Gertsamtkunstwerk

Morden Hall Park

It's now a few years since I discovered Morden Hall Park, and that was by accident. Nevertheless, I should have discovered it much earlier. I had read about The Wandle Trail; I'd acquired a bicycle. I'd built up a decent level of fitness. 

It now seems familiar, and quite difficult to recreate the sensation. I had cycled along the River Wandle from Colliers Wood, along a lightly wooded path, through an area with signs pointing to a wetland, and emerged, in mid afternoon late summer sun into what seemed a different world. A world of delicate bridges that spanned tinkling chalk brooks that criss-crossed lawns where people lounged in the shade and children played innocently, where rays of light bounced from canopied trees to paths, and everyone was cloaked in joyful mood of repose and beautification.  

  

I've lost count of how many times I have visited since, sometimes to traverse, and sometimes to explore. I've never quite recaptured that initial magic feeling, but I still keep returning. 

It's National Trust owned, and the terms of the legacy means they can't charge admission or even for parking. I've never seen it deserted, although occupancy varies as expected with the seasons and the weather, from weekdays to weekends, and depending on schooldays or school holidays. 

It covers fifty hectares, and includes a hall, but this is not open to the public. Apparently the lease is owned by Whitbread/Beefeater but doesn't operate. Beyond the formal gardens is parkland, some of it beside the Wandle. The Wandle winds through and feeds the Wetlands that are managed for nature conservancy. 

 

The photos in this post were taken on two visits, in April last year and late February this, both on weekdays outside the school holidays. On both occasions it was possible to wander, not quite alone, but without a sense of being crowded. As with almost everywhere I visit, most people stay close to the central area - especially the Rose Garden - or around the Garden centre and café. Few people venture outside the carefully delineated safe space. This is great, because it leaves the parkland and Wetlands almost deserted. Such a missed opportunity. So many parents of small children keen to get them in the open air and physically active. Not wrong in itself, but a sole focus on the body and ts achievements just encourages a self-absorbed narcissism. Whereas, kids who are encouraged to walk observantly in a place like the Wetlands can begin to see how different species are interdependent, for example how birds rely on a certain type of habitat. Or see the natural wastage of trees coupled with how humans manage the space. Obsessionally sportsing tends to lead to obsessional self-absorption and disregard for others. 

    

I have to say, I have quite strong views about how the National Trust make their managed land more attractive to children. Morden Hall isn't the worst example - more to come in future blogposts. 

In defence of the National Trust their 50  Things to do before you're 11 ¾ is inspired and doesn't need to be limited by age. But other activities seemed geared at encouraging children to charge around, using but ignoring the environment. Easter Egg hunts are a trivial but widespread example of this. I passed through the park this week, on a partial ramble of the Wandle Trail, and noticed that a few interpretation boards have been erected, to explain 'nature'. Well meant, but surely of little interest or use to anybody over the age of 7 or so. Words about toadspawn and Canada Goose Eggs, but no pictures of a Canada Goose. It seems an ideal place to put pictures of waterfowl and woodland birds, and the various trees that grow. It isn't difficult - because I've seen them elsewhere - to have boards that appeal to fairly small children and to non-expert adults. Perhaps something about the old and recent history of the River, about the waterwheel and the industry it supported. 

It's nice that there's an adventure playground - I didn't take pictures of the equipment children were playing on. It as only when I exited that I saw a sign that adults were only allowed when accompanied by children. Still, it's a bit like the signs that say 'keep dogs on leads in Wetlands to protect the birds' - no reason to pay any attention.

 

 

It's only when you venture from the manicured safe areas that you notice things. A tree uprooted, its roots standing vertical, taller than a human, as leaves (its own? anther plant's?) wind around the dying wood.

 

Sometimes it's nice to sit on the lawn for a few minutes. Sometimes, it may be a convenient place to pause when you're walking or cycling the Trail. Sometimes, it's better than nothing - a few weeks ago, in Richmond Park, I saw two parties sit down within feet of the carpark. One was a family of a tiny baby and toddler and all the equipment and panoply that accompanies them; the other was a couple including a young man who was struggling to 'walk' on his crutches. But it's amazing what you can see if you venture just a few hundred metres within the confines of an urban park. 

Old photos, short stories: Mystic Seaport 1989

When I stayed with my Aunt on Long Island, we caught the ferry from Port Jefferson to Bridgeport Conneticut, and drove about 70 miles to Mystic Seaport, the largest Maritime History Museum in the world. Needless to say I hadn't heard of it, but a few weeks after arriving back I watched and enjoyed the film Mystic Pizza starring Julia Roberts.

We started at Mystic Aquarium, which I enjoyed at the time, especially the performances by performing seals and so on. But I've never felt any desire to visit an aquarium since - perhaps there are certain experiences one only needs once in a lifetime.

 

 

I really enjoyed walking round the seaport. From all these years later I can't now remember much what I saw or learnt, but I'm sure that I learnt many things - some of which added to previously acquired knowledge and some of which was later consolidated by other learning experiences. It was only my second full day in the States, and it was really my first opportunity to 'see America'. In the end, what you remember about a place is the space and its big features, and it was a very pleasant day.

 

Photos taken on film, on a cheap camera, and scanned many years after P&P.

 

 

St Aubin, Jersey

Our September visit to Jersey was blessed with beautiful weather. In using the word 'blessed' I am following a custom of the English language, rather than suggesting that weather systems are endowed by a non-existent God specifically onto deserving or lucky people. I am merely commenting that the changeable British Isles weather cannot be predicted with sufficient accuracy often even just a few days before.

It was sunny and warm, verging on hot.

We caught a taxi down to St Aubin, the hottest town or village on Jersey. They like their obscure saints on Jersey. We were staying in St Saviour's Parish, just outside St Helier. St Aubin is in the parish of St Brelade and opens into the Gulf of St Malo. 

Jersey is a Crown Dependency of the United Kingdom and a self-governing parliamentary democracy with its own financial, legal and judicial systems,and the power of self-determination. It prints its own money, which has the same value as sterling. English notes and coinage are accepted in shops, but only Jersey notes come out of ATMs; they are easy enough to deposit in a bank on return to England. Residents with no connection to the UK are considered British Citizens; sadly, while we were still on the island, a man from Jersey (and his friend from Norfolk) were murdered in Thailand. they were referred to as 'British Tourists' & the UK Foreign & Commonwealth Office carried out similar duties for both. 

As soon as we got out of the taxi, we saw a group of men playing Petanque, on a space set aside for any member of the public to play. This reminded this that Jersey has a dual culture: I think of Petanque as typically French, and in England have only seen it in a quirky pub, decades ago. 

 We wandered about the village enjoying the sights. It wasn't spectacular but a very pleasant way indeed to spend the middle of a glorious Sunday. There was no shortage of places to rest for coffee. In the background below is the restaurant that suffered the fire on Friday - a large place, this explains our wait for a taxi.

  

I really liked this courtyard but would have preferred to photograph it without the car!

We walked down the jetty, and back to the Town Square. I snapped this photo of the Bureau des Centeniers, essentially a police station, because it recalled the fictional Bureau des Étrangers in Bergerac. It was reassuring to find a tourist monthly magazine in our hotel room featuring John Nettles on the cover. I think he is effectively worshipped as a demi-god in this Bailiwick. 

 

In the town square Jimmy and I both experienced...I don't know, an epiphany, perhaps? There is a land train that runs between St Helier and St Aubin and back. A board advertised the departure times. We watched and listened as a couple, perhaps in their sixties, and otherwise seemingly averagely intelligent, repeatedly read out the times. "11.55, 12.55, 13.55, 14.55, 15.55". Struggling to memorise this, one of them wrote it down. They didn't seem to detect a pattern. For us, it was obvious. We asked each other later - how do people cope unchaperoned in public?

We walked along the bay for a while, and then back, spending a couple of hours lying on the beach. A gorgeous expanse of golden sand,  gloriously hot weather, and barely a soul about. My phone registered the temperature next to the sea wall in the 40s, although, obviously, this wasn't the general air temperature. I have no idea why we didn't go into the sea. Perhaps we were perfectly content on the sand, and hadn't been short of swimming opportunities in our hotel. There was so very few people on the beach, I couldn't really understand why. Of course, there is more coast line per head of population than on larger islands, but, even so - where were they all?

          

We finished off with an early dinner in a delightful Italian restaurant on the seafront. It was an odd time of day, so our choice was limited, but we had a lovely meal. The décor seemed like a throwback to the Eighties, but not in a tired, shabby way. The food was excellent and service good.

 

Our flight on the Monday was early afternoon, so were able to spend the morning in and by the pool, basking in a hot summer's day. When I returned to work on the Tuesday, people were astonished by my tan. Well, people who hadn't known me long enough to know how quickly and easily I go brown!

After breakfast we posed for photos with the hotel's gorilla statue, promoting the Durrell Wildlife Park

 

Petts Wood walk

Trying to sort my photos, but also trying to sort my 'My Tracks' application, which Google are dumping at the end of April, I have detected a pattern. Late March, through to June, there's a lot of activity, and then it peters out. I think partly because there were at least 4 outings in August that were purely to the seaside, purely to lie on beaches, but I fear there are deeper reasons. In Spring, it only has to be mild and bright, but come the height of summer, you're demanding high summer weather. Even though that is relatively rare, and, also, not great for much other than lying on beaches. 

If you want detailed instructions on this - or 26 other walks near London - just click here

This is the actual route I walked, and, unusually, managed to follow the instructions fairly precisely.

The walk was just shy of 4 miles, and I'm surprised I didn't take more photos than I did. Perhaps it was the sheer joy of being out on a gloriously sunny day, striding through rural London, enjoying the fresh air and the exercise, which was far from strenuous.

And again, once we had cleared the immediate area near the car park, we barely saw a soul until the final stretch through Jubilee Park. I know I'm really labouring this point, but once again, I saw clearly conscientious parents doing the right thing and taking their kids out  - into a bland, tended field of grass, rather then into the woods , clearings and back paths. We saw no weirdos lurking nor any wild animals bigger than a squirrel. Perfectly safe for children, especially when accompanied by an adult, and brilliant for their intellect and mental and physical health. 

 

No great merit to these photos but I took them just to say "Look! This is London! This is not how you imagine London to be!"

 

I took this photo as we approached the car park, having completed the circular ramble. The metal gate was constructed with the sole purpose of stopping bikes being ridden through. The metal and the labour probably come to a few hundred pounds. Utterly pointless expenditure, as proven by a couple of small kids with their Dad who, unsurprisingly, biked through the open gaps to the right! But hey, it probably deters disabled people on trikes or in wheelchairs, and parents with double buggies, so Job Done.

 

 

 

Old photos short stories: Long Island 1989

My father was the fourth child of six, with five sisters. My grandfather was a senior Civil Servant and they were evacuated to Blackpool for World War II. Blackpool was where US Airmen went for R&R, and Auntie No.3 married a US Airman and became a GI bride. She settled on Long island New York, although in the 80s she moved to Florida- like many New York retirees but also because my cousin and husband were settled there. He worked in Miami and I have a feeling that he might be from that area. Aunt No 4 also emigrated to the States in the early 60s, also settled on Long Island and now lives in Florida. Just after I finished university, I went with my mother and brother to visit her.

At the time, very few people I knew visited the USA, except relatives and people doing American Studies at University. It still annoys me now when people say "Oh you've been to New York? Oh gosh, so have I, where did you stay, what did you visit?" and they're awfully put out that you stayed in a residential area towards the East of Long Island, and, among other things visited relatives and friends, as if they were sole proprietor copyrighted of tourism in New York!

We also did some excursions, into the city, and a coach tour to Niagara, Washington DC and Philadelphia, but here are a few snaps,taken round my aunt's retirement condo complex.

 

Random photos of American  flags (sadly, a hostage had been murdered in Lebanon just as we arrived).

 

And beach and coastal snaps

     

I'm wearing a t-shirt (Nottingham University Drama Festival 1988) in the final picture because I was playing in rough waves and soon found that the force of the water throwing me to the ground tended to remove my bikini top! Great fun - once modestly attired!

These photos were taken on film and scanned from paper prints.

A Saturday in Jersey

There's a limit to how much you can do on a long weekend, but I think we made the most of our break in Jersey. We set out in the morning for a walk along the coast. However, as noted before, St Helier isn't the most picturesque seaside town. We could have gone into the town itself but we had done that in 2001 (I know this reads quite lamely but there was a logic). Instead we spent most of Saturday afternoon back in the Merton hotel, specifically in and around the swimming pool. What tremendous fun! Completely suited my way of swimming. I like to plod along, not frightfully bothered about doing lengths, but very much enjoying the sensuality. I like the feeling of buoyancy in the water and I love outdoor swimming (although I'm not really strong enough to be a wild swimmer). I won't have blog entries for my various seaside visits last summer, because I didn't take my camera, and there's little you can say other than 'I spent long periods lying on the beach reading; I also went in the sea for several lengthy spells mainly of floating, but feeling my muscles strengthen as they resisted the waves and current, I have rarely felt so alive as when I am swimming outdoors'. 

I like hotel swimming pools partly because of the added extras - jacuzzis, steam room and sauna. The Merton has jacuzzis indoors and out, and, as an added bonus, the giant aquaslide. I took a couple of photos on my phone, to give a sense, but nothing can replicate that feeling.

I used to go on water slides a lot in my youth. As a student we used to visit Bramcote Pool and play on its slide. And when I visited my aunt in Hove, I couldn't resist the slide in the King Alfred. I did lobby the then leader of the council to install a slide and wave machine at the new West Norwood Pool, but to no avail. I don't think you can embrace 'sport for all' and ignore the needs of aquasliders and wave machine enthusiasts. I just don't.

The first time down a slide (after several years) is unbelievably scary. you're in darkness and you have no idea about the bends and falls, nor how long you will be on it, or how the journey will end. But each subsequent attempt is less scary and more fun, as you just relax and enjoy the adrenaline.

In the evening, we went for a meal at a local beachside pub, the White Horse. We hadn't booked and they initially said they could squeeze us in in the corner, but then a better table became available and we had a seafood platter to share.

 

Afterwards, it was nice to take our drinks outside and sitting in the fading light looking out to sea. We even had a stroll along the beach for a short distance, before realising that we weren't adequately shod, and the temperature was falling. But there is something ineffable about dinner, followed by a shoreline stroll in the fading light.

On return to the hotel, I took a few photos of the American-style diner. It's fun, and it's clever how it uses the Jersey/New Jersey connection. We had coffee and ice cream before retiring to the bar.

 

We passed an hour or so in the company of some other hotel residents. It was a quite pleasant exercise in 'other people are not the same as me'. We had almost nothing in common with them, but when you're on holiday, especially on a short break, it's quite pleasant to enjoy their company for what it is - pleasant friendly company.Quite a lot of talk about vegetable gardening. I can't say I'm interested, on the other hand, it's a subject that doesn't arouse opinions or reveal the bigots.

Two of the couples were regulars. One couple had been for their honeymoon twenty odd years before and came back every year for their anniversary. As I say, 'other people are not the same as me', but I couldn't keep going back to the same place year after year. (I don't mean Hove as the most convenient/nearest beach to home) but paying out money for flights and accommodation. Each to their own!

And so to bed, and looking forward to another high quality breakfast in the morning.

Photographing food, at Trinity Clapham

Ah, the blogging about food meme.

I think I was probably one of the very first people, in the UK at least, to take photographs of food and blog about them. This behaviour has become ripe for satire. In some ways justifiably - eg people taking blurry photos with phones in poorly lit settings, often with poor framing, looking two dimensional and with no clue as to how the chef intended the plate to look. Also, people going to restaurants to ostentatiously photograph their food, dancing all over the place, flashing their flashes, and disturbing other diners.

But, you know, for centuries artists have drawn and painted food and called it 'still life'. A half-decent photo of a plated dish is good publicity for restaurants. I'm not saying they should be grateful, or that they owe the blogger anything, but sensible restaurants (such as Trinity) will retweet photos of their food, and it probably adds to the sum total of human happiness. 

Nevertheless, there are rules for restaurant photographing. Firstly - and this applies to all behaviour in restaurants and other public places - I am not the centre of the universe; nor are you. Your behaviour shouldn't detract from the enjoyment of the people at the next table. It's often not good manners to use flash, not in a proper restaurant for grown-ups. Probably standing on your chair to get that angle is inappropriate. Also, have respect for your companion(s). They shouldn't have to decide between the good manners of waiting or eating their food warm. In fact, have respect for your own food and those who have created it. One, at most two, quick snapshots, and start eating. Oh - and get your camera settings right in between ordering and your starter arriving. 

The other thing to remember is that you are unlikely to emulate a dedicated food photographer. The lighting in a restaurant is (ideally) set for the optimum comfort of diners. A food photographer is likely to have a full light rig, with lights that eliminate shadows, and are set for a specific warmth - a good 'still life' looks good in white/blue light, good restaurant lighting is tending to the yellow for comfort. Some photographers use tricks and add elements to food that render it inedible. At the very least, they're probably taking their time to photograph it, so it's likely to go cold.

I like the food and service and ambience, everything actually, about Trinity in Clapham. I have several photographs taken on three separate visits in the last 18 months. On the whole, they don't do justice to the food. For one lunch we were sat away from the window. The lights were low (but not too low for eating) one New Year's Eve. I got lucky on my birthday - unusually sunny for a day I, obviously, have reason to notice the weather on, and I sat with my back to the window. So I have had to exclude well-framed photos of beautiful food containing too much blur - although I've included a couple for their colour!

I also like that Trinity is handy: practically door to door on the 417 bus. This allows for drinking beyond the driving limits, and saves faffing around in cabs, even when it's snowing (which has happened at least twice in the past). It doesn't have Michelin stars, but, like Michelin 1 star restaurants it carries three AA rosettes, and deservedly so. The nearest Michelin star restaurant is Chez Bruce. From conversations overheard in both places, and with friends and acquaintances, many people enjoy patronising and appreciate both restaurants. We've done the last four New Year's Eves at each place twice, and I've done four of my last five birthdays, again at each place twice. 

 
     

Men in women's loos

There's been a lot of talk recently on the internet, much of rooted in the USA, about allowing 'transgender' men into women's loos and changing rooms (and prisons and so on). If someone had asked me the question a year ago, I would have replied along the lines of 'if someone's gone to all the trouble of having hormone treatment and surgery, to my mind there is no question that, as far as it could possibly affect me, they have changed their sex'. (There are some biological difficulties with this statement, but I use the caveat for that reason).

It turns out that 'transgender' doesn't mean what I thought it has meant for decades. It actually means someone who doesn't conform 100% with the gender roles imposed on their biological sex by society. Well, lah-di-dah. Who does? I mean, some Neanderthal type blokes or bimbo chicks might, more or less, but most of us don't. Apparently, transgender means that you 'feel' in the same way as someone of the opposite sex feels. Dig a little deeper, and nine times out of ten, this is explained as wanting the clothes, hairstyle, toys or colour of toys more 'traditionally' ascribed to the opposite sex. I grew up in the 70s when girls with short hair wore trousers, and played with construction toys or cars in bold primary colours. Turns out we were all transgender! I was a teen in the 80s when the coolest male pop stars wore visible make up, including nail varnish.

I can't abide the thought of someone being discriminated against in employment or bullied in the street because of their personal choice - a very difficult choice - to transition, or to present in a way that confronts neat categories. 

But it turns out that 'transgender' doesn't mean this at all. Apparently, if you're a woman who is lesbian, and presents as butch, you're no longer a woman, but a 'transman'. If you have polycystic ovary syndrome, as 10% of women do - it's an endocrine condition which leads to the production of more testosterone than is normally produced by women without the syndrome. Well, if you have that, you're not a woman, you're a transman. If you want to debate abortion or FGM, you're not allowed to say that they're women's issues. Doctors are accused of discriminating against self-styled women for not calling them for cervical smears, even though they don't have cervixes. 'Pregnant woman' is no longer a valid term, because, apparently, men can get pregnant too. So, any man who wants to call himself a woman is entitled to, even a grotesque circus act like Brice Jenner who gets kicks out of wearing his then pre-teen daughters underwear, whereas women who are pregnant, lesbian or have a treatable endocrine disorder are no longer allowed to call themselves women - because men said so. Once again, men get to define women in terms of 'otherness'.

Incidentally, I have a mortgage, and I vote. I went to University have a professional qualification and have held public office. These were not considered 'female' activities - even in my lifetime a woman couldn't get a mortgage without a husband or father to guarantee it. I have sometimes wanted the opportunities that are open to men but not to women. I have sometimes cursed aspects of my body - some aspects are distinctly female and some are largely gender neutral. None of these things make me male, or a transman, they just make me a woman who dwells within the range of attributes and behaviours common to most, many or some women. 

In the USA it seems, there are strict laws governing sex segregation in what they call 'bathrooms'. I'm not aware of any similar law in the UK, although there is convention, and context. 

Three anecdotes. 

• When I was a teenager, as a family we were travelling on the motorway and stopped at Services. My mother, sister and I came out of the Ladies to meet my father and brother. My mother was approached by a man and woman. The woman carried a white stick, and the man asked my mother if she'd mind escorting her into the Ladies. Cleverly picking a respectable family woman, even though she wasn't wearing her 'Trust Me, I'm a Social Worker' t-shirt. My father, an engineer, later remarked in jest that, actually, as the woman was blind, it wouldn't be a problem for her going into the Gents. But this was a new experience for us, and one often-rehearsed for them.
• A few years ago, at the theatre, my friend was audibly grumbling about the long queues outside the women's loos, compared to none outside the men's. A man overheard her, he was stood guard outside the men's, and confessed to my friend that his wife was in the men's. This problem can be seen at most theatres and venues up and down the land. (Always fun at the ROH for Wagner, when the men's queue unusually exceeds the women's. A kd lang concert, on the other hand...)
• Last year, we parked up in Hertford and I declared I wanted a wee before setting off on a several mile walk. I went in the public conveniences and met Jimmy outside. He said the men's were locked. I said there was no one in the Ladies, I'd stand guard, as he went in. As it happened, no woman approached the loos, but I'm sure that if they had, they would have understood my 'standing guard'.

These three anecdotes are mere illustrations as to the sometimes difficulties in sex-differentiated loos.

There is a really strong argument for having gender neutral loos in addition to single sex loos. More and more places do. They're often called 'Disabled' loos, but perhaps should be called 'accessible'. Accessible for people without visible mobility problems but needing an integrated bathroom eg mooncup users. Or parents supervising small children of the opposite sex - particularly fathers supervising small daughters. Or carers of opposite sex adults. But  opening up 'disabled' loos, can in some contexts, lead to them not being accessible to people who absolutely have no other options.

I haven't encountered intimidating behaviour by men in women's loos. I have only really encountered them in drunken situations - being in a local pub and collapsing laughing with the woman on the next table as her very very very drunk soldier husband (on his last night of leave) headed straight for the women's. But other women have experienced threatening behaviour and sexual assault by men in women's loos. And I was followed into 'gender neutral' loos by a predatory male (who, it turned out, had been sacked by the restaurant I was visiting and had sneaked in on the manager's day off). 

I hate pubescent boys being in women's changing rooms. I'm happy to go from shower to locker with a towel wrapped precariously around me in an all-woman changing rooms. I certainly don't want to be stared at by a man, or, frankly, to see penises on display (I'm not offended or scared, I just don't want). I certainly don't want men who state that they are transgender to be allowed into changing rooms, alongside self-conscious adolescent girls and post-menopausal women. Maybe they do genuinely feel that they are women (whatever that means...!), but how we can possibly know that they're not voyeurs or opportunist sexual predators?

There are enough barriers in society already to girls and women being physically active. I don't see how allowing physically intact males to share their changing space will improve the situation. And you only have to see the queues in public places to see how poorly women are already served by toilets, relative to men. (On average women take longer, because of cubicles vs urinals, let alone when menstruating). I wonder how many women would feel comfortable washing out reusable sanitary protection in a room where men can enter freely, unconstrained by long-standing convention.

As I said above, I strongly feel that people who have made the difficult decision to transition from one sex to another should be free from discrimination, and I would wish to support and show solidarity.

But it seems that any man who wants to jump on a bandwagon or prove his 'right on' credentials, can claim to be female, perhaps only at weekends (where it doesn't reduce his inbuilt advantage in a patriarchal society/career structure). I can't accept this. It's yet another example of Men's Rights Activists claiming special status based on their perceived lack of privilege. They have decided, as men (who pretend that they feel like women), they should be allowed in to women's facilities, irrespective of what women want. And one man's desire is considered more important than the needs, not just of one woman but of many. Sounds a lot like unreconstructed misogyny to me.

Frankly, if you're a man who pretends to 'feel' like a woman, and can't feel the inherent problem, you've just demonstrated that you have no idea how it feels to be an awkward body-conscious teenage girl or an older woman dismayed at her failure to meet society's standards. 

And when you see privileged males, such as rock stars whom I normally respect, arguing for the right for men to enter women's loos, I'm tempted to ask, do they want this right for themselves, and if so, is this because they are predatory? Or, more likely, are they decent blokes, who wouldn't go in a women's loos - except in unusual circumstances, with a 'stand guard' - and don't understand the reasons for their reticence - ie, that being decent and non-predatory, they can't see a reason to encroach on a space they don't belong in? I'm fairly sure that if women were to wander regularly into men's loos, where men get their willies out in full view of other users, most men would be at least non-plussed, if not perplexed and possibly downright angry. Because this isn't about women wanting to encroach on men's space but men demanding access to women-only space. 

Barnes and Chiswick

An epic walk, undertaken exactly a year ago! Actually, not that epic, but fun, on a nice day, seeing previously unseen places. We started our walk from Barnes Bridge station, across and along the Thames and into Chiswick House and Gardens. 

People who don't know London - including a large number of its residents - have a perception of dense buildings, masses of people and constant traffic, with its fumes and noise. 

But once you start to explore London you discover that there really is another half. There are some clear advantages over countryside and wildness, primarily accessibility. Partly that they are generally only a short walk from public transport, and partly that so much green space is dedicated to the public, unlike areas that are barred for productive reasons.

   

Any Londoner who heads out West by car or coach should have spotted the walls of Chiswick House on the A4 Great West Road, approaching the infamous Hogarth roundabout, beloved of travel news. I had never been before and was pleasantly surprised. I understand that the grounds have been refurbished fairly recently, and this is not to all tastes - rather than allowed to be wild, they are more tended. 

We strolled up the driveway to the mansion house, erstwhile property of the Duchy of Devonshire. As I have blogged before, I have limited interest in stately homes, largely because of the way they are presented and marketed. (I don't like the way they portray the rich as being heroic or people to look up to, when there is usually no reason to do so, other than their wealth, and how they tend to ignore the history of the vast majority of people, who were often living in squalor and exploitation). It wasn't open on that day - current opening is Sunday - Wednesday.

 

The grounds seemed busy, but that was merely because almost all visitors were crowded onto a small stretch of lawn between the house and the lake (which had been created by widening a brook), but most of the rest of the grounds were almost deserted.

It's a phenomenon I see time and again, of people unable or unwilling to progress much further than the first available stopping point. Obviously, one should distinguish between individual actions and a general trend - often one can spot people with mobility impairments, and assume that some others have invisible impairments - but every single time I go out, since I first spotted the trend, it has been entirely predictable! It doesn't make me angry, because it means that the wider grounds are mine to enjoy all the more, but it does make me condescending to the ignorant masses.

A more serious point is that people take their kids out like this, assume they're parenting well, because they're 'out', but actually, the kids' horizons aren't expanding, and their liveliness, unspent energy and boredom is often in conflict with people who have come to relax. Perhaps it's a pack mentality or a fear of what may lie beyond an enclosed or structured space.

 

A very short stroll through a wood brought us to an Ionic temple, where only the most intrepid of explorers venture to see the lake from a different angle. There was a classical elegance to the grounds, and away from that small area, we hardly encountered anyone. The gardens are renowned for their camellias, but it seems we missed them at their peak.

                 

We left the park and followed our guidesheet to the river. Feeling hungry, we followed a sign to a pub. An interesting pub, because it has two names - the Mawson Arms and the Fox and Hounds. It also serves as the Brewery tap for Fullers's brewery. A very decent couple of pints and a very good 'fishfinger' sandwich - goujons, rather than out-of-a-packet.

We carried along the river. It was a sunny day and busy on the river banks. We passed several riverside pubs. Jimmy declared them crowded, I didn't think so. The trouble is, occasionally, you encounter a pub that has so much space that it doesn't seem crowded, and it spoils you for any other. But, in Inner London, you're less likely to encounter these than you would outside the county boundary. The Thames looked nice, though!

We took the bus back to Barnes Bridge and had another pint or two in a Young's pub in that area. The website I had found suggested continuing around the Barnes peninsular, but I see no problem in only doing part of a suggested walk. We did actually do the Barnes peninsular part some time later, but, for some reason, I didn't take any photos, and ended up getting quite tipsy in Putney.

 

 

 

 

Indian Fine Dining in Jersey

I know I haven't been great in keeping my blog up to date, but about 18 months ago I blogged two short pieces Old photos, new stories: Gorey and Old Pictures and Short Stories, recalling a long weekend visit to Jersey in 2001. One thought led to another and it wasn't long before I'd booked the same hotel, and flights for a three night stay in September.

We got very lucky with the weather - when I stepped off the plane at Jersey airport, I had a sense of tremendous heat you normally only experience in southern Europe or further afield. Very easy airport to negotiate, out very quickly, and then the journey to our hotel, the other side of St Helier.

St Helier isn't the prettiest town, in the British isles, not by a long shot. I suppose it suffers from having to be multi-purpose - industry and port as well as administrative and tourism/leisure. We had the most depressive and moaning taxi driver, railing at the modern world, how things have changed, and how Jersey has gone to the dogs - he's intending to retire to the Isle of Wight.

The main road goes through a tunnel bored through rock, a useful bypass of the town. The taxi driver closed his window and instructed us to do likewise and ranted alarmingly at all the FOOLS who kept their windows open, they'd die of pollution in this tunnel. All taxi drivers on three subsequent journeys kept their windows open, and there were several pedestrians and cyclists. In any case, I've been in longer tunnels under airport runways, the Thames and Hindhead.

We checked into the Merton Hotel. It is a spectacularly ugly building from the outside, but really rather lovely inside. It managed to seem unchanged and yet updated since our visit more than a decade earlier. We spent the late afternoon in the hotel's splendid swimming pool, one of the main reasons we had booked this hotel.

It has a large pool, that is both indoors and outdoors, no real divide between the two. It has jacuzzis, indoors and out, sauna and steam room, and even a  fountain in the pool, silly and pointless but fun. The FlowRider SurfWave was closed for major repairs, and the giant water slide was closed that afternoon, but open at other times. It was lovely to be in an outdoor pool nearly in autumn.

I had selected a restaurant from Trip Advisor. I suppose that makes me unforgivably naff, but it serves me well in unfamiliar towns. I chose well - Saffrons, in a very grand hotel. It was just about walking distance, up a hill, although I felt I'd earned my meal when I arrived.

We went for the Tasting or Degustation menu, I for the vegetarian one and him for the non-vegetarian. Everything had a touch of class about it, without being pretentious. Sitting in the lounge with a drink while we perused the menu, and being escorted to the table only when it was ready.

Service was attentive without being obsequious or overbearing. At the end, we had to wait a long while for our taxi, because there had been a fire at a large restaurant in St Aubin, and all nearby taxis had been summoned to ferry people away from the scene (fortunately, no casualties, as far as I know), on a night when the Joe Loss Orchestra was performing at the Opera House. In this unusual circumstance, the waiters relaxed and we had an enjoyable end to our meal when I'm sure they were really wanting to go home. I certainly haven't forgotten how wonderful every mouthful was, different tastes from different elements, different emphasis in each dish, utterly beautiful.

The menu was:

Popadums & Chutneys

First Course
Deep Fried Wafer thin Dough, filled with Potato and Chickpea Salad Feta Cheese, Pomegranate and Cucumber Salad

Second Course
Corn Cake with Spicy Yoghurt Relish, Cauliflower Florets with Saffron Silken Mousseline

Third Course
South Indian Dopiaza Uttapam Lasagne, Idli Lentil Sambhar and Coconut Chutney

Fourth Course
Tandoor Paneer Tikka Masala, Butter Cheese Naan, Crunchy Yoghurt Kebab, spicy Chilli Chutney

Pre Dessert
Apricot and Mint, Eros Elixir Sorbet

Dessert
Guanaja Chocolate rolled in Nuts and Sesame Seed Soil, Frozen Rum and Coconut Mousse, Chocolate sauce and Sesame Cream

Coffee or Tea & Indian Spiced Truffles

As long as I can remember I have enjoyed eating in neighbourhood curry houses, and in the past ten years or so I have grown to appreciate fine dining. This is the first time I have ever experienced Fine Dining on Indian food (although I had some outstanding European food in India). If you ever visit St Helier, I would strongly recommend a visit to this restaurant this restaurant for a classy or romantic meal in luxury surroundings.