Gertsamtkunstwerk

Contessa Perdono: why laugh?

I googled this phrase and found two blogposts:

Perhaps the most sublime moment in all of music occurs in the Fourth Act of Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro

The Count's voice, half moan, half cry, echoes through the silenced auditorium with all the remorse and yearning that the human soul is capable of. "Contessa, perdono", he sings, and the music soars like a wounded bird, then, ashamed of its own presumption, sinks wearily, guiltily back to earth.

In the end, the Count is shamed into begging the Countess's pardon. Contessa, Perdono.The most beautiful phrase in Western music.

I may not agree with the absolute comparative but I see no reason to argue with these heartfelt opinions. It's the 'game changer' in the opera. It's legitimate to ask whether the Count is genuinely remorseful - in other words, it's human to assume that, in time, he will fall back into his sex-pest habits. But he is genuinely remorseful in the moment; he believes himself to be truly so. How do I know? Because the music tells me so.

And yet, when I see this from amidst the expensive seats, there is laughter. To some people, it's a hilarious moment. Actually, I doubt that. Very little in opera provokes spontaneous unstoppable belly shaking laughter. Some situations inspire a ripple of amusement. 

Why do people laugh here? Maybe they are virulently feminist anti-establishment types, more extremely so than me, snorting in derision in the duplicitous male, gleefully anticipating The Reign of Terror. The special undercover feminist revolutionaries who cunningly disguise themselves as smug posh people and sit in the expensive seats at the Royal Opera House. I doubt it.

So why do they laugh? Are they just reading the surtitle screen? I don't understand it. It is worse by several degrees of magnitude to those that give a throaty 'ha ha ha' to make sure everyone knows they've 'got' the joke in a light-hearted funny comedy. It risks ruining the moment for everyone who has been listening to the music, hearing the emotions unfold.

There must be a good reason, because it happens so frequently - I know directly and I've read it so often 

I can't recall 100%, but I'm pretty certain when I saw Figaro in pre-surtitle days, nobody laughed at the Count's line "Contessa perdono!" ... and now audiences seem to find that exquisitely beautiful line something to just roar in laughter at. Anyone have any idea as to why?

and

  I once heard a master coach comment that in a successful production of Figaro, the audience doesn’t laugh when the Count says “Contessa, perdono,” because, though one has little faith in the future, in the moment he truly believes it. In this production, no one laughed.

 and

A good few members of the audience, however, seemed to find hilarious a chair being pushed from one side of the stage. Presumably many of them were the same people who laughed – unforgivably – at the Count’s final plea for forgiveness.

links 02/27/2012

• Local history walks | Lambeth Council

  tags: brixton

Posted from Diigo. The rest of my favorite links are here.

Bits and Bobs

Looking through my photos, I found a good few which either were poor quality photos (blurry) of something worth photographing, or snapshots taken without much of a story to tell about the article spotted. Mostly not good enough to preserve for posterity in my photo albums, but stuff I don't want to go un-recorded.

Crab-cakes as a starter at the delightful Exhibition rooms in Crystal Palace

Followed by fish (I forget what now, I'm a bit hopeless), enticingly presented. I had this twice in December

A good selection of artisan cheeses served with rustic bread

Goats cheese and walnut salad at Streatham's Manor Arms just before Christmas

New Year's Eve starter at the Manor Arms of tea-smoked salmon and quails eggs

 

My twenty-year old artificial mini Christmas tree rejuvenated by the inspired addition of fairy lights

Arguably the world's worst park café on Streatham Common, taken on New Year's Day. 2012 or 1977, it's difficult to say

 

'Faded London' poster seen in Tooting

Pram sheds, or maybe beach huts (!) on the Peabody Estate in Westminster

Eggs en cocotte

I kept going into the local independent Department store, and seeing the dinkiest cutest ramekins styled to look like mini-casseroles exactly matching the range of saucepans I already own. I knew there was very little practical reason to get them, but I just adored the cute dinkiness of them. Eventually, I could resist no longer and two were acquired 

Next question was - what to do with them. I concluded that although they can be used to serve soup, dips etc, but there is possibly only one dish which can be cooked in these mini-casseroles: eggs en cocotte.

There are so many recipes for eggs en cocotte with numerous variations, but I plumped for an over-complicated Delia recipe. Now, I love Delia as much as the next person, but even I have to concede she has a habit of making simple home cookery too elaborate and labour-intensive. Here is her recipe for Eggs en cocotte with morel or porcini mushrooms

Note: Start by soaking the morels or porcini about 30 minutes ahead of time. 

And: Let it cook very gently, without a lid, for 25-30 minutes

Now let the eggs bake for 15 minutes

This is not a breakfast dish

Mind you, Rick Stein's is hardly any better, just more coy

Eggs en cocotte, with chopped mushrooms, thyme and gruyere served with a herb salad and lemon dressing

• continue to cook until all the excess liquid has evaporated (erm, how long, Rick?)
• 30 mins to 1 hour preparation time
• 30 mins to 1 hour cooking time

That's why I like Delia - she's clear even when she's over-elaborate

  And actually, despite the half hour soaking and half hour reducing, it wasn't that difficult. Base of mushrooms, crack an egg into the ramekin, spoon on the creme fraiche, stick it in a bain marie, and sure as eggs is eggs, you've got a tasty and filling brunch dish

 

 

A walk around Lincoln's Inn Fields

 It was one of those 'dead' days between Christmas and New Year, when staying at home was not an option. Not if you wanted to avoid Cabin Fever. Dry, if overcast, and not bitterly cold. We decided to explore a little bit of Offbeat London. We caught the bus from near our house, all the way through Brixton and Kennington, and over Waterloo Bridge to Aldwych. So far, a very familiar journey from numerous visits to Covent Garden for all sorts of purposes.

But as soon as we turned off Aldwych we were in virgin territory. We wandered through what amounts to the campus for London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE) - I had an interview there 26 years ago, but it's changed, and my memory fails. Past The Old Curiosity Shop, which was closed, and into Lincoln's Inn Fields, supposedly the largest public square in London. I've never been there, partly because I've never had reason to, but I later had conversation with someone who used to work near there, who said it was once, not so long ago, a hangout for drunks and other derelicts; perhaps that is why I never thought of going.

On this gloomy day in December, it was just us, another couple, a dog walker, and a father and toddler. Even the café was closed. A pergola in the middle acts as a shelter, supposedly for a plaque marking a public execution, but the plaque was not there, either taken by metal thieves, or removed to prevent such a theft. Yet, outside the locked gates was an abstract sculpture in metal. I later read this to be Camdonian, by Barry Flanagan.

Our guide book told us we were supposed to walk round the square admiring the various interesting and noteworthy buildings, but my companion didn't see the point. We did notice a massive queue waiting to go into Sir John Soane's Museum, presumably to see A Rake Revisited: Henry Hudson at the Soane. 

 Instead, we went into Lincoln's Inn, one of four Inns of Court in London. A strange place, resembling colleges I have visited in Oxford and Cambridge, with a similar sense of detachment from ordinary life. Depressing to think that many of our judges move from isolated expensive schools to isolated elite Universities to isolated office space. I know they are all academically successfully, and many intelligent, and, no doubt, some live in mixed neighbourhoods or volunteer to help disadvantaged people. Some will even encounter ordinary lives in their legal cases. But it doesn't exactly inspire one that society is classless with equal access to justice.

It was pleasant to wander around the Inn, although it started to rain heavily while we were there. It was so gloomy that my photos of gas lamps lighting up are timed at quarter past two. I feel I should return in better weather to take some photos, not of the big splendid buildings, but of the details of the carvings and crenellations. Even though I felt slightly as though I was trespassing (I wasn't), it was pleasant to be in there, relatively cut-off from traffic noise, and with not too many other tourist types there.

Because it was raining, and because we were due a sit-down, it made sense to go to an interesting-sounding pub which was specifically mentioned in the guide book - the Seven Stars. Over 400 years old, it survived the Great Fire. I was interested/amused that we were on Carey Street, possibly better known as Queer Street. There were a lot of plus-points to the pub - a decent selection of real ales, a serious looking food menu, and a welcoming atmosphere. It's a very small place, and internet reviews suggest it gets very busy after office hours in term time. The landlady was away on holiday, but I sensed that a landlady with a larger than life personality was one of the 'attractions' of the pub. Unfair to judge in her absence, but I tend to steer clear of 'larger than life personalities' because it's often forced and usually a tad wearing.

  We walked down Bell Yard and onto Fleet Street. Just a few yards away, Fleet Street meets The Strand, and the City of London meets the City of Westminster at Temple Bar. The rain was becoming more persistent, so it was with some relief that we realised that the Royal Courts of Justice were open.

Of course, that shouldn't have been a surprise: it's actually a vital part of a democratic society that the public should, in general, be admitted in to observe court proceedings. Security was strict, with airport-style scanners and bag X-Rays, although on inspection they were relaxed about the tiny penknife Jimmy carries on his key ring. There were signs up stating 'Strictly No Photography'. It was quiet and we were unsupervised, so I did consider sneaking a few. However, I could hear persistent banging coming from the cell block, undoubtedly the poor soul who had previously attempted to take photographs. Besides, the lighting was subdued, almost church-like, so I would have had to use flash, and it would have been a dismal failure.

Being one of those 'dead' days between Christmas and New Year, very few courts were sitting. Indeed, I was surprised any were. The News had told us that the Central Criminal Court 'The Old Bailey' was sitting extraordinarily to conclude the trial of two of Stephen Lawrence. Depressingly, all the cases seemed to be personal bankruptcy cases. Seemed suitably Dickensian to think of these poor souls ending up on Queer Street. 

We emerged into the rain and had a peer at St Clement Dane's, known as the RAF church. It was closed, and, in the fading light, my photos were fuzzy and blurred. I took one final photo of Australia House, and although it will never be a favourite, I liked that I inadvertently got the foreground people in a blur, which seems to be currently 'on-trend'. I presume it was the exposure time of 1/8 second, perhaps combined with ISO-100 that did it. 

We finished off the afternoon out with a trip to Hotel Chocolat, before catching the Tube. At the bus stop, we bumped into a friend, and we said we'd been for a walk; he thought we were a bit daft, walking in the rain. On New Year's Day, I insisted we go for a walk, and although it was dry and clear when we left the house, it started chucking it down while we stood at the bus stop. The same friend walked by, asked us where we were going. For a walk, we said. He actually said we were quite mad. To be honest, as we squelched through the mud on Streatham Common in the pouring rain, I had to concede, he had a point!

More photos of today, and hundreds of others, are in my London photo album.

Studland

Day 11 of the Rain-soaked Holiday in Dorset, and Checking the Weather Forecast became of Utmost Importance. Unfortunately, three weather forecasts said three different things, so we were obliged to take a risk. A risk that involved both a Plan B (Corfe Castle) and a Plan C (wandering dolefully around Dorchester). We drove out East, headed for Studland. It is said, and not just by Wikipedia, to be famous for its beaches, its nature reserve, its nudist beach, its Enid Blyton connection and the setting for Thomas Hardy's Egdon Heath. It's where Generals Montgomery and Eisenhower met with the then UK King to observe the troops training for D-Day. But I'd never really heard of it.

Our first stop was at Middle Beach, which contained one of the most complacent poorly-run tourist trap cafés I have encountered since the 1970s. The only coffee available was instant. Probably powder, not granules. We opted instead for a cup of tea, but frankly don't know why we bothered. Weak, and made with water well below boiling point. There was some food on offer but it was appetite-suppressing. The most prominent signage was for Wall's ice cream, which isn't bad, but given the fashion for, and the local glut of, lovingly-made-by-artisans-in-a-twee-sounding-place-with-full-fat-milk-from-named-cows, dismal. Such a place couldn't exist on a high street, but lacking real competition, it disgracefully rolls on. In the car park we passed a group who seemed to be from a Scandinavian country. Knowing they would probably head for that café, I cringed to be English. Oh, and thank you National Trust. We paid a small-fortune for 2 hours parking; the signs forgot to say that we could have paid marginally more for a day ticket valid for all Studland car parks. 

We drove North along the island, and, lacking any more change, we refused to pay to park in another expensive car park near the ferry. Instead, we defiantly parked along the roadside. Many other people did, too. There were no signs saying not to. We clambered over a sandbank and found ourselves almost alone on a small beach overlooking an inlet of Poole Harbour, which I assume to be Redhorn Lake, but happy to stand corrected if I'm mistaken. There were several liveaboards anchored. Neither boat nor house. Intriguing, and for a few moments at least, part of my unfulfilled fantasy of living a slightly alternative bohemian life. 

 

Plenty of evidence of it being a working marina, something I find endlessly fascinating. I could have taken more photos - and, presumably, blown out the sky in all of them - but the weather had turned. It suddenly started blowing what resembled a gale, and spotting with rain.

Fortunately, armed with my Rough Guide, we headed to the Shellbay Seafood Restaurant. Some fine-ish lunching went on round the back, but we sat in the front and munched on a delightful bar-snack of Crevettes and Mary Rose sauce.

 

 

 

 

We wandered for a while on shell Beach and watched the ferry wend its way back and forth to Sandbanks. It's a chain ferry, which fascinates me more than it probably should. We even toyed with the idea of getting it as foot passengers, just for the sheer heck of it. But we decided that it probably wasn't worth it to pay several pounds to take the car across just to drive around and look at houses made expensive by their location rather than by their intrinsic architectural merit. Or eat in a restaurant at inflated prices. So we didn't. Writing this now, some eight months on, I sort of wish I'd taken more photos of the details, such as the chain laid down on the pavement, rather than shooting out to sea for dismal photos of distant cross-channel ferries. But you shoot how the mood takes you at the time!

From being blustery and a bit wet, the weather bucked up, and before long we were lying on Knoll Beach. This is presumably the main beach of the area, supported by a huge National Trust car park at considerable price, a National Restaurant of indifferent offer, and a National Trust gift shop, where I splurged, despite my better judgement.

We found ourselves a quiet place on the beach, away from the entrance, and away from those - adults or toddlers - who wanted to play. Alongside, but not too close to, singles and couples who were snoozing or reading. Some left and were replaced by others all with the same desire for peace. Until a family of Primary school age children arrived - begging the question of why weren't they in school - and they proceeded to play noisily horizontally along the beach. We moved, but again they drifted up in our direction. Time to move on.

We recaptured our equilibrium in the large 'beer garden' of Bankes Arms. Nice pint, great location, amazing view, but I'm surprised it gets such a low rating on Google reviews - average 2/5, with some people only awarding 1 because they couldn't give zero. 

Our final act was to walk to Old Harry Rocks, chalk sea stacks located at the end of a headland. Twenty minute walk, said the guide book. One mile, said the sign posts. They both forgot to say 'and then some', which turned it into good forty minutes there and pretty much the same back. I don't think we were walking slowly, because, despite our best efforts, we seemed pretty much to keep pace with several other groups who started out at much the same time. Thankfully, it was worth it, for the view, for the strenuous but not exhausting walk. Glorious sunshine, heat that wasn't oppressive, gorgeous blue sky, light breeze. Finally, a glimpse of the summer we hoped would dominate our June holiday on the South Coast.

  We planned to finish the afternoon in the highly praised and clearly attractive Joes's Café on South Beach, but the walk had taken longer than we expected, so the café was closed. We also managed to get lost, quite a feat in a village with a population of 480, the village that had inspired Enid Blyton's Toytown. There was no sign of PC Plod, although we did see two separate men driving sit-on lawn mowers down the public highway.

Time to drive back in glorious evening sunshine. No hint of fog on the A35. On the car radio, Classic FM played into the 7pm news with a frenetic, lively and exciting interpretation of - arguably - Wagner's greatest overture, Tannhauser - not this recording - which was utterly thrilling as we chased west through the Dorset countryside, and ended up in the car park at the Anchor in Seatown as the final chords of the Bacchanalian orgy struck. Unfortunately, the Anchor was full to capacity and with a long wait for food - presumably because of the sudden outbreak of good weather on Midsummer's Day. Instead we went to the George in Chideock for an excellent fish and chip supper.

We arrived back in Bridport just as the sun was thinking about setting. Somewhat to my alarm, groups of pensioners and teenagers seemed to be heading to the hill behind the town, presumably to take part in a paganistic bacchanalian orgy of their own, to mark the Summer Solstice. I was rather glad to retreat indoors.

More photos of Studland and Dorset are in my Dorset photo album

Trinity Clapham Common

So many positive reviews exist of Trinity restaurant that combines fine dining with being a short bus ride away from home.

We had been thinking of this as a possibility for my (pre)-birthday meal, anyway. The previous weekend we had ended up in the boozer next door; one thing led to another, and we booked a table. On the Saturday evening it snowed, bringing much of London transport to a standstill. So we felt doubly smug at choosing to dine fine and local.

I was totally and utterly impressed by every single aspect of the experience at this restaurant. Jimmy had a quibble - he found his Terrine of Chicken, Foie Gras and Artichokes, Pickled Apples and Brioche to be quite fatty for a starter; fat combined with wine affects his digestion. But that, I think, is an inevitable consequence of choosing Foie Gras. The restaurant is not cheap, but I felt that it delivered what we paid for. In any case, more than a third of our bill was wine; future visits will probably involve less wine. And they offer a truncated menu as a £30 for 3 course lunch.

We were served an appetiser of radishes and a cod roe emulsion; this was followed by sourdough - they explained that this had been in use for 9 years. I only recently learned about sourdough, and how each batch is made from leavening taken from the previous batch - more in Wikipedia. To be honest, I'm not sure of the objective advantages, but this tasted lovely, especially when served with home-churned butter made of Jersey cream.

My starter was Charred Mackerel, Oyster Mayonnaise, Cucumber and Shrimps, which looked and tasted much better than it sounds! I particularly liked how the shrimps were wrapped in a wafer-thin sheet of cucumber.

Jimmy's main course was Slow Cooked Veal, Truffle Walnut Pesto, Black Pudding and Artichoke. I'm not sure if he's ever had veal before, but we both watched an episode of Countryfile, which explained how modern British veal is reared, with the endorsement of Animal Welfare organisations. I can't say for certain that this restaurant sources its veal this way, but I'd be surprised if it didn't.

 

I opted for Butter Poached Halibut, Crab Tortellini, Crab and Ginger Broth. I had been tempted by a bream, leeks and mussels dish but, concerned about the inclusion of bacon, I asked the waiter how integral an ingredient it was and he patiently explained. He also suggested ways it could be made differently eg for someone who didn't like the overt taste of bacon but didn't mind it being part of a sauce. Which was nice, and has given me more confidence - I noticed in Masterchef the other week, one of the previous winners ie a professional chef specifically ordered a scallop and pancetta dish without the pancetta. 

The halibut dish was just perfection. A chunky fillet that nevertheless flaked away at the slightest touch. Even the bed of julienne veg worked well, densely packed almost as a nest, and providing lots of colour. The broth was the foundation of the dish. I find crab an interesting ingredient. The white meat is so delicate, and the brown meat has a robust flavour, which couples well with the ginger - two strong flavours bouncing off each other. And the crab tortellini was just an extra indulgence!

The food was good, but I also found the service to be just right. Plenty of staff but they never intruded. No over-fussy refilling of one's glass every time you sip, one discrete 'Is everything okay?' not while you're either mid-sentence or with the fork poised at your mouth, and, best of all, an easy friendliness that stopped well short of telling you the details of their personal life, their opinion of the food, or 'you've made a good choice' - I'm sure they were confident that every dish met the same high standards, so there couldn't be a bad choice!

They have a very large wine list, which I initially found daunting. But I figured out that, faced with information overload of wines sorted by region - region of France, say, not regions of the world - the sensible thing for me, not a wine buff, would be to select one of those sold by glass & carafe. We chose a New Zealand Pinot Noir which was fruity and very nice.

We chose the same pudding: Hot Chocolate Pot - effectively, a fondant - with Salt Caramel Ice Cream. The chocolate was very chocolatey - as it should be, and the salt of the ice cream provided a counterpoint to the bitterness of the chocolate and the sweetness of the caramel. We also took the recommended pudding wine, Domaine Mas Amiel  Maury, Languedoc-Roussillon. The waiter suggested it was like port but superior. Part of me agrees, another part feels that, in being lighter, it avoided the treacly nature of port.

So, a thoroughly enjoyable meal with, really, no criticism. I would not hesitate to go back, and would recommend it to anyone who enjoys good food and good service. I had been slightly anxious about whether I would feel under-dressed, but, actually, most of the diners were in more 'comfortable' clothes than me! Maybe the snow contributed to that.

 

A stroll up the river in December sunshine

It was one of those dead days between Christmas and New Year. Neither of us was at work and we vowed we would not waste away the days stuck indoors watching TV that was spectacularly bad even by the standards we've become used to at Christmas. A weather forecast was checked and the rural ways of Surrey were researched. At which point we hit a snag. All the places that appealed as walks were served by pubs that didn't open for food until 6pm. Many of the pubs looked very inviting, but when it's dark by four, or in effect earlier, the last thing you want is to be hanging around until six, or later, for food.

Instead we headed for Kingston. We were going to go by train, catching a bus to Streatham Hill, our nearest station. What bus arrived at the bus stop but a 57, going all the way to Kingston. Genius Gert decided, let's get the bus to Kingston.

That was a long journey, even though we were doing it in almost optimum conditions. It was one of those 'dead' days between Christmas and New Year, so there was little commercial and no school-related traffic. We discovered as we sat in roadworks between Streatham and Tooting, that there was another 57 just in front of us. As a consequence our bus was remarkably empty all the way. We caught it at the second stop on the route and rode it to the terminus. A bit more pre-planning and we could have done the whole route! Part of me is wanting to do a blogpost of the entire route, but, to be frank, riding it once is enough for any lifetime, and I've done it three times. And, in the end, what can I say. Oh, Tooting has a Primark. Blimey, in Raynes Park, the Co-op and Waitrose are opposite each other. Two different aspects of co-operatives.

  We arrived in Kingston and took of indifferent coffee in a chain, due to our inability to find any independents. I'm sure they must exist, even out here in suburbia, but they weren't obvious.We did the obligatory Streathamite hiss at Kingston's John Lewis, for which Streatham sacrificed the legendary, almost mythical Pratt's, and we headed for the river. 

A moment was spent in amusement as a couple rowed away from the banks, their shopping safely stowed aboard their rowing boat, and a bunch of teenagers yelled 'Faster faster faster', and we headed over Kingston Bridge. Another moment was spent in despair at the sheer weight of traffic, despite it being one of those 'dead' days between Christmas and New Year, but we soon forgot about that as we set off along the almost deserted riverside path.

I say 'almost deserted' but we never really felt totally alone. A healthy number of walkers, and not just the obligatory doggie people. The walk was 'inspired' by page 7 of Walks Around the Royal borough of Kingston-upon-Thames, although I'm not sure one really needs 'inspiration' for a Riverside Walk. Also, 1 hour 10 minutes was hopelessly optimistic, making me think 2.9 miles was an under-statement. Much of it was around the edge of Home Park (of Hampton Court), blissfully cut off from traffic noise, mainly.

We were fortunate with the weather. It had drizzled once or twice when we were on the bus, and had looked ominously gloomy as we set off from civilisation, or, rather, Kingston, but by the time we were approaching Thames Ditton and Hampton Court, the afternoon had turned into a rather glorious pre-sunset, with a spectacular Golden Hour arriving more than an hour before sunset.

A river walk is almost always charming. I enjoy looking at the boats moored - above is a presumably replica paddle steamer, presumably not run on steam.

I also enjoy looking at the riverside properties, envying them their views. I've always dreamed of a lawn that slopes down to the river, being able to launch a small dinghy from your back garden. I'm not materialistic or driven by a need for great wealth, but, sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder whether my life could have taken a different path. And then I remember: if I could afford a house in such a location,I'd either be working silly hours and never able to switch off, or trapped in an unhappy marriage to a man doing the same. Hence my indifference to wealth!

Hampton Court Palace is an impressive building, and one we visited ten years ago. For that reason, it holds a very special place in my affections, because I had only really just started blogging - the original blog was on blogspot - and my reading of other people's blogs, and their trips out, which they photographed and blogged, was a major motivation to me to get out and see parts of London I had never really bothered about. A few photos here.

So, in a sense, this was almost a 'tribute' visit. Although we didn't go in. I imagine it wasn't far from closing, and it looked quite busy, partly because there was a temporary ice rink in the grounds by the main entrance. 

Instead, we went to a decent pub, The Albion, outside of which we sat, so pleasant was the late afternoon. someone later tweeted me it was East Molesey's best pub, which I can believe. 

I discovered that Jimmy has a slight obsession about chimneys. Several future days out were to feature him instructing me to photograph chimneys!

A few photos of this and more London treats at London photo album, and also Hampton Court photo album

Brighton October and Hot

An extraordinary October Monday, the end of an amazing hot weekend. The sort of weather that demands to be spent outdoor, if possible, and especially when you know it's almost certainly the last hot day for many months. And even more so when one hot sunny day of the weekend had been effectively ruined by a 12-hour boozy communal 'singing' barbecue garden party by some Polish temporary tenants living nearby. Monday was a great day to head for Brighton. It had been so busy over the weekend, as the neat but large piles of rubbish next to full rubbish bins on the Prom testified; a staff member at the 'Spoons at the Marina said they had run out of beer on the Sunday. I don't suppose this was meant literally and totally, but I got the picture!

The temperatures were in the high twenties all the time we were there, which definitely counts as 'Glorious Summer Day' but all around were signs of a seaside resort shutting down for autumn.Brighton is more than a seaside resort but we observed some out-of-season decline. 

Most times I have been to Brighton I've stayed West of the Pier. Looking at this map, I see that the main pier at Brighton is actually a continuation of the A23, which I know as Brixton Hill/Streatham Hill/Streatham High Road! I knew the A23 went to Brighton, of course, but it's never struck me before that I live just off Brighton Pier. Sort of! This time, we decided to head East, toward the Marina, which I once visited by taxi. Somewhat surprisingly, this was really the first time  either of us had been east of the pier!

We set off walking to the Marina, which didn't seem that far away. To cut a long story short, it was! It was a good walk, but in future we'll probably get a bus, seeing that there's a frequent service direct from the station. It's okay until you almost get there, but then there's another boring walk through Asda's car-park, almost as if the Marina  and its shops and restaurants don't want pedestrians approaching from the beach.

We saw the Ferris wheel being dismantled, which is a sight you don't see every day. 

 

I noted the existence of a Crazy Golf course, but it failed my test of being exciting. I have one very specific criterion for Crazy Golf: it has to be as good as Pirate's Cove, which I encountered on Cape Cod, or Living Legend in Jersey. So far, I have not found one in England. True, I haven't looked specifically but I do like to keep an eye open. This one doesn't do it for me, and I think it was closed, anyway. As was Volks Electric Railway, which had closed for winter the previous week. I did take a photo, but who needs a photo of a miniature railway without a train? It reopens on 31 March

I tend to find Brighton West of the Pier to be quite commercial. Depending what mood I'm in, it's delicious decadent fun or it's way too tacky and 'let's get to Hove Actually as soon as'. East is different. East is less commercial, more genteel, but, also on this hot Monday in October, rather lacking in places to buy water or ice cream. We walked past the naturist beach but it was singularly unremarkable, hidden as it was by dunes; only the bicycles really provided a clue. 

We spent the mid-afternoon in West Quay, the Wetherspoons overlooking the Marina. We found ourselves a table on the balcony, and sat slowly sipping small quantities of delicious real ale. It was one of those experiences where everything seemed to work right: not quite too hot weather, good ale, exchanged a few pleasantries with fellow drinkers, who were mostly as laid back as us, watched the boats and the ducks. It was a superior 'Spoons but nevertheless, it amused me that  hanging around outside was a gang of ducks,and one of the ducks looked a real trouble maker, somewhat excluded from the flock and constantly picking for a fight!

We finished with a meal in Café Rouge, which seemed to have  undergone a makeover. It's a good few years since I have been to one, but on the last few occasions I had - either at someone else's behest or as the least worst option - they had been disappointing. We only actually went there by accident, as the place a few doors down had a better looking menu and seemed to have the advantage of not being Café Rouge.

However, it was also the place with hip hop booming out to a clientele aged 40+, and without any staff to notice or greet new customers. At Café Rouge we had pleasant efficient service, good wine, and a meal which would win no foodie awards but was nourishing, tasty and filling.

More pictures of this and previous Brighton visits are in my Brighton photo album

links 02/13/2012

• Pasta Handling, Safety & Storage - How To Cooking Tips - RecipeTips.com

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Durdle Door and Lulworth, another rainy day

 If you have been following my account of last June's holiday to Dorset, you might be thinking what a terrible, rained-off experience it was, glad I never holiday in an English summer.

True, it did rain rather more than we hoped, but we refused to let that ruin our holiday. In fact, I would say, because the forecast contained so much in the way of rain, we planned carefully to maximise the amount of time available in between the showers.

The forecast for the Monday did not contain much in the way of rain, so we thought it safe to venture further afield, east of the big roundabout at Dorchester.

The Rough Guide to Dorset Hampshire and the Isle of Wight has a list of 18 places not to miss. Number one is the South West Coast Path. Too daunting to walk all 630 miles, although we dipped in and out, so we plumped for number 2 attraction, Durdle Door, together with Lulworth Cove*.

I disliked this sign with a passion. The blanket ban on 'photography, filming or painting' for publication, without permission. As far as I'm concerned, this is a public place. I don't really care that the land is 'owned' by the Lulworth Estate, and has been for several generations, or was previously part of a larger estate 'owned' by some offshoot of the Duke of Norfolk's family. The lands were probably originally seized from common ownership in reward to some favour to a King. Now, too much time has passed to campaign for confiscation of such lands, but these greedy landowners should learn a bit of humility and not forbid anything that is usually lawful in public places. My old mate Scaryduck, a sometime resident of the area, tweeted me about the exorbitant car parking prices, to which I could only reply 

Yeah, and they can't even be bothered to install a lift. I mean, what's that about!

Anyway, we got out of the car, and went for a walk along the clifftop, admiring the view. I have to say that it really is a sensational view. Photos don't do it justice it. Polar opposite of the immense sense of disappointment when I saw the Giant's Causeway. A case of expectation management. Something with 'Giant' in the name is set up to fail. Whereas,'Door' - you're inclined to think 'whevs', then, bam! Cool! I took so many photos, it really was like sacrificing a hand-reared piglet ditching the ones I'm not blogging.  

It was a very strange day; one minute we were sitting happily on the clifftop, debating whether to descend down the steps to the beach down below, Jimmy worrying whether I had the stamina. The next minute, the heavens opened, and we joined a Gadarene stampede back to the car park. Miserably digging the waterproofs out of the rucksack, hastily trying to protect the camera, and suddenly feeling in so much pain as I struggled to climb back up the stony path. Back in the car park, the sea mist...fog... made visibility even in the car park just a few feet. It was a difficult drive back through the pub-less Winfrith Newburgh - which I instantly adopted as my future nom de plume - to the Red Lion on the A road. The pot of tea and toasted sandwich were very welcome and the Red Lion seemed a nice enough pub if nothing remarkable.

 The weather cleared somewhat, and we decided that it was time to return, go past Durdle, and discover Lulworth. Scary had warned me that it wasn't exactly full of lulz, indeed I feel that in some ways I was a slight inspiration for his later blogpost On Lulworth Cove

The short version was, we went and it rained. The longer version, it varied between pissing it down and a superfine drizzle. Rubbish for taking photos, even when there were not raindrops on the lens. I think a poor quality unedited phone photo summed it up better than these snapped in RAW and edited in Lightroom!

Yet I was so much happier than if we had been there in blazing, glaring sun, our tranquility disturbed by assorted crowds. Instead, we were disturbed only briefly by Performance Parent giving his Infant children an A-Level Geology lesson with agreed Learning Outcomes. We barely noticed the beach dogwalkers who kept to themselves. And we even had Lulz, gawping in awe at the Corporate Oiks copiously knocking back fizz before weighing anchor and sailing off into the open sea with not a life-jacket between them.

My West Bay friend had said that Lulworth represents one of the great missed opportunities of business - such scope for a coffee and ice-cream place. Admittedly, there are two apparently very good eating places next to the beach, and Rough Guide recommends a third in the village, but sometimes one just wants a snack.

I must have read about Enid Blyton's connections with Dorset, because I tweeted 

For a few moments I felt I only needed Julian, Dick, Anne & Timmy the Dog in order to have a Famous Adventure

I was not a massive fan of Enid Blyton as a child but I did like her ability to evoke a place. Characters were two-dimensional and narratives were both fanciful and predictable. But somehow, Lulworth brought back the best of Enid memories.

We would have liked to have stayed longer, but when the rain starts to pour down, the pleasure is gone and is replaced with a burning urge to hit the road and get home!

The journey back was uneventful until just a few miles outside Bridport. We were driving at some not excessive speed along the dual carriageway A35, when, suddenly, "Woah, where's the road gone...and the fields and stuff?"

I had noticed the warning signs when we first drove along there, on day one, before we had ever set foot in Bridport. But I told myself 'So what - those are permanent signs. Obviously there's a risk of fog in, like, November, but this is June, almost exactly midsummer.' There was fog. It went on for several miles. Almost all the drivers slowed down to little more than a crawl. Apart from one, of course, who decided that fog and almost zero visibility was not going to stop him driving at 70 (or whatever), presumably because 4x4s have superpowers to combat these things! 

We ended up in Burton Bradstock for dinner, at the Anchor pub. A strange place. I feel, actually, I can be more candid now, because it's been taken over by a new couple. I've seen a review online, not long before our visit, which referred eloquently to 'indoor tumbleweed ambience', which absolutely matched our experience. We were greeted and served by a very chatty member of staff. As it happens, I was in a mood that I didn't mind her chatting, but on a different occasion, not being left alone might have been very annoying. The range of food available was immense, almost too much choice. We took some dorky photos (I don't really have a lop-sided body, honest!). I had a Bouillabaisse, which was definitely a Supper of Champions. We resolved to return later in the week. In the end, we didn't, but that was no reflection on the quality of our meals. "Tasty" was the word I tweeted at the time.

I finished the day by reflecting:

I briefly thought about snobs of limited intelligence who proclaim with a shudder 'I can't imagine how anyone could enjoy a beach holiday'. I laughed at the snobs. Then felt a passing pang of pity. But it didn't last.

I had started the day by observing:

Watching a mother duck try to shepherd 7 tiny ducklings across the A35. Heartbreaking to think how that will end

More photos from this, and others from our Dorset holiday are in the photo album, Dorset

*for completeness, the rest are:

• Winchester Cathedral 
• HMS Victory
• Abbotsbury cygnet hatching
• Fossil hunting along the Jurassic coast
• New Forest ponies
• Old Harry Rocks
• Corfe Castle
• Brownsea Island
• Hive Beach Cafe
• Tyneham village
• Cerne Abbas giant
• Surfing in Boscombe
• The Spinnaker Tower
• Bournemouth Beach
• The Needles
• The Isle of Wight Festival

Late summer on the Southbank

Last August, Jimmy gave up working in the pub he had been managing for some years. I work weekdays, 10-6 (ish), although I don't work Mondays. Pub work doesn't fit into that. For years, we could often only manage to have Sunday evenings and most - not all - Mondays together. For several weeks, he hadn't even properly had Mondays off. When we could spend time together, there was almost a desperate need to make something of it, plan an epic adventure, fit as much into the available time.

On the first Saturday in September, we did something radical. We went out for a short time, somewhere fairly local, with no particular plan. We headed for the South Bank, and discovered a Farmers Market. There's a temptation at these things - which aren't generally cheap -to buy a variety of produce, but you don't have to. I think we bought some cheese. I know that we bought some cider, and then wandered around next to the river decadently drinking our organic cider out of plastic glasses. 

The South Bank had been running throughout the summer a commemoration of the Festival of Britain, which happned in 1951, and created a beach. It was a gloriously hot day, lots of people were dressed in bright colours, and no one seemed in any hurry to be anywhere. 

This fountain seemed particularly attractive to children. I took several photos of kids having tremendous fun, but there might be some problem with publishing photos of identifiable children in bathing costumes. I've selected some which may not be such good pictures, but won't be perceived as invading privacy. 

 

We walked up to the rooftop garden. This was created by the Eden Project, and worked on by 50 people who'd faced difficulties in life - homelessness and so on. It wasn't the most amazing garden ever, althoguh I'm sure it will be much better when the plantings have matured - but I really liked it, as a place to sit and relax with splendid views.

We really did not do anything, except look at the people, and what they were doing, and admire the views. We bought some food from a van: I had a halloumi and roast vegetable panini. That was filling, and tasty. 

We walked further along, eventually arriving at Gabriel's Wharf, where we left the river and went to a couple of pubs before heading home.

In some ways, it was not the most exciting afternoon out, but it was important for us to do this, to be relaxed doing nothing and not worrying about having to be back at a certain time, or make sure we ate properly, or conserve our energy. Just, hang out.

  

  

More photos, from this walk, and many others, in London photo album

Rainy Days in Dorset

We went on holiday to Dorset for two weeks in late June. We booked the holiday on a glorious sunny hot day in April and it did not cross our minds that June in England would be wet and rainy, and cold!

The Friday was almost a total washout, not only wet but  windy, too. We drifted around. A trip out to West Bay was miserable. We decided to cut our losses and head for the famous Hive Beach Café at Burton Bradstock. Unfortunately, I had misunderstood them being open all day: formal lunch service finished at 3pm, and we arrived at quarter past. Still, we were able to feast on the most scrumptious crab sandwich, but we decided the best thing we could do was chill out in the holiday flat, nipping out much later in the evening, during a break in the rain, to the local chippy. The evening's TV was spectacularly bad, so all-in-all, it wasn't a great day. We had been thinking of going to the beer and cider festival down the road, but we did not fancy standing in a tent in a field while the wind blew and the rain poured.

The weather was marginally better the next day, when we walked down to Asker Meadows on the outskirts of town for the Bridport Food Festival. It started raining just as we got into the food tent. That was good, because we had escaped the downpour, not so good because everybody else wanted to be in the tent as well. In any case, the rain eased off eventually.

We spent a couple of hours at the Festival, enjoying walking round the stalls. It was fun to taste various free samples and chat with the sellers, many of whom were also the producers. We got a good mix of jams and chutneys, cake, fudge, cheese and so on. We also sampled some produce from the beer tent, but I was only too aware of my limitations on daytime drinking. All seats were taken, and although I don't mind sitting on the ground, I do when it's wet. And there's a limit to how long I can stand. So we retired to a pub to while away some time.

Sunday didn't look awfully promising, although it cleared up later and eventually the sun came out. Again, we joined up with my friend in West Bay and went for a gorgeous lunch at the Riverside Restaurant. When we had first arrived in Bridport, an opinionated and nosey man in a pub told us that the Riverside was the only restaurant in the Bridport area worth going to. He was very wrong - and he gave the impression he never went out anyway - but it certainly stood out as having a touch of class.

We were sat at a table next to river. It is actually possible to hire a boat and row to Bridport, but we didn't. Light and airy, with very tasteful decor. Good service, that coped well with a busy Father's Day Sunday Lunch without appearing to rush us. Matthew Norman from the Telegraph visited three months after us and clearly hated the fact that he almost liked it. On the other hand, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, who probably knows more than "Matthew Norman" whoever he is, has it as one of the best seafood restaurants in the South West, and it's praised in the Good Food Guide 2012. I had pan seared scallops with apple and ginger sauce; fillet of brill with asparagus and hollandaise; and a trio of puddings - Eton mess, chocolate cake and caramel shortcake with a quenelle of lemon mousse. I was silly only to photograph the pudding.

We spent most of the day strolling round West Bay. My friend insisted that I took some photos of a piece of wood in the harbour. I initially shot it in dull overcast weather, so it was nice to have a chance to shoot again in sunshine. And it was very pleasant to watch harbour life, not least the excitement of a boat running aground on the wooden structure of the harbour!

More Dorset photos by me

Don Giovanni at Royal Opera House

I saw this on Thursday 29 January, the second performance of the first cast run of the umpteenth revival of the Francesca Zambello production. I have seen it several times before but never starring Gerald Finley. I have rather mixed feelings about Don Giovanni as a work, not least that it can drag, and is probably a bit long at the best of times.

I had been frustrated last season when Gerald's appearances were limited to a concert version of the Pearl Fishers and starring as Anna Nicole's husband. Pearl Fishers was a dull evening, salvaged only by his performance. As for Anna Nicole, I thought it was a generally well performed (and staged) production of a work I hated musically and story-wise; although I thought Gerald superb, that was in a part where his talents were wasted.

At the end of the evening, I decided that I neither like nor dislike this production. It can be irritating, but it doesn't get in the way of good performances from talented singers. The scenery is hugely annoying, a curved wall that occasionally rotates to different angles to depict different places, and takes up too much of the stage. There is very little imagination in the stage direction of principles and chorus, and barely any notion of something else going on subconsciously. I thoroughly enjoyed the Calixto Bieito production at ENO, which updated to the 20th century and was more explicit in demonstrating Don G's amorality. But perhaps I would tire of it if I had seen it as much as the Zambello.

In some ways, Don G is a thought-provoking opera. However, I think there is a limit to how many new thoughts it can provoke, especially in the twentytenth revival. It's a searingly accurate portrayal of a rich privileged empty character, just as relevant today where rich amorality and a rape culture are celebrated too widely in society. And the bewildering behaviour of Donna Elvira, who knows rationally what an utter piece of s**T Don G is, but remains besotted by him. 

My pleasure came from hearing new aspects in the music, which may be due to that particular conductor's interpretation. The conductor was Constantinos Carydis, a youngish conductor I've not previously encountered.

I tried not to read first night reviews before i attended, but got an impression of a lacklustre performance with lacklustre musical interpretations. The performance of the overture rather confirmed this. I've had a previous bad experience when the tempi of the entire opera were dragged out, seemingly to expose every nuance in the score, but at the expense of any sense of a coherent whole. This was not the case here, with the overture being taken at a cheerfully skippy pace that ignored any grand sense of what was to unfold. But generally, I enjoyed the light pace, which moved the action on at a lick. Especially because it wasn't unrelenting. Surprisingly, my lasting memory is of Dalla sua pace, where I discovered that Matthew Polenzani has a gorgeously sweet plangent lyrical voice. No rush in this aria, the orchestra seemed to be playing in sympathy, allowing time to stand still. (Shame that it also inspired some audience members nearby to rustle their sweet papers, presumably following the rule 'This is a quiet bit, not much happens').

Gerald Finley was seemingly effortlessly superb as Don Giovanni. There was one phrase in Deh vieni alla finestra, where he appeared to have tuning and/or straining issues, but it wasn't significant and didn't mar an otherwise smooth seamless performance, vocally and dramatically. At the end, before he is dragged into hell consumed by flames, he removes his top, and I was very impressed by the physique of someone a few years my senior.

I liked Hibla Gerzmava as Donna Anna and Katarina Karnéus as Donna Elvira. Although very different singers, in a sense they can both be described similarly. Often glorious, never horrible singing, threw themselves into the physical aspects of the roles, wouldn't hesitate to hear again, but wouldn't necessarily rush to a performance solely on their account. Irini Kyriakidou and Adam Plachetka were fine if unremarkable as Zerlina and Masetto, although I don't really see the point of casting these lesser roles with unknown overseas singers, rather than emerging British singers. Marco Spotti was unexceptional as the Commendatore.

I was disappointed by Lorenzo Regazzo as Leporello. He simply could not erase memories of Kyle Ketelsen who was superb in this role. I thought I liked him, based on the recording of Le Nozze di Figaro under Rene Jacobs, but I'm not sure i do. To be fair, he wasn't bad, just dull, no presence and little of interest in the voice.

Overall, it was an enjoyable evening, and I'm looking forward to seeing the alternative cast (including Erwin Schrott as the Don). But I think the ROH needs a new more exciting production, and I can't honestly say it was the most memorable performance ever at the ROH. But significantly more enjoyable than certain performances I've been to in the past 18 months or so!

Pictures from Royal Opera House's Facebook page

Backstage on Don Giovanni with Gerald Finley - Flickr set