Gertsamtkunstwerk

Days out in Cyprus

I suspect that one of the reasons I haven't been blogging is that I have hit a writer's block in respect of Cyprus. Like many people, I see the 'annual' holiday as one of the highlights of life, and also one of the highlights of photographing.

You spend a lot of money on the annual holiday. Flight and accommodation; airport transfers quickly add up. Eating out - and drinking - daily soon take up the savings made by not being in work. You raise your expectations, and it's annoying when they're not met.

We spent most of the holiday on the beach, but also studied the weather forecast. So, we hired a card to see some sights. It seemed that one of the 'sights' highly recommended was 'The Mountains'. I had a chat with someone, a Yorkshire woman who had been to Cyprus before, and she pulled a face, implying that the 'mountains' weren't all that. I should have paid attention.

It was a long drive. Past Larnaca, and onto Nicosia, missing the turn off the motorway because there wasn't actually a sign for either the junction number or the road number. Eventually we reached the mountains. Okay, they were very nice, as all mountains are, but it's an awfully long way to go for nice mountains. I had suggested to the Yorkshire woman that she lives near to picturesque mountains; she gave me one of those looks which sort of implied 'I'm not going to ruin your enjoyment by my cynicism, but yes'.

We could have chosen to do a tour of vineyards. Actually, we could also choose to do a tour of vineyards in Sussex. You know the problem with that? You're utterly dependent on the car. What is the point of vineyard tour when one of you can't drink very much because of driving, and the other feels it's unfair to drink when the other is abstaining.

Probably the highlight was a visit to a waterfall.  It was utterly bizarre, but really rather fun. Enter through the cafe and walk down a treacherous path, uneven under foot, sometimes having to squeeze past people coming in the opposite direction, a certain amount of camaraderie. Except for Russians, of course, who look at you like you're a piece of dirt and fail to acknowledge that you've paused in (barely) a passing place. 

As you can see it wasn't much of a waterfall. Some of the attraction was the climb down through the wood, and at the bottom was a clearing with picnic tables. and I spotted a lizard.

Back at the top we were rewarded with coffee and more juicy tasty fruit than we could possibly eat. 

We carried on up the mountain pass, and stopped for lunch in Troodos. It was very nice but entirely predictable and samey samey just as where we were staying. And further up the mountain to Tourist Tat Central. Buy buy buy! Lots of tat! Guaranteed to weigh down your luggage on return. Hustle hustle hustle. Over priced refreshments. We could have had a horse ride, but other than that there wasn't much to do. There was the option of a shortish walk, and I suppose there was no reason why we couldn't have done it. We weren't exactly equipped for mountaineering, but we did have sensible shoes and layers, but neither of us was enthusiastic, thinking it was probably just a bit too much effort for...what?

I know travel is supposed to broaden the mind, but the more I go abroad, the more I yearn for England. I've never managed to get bored on an English holiday - generally running out of time to do everything on the list. 

On the Sunday I realised that my phone charger cable had stopped working. A broken wire, I assumed. A quick google showed me a couple of electrical shops in Paralimni. So, a quick trip out. We stood at a bus stop waiting, with an older woman, who struck me as being a retired academic, holidaying alone - we'd seen her earlier in the car hire shop, planning a trip to the Baths of Aphrodite on the far west coast. The helpful car hire man gave her precise instructions to guard against snakes. A taxi driver stopped and offered to drive us into town - just as cheap as the bus - and by chance he dropped us right outside a CYTA (Cyprus Telecoms) shop, so mission accomplished. 

We took breakfast and wandered round the town centre. Not much to see; would have been nicer if it wasn't so utterly car dominated and designed for the dominance of the motor vehicle to the point of being unpleasant. I suppose we could have gone to the lake, but why bother, when we knew we had a good beach just a few minutes from our holiday flat?

       

Cyprus Photo album

 

Brockwell Park

I have discovered several folders on my PC dating back a year and a half that I haven't yet got round to blogging.

Here is a collection of photos from Brockwell Park, taken mainly in August 2014 and a few in that November. I walk up to Brockwell Park fairly frequently, although perhaps not often enough considering how near it is. It's a wide open space in the heart of dense housing, and being on the top of a hill, on a good day it affords great views of central London. But it's not my nearest large open space, and, anyway, sometimes, when you go for a walk that's what you want to do, walk, and look and listen, not obsessively line up snapshot after snapshot.

I know that many people have a different take: if you go frequently to the same place, there is a fascination in monitoring how it changes through the seasons and over the years. But I don't have that eye for detail, and, ultimately, I don't have the curiosity or interest.

There are two main aspects to Brockwell PArk (apart from its built facilities - pitches and courts, playgrounds, greenhouses, cafés, BMX pitch, model railway - I've never been on). The panoramic views, and the walled garden.

I think that the park used to be too manicured, too municipal. But in recent years, there has been a concerted effort to diversify the terrain. For some reason I have no pictures of the wildflower slope by the lido, but I have been pleased to see great pastures of grass allowed to grow and not cut over-frequently. In the past decade more managed spaces leave dead and fallen trees, rather than carting them away.

   

The ponds have been re-done; I've always liked them for their apparent wildness, although, like much 'wildness' it benefits from being managed.

There's a weird little model village that just sits outside the walled garden. Apparently it dates from the 1940s, and I suppose it serves some momentary fascination for toddlers, but, other than providing backdrop for photoshopped signs satirising Foxton's Estate Agent, it has limited appeal.

I have an inbuilt hatred of what, years ago, I sneeringly called 'municipal borders'. It doesn't surprise me subsequently to find other people using that or similar phrases and sharing my disdain for the regimented uninspired planting. Some vestiges do remain in Brockwell Park.

The Walled Garden is legendary, especially among locals. Many people, especially flat dwellers without a garden of their own treasure its seclusion and quiet. Or, at least, people hope for this. Unfortunately, there always seem to be one set of parents who sincerely thinks it's the perfect space for their child to run around screaming. The park covers 50 hectares; apart from during events such as Lambeth Country Show and Fireworks, I have never seen it so crowded that you can't carve out a sizeable patch of grass for yourself, as many people do. But for whatever reason, a tiny minority think they trample on the rights of adults who wish to read or contemplate, or admire the flowers. Yes, I know that children benefit from exercise and use of space, but they also need to learn about how different spaces are used for different purposes and require different behaviour. I wouldn't go into a children's playground, sit down with my cider and cigarettes and start photographing the children playing. And walled gardens aren't for screeching and running. 

I used to feel that the walled garden was worthy but dull, too many roses with dead heads and so one. It was done up about 3 or 4 years ago, and it seems that it has been taken over by a Community Group. I can't say I'm comfortable with volunteers replacing paid staff. On the other hand, given the swingeing cuts councils are forced to make, that lead inevitably to job cuts in parks and gardens, volunteer labour has to be welcomed. And I presume the volunteers get something tangible out of it - exercise, wellbeing and a chance to garden they might not have in flats or short term lets. And the garden looks superb as a result.

    

Part of the pleasure of going to parks is the walk there. Always good to have a nosy around neighbouring roads, see how the area is changing. And to spot interesting features en route.

   

 And the stained glass in the local Methodist Church. Actually, not the best stained glass in the area, but in urban areas it's quite difficult to get into churches, understandably.

Brockwell Park photo album

 

Overnight in Newark

Long before we went away to Northumberland I booked intermediate stays for the journey. On the way up, this was partly to manage the Tour de France Grand Depart, conscious that you don't really want to arrive in your holiday let at the dead of night. I thought that if I booked a stopover on the way back we could amble through middle England rather than watch it fly past the car window. In the event the weather wasn't with us - we got caught just south of Sheffield in a near-visibility rain storm and were relieved to arrive in Newark.

I immediately fell in love with The Grange Hotel and its tranquillity, a welcome contrast from the oppressive still air. A small party ate afternoon tea in a small dining room, and in the garden two or three couples lingered in discreet corners. Within moments this garden was added to my small list of happy places. I'm sorry that my photos didn't do it greater justice.

    

The photos don't properly show how the garden is divided into 'rooms' and bordered by thick hedges which muffled the inevitable traffic noise from the nearby London Road. The hotel is family owned and run, and love and hard work has gone into the garden. The space was well used: near the house were flowerbeds overflowing with expansive plants. Further away were spacious lawns with elegant statues, and tables and gazebos where you could sit and relax without being cheek-by-jowl with other guests.

We walked down into town. Despite three years in Nottingham I had never been to Newark. Some friends cycled there once but I was already committed to going to see Mansfield Town play Bristol City. I was looking forward to wandering round the  historic town of Newark and perhaps along the Trent. I liked everything I saw in the town but the weather was increasing in humidity and - I'll repeat myself here - oppression. We could feel it was about to turn and hurried through the Market Square (around which the commercial centre of the town is built). As the raindrops started people were beginning to hurry. We had not got far up London Road when the rain became heavier and heavier and we were soaking. Nowhere really to shelter, it made sense to try and get back to the hotel. Amazingly and randomly, a woman stopped her car and offered us a lift, so I shall always remember Newark for the kindness of strangers. 

I took some rain photos from the bedroom window.

 

In the evening we ate in their Cutlers Restaurant, quite a strange experience. The food was of a high standard, and I liked the restaurant decor, reflecting its theme with tasteful displays of vintage cutlery. Service was fine, the same chap who had checked us in and served our tea earlier.Their website says it is award winning and invites people to book for private parties and the usual calendar events. But the only people eating there were hotel guests. If I lived locally, I would be happy to eat there from time to time. I can't imagine there being so many restaurants in a fairly small town that offered such good food at reasonable prices. Perhaps they regarded it as an extra offer to B&B guests, rather than being a restaurant per se with all the additional hassle. Yet, it was too good to be just for the convenience of hotel guests!

 

 

 

The plan had been to spend the sunday pootling down through Eastern England, but the day was oppressively hot with heavy rain forecast. Indeed, when we got home, Jimmy immediately watered the garden and went down the pub, only to be 'trapped' in the pub by a Biblical downpour which was soon trending on Twitter. He wasn't amused when I pointed out he needn't have watered the garden!

I'm sorry I didn't see more of Newark, because of the weather but I'll always remember fondly The Grange.