Rhapsodic Rambles
creative writings.com weblog
English Moors
Posted by Philip Newman in Jan 17, 2010, under Nature, places
When I think of England I think of the moors, for often have I walked the boggy paths that trace winding trails through purple heather and browning bracken. Far from the hussle-bussle of surging city life, the moors offer such peaceful tranquility that the linnet’s song and the bumblebee’s hum can easily be discerned. And when I stand on a moorland high surveying the vales below, I pick out the solitary farms, and follow the meandering lines of dry-stone walls, and pause with my face to the wind.
Such peaceful harmony, however, is not always the painted picture. The writer’s pen and the artist’s brush often show moors to be dark, forboding places where thick fogs conceal sinister crimes. And when seen in shadow, sulking beneath low-hanging clouds, it’s easy to understand why. Then, it’s heaven help the unprepared walker caught out in torrential rains. For as the old song goes:
‘Tha’s gonna (you are going to) catch the death of cold
On Ilkley moor, bah t’at (without a hat) ’.
England’s moors stretch up through the land from Dartmoor, in the south-west, to the North Yorkshire moors. Although Somerset’s Exmoor gets my personal recommendation, due to it’s green-sided valleys where stags stand motionless in morning mists and wild horses casually drift, the moors of Derbyshire I know best having climbed their craggy plateaus and jumped their clear streams more times than I can remember.
Yes, when I think of England I think of the moors.
My cat, Jake.
Posted by Philip Newman in Feb 06, 2010, under Nature
Swiftly, with a burst of tiny paws, Jake lightly scampered down the lawn as gaily and innocently as a new born lamb; which he certainly was not. Amidst the longer growth he dropped down, flattened his body and tucked in his head. Then he watched, through dandelion and daisy heads sprinkled amongst the grassy green stems, and waited. Keeping absolutely still, with ears pricked, eyes wide, and hairs bristling, he waited. Patiently, yet observingly, he waited. Waited for his prey to approach. Tense, alert and ready. He waited.
A rustle of wind and a tall blade of grass shook. Jake jerked his head round and stared with unblinking, green slit eyes. His sleek, sheened back rippled as muscles moved forward. Imperceptibly his weight slowly shifted onto back legs as his front tensed, preparing to launch.
But now was not yet the moment. So still he lay tensed, still he stared, still he watched and waited: His eyes fixed ahead. Then stealthily, delicately, a front paw moved up and crept forward, softly planting itself one step in front. His haunches rose and his back legs, ever so slowly, moved. Then he dropped down again amongst the grass, crouching, head hidden, only his ears protruding. Unblinking and still staring, his eyes again fixed ahead.
A dried out leaf fluttered upwards on a breeze. Jake spotted it and tensed, fur and muscle firming on hindquarters. His paws dug into the ground and his shoulders shimmered as he chose his moment. Then he launched, gracefully, yet with the speed of a viper, claws extended to grasp and pierce his prey. He seized it, masterfully, with body fully-exended, clasping it between both paws and pulling it down. Captured, to tease and torment.
Now the leaf was him victim, his play-piece. He held it tight between his paws and nudged it gently with his nose daring it to escape. It didn’t. So Jake delighted in tossing it high into the air before pouncing back upon it. Again and again he did this until the leaf became ripped into twenty tiny pieces.
Savage.
Oxford
Posted by Philip Newman in Feb 10, 2010, under places
Oxford
First impressions: The sun glared bright and not a cloud was in the sky. The streets were alive with bustling shoppers: Mothers and buggies; entwined courting couples; pin-striped businessmen; groups of foreign visitors swarming around bowler-hatted guides holding aloft brightly coloured umbrellas; a staggering and cursing drunk; dormant bus queues searching pan-faced into the distance. There were the heavily laden, shoulders-sagging, feet-dragging elderly. The street-strutting, eye-catching, dressed for attention beauties. The proudly striding, dog-festooned, shaven-headed, ear-ringed, lip-studded ‘New Agers’. Shop doorway squatters sat with sad eyes on small-change peppered hats and newspaper vendors called out in their unintelligible tones: ‘ Ooo Porrrse’ or ‘Ooo Zzaar’. Hoards criss-crossed the way ahead, veering off at tangents and disappearing down side alleys. Others just quietly stood there watching the mumbling, chattering, shouting, cooing, calling, laughing menagerie flow through the centre.
We meandered and dodged our way through the crowds, tacking against the human tide. Struggling upstream, we passed friends greeting in the streets, enjoying taking the time to stand and talk in the summer’s sun. There were buskers, jugglers, abstract mime artists, an organ grinder, young ruck-sacked travellers selling friendship bracelets and hair braids, a pavement artist, a hippie-garbed couple displaying jewellery fashioned from shells, stones and twisted wire. And there were simply thousands of tourists lazily wandering around the college-flanked roads searching for those postcard attractions. Snapping away on electronic gadgetry, they positioned stiff-armed, grimaced friends before their view and bobbed against the passing stream to capture the magic of this, their memorable moment. Others window-shopped for a little memento to take from their visit to ‘The City of Dreaming Spires’: A little something to remind them of their day, pleasurably spent, wandering around gift shops and market stalls, looking for a little something to remind them of their day, pleasurably spent, wandering around gift shops and market stalls.
I had been met at Oxford train station by my cousin and, having struggled against the currents, we now stood at the City’s centre point: The crossroads at ‘Carfax’. Edging cautiously towards the side as the throngs flowed by it could be seen that ‘Carfax’ was actually a ‘square’, overlooked by a tall, medieval tower: ‘Carfax Tower’. However, here was no quaint, rural ‘square’ of rustic rural life, for this square was swamped by heavily-burdened traffic wheezing its way through the town centre which became over-congested as buses impatiently waited and jostled, with taxis and delivery vehicles, for available gaps, in which to squeeze towards their waiting public.
It was a hot, sticky afternoon. The kind of afternoon where the sun burns into the back of your neck and your shirt becomes damp and clingy. The kind of afternoon when you wish you had worn shorts, you realise you need a haircut and you can’t wait to get your boots off and sink an ice-cold lager. Yet there, at the Carfax crossroads, stood a leather-clad, purple-haired spindly man producing, through an electrified violin, this awesome haunting, weaving and floating music which rose up above the town noises. His hair stretched far down his back and hung over the front of his face, sweat dripping onto the pavement in front. And his melodies spiralled up, carried away in the shimmering heat, turning heads along the side walks. From atop Carfax Tower faces stared down as the notes ascended towards them in the warm air. Then they turned to view out across the famed spires and domes of Oxford with magical harmonies still whispering in their ears. We stood for a moment’s respite infusing the atmosphere. I liked the look of it. Oxford could be good.
The English Lakes
Posted by Philip Newman in Mar 14, 2010, under Nature, places
Tall, towering, verdant mountainsides obscuring sun and skies; rising high and casting heavy shadows. Dark, sombre peaks lost in dark, stormy clouds. Triumphant, rounded peaks emerging sunlit, then disappearing once more into rolling blankets of mist. Lost for the day.
Morning sunrise. Bright azure skies, clear and translucent. Freshness in the dew and the hedgerow twitters. Freshness in the vaporous breaths of dawn dog-walkers and early-start trekkers. A lamb gambols gaily while mother studiously grazes. A farmer drives his tractor home with great clods of mud falling from the wheels. The kettle on the hob whistles tea.
Crystal clear, pebble-bottomed lakes, placid and serene, fringed with reeds and grasses, reflecting slowly wandering clouds drifting across gently rippling waters.
Colours blend, rich and pastel, bold and sublime.
Form and shape inter-twine upon the lakeland canvas.
Deep, scree-lined lakes of still refective waters, scooped out of stoney mountainsides, dropping fathomless into cold, unplummed depths. Aqueous mirrors of harmonious surrounds.
Sheep dotted meadowlands laced with winding stone walls; crumbling and falling. Tree clumps standing bold on horizons against darkening, reddening, sunset skies.
Purple heather; golden bracken; green gorse. Scattered drops of wild flowers speckling roadsides with yellows, mauves and violets. Great florid arrays of colour over-flowing thatched cottage window boxes sitting pretty on white-washed walls.
Pencil-grey lines of lanes leading up mountain passes; twisting and turning beside looping streams lying curled along marshy valley floors. Well-trampled paths meandering upwards across hillsides dotted with backpacks that imperceptibly progress.
On high, a breathless stillness. A haunting crow’s caw.
Higher still, a lone buzzard circles in silence.
Down below, voles and field mice prudently hide their heads.
A wild vastness stretches forward across hill and valley, lake and forest. A craggy cliff; a meandering river; a hill-top tarn. The flat, silver sheen of a shiny, shimmering lake.
A trickling brook gargles and burbles over stones and pebbles, jumping joyfully on its descent. A rushing stream chases and dives over boulders in its headlong rush to be first.
Spongey, pine needle-floored forests; dim and dank. Sweet, musty smells of sticky sap. Spears of sunlight pierce through the dense growth, jabbing forward as spikey luminous shafts. Contorted, silhoetted forms of twisted trunk and bending branch.
Cold winds whip the ears and blast the face. Fierce gusts push, buffet, scream and howl. Rain falls, hard and relentless, pounding into puddles and flooding the lanes.
Ragged, shale-scattered, moonscape plateaus, devoid of life and death. No place for man, who comes then soon departs. Faint, spectral images flitter in and out of view. Ghostly apparitions passing through a shadowy abyss.
Sink into the soft, moss-quilted, long-bladed grass beside a motionless lake and doze to the purring of the motor-boat chugging. Feel the glow of radiant sun sweeping across your face with the gentlest touch of a caressing breeze. Dangle your feet in the water, which tingle with the chill, then relax to lapping licks around ankles and toes.
Breath in. Breath out.
Breathe in -
‘The Lakes’.
(click to visit)
The Four Seasons
Posted by Philip Newman in Jul 16, 2010, under Life, Nature
Fingers of death glide across the land, freezing the life out of the living. The black-gloved hand of approaching winter creeps forward, engulfing colour, squeezing bright hues into monotonous tones of black, white and grey. Terror at the encroaching peril. Life fleeing underground to escape its clutching grip. Life flying far away. Relentlessly, a dark doom descends with glacial chills, sliding over field and forest, delving icy tentacles into nook, cranny, nest and warren. Life shivers and trembles, powerlessly awaiting the end, death, and finality.
Winter has come and death has dominion in the land. The bones of the dead whiten in the snow. Woodland corpses lie rigid, frozen in the shadows. Crowned by cawing crows perched upon their skinless skulls, they lie defeated as on fields of battle where the dead do not bury the dead. Slowly and deliberately the rotting cadavares are gnawed and consumed by death’s carnivourous friends, beetles and woodlice. The land too lies lifeless, beaten into submission, interred and entombed in an ice that clings to telegraph wires and hangs off branches. Death pervades.
Death has dominion and shows no mercy in the land, snuffing out candles of hope with boney fingers; spitting on sporadic sparks of illumination with disgust, watching faintly glimmering embers of existence breathe their last with a sadistic lust. Death revels in death. The fiddler plays his dance to the dying and rejoices, watching gleefully as life is plucked out and extinguished.
Death despises life. All comes to a halt under death’s reign, where those few left living quake and cower in the shadows. When the great dark shawl arrives, it hovers tauntingly before embracing life with a Judas kiss of death. Then it descends to turn out the life-lights with a contented smirk. Death is happy when life dies. Death hates life.
All are afraid before the coming of death. All, that is, except time, who death despises even more than life, for time can not be conquered: Its wheel can not be stopped. Silently slipping through the silvered stars and full-blown moon, time progresses as the constellations turn; sliding effortlessly through the great void of space. Unstoppable, time ticks forever onwards limiting the reign of death. Death knows this and does not like time.
Winter’s woes finally come to blows as winter wanes and death shirks before its own ultimate, unavoidable end. Nevertheless, a battle to survive commences as winter throws its worst at the land with icy winds that whip and howl, refusing to relinquish its dominion upon life. Trees and hedges freeze and frost, dense morning fog pervades whilst blizzards beat against doors and windows. Death’s death throes kick in and scream against the encroachment of life. Death does not like life, but submission is at hand.
The wait is interminable, false starts aplenty, with springtime pushing hard against the gate seeking a gap to slip through. Melting icicles drip from the gutters, snowmen dissolve into piles of wet slush. Tension mounts, new life holds fast for the signal. Shoots that shoot the gun become ensnared by winter’s retreat, which lashes back with a dying strength still strong enough to destroy. The land lies ready, anticipating the great explosion of fecundation about to begin. Yearning impregnation. Desirous of fertilization. Set to welcome and nuture seed. Set to infuse its goodness so that the great flowering of bounteous life can innundate the earth.
The wait continues. Winter dies hard this year.
The wait continues…
New buds and courageous young daffs come into view, but only to be submerged in a late fall of snow. A bumblebee breaks rank, a butterfly flutters then falls in a final frosty morning where windows are covered in frozen swirly patterns and roads prove treacherous to the unwary.
And the wait continues. Still car windows are scraped free of ice.
Hoorah!
A cry of joy goes up as a cock crows and the curtain rises on a new, sunlit dawn. A golden ray of light beams through the morning mist. The sky lightens, becoming crisp and clear. Hope returns and gone is perpetual gloom. At a given signal life rushes out of the gates as one giant ejaculation, spraying and injecting life force throughout the land which bursts into a cacophony of kaleidoscopic life. Each square centimetre of land, each inch of sea and sky, is penetrateded by millions of life forms from the minute to the huge; from those that swim to those that fly to those that walk. The paddlers, floaters, skaters and divers; the gliders, flutterers, whirlers and whizzers; the crawlers, jumpers, climbers, swingers, burrowers have all come back to enjoy the party of the living. Life has returned! Spring is here!
Spring arrives in full splendour of colour and shape. A cathartic outpouring of art and design. Creativity pours incessantly across the land knowing no bounds. Mosses, grasses, sedges, reeds, rushes, and wild weeds that twist and bind stringing out their roots through the soil. Dandelions, daisies, cowslips and buttercups sprinkle meadowlands with dashes of inspiration. A thimblefull of mountain stream water reveals the abundance of life in the microscopic. Life is ubiquitous. The world is alive!
And life is alive! Beating, pulsating, shimmering with existence. Life lives!
Oil painted sunflowers may be beautiful, but they do not live. Not like life.
Only life lives, born from the death of death: Regeneration.
With spring’s defeat of winter and life’s defeat of death, life reigns supreme.
Now the flowers can bloom their splurges of hue, tint and shade, brightening up the landscape and pleasing the eye. Why? Only God knows why? Blossoming fruit trees populate the orchards awakening caterpillar larvae from their slumbers, and soon the branches are crawling with undulating coils of colour. The birds begin to sing as their chicks break out through shells, speckled and plain, beak by head by soggy wet feather, for soon, with excited squarks and chirps, they will courageously test their wings and rise high above the tree tops. Below, the squirrels happily play in the groves and the copses, sampling foraged delights beneath arboreal heights, chasing up and down the patiently enduring trees who have seen it all so many times before. The lambs skip and bound across the field, feeling rushes of inexplicable joy, before scampering back to the safety of mothers’ watchful gaze. Fish playfully dart through the ocean’s blue, surfacing to the light, then diving down deep into darker, cooler waters as huge shoals flickering in silver. And ants happily meander each and everyway, tugging giant-sized leaves over stoney obstacles; but never giving up. Bless!
Spring has definitively sprung!
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Daytime expands. Cool breezes lose their nip,
Blue skies last for more than half a day.
Grass shoots blade, bud tips fray,
First crop garden veg. begins to sproat.
Lawns turn lush, hedges need a clip,
Ungainly weeds appear between the paving stones.
Mossy river banks, algae in the pond,
Seaweed strips lie curled along the shore.
Life pervades and overflows. Overgrown borders need to be controlled,
The heat rises daily by degrees.
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Spring rains, heavy and light, drench and sprinkle. Eagerly, they are soaked up by the land, turning from brown to green. Field tractor ruts fill to brims and Wellington boots are donned to squelch through the mud and the puddles. Cars carefully manoeuvre across valley-bottom fords, wheels gripping grit to prevent the slide. Playing fields become lakes; parks - polka-dot patterns of ponds; building sites- gang-planked mazes crossing foundation trenches. But complaining aside, the rains are welcome. Late spring showers are but refreshing sprays to cool faces as temperatures rise.
Perfect heat infuses the air and is absorbed by the land; which smiles. Fertilized, it nurtures the growing flora which feed the growing fauna, which drink from the flowing rivers and repose in the flowing breezes. Well-kempt gardens now come into their own, looking green and luscious, with tightly trimmed hedges and dainty garden paths tip-toeing up from sweet smelling herbaceous borders of lavander, mint and thyme to well-planned garden beds of gladiolis, fresias and chrysanths. Garden ponds gurgle to the sound of running water trickling over the green, lichen-flecked rockeries tumbling down to where frogs croak, or ribbit, amongst flattened, floating lily pads. Wild fruit now takes on a more distinguishable form: Apples and pears, as hardened green kernels, set to swell with the imbibing of juice. Raspberries, strawberries and blackberries, as hardened white nuggets, awaiting sugar and moisture to burst into sweetness and tempt the palate of all; man and beast.
Green grows the barley, gold grows the corn; fields of which ripple in the slowly building heat. Cool but dusty country lanes become caked with dried out cow pats as they weave a crooked mile. Flanked by ancient prickly hedgerows, stinging nettles and thorny thistles, the lanes wind and wander up dale and down glen, accompanied by the singing twitterers who tweet and warble every step of the way. The battle against wasps, man’s tireless bestial foe, now begins with thwacks of rolled up newspapers or flicks of old tea-towels. Bees are much more friendly for their gentle, busy humming causes no such fear: Soporific even.
Green fonds of fern and bristly golden bracken submerge paths on the hillsides in shadow, until breaking through to the light from where trails ahead can be seen dipping across burbling mountain streams before rising on route to the summits. Drystone walls divide valley floors, then run straight up steep mountain sides. Curly horned sheep draw close to beg a sandwich. Grasshopers click their legs in the long grass. Then: Hop! Ping! Gone! Hot work on the climb. Spring is now turning into summer.
Summer season’s start is indecisive, before bulldozering into view. Intermittant showers persist, with light rain clouds above, until the sun bludgeons them asunder to leave the skies free for its ferocity to prevail. Those hazy, lazy days then begin when the air hangs still, dandelions clocks float, and cows lie motionless in the shade of leafy trees. Only ‘mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun’; more fool them. More sentient beings only leave their shelters well after the sun begins its decline.
Fruit begins to swell and ripen, blessed by the sun’s beatudinous beams. Hints of pink embolden into shades of darker reds as the apples bulge and strawberries grow plump. Those country lane hedgerows become dotted with berries; black, red and elder, collected in punnets by couples in straw hats, whilst their childrens’ faces become smeared in dark juices and the family dog lies panting at the side. Orchard boughs grow heavy and sag, making their gifts all the easier to pick. Careful of the windfalls littering the ground! Often sugary homes to the wasps, who inhabit by eating their ways in, then leave by eating their ways out.
Allottment deckchairs now make their appearences, with ruddy-faced gardeners sitting back in contented delight. Displaying the results of their hard labour growing up bean poles and standing upright on military parade, they proudy inspect their fine rows of beet, brussels and caulis which perfectly balance smaller squares of carrots and larger sections of spuds. Dirt-engrained fingers grasp ‘I love grandad’ tea mugs and turn over last week’s newspaper pages. Nods are exchanged with other reclining allottment holders, equally smug at the results of their hard graft and hard toil. And so they may be!
The beach comes alive in summer, with squirming roasting bodies doused in oil, slothenly bronzing in the sun. Packed like sardines, or basking walruses, they roll and rotate, browning and crisping skins to a ‘T’. Those who know better arrive equiped with ice-boxes and parasols which pop up like wild flowers to cover the beach in a patchwork of motifs and designs. Kids too know better and frolic endlessly in the waves, which they dive into on flatboards and mums’ lilos with squeal of excitement as the surf comes crashing down over their heads. Then, when the day is done and skins a tender pink, it’s time to pack up the gear and lug it all back up to the promenade for ice-creams with chocolate flakes, or syrup, bought outside the arcades of video games and slot machines on the approach to the pier.
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Cricket whites, bowling greens,
Olympic games and world cup football teams.
Tennis championships, golf cups to be won,
Regattas float over passing waters (if you’ll excuse the pun)
Lively music festivals, animated craft shows,
Samba driven carnivals keep you dancing on your toes.
School fetes and villages fairs,
Parish church tombolas opened by smiling gold-chained mayors.
Entertaining street theatre, buskers multiply,
Eagle-eyed lamp post leaners watch the girls walk by.
(Summer’s just great for that!)
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CRAAACK! An ear-splitting crash of thunder resonates and reverberates in the heavens with a ultra double-bassy, stomach-churning BOOM! Ripples follow, rolling away across the dark clouds into the distance. FLASH! A white hot spark of lightning forks through the sky and spears the land. CRACK! Again the deafening thunder clap follows. Summertime strollers in summertime attire are instantly drenched in the summer downpour which comes with no warning. Running for shop doorway shelters, with arms held over heads and dripping wet clothes, they squeeze into spaces as crowded as the tube stations were back in the blitz. Worse still if it hails, which it is prone to do when hot and cold weather fronts meet on the celetial battlefields above. A battle of the Titans? Could be, or worse. Boys’ imaginations are easily triggered when their faces are tightly pressed against rain streaked window panes waiting for the next - FLASH! CRACK! BOOM!
The sun returns. Summer storms don’t last long. Botanical gardens and urban parks then respond with fine floral shows: There’s the roses opening up their petals in ostentatious displays of subtle beauty. The peonies blooming in resplendent splendour; if only for a few days. Rhodedendron bushes spread themselves out along paths as huge swathes of purples and mauves. Dazzling dahlias flourish and glorious geraniums thrive in circular showcase plots, blending artistically with the majestic marigolds and pompous little pansies. Honeysuckle, snapdragons, and nastutiums stand tall with their backs against the walls providing essential backwashes of colour. The gardens and parks enchant and entice. And like bees to the honey we are lured. Even better when uniformed bandsmen perform in the bandstand, or a rowing boat can be taken out on the lake. Then the afternoon excursion is really complete!
But too little rain and the ground turns hard. Cracked and fissured, with streams turning dry and grass turning brown. Flowers heads droop and field crops wilt as the sun bears down from dawn to dusk. Shimmering relentlessly, the fiery ball burns- frying, baking, grilling life upon the earth.
Survive we must and survive we do. Then, late summer, a coded message passes around the farms, by some old-time traditional means, and heavy mechanized machinery lumbers into the fields to gather up the good produce of the land. Harvest time has come early and with much merriment too, as we go rejoicing bringing in the sheathes. Hay stacks are fun for the kids and lovers’ rendez-vous, whilst hard work is done, with aching backs and straining arms, blistered palms and sore red knees, until the picking’s over and the barns are jam-packed full.
Just in time too! For the wheel of time keeps turning and cooler autumn winds begin to blow. Now’s the time for making chutneys, jams and curds, and start preparing thick vegetable broths, to be consumed with door-stop chunks of toast. Mother-nature’s produce tastes best around this time of year. Freshly picked and freshly prepared, organic and earthy, fruits-of-the-earth. Wholemeal bread; a farmhouse crusty loaf; granny smith crumbles; thick skinned, baked King Edwards oozing in butter. Plum puddings, treacle tarts, crumpets, elderflower wine, rhubarb and custard - cooked the old Mrs. Beaton’s way.
Daytime contracts and nightime expands. Autumn, that ‘close bosom friend of the maturing sun’, approaches and digs in. Winter, still lying defeated, raises an eyebrow with the hope that his day may yet return. Leaves darken, setting tree tops ablaze in a panalopy of deep tones, radiating sombre elegance: Aflame, like the burning bush. Leaves then crinkle, curl and wither, dropping slowly like feathers to the floor: One-by-one, gently floating down, then several at a time. Children kick through piles of the fallen leaves, hearing them crunch, watching them fly up in the air, and they laugh with joy. Amongst the fallen leaves lie the dark brown conkers; many ejected from their green, spikey shells, others prised out by boys with pocket knives who polish them proudly for the next schoolyard game.
Fallen leaves drift on the lakes, ponds and rivers, staying afloat as they glide in the breeze. Fallen leaves pile up in the doorsteps and spin around in alleyway eddies where the wind can’t escape. Fallen leaves clog up the gutters, decaying into a great soggy mess.
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Autumn smells musty: Of decomposition; of smoldering bonfires;
- of wet, slimy wood.
Autumn smells nutty: Of acorn and horse chestnut;
- hazelnut, beech nut, wallnut and almond.
Autumn smells malty: Of hops and barley blending with molasses;
- of beer and breweries, and ‘real ale’ down the pub.
Autumn smells damp: Of dewy early mornings; of misty riversides;
-of mold in the outhouse; of damp socks in damp shoes.
(Best time, then, for the fresh field mushrooms, picked before breakfast and fried up with the bacon: Or saved for the evening in a garlic butter sauce.)
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Squirrels now halt their playful scampering to store up supplies for the dark season soon to come. Birds eat copiously of worms surfacing in the humidity, building up their strengths for their long flights south. Mice fill their holes with any type of insulation, knowing that many may not make it through the cold nights ahead. Prepare! Prepare! The siren call resounds through the animal kingdom. Humans too prepare by stocking up on firewood and warm winter clothes.
Overcast grey skies and drizzle dominate the days. Homes are left in the mornings by entering dull, formless dawns. Then they are returned to in the evenings in dismal, dim twilight. Trudging through puddles dotting the pavement; yawning at the wheel in rush hour traffic; morning paper reading squashed upright on buses; crossword struggling through London underground tunnels. Life-hypnotized streams of commuters flow back-and-forth, to-and-from work, with the metronomic regularity of a Swiss clock. Dreary times! Dreary weather!
Birds of a feather flock together, upon building tops and telegraph wires from where they watch and wait. Then suddenly, a giant black cloud forms as they all lift off together with a great whoosh and form a ducking, diving, spinning, wheeling, synchronized aerial display. Way up high they rocket, to hover almost out of sight. Then down they plummet, hurtling towards the ground, which they miss by inches, only turning at the last minute to shoot off across wasteland and field, across hillside and valley, beginning their annual migratory journeys and escape the approach of death. Goodbye, good friends. ‘Til next year comes.
Breakfast in the night! Evening dinner too. Orange lights glow behind windows, flickering televisions glow blue. Nature’s little noticed now for it’s day of glory has past. Rather, get home, draw the curtains, close the shutters, light the fire, eat and slump on the sofa to watch the daily news. But winter’s eye is now well open, considering the devastation it hopes bring. Planning it’s attack on life. Sending out scouts on sporadic cold morning raids with chilled, drafty tendrils creeping through gaps in walls and even teasing a daring first frost.
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Dark shadows engulf the land. Dark spirits roam free.
Pumpkin candles hang suspended from the garden tree.
Broomsticks and cauldrons are brought out of the cupboard,
Incantations are chanted, magic spells are uttered.
‘Trick or treat’, children in fancy dress costumes demand,
‘Not like it was in my day’, old grandfather yarned.
***
Then ‘firework night’ lights up the sky
With stunning pyrotechnics so pleasing to the eye.
Whizz! Crackl! Bang! Such a loud fright.
Rockets and star bursts. Such overwhelming delight.
(Ahh! Oohh!)
‘Penny for the guy’, children on sidewalks request.
‘Here’s a bob, now burn the bugger,’ old grandfather jests.
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The two events over, ‘Life’ now bows it’s head in execution as ‘Death’ appears smirking and brandishing his scythe in triumph. The hour has now come to regain his dominion over the land. The willow weeps, the elm stands stark in despair. The flowers have all long gone. Beasts of the night creep out of their holes, fiendishly seeking out hideaways of the living, or the dying, to feed on their flesh until their bones glisten white.
Fingers of death glide across the land…
Tapenade Noire
Posted by Philip Newman in Dec 24, 2010, under France, places
This recipe comes straight from the heart of France. First let’s create the mood: Picture a Citroen 2 CV, the colour of wet straw, meandering across a Provencal plain and driving through a long avenue of plane trees. You probably know the cliché. Sunlight flashes through the tree trunks and bounces off the car as it flickers in-and-out of shadow. A stone wall, speckled in lichen, follows the leafy avenue on the right. In places it has fallen, leaving gaps through which a vinyard can be seen stretching far into the distance, with row-upon-row of interlaced vine leaves sheltering the ripening grape from the sun. On the left lies an orchard of oliviers. The old gnarled trunks and branches bend and twist like the old gnarled fingers of a fairytale witch. The leaves, a delicate shade of green, as faint as a whisper, are slender and light. They too shade ripening fruit: Olives - as black as charcoal. As black as a dark secret hiding sweetness within.
This clichéd vignette of Provence tastes as French on the palate as a French vinaigrette. And having often holidayed in these parts, I can now sip my glass of rosé, as pink as a maiden’s blush on being kissed behind the boulangerie for the first time, then close my eyes and feel the hot breath of a mid-summer mistral sweep across my face. All that is missing to complete the picture are the great fields of lavender with their great swathes of purple swaying in the breeze. The constant hum of cicadas clicking their legs in campsite pine trees. The stone-walled hilltop cities of terracotta tiles, with parapets and ramparts overlooking valley-bottom floors, glowing gold in the sun’s declining rays. The arid, barren shrubland broken by occassional rocky outcrops, and the solitary umbrella pine standing aloof on the horizon. The vibrant town centre market places selling brightly coloured provencal tableclothes beside the stalls of fresh, brightly coloured provencal vegetables: Aubergines, courgettes, tomatoes, peppers. Blue, a pastel sky-blue, is painted throughout, on the shutters and window frames, doors and outside walls. It is the colour of Provence; existing, as it does, between sky and sea.
To capture all these sights and tastes of Provence is actually suprisingly simple – as I found out after purchasing a small paperback book detailing traditional Provencal recipes. For here it was that I discovered ‘tapenade’. This is a delicious olive-based spread which takes only ten minutes to prepare - especially if you buy the olives already ‘de-nutted’ ( dénoyauté, in French). Just mix all the ingredientslisted below together in a mixer to form a sticky paste and hey presto! Or rather: ‘Voila!’
Tapenade noire ingredients:
4OO gms black olives. 8 fillets of anchovies. 40 gms of Tuna. 1 teaspoon of capers. 1 teaspoon of thyme. 2-3 cloves of garlic. 10 cl olive oil. A pinch of pepper.
Spread the paste on slices of baguette and pass them round as aperitif nibbles for your next dinner party. Then don’t be suprised to see the plateful quickly disappear from under your nose and before your eyes. They are that good! They are the taste of Provence.
Freedom of Speech
Posted by Philip Newman in Nov 24, 2010, under Life, Politics
My mother, bless, speaks to herself when gardening. I can see her now, head down and muttering away as she snips at the bush in the front, tugs at weeds out the back, and caresses her prized gladiolis with tender, loving words. She’s quite in a world of her own:
Clip, clip, yank, yank, pull: ‘There we go now. And just look at those greenfly. I must get the spray.’
To be honest, I’ve tried speaking to myself when driving. But I find that weird. It doesn’t work. When you’re speaking you need someone to speak to, even if it is the gladiolis. The simple reason being that speaking is social. I swear many other drivers must have tried monologing to themselves before giving up and picking up a hitch-hiker. But hey, I’ve been on that side too and can assure you that hitch-hiking is not all it’s cut out to be:
‘Let me tell you about Jesus…’, the driver began as soon as I sat down in the passenger seat.
‘ …and so we built mathematical models of demographic movements of upwardly mobile, pig-farming lesbians…’, continued the social statistician.
‘Yeah, man. We had some great parties back in the old days, with gorgeous chicks, stacks of coke and The Stones pumping out cool hard-driving rhythms…’, drifted the red-eyed aging hippy.
I tell you, us hitchers have heard it all. It’s all part of the hitching deal.
But that’s my point. There are rules to follow, unless we want to come over as right wallies, uncouth yobs, or just ‘pains in the neck’.
So: ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full!’
‘Think before you speak.’
‘Don’t be so contrary!’
‘Mind your Ps and Qs’, or ‘Go and wash you mouth out with soap!’
‘Oh my God! You can’t say that!’
‘Say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank-you’’.
‘It’s ‘ Mrs.’ not ‘Miss’ and she’s ‘slim’ not ‘skinny’’
‘Discreetly ask for the toilet. Don’t hollor, ‘Oi! Where’s the bog?’’
In fact, when you stop to think about it, the rules of speech are quite numerous and constraining. Each what, where, how, to whom, in what manner, with which words, and when, are strictly socially determined.
The preacher preaches in church on Sunday, and the CEO at the AGM, whilst all patiently listen. No-one interrupts to offer contrary positions.
Should you be so lucky, the Queen speaks to you. Not you to the Queen.
‘Be careful how you speak to Mike the masher. You might get a bunch-of-fives’.
‘Mind how you speak to mild Mary. She’s a particularly delicate type’.
Freedoms of speech? Not, unless, like my mother, we speak alone. And don’t think I’m putting over some upper-middle class ideal of spoken etiquette and elocution. I’m not. There’s enough inverted snobbery out there to fill Fort Knox three times over, so we might as well just accept the fact that socio-linguistic customs are absorbed into our identities and nigh on impossible to shake off.
‘Know what I mean, guv?’ ‘D’you ken?’ ‘Ooh! La di da!’
Having stated the obvious, let’s get serious. Let’s get political. Speaking words can have big consequences; as anyone who’s stood in church, or registry office, and said ‘I do’, can testify. In other cases the demonic world can apparently be summoned up with satanic incantations, whilst it has been known for heads to roll for speaking out the sacred names of reverred gods.
‘JE-HO-VAH’.
Phew! Still here!
Then again, defame somebody in public and you might get hauled up before the judge for ‘slander’ and asked to contribute substantially to the nation’s coffers. The media may not always mince their words, but they do take care before spitting them out. Freedoms to speak carry certain restrictions. Isn’t that right ‘Private Eye?’
Break speech codes and the weight of social sanctions falls. Admittedly, these are far heavier in some social contexts than in others. Historically, many a heretic has been thrown upon the burning pyre for confessing unacceptable convictions, or infidel stoned outside the city walls for saluting the wrong god. And globally, many a political activist has had fingernails pulled out for speaking out against incumbant dictatorships, whilst many a freedom fighter has been tortured and shot for posting resistance notices up on side walls.
Better to keep quiet, one might prudently think. Freedom of speech is not worth the pain, the self-sacrifice, the martydom or the loss of face. Or is it?
Living in healthy peacetime cotton wool democracies such alternatives are unthinkable. But were that not the case perhaps we would also take these frightening paths and put our own lives on the line; as many now do and many have done? It’s a hard thought. One whose reality is almost too scary to contemplate. Whose courage would not falter? Brave indeed are those who follow their convictions to the end, be that the ampitheatre lions, the firing squad, or public disavowal and banishment. I salute such ardent souls.
‘Better the ballot than the bullet’. Absolutely, so long as polling booths play fair.
‘Freedom to be heard’ now comes to the fore. So, how did that preacher get up into the pulpit; the politician on the voting platform; the university lecturer before the dais; the CEO on stage at the AGM, the dictator over-looking his military march past? Not from internet blogging, I can assure you.
‘Please talk to me!’ The sign held above the young homelessman read as he traipsed alone along the banks of the Thames looking pretty glum and downcast. Equally, it could have read: ‘Please listen to me!’ Speaking is social. For each speaker a minimum of one listener is required. Take that away and loneliness ensues.
‘You don’t always listen to me!’ My wife has complained. I hold my hands up in guilt.
‘Five hits on my blog today!’ I remark, joyful that someone out there has listened to me.
‘I might as well speak to a brick wall’, a geography teacher once moaned.
‘Over five hundred facebook friends’, a friend’s teenage daughter commented. ‘That’s over five hundred people reading my comments!’
Evidently, it is psychologically important to be listened to. It tells us that we exist. And the more important we are, the more people listen. That’s the facebook mentality, anyway, encouraging the race for prestige by gathering up ‘friends’. It’s also an opinion subscribed to by preachers and politicians. And if you happen to be a dictator, then you simply force people to listen – and not disagree.
Therein lies the struggle. Not simply the freedom to speak, but also to be heard and listened to. But who listens? How does yesterday’s crazy rant becomes today’s enlightened speech?
‘The earth is round! The sun is the centre of the universe!’
‘Are you joking? The man’s a nutter. Burn him!’
‘All races are equal’.
‘No way! Africans are born to be slaves.’
For sure, quality of speech goes a long way, although Plato’s idea of a philosopher governed republic was trashed millenia ago. Oratorial skills are certainly important, as Barack Obama demonstrates so well. Charisma helps, but is not enough or Mick Jagger would be vying with Cliff Richards for no.10. Wealth and power undoubtedly play some part, or Silvio Berlusconi would still be a cruise boat cabaret singer. And nepotism too can help, ask any royal family. A touch of magic enabled Merlin and various tribal witch-doctors to have their limelight days, whilst sheer talent enables Shakespeare’s words to still be heard. Gravitas definitely plays a part. In which regard think only of Winston Churchill. Bloody-mindedness too can not be overlooked, for bigotted religious fanaticists too often get their points across. Perhaps ‘courage of one’s convictions’ is a more positively termed determinant and here, just think of Martin Luther King, Steve Biko and Dietrich Bonhoffer. Examples, amongst countless others, who selflessly died for theirs.
For the rest of us, swimming in the shoals of mediocracy, we fight to be heard or we are not heard at all. ‘Letters to the editor’ remain unpublished, finished manuscripts of radicalizing novels lie dusting on the shelves. Our rock-and-roll bands of yesteryear, that were once going to revolutionize the world, are now but strands of crumpled magnetic tape spooling off the reels in boxes of old memories; alongside the photos of student protest days and university debating society membership cards. Now, we simply hold fort around the dinner table, criticizing government policies and proudly showing our children how wise we really are. Then it’s off to the pub with a few select friends, amongst whom one can really, freely speak:
‘Now, if I was in charge…’
‘The government just hasn’t got a clue…’
‘What this country really needs is…’
Or, like my mother, it’s into the garden with the gladiolis.
Freedom to speak and freedom to be heard? There’s a time and a place for everything: My wife usually cuts me off when ‘Desperate Houswives’ comes on. Nevertheless, ‘enraged reader from Basildon’, do keep plugging away. Picking up the phone can also be useful, but please don’t cut me off during the live radio phone-in debates.
‘It’s about time this country did something about it’s youth. Hmmph! The young hooligans should all be packed off to boot camp. Hmmph! That’ll teach them. Hmmph! In my day… ’.
‘Thank-you, Mr. Jones from Clapham. And now over to the weather.’
‘But…but…[click]… arrgh! What is the world coming too?’’
Yes, ‘getting heard’ is more of a challenge than having the ‘freedom to speak’. Principally because, thank goodness, the freedom not to listen also exists: Fortunately, choosing ‘the ballot’ over ‘the bullet’ is our Western democratic way. And I say ‘fortunately’, because there’s no polite discussion, nor even any ’ freedom to think’, with a man holding a gun to your head.
The ballot box: Pontefract’s legacy to the world. Yes, that little known fact blew me away too! Little ol’ Pontefract creating a means to fairly enact those great democratic ideals arising out of the French revolution through which we inherited our current political tradition. ’Egalité, liberté and fraternité’: Those worthy concepts now at base in most western political systems. Although, admittedly, personalized power-mongering agendas are often also involved. I’m not that naive. But in essence, speaking out for friends, neighbours, and countrymen; the poor, the infirm and the oppressed; all in the drive to attain those ideals – yeah, that’s the way to go. Read up on any great preacher, politician or civil rights activist who have striven along these lines. Then whoever seems most convincing in their intents, gets ‘the people’ behind them, plus the baton of power to achieve their goals. Sounds good to me. Beats all trying to get our voices simultaneously heard or some self-seeking autocrat getting away with murder.
But what a great tool the internet has become! Here we have a global, democratic system in which a billion voices can all speak out at the same time. Even if they’re not all listened to. And for those living people where the internet is censored or banned; where the media is suppressed, and where freedoms of speech are ‘persuasively’ discouraged, there is a simple solution:
They have a voice, and thereby exist, through ‘us’, through ‘you’, and through ‘me’ .
Through the internet, we do have the freedom of speech.
Long may it last!
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Martigues
Posted by Philip Newman in Oct 22, 2010, under France, places
Martigues is just 30 kms west of Marseille along the ‘Blue Coast’ - a part of France that few foreign tourists seem to know. A suprising fact for all its golden beaches and summer seasons packed full of cultural events. Nevertheless, those who do fall upon the town are soon charmed by a gentle beauty flourishing beside lake and canals. Many return. ‘Le Venice Provençal’, the town is called locally. It’s an appropriate name, capturing the town’s festive ambience and its colourful architectural blend.
Two minutes from Martigues’ main car park and you are in an oldy-worldy charm of Venetian style canals and colourful higgledy-piggledy houses. Alleyways lead off tidy squares, over iron-railed bridges and through backstreet mazes. Palm tree-lined avenues run alongside harbours where fishing boats rub shoulders with luxury catamarans. Boulevards of plane trees shelter cafés serving morning coffee and restaurants serving lunchtime meals: The sea-food is particularly regarded here.
Martigues is the jewel in Bouches-du-Rhône’s crown. Thirty kilometres west of Marseille it straddles the ‘Canal de Caronte’ that runs from the ‘Etang-de-Berre’ (the largest sea-water lake in Europe) to the Mediterrannean. With a canal-grooved island in the middle, the town exudes loveliness. Looking north across the ’etang’ distinguishable features are viewed far off across blue-green waters. The most prominent is the Mount St. Victoire which rises above Aix-en-Provence forty kilometres distant. It’s a beautiful view, especially in the early morning when the sun is still low, the sky a delicate pink, and sea-gulls circle above fishing boats. Looking south, down the canal, the town is overlooked by a modern viaduct (1972) which frames the town like a ribbon’s bow on a preciously wrapped gift. Such is Martigues: A bejewelled gift for the industrious region of the south of France. But it’s more than that. Much more.
Imagine a prehistoric tribe of hunters and gatherers wandering around southern France several millenia ago following herds of wild beasts and living off the land. Learning to fish, the sea provided plenty. Learning agricultural practices, they put down roots. Such is the origin of ‘The Blue Coast’ and Martigues.
The prehistoric history of the region is clearly visible. Vestiges lie scattered and weathering through the centuries, unmoved and untouched. Most outstandingly they can be seen at the site of St.Blaise, ten kilometres north-west of Martigues, on a shaded pine-tree hill-top between two small etangs. The site was inhabited for millenia before being extended by the Greeks into a forty hectare walled town competing in importance with Marseille. Many other similar sites exist. Notably at ’Tamaris’: A rocky, cliff-edged promontory which juts out into the Mediterrannean sea. Here you can still see evidence of the ancient houses once inhabited by the Gaulois ‘Avatiques‘ for remains of the stone walls still exist. Then, just along the coast at ‘Carro’ there are ancient quarries from where square-cut stone blocks were once removed by Greek masons and shipped to build St. Blaise and Marseille. Look closely and chisel marks can still be discerned.
Martigues itself is built on the site of ancient Gallic dwellings. These dwellings were uncovered just a decade ago, researched, then covered back up again and interred in time. A display window is still left open, however, for the sake of heritage, archeological interest and tourists. Yes, the history of Martigues is unavoidable and perfectly balances it’s geographical placement. The two go hand-in-hand.
There’s always been a swampy (‘marecage‘) connection between the Mediterrannean and the Etang-de-Berre, but it was left to the Romans to make it navigable for their ships between 104-102 B.C. by creating the ‘Caronte canal’. Nevertheless, for centuries this connection was left undeveloped and could even prove dangerous for vessels attempting to traverse the ‘dead waters’ (‘eaux mortes’) where little current flowed. In setting up camp the Romans named the site ‘Maritima Avaticorum’. However, when the Roman Empire collapsed and the barbarian/Sarassin invasions commenced, local inhabitants joined forces and for protection took control of the island at the junction of the Etang-de-Berre and the Caronte Canal, renaming the site ‘Insula Sanctii Genesii’ in recognition of Saint Genes.
Saint Genes received martyredom in Arles in the 3rd century A.D. for refusing to write official Roman edicts against Arles’ christians. This was before the Roman Empire became christianized under Emperor Constantine (310 A.D). Arles was attacked by Wisigoths in the 5th century A.D. However, they were soon expelled by Clovis, the first king of France. Threats continued to lurk as Gaul fell to outside invaders and the town was again attacked by Ostrogoths in the 6th century; this time being defeated by Childebert, son of Clovis. During these turbulent times the Bishop of Arles, ‘Saint Cesaire‘, lent his utmost support. He was rewarded, by Childebert, with lands around the Etang-de-Berre and is credited with having made the Caronte canal more navigable. He died in the Ostrogoth siege of Arles in 542 A. D. His succesors kept title to these lands, including fishing rights, and the connection between Martigues, Arles and Saint Genes existed for many centuries. The town of Martigues became a secure, protected site with city wall ramparts in the 8th century A.D.
Martigues was officially founded in 1228 by Ramon Berenguer V, Count of Provence. Centuries of conflict had passed between the bishops of Arles, the princes and counts of Provence, as well as other noble families, over land/water/fishing rights to the Etang-de-Berre and Caronte canal. It’s a complex story, but eventually propriatory rights were claimed by Ramon Berenguer IV (1162: under appeal to Emperor Frederic Barbarosa), then granted in charter (1223) to his son Raymond Berenguer V. The story explain the growing importance of Martigues, particularly in terms of its fishing industry and it’s dis-association from ecclesiastical powers in Arles .
There’s an interesting play on words that explains the etymology of ‘Martigues’. The name actually comes from Provençal, a local derivative of Latin, whereby ‘eaux mortes‘ (dead waters) was spoken as ‘aigues mortes‘. In fact a town of ‘Aigue-Mortes’, which also lies on an inland etang, lies 100 km west of Martigues. On being founded under Provençal Counts, Martigues chose to reverse the two words and further lose its episcopal association with Arles (i.e. lose the name of ‘Insula Sanctii Genesii’). Hence ‘Aigues-Mortes’ became ‘Mortes-Aigues’ became ‘Martigues’.
One can not visit Martigues today without considering its fishing heritage In the 16th century, for example, thousands of ‘Martigaux’ (Martigues people) lived by and on the fruits of the sea. There were 1,300 fishing boat captains plus boat builders, net-makers plus schools to teach the young the art and secrets of landing a good catch. Tuna was an especially lucrative fish for the locals, being landed in nets by the shoalful; thousands at a time. This technique was known as a ‘seinche‘. Then there were the ‘bourdigues‘ - systems of nets strung out on wooden frames across the Caronte canal to trap migrating fish swimming between the Mediterrannean and the Etang-de-Berre. This caused some conflict between bourdigues owners and fishermen, for it restricted navigation. The issue was then resolved through the establishment of a Martigues fishing union (‘prud’homie pecheurs’) which signalled the demise of the bourdigues. Today, only one bourdigue exists. It provides the town with a particular culinary speciality: ‘Poutagne’. A caviar prepared from mullet fish eggs. A visit to the ‘Hotel de Ville’ museum, or the ‘musée Ziem’, is essential to learn more about this aspect of Martigues; whilst visiting the remaining bourdigue is recommended to see poutagne being made. Alternatively, take a short trip to ‘Carro’ on the coast to visit the morning fishmarket alive in sea-smells and sea-sounds, or sample the sea food expertly prepared at the ‘Neptune restaurant’ in Martigues to get the full flavour. Cockles, mussels, oysters, oursin, whelks… all cooked exquisitely, the Martigues way.
At the southern end of the Caronte canal is the ‘Fort du Bouc’ surrounded by sea and industry on the ’Isle de Caronte’. This parcel of land was once granted by papal bull (1153) to Marseille, whose leaders quickly built a castle there (Castel Marseillais) to survey and block maritime commerce up-and-down the Caronte canal between Martigues and the Mediterrannean. Marseille and Martigues were then battling for commercial and political predominance in the area. It then fell to Provençal count ‘Charles I d’Anjou‘, (son-in-law of Ramon Berenguer IV and brother of Louis IX of France), to take control of the situation by subjugating the Marseillais and handing Castel Marseillais over to Martigues (1257). Re-digging the Caronte canal gave further impetus to Martigues’ growing commercial interest.
Wars between France and the Holy Roman Empire led to the fort being attacked by Holy Roman Emperor Charles V (1536). The Matigues residents defended well, repelled the attackers, and re-inforced the fort with new ramparts (1607). In the 17th century the fort became a political prison for French political opponents. It’s most famous inmate was Laurent de Coriolis (president of the parliament of Aix, capital of Provence). He had supported Gaston d’Orleans (brother of king Louis XIII) in combatting the rise to power of Cardinal Richlieu, the king’s first minister responsible for restraining the power of the nobility, and in fighting against the influencial Marie de Medici – Louis XIII”s mother. Under Louis XIV, further development of the fort was undertaking by Sebastian le Prestre de Vauban (1633-1707), a fortification specialist responsible for designing numerous French castles. For this reason the fort is sometimes referred to as ‘Fort Vauban’. The fort attained its final form under German control during the second world war. Again, history and geography blend in discovering Martigues.
Across the canal, on the southern left bank, stands the town of ‘Port du Bouc’. This was also an early rival to Marseille’s growing dominance and was similarly supported by ‘Seigneurs’ from Aix-en-Provence. Battles were fought (1382-1387) and for a time Port de Bouc was blocaded by the Marseillais. Some even set up camp on Martigues’ island - until expelled by the king of Provence.
During those times the town of today was actually three separate districts: Ferrières (on the left bank), l’Ile (the island in the middle) and Jonquières (the right bank). These district names still exist today, but with Marseille growing in political power the three districts decided to unite. This occured on 21st April 1581, with the ‘Act of the Union’ naming the site as the ‘Principauté de Martigues‘. Nevertheless, Louis XIV still declared Marseille the principal Mediterrannan port as he organized France into a national territory.
Martigues was decimated by cholera (‘The black death’) in 1720. Half of it’s 20,000 population succumbed to the disease. To make matters worse, Louis XV then ruined the town’s commercial backbone by losing three hundred of its ships during his wars. Then famine struck the land, plus terrible winters. In 1789, on the eve of the French revolution, the Etang-de-Berre froze. The revolution itself saw eight persons guillotined in the town, including the mayor. Hard times indeed!
Nevertheless, following the French revolution, Martigues rose from the ashes. The canal underwent successive improvements throughout the nineteenth century and construction work abounded bringing in many Italian and Spanish workers to the town. Twentieth century industrialisation then launched the town into the modern age with refineries and factories being built. The town was electrified in 1924.
A long detailed history lies under the surface of Martigues’ beauty: A history of struggle, hardship, and triumph. Like many French towns, German occupation in world war two also brought much grief through assassinations of its youth. Their names live on as street names and on memorial plaques.
But what a town for fun! Whilst remembering its past this is a town that definitely lives in the present. Markets and craft fairs are regular affairs. Throughout the year, barely a week goes by without some major event. International music festivals, carnivals and sporting events. Daytime ballroom dancing in the squares, ‘Rock and roll’ or ‘techo bopping’ on the street at night. A Venetian ‘flânerie’ with such outstanding masks and costumes, boat jousting down in the harbour, firework shows on the lake.
The most dramatic daily view of Martigues, however, is that seen when the canal bridge goes up. As large ships pass through the centre of town, traffic waits and all eyes watch. It’s just got to be seen.
But then, Martigues has just got to be seen! I’ve only lived here for two months and I wonder what comes next. I think it’s a horse chestnut fair (what a lovely idea!) at the weekend with artisanal autumnal offerings on display; cheese, wine and music . Hope I can get some cepes!
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The Blue Coast – Martigues.
Posted by Philip Newman in Oct 21, 2010, under France
The next time you’re in Marseille take the train from the central station (Gare St. Charles) to Martigues (direction Marimas) and you’ll travel along one of the most spectacular train lines in Europe. The ride only takes about forty minutes, most of which presents stunning views along the Mediterranean coast.
The train first passes through the Marseille port before reaching the outlying town of ‘Esteques’. But then, on passing through a short tunnel, the train emerges to a brilliant view of blue sky and dazzling blue sea as it runs around the western coast of the Marseille bay. The bay is huge, with plenty of room for all types of shipping: From the great merchant vessels and luxury liners, to the yachts, power boats and jet-skiers that zig-zag from creek-to-creek.
The train line passes high, above steep granite cliffs. From here bathers and anglers can be seen below dotting the rocky inlets, diving off craggy edges into deep pools. There are a number of small stations along the line, each one leading to delightful little harbours or sandy beaches from which to bathe. The first, as the train reaches the tip of the Marseille bay, is at Niolan. This town is small and, dare I say it, ’quaint’, with boats crammed tight into a cove that is almost hidden amongst the rocks.
The next stop is at ‘Redoune’, the starting point of ’The Blue Coast’. Looking down from the station on high, boats can be seen lined up in orderly display in a tiny harbour way down below. Worth stopping off for!
The ‘Blue Coast’ stretches along the Mediterranean for the next thirty kilometres. For much of that distance, if one steps off the train and walks down to the coast, Marseille can be seen slowly fading into the distance. So too can the rocky isles that disappear into the sea on the far eastern side of the Marseille bay; although these are often envelopped in a faint sea mist which adds a slightly mysterious look to the horizon. Looking straight out all that can be seen is sea, perhaps with just a dashing of white as the wind whips the wave tops. Sea and sky dominate, and time should be taken to pause and reflect on those early Mediterranean voyagers (Greeks, Phoenicians and Phoçeans) who first landed here on these shores nearly three millenium ago to set up camp with the indigenous Gallic peoples, after having sailed all the way from the other end of the Mediterrannean.
Yes, of course, the best way to cover the Blue Coast is on foot and this can be accomplished in stages if one has the time. And why not? There are plenty of campsites along the way with mobile homes and chalets shaded amongst the pines. Here you can establish a base and spend days lounging, eating, swimming, and sleeping to the sounds of waves and clicking cicadas. The walk from Redouane to Sausset-les-Pins (via Carre-le-Rouet) is largely done by road and forest track that criss-cross the railway line ahead. Once past Sausset-les-Pains, however, you’re on pure coastal path that takes you down to the water’s edge, across sandy bays, and through tiny hamlets and fishing villages.
The landscape after Sausset-les-Pains, as seen from the train, changes. Here the train heads a few kilometres inland and trundles through forest and shrub-land that is so typically ‘Provence’. Then ‘La Caronne’ is reached; the site of the largest sandy beach along the Blue Coast. In fact, that’s really the end point of the Blue Coast, although the small town of ‘Carro’ just around the corner is certainly worth a view. It’s a quiet town, often buffetted with high waves on it’s coastal side and sheltering an unspoilt harbour that supports one of the best fish markets in the area. It is also the principle site to see the ancient quarries from where stone was taken to build Marseille.
Finally, the train arrives in Martigues; The jewel in the crown. Alight from the train and take a local shuttle bus into the centre. Then wander around the back streets on the ‘Ile’ where the town’s charm can best be seen. ’Le Venice Provençal’, Martigues is called locally. With the brightly coloured houses, swathes of decorative flowers and canals, it’s certainly an appropriate name for the town.
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The French strike. Viva la Grève!
Posted by Philip Newman in Oct 19, 2010, under France, places, Politics
One might have thought, following the French national football team’s shameful display of striking during the 2010 world cup and bringing a new meaning to the term ‘football striker’, that this great French past-time might have diminished in popularity. But no, despite French national pride having taken a knock at the games, the act of striking is too firmly embedded in the French national conscience. Hence discontent with government policies is regularly and openly displayed by truckers crawling along the autoroutes on mass (‘operation escargot‘), general strikes and ‘The People’ taking to the streets. This most recent affair is due to the French people being asked, during the current global economic recession, to work a bit longer in life and help ensure a more prosperous future for their country. ‘Quel horreur!’ – they reply in looking forward to their years of ’petanque’, and café sitting ahead.
With such planned reforms on retirements, Nicholas Sarkozy, the French Emperor (oops! President) has angered the populace and put in doubt his re-election in two years time – something that earlier this year he had thought to secure by expelling Roma gypsies from the land and thereby gain support from the more xenophobic sections of French life. If that strategy did raise his popularity, which is questionable, it’s certainly taken a nose dive now. But rather than back down from these planned reforms, in response to overwhelming negative public opinion, for once he leaves his Prime Minister, Francois Fillon, to fend the blows and carry his retirement reforms through.
So, the ports are closed and oil tankers refused entry block up the Med. Oil refineries are running short and petrol pumps are empty. Piles of rubbish lies uncollected in the streets, public transport is under threat and students are out on the streets to gain first-hand experience of protesting and whet their revolutionary zeals. It’s in their blood. What true French patriot does not regard ‘The Rights of Man’ as worth fighting for? 
Who will back down? People power is strong in France, especially when taken under wing by the unions who are so expert at organizing marches up and down the high-streets of every city, town and commune in the country. The famed French national anthem cry of: ‘Aux armes, Citoyens’, may be rather anachronistic these days, but ’Aux banners!’ and ‘Aux slogans!’ still resound loudly when government policies aren’t quite to the liking of the public. This is French democracy in practice, visibly re-ified when that other great French legacy, ‘public debate’, is ignored by the powers that be.
Therein lies the crux of the issue. It’s not so much that the French populace is refusing to co-operated with their elected representatives, but that the French democratic process is a slowly turning wheel in which decisions are thoughtfully chewed over before being made. Lest we forget, the French gave the world democratic ideals. In this country of origin, these strongly involve the electorate and the unions. Strong-minded leaders are respected, but individualistic leaders taking initiatives alone are not. This is a republic in which the voice of the people demands to be heard.
Thus, as a result of ignoring public opinion, streets are on fire and shop windows are smashed. Admittedly, this is by those who take advantage of such protests to revel in unlicenced thuggery. Nevertheless, throughout France, the face of civil discontent is apparent and the intricate issue of retirement reforms now takes a background seat as power plays are enacted to address the balance of power between ‘The Government’ and ‘The People’.
The issue at hand, returning to the nitty-gritty of France’s retirement policy, is the government’s proposal to increase the retirement age from sixty to sixty-two. Considering that other European countries, such as Britain, put the retirement age at sixty-five, one may wonder what all the fuss is about. However, in France one also retires after forty-two years of weekly paying money into the national pension fund. Should one begin such payments later in life, (e.g. those studying until their mid-twenties, raising kids, or otherwise employed), then the option to retire at sixty does not exist. In these cases retirement comes at sixty-five. Hence, by extending retirement ages by two years, those retiring at sixty-five won’t be able to retire until sixty-seven. Whilst this may be fine for those in more sedentary jobs sitting behind desks in cosy offices, for those in heavy industry, manual and driving jobs, the proposal is considered quite unsavoury and even downright dangerous – Or so the French people say.
But will Sarkozy listen? At present his Elysees Palace door is closed and his face does not grace French televisions screens as it did when first elected and his popularity was running high. Neither does he walk out to meet protesters on the streets for confrontational show-downs; opportunities he once relished. Crititized for taking too much centre stage and executive authority away from his Prime Minister, when first in office and optimism in a new post-Chirac era was at a high, as his ratings plummet he now appears more content to sit back and hand over the baton of managing daily governmental affairs. But Fillon, bravely taking Sarkozy’s flak, tirelessly re-iterates Sarkozy’s decree: ‘This government is not for turning’. Yes, there is certainly some of Margaret Thatcher’s stubborness in Sarkozy. Perhaps, like Thatcher, that will be his downfall?
Two years ago, stuck in central Lyons unable to get home due to a local transport stike, I asked advice from a policeman. Shrugging his shoulders he simply informed me that: ’C'est La France! C’est la merde!’ But France can do better than that. The French democratic process can do better. The solution I observed in Dijon 2000, my first French strike, may hold the key. After a whole morning of vigorously changing anti-government slogans, the strikers all stopped and went for lunch! Ahh! Le Restaurant. That other great French institution. That’s the place to go and chew things over.
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Jazz: The heights of ecstasy
Posted by Philip Newman in Oct 15, 2010, under music
‘The blues’ – pure and deceptively simple.
Posted by Philip Newman in Oct 15, 2010, under music
Formation Anglais: Bouches -du-Rhône
Posted by Philip Newman in Oct 14, 2010, under Formation Anglais
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