana never came. Does it ever? Until, that is, my daughter and her husband went on their annual pilgrimage to Glastonbury. The Dear Daughter sent regular updates and photos from her iPhone so that, whenever I found myself feeling wistful and wishing that I were there too, I would look at the pictures of deep, deep mud and realise that Glastonbury, this year, would not have been a sensible choice.

That is where the BBC came to the rescue, as it does most years,  with plenty of Glastonbury coverage and not just of the megastars. So, from the comfort of the sofa, I was able to watch: Coldplay, who - truly - played a blinder of set, with amazing lighting and effects; the first half of U2 until I got bored, all of Paul Simon (who was suffering from some wretched infection that didn't do his voice any favours - but Paul Simon is Paul Simon), some Plan B, and absolutely all of B B King. At 85, this extraordinary man is still performing - and brilliantly, even if he has to sit down on stage these days. Well, at 85, it's allowed. I'm afraid that I gave up rather on Laura Marling after just one song, which was more than enough. Apologies to those of you who adore her.

I haven't caught up with Beyoncé's set; to be honest, her style of music and presentation doesn't do much for me but I will say no more, lest I find myself cast out into the exterior darkness, like poor old Zane Lowe. (But at least Zane's reaction proves that it's not just an age thing.)

There was, however, a single performance by the Raghu Dixit Project, an Indian group, who were new to me, that had me quite spellbound. So much so that I immediately emailed the Dear Daughter and the Friend in New Zealand (AKA the Finz). 'You must listen to this', I cybersqueaked, sending them both a link, not to the Glastonbury coverage but to an earlier performance of the same song by the same group on Later . . . with Jools Holland.

The three of us share a passion for India; we've all been there and the Finz was my travelling companion on the quest for my Indian family roots a few years ago. She is also my constant point of reference on matters musical; If she loves a particular singer, musician or piece of music, the chances are that I will too, and vice versa. And we particularly love the thrill of live music. She hadn't heard of Raghu Dixit either but, ever since I sent her the link, she too has been working her way through everything that is available on YouTube. I suggested that she might also like Adele - and she does. In fact, Raghu Dixit and Adele have provided the soundtrack to the bag-packing that is now under way in New Zealand, as the Finz prepares to fly halfway round the world for a month's stay in the UK.  

She'll be here in just over a week. Can't wait. And, by the time her train pulls into Tiverton Parkway station, the Raghu Dixit CD will be here too. (Yes, I'm still old-fashioned enough to buy CDs). We'll be whizzing along Devon's lanes listening to this and smiling rather a lot. No words needed.