Gertsamtkunstwerk

Giant cheesy leek and potato pasty

To commemorate when st George's Day fell on Meat-Free Monday. Perhaps.

The recipe said to use shop bought shortcrust pastry, but, frankly, by the time you've run down the shop and faffed around, it's easier to make your own. Perhaps I should have photographed The Making of the Pastry, but if you're unsure of what that looks like, pop out for shop-bought!

Chop some leeks

Boil some slices of potato

Combine with some chunks of Cheddar, and pile onto a round of pastry laid out on a baking sheet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The recipe actually  said nothing about greaseproof paper, but I don't fully trust my baking sheets, and have taken to lining them regardless.

You really have to pile those ingredients up, it's a precarious balancing act. And make sure you keep that border round the edge.

Cover it with  lid of pastry - that's significantly bigger than the first piece. Neaten it up and give it an egg rinse

 Bung it in the oven for 40 minutes, then take it out

 Naturally, your eyes fall on theunsightly burnt black bits. Aha! Remember when I said I didn't trust baking sheets. There is a reason. All I had to do was lift off the greaseproof paper and bin the ugly burnt black bits. The burnt juices neither ruining my baking sheet not spoiling my giant pasty.

Also this year we have discovered that there is nothing that cam't be transformed from ordinary and adequate to outstanding by addition of a fresh well-dressed salad. (Correlates with the maxim of making sure your food is not totally beige). Ta da

The original recipe

Saving unimportant churches for the nation

I started this blogpost, including its title, with a pretty firm thesis in my mind. All I needed was the facts to support my view.

In some recent blogposts I have brought you photos of:

St Matthew's Brixton

and its twin St Jude's

St Mary and St John the Divine Balham

St Paul's Herne Hill

St Mary's Battersea

and St Martin's Ashton-upon-Mersey

The thesis was broadly:

The system of listing buildings as being historically or architecturally significant is heavily biased towards stately homes and churches, and, in general ignores the history of ordinary, non-Establishment people.

I did some research - reading various articles on the internet - and realised that my thesis was at best a blunderbuss approach. It turns out that my problem isn't the principle of Listing buildings. English Heritage explains it: 

   All buildings built before 1700 which survive in anything like their original condition are listed, as are most of those built between 1700 and 1840. The criteria become tighter with time, so that post-1945 buildings have to be exceptionally important to be listed. A building has normally to be over 30 years old to be eligible for listing.

I don't think anyone could argue with the fundamentals of that.

Wikipedia says  

It was the damage to buildings caused by German bombing during World War II that prompted the first listing of buildings that were deemed to be of particular architectural merit...The listings were used as a means of determining whether a particular building should be rebuilt if it was damaged by bombing, with varying degrees of success.

Again, how can this be contentious, at least at a strategic level? 

So, it seems I was putting the cart before the horse. I was irritated at the high number of churches (and stately homes) that were regarded as 'historic', whereas I ought to have observed: a large number of buildings that have survived from before 1700 or the 19th century to Second World War or present day, are churches. This proves that many churches are old.

Listed buildings account for about 2% of English building stock. In March 2010, there were approximately 374,000 list entries of which 92% were Grade II, 5.5% were Grade II*, and 2.5% were Grade I. Places of worship play an important role in the UK’s architectural heritage. England alone has 14,500 listed places of worship (4,000 Grade I, 4,500 Grade II* and 6,000 Grade II). In fact, 45% of all Grade I listed buildings are places of worship.

Wikipedia, again.

My irritation was fuelled by the lazy complacency of some small parish churches. They have no real significance beyond their parish or county but they trumpet their current importance by reference to their Listed Building status. Which in most cases only means 'the church is old'.

I would be relaxed about this if they used this merely as a starting point for telling the story of the community that grew up around the church. Or if they acknowledged the circumstances in which they were built - eg by Government, to suppress possible revolution from amongst the working people: the Commissioners' or Waterloo churches. 

St James's Bermondsey boasts:

In 1724 at the Bishop's Visitation, it was recorded "In Bermondsey there are 9,000 people". The only houses were along Bermondsey Wall, which was part of the only road or highway from the City out into Kent. Here wealthy merchants had magnificent houses. The first streets in our Parish were Salisbury Street and Janeway Street. Here a rich West India Merchant built a house and called it Jamaica House, after the island from which his fortune was derived. By 1710 there were enough poor people living here for it to be necessary to provide a workhouse for 50 people.

The Church now built was dedicated to St James but everyone called it Bermondsey New Church. Its grandeur recalling the days when wealthy merchants still lived in Grange Road and Jamaica Road.

That makes me almost vomit with disgust. The West India Merchant 'derived his fortune from Jamaica'. This really is obscene. Unforgivable.

Conversely, the Reverend Arthur J Dobb wrote about St Philip's Salford

Although fine words were spoken about the need for some spiritual, restraint of the working classes to their indulgent practices of gambling lounging, drinking and debauchery, nothing was done to provided churches in the slums until, under a Parliamentary Act of 1818, £1 million was granted to build new churches "lest a godless people might also be a revolutionary people". As less emotive reason for building these churches, they were to be the nation's token of Thanksgiving to Almighty God for the victory at Waterloo, hence they are sometimes known as "Waterloo Churches". The overall intentions may have seemed worthy, yet the monies were mainly spent in the middle-class suburbs and did little to alleviate the acute distress and harsh repression which manifested themselves in such demonstrations as "Peterloo".

Could the money have been better spent on providing an education for poor people? Could that have reduced their indulgent practices? Or would it have caused them to think for themselves, question the repression of the masters, and organise to change society?

Some years ago I read - almost certainly in Alan Piper's History of Brixton - about how the property developers built houses and then built churches, not so that the people could go and worship, but as an ostentatious display of their wealth and piety. (I paraphrase significantly). The churches built were generally Anglican but, again according to Wikipedia, The religious census of 1851 revealed that total Nonconformist attendance was very close to that of Anglicans. Additionally, there were Catholics, Jews and people of no religious practice. The churches were not democratic.

I like looking round churches. Some display attractive art. Some tell part of a story of humanity. Churches, organised religion and ritual are of immense sociological fascination. But if they trumpet their assumed historical importance, they must tell the whole story, not just the Government/Establishment propaganda. Otherwise, they are historically irrelevant. Or worse - celebrating that their church was there to celebrate the vast fortunes that were made from slavery. 

I have been critical. There will be more photos of more churches. And perhaps more criticism. St James's Bermondsey, I have my sights set on you. 

 

Also, recently, but not yet blogged, I have visited Nonsuch Park and Nunhead Cemetery, and I have watched a TV programme about the Lost Gardens of Heligan, which all tell a different story of what happens when architecture and heritage is neglected and abandoned.

So, I have no desire to knock down the churches I have visited or walked past. Just to take St Matthew's in Brixton. Its congregation is much smaller than many of the Evangelical/Pentecostal churches and the many local mosques. Together their numbers are eclipsed by the vast majority of the population that seldom if ever attends a place of worship. It is clearly in dire financial straits and, to be honest, it serves little or no purpose in the community.

Would it be missed? I don't know. As a functioning church, probably not. As a building, probably, at least for a while. But as a space? Without a doubt.

Look again at the pictures of Brixton around St Matthew's. Or go there yourself physically. Or go to your own town or village centre. Imagine the church knocked down and the space, including its churchyard, built over and used for a secondhand car showroom, a supermarket or 'luxury apartments'. I can't stand that thought. At the very least, the old churches provide a respite and a breathing space. But I wish they would tell the truth about their history, the whole truth about their community. Then they would truly be a community asset, not just an ignored artefact.

We need and want to retain these buildings as churches or with alternative uses. They come to dominate our collective idea of what is 'historic' and 'important'. Churches were maintained for functional reasons more than ordinary homes and places of work and play, so our historical sense of ordinary people is dominated by churches. St James's Bermondsey demonstrate, they may not be fit and proper custodians of our history.

April garden

Throughout March, the sun shone and the temperatures were hot, hotter than they should have been.

I took some photos in the garden. I wish I had a story to tell, but I don't. I just went into the garden and took some photos.

Crap park cafés

I like to walk in a park, find a nice café and sit down, have a cup of coffee, maybe a cake, maybe even a hot meal. If you have a café in a park, you're sitting on a goldmine. Effectively, there's no competition. Customers generally don't have anywhere else to go. Even if there's another café somewhere else in the park, or on a neighbouring street, the customer has to walk there. Easier to go to the park café.

In prosperous areas of South West London, and, I daresay, elsewhere, good or adequate park cafés are great social places for 'types' to congregate. Lonely 'yummy mummies', dogwalkers, pensioners can meet up with similar people to talk about what they have in common. Other people can break off their walks and enjoy the fare on offer. Couples can go for an escape from the rat-race.

On Saturday we went to the café by the Windmill in Wimbledon. We should have seen warning signs. A huge place, but no one was sitting down indoors. Most outside tables were unoccupied. The dog walkers sat alone with their dog, not in groups of regulars. It did not seem familiar territory to the small children demanding ice-creams.

An appalling place, that really should be ashamed of itself. We'd walked quite a way, and this was the first eating place we had passed in an hour and a half. We went in. I decided I would have a cup of tea, and, ooh, why not, a scone! 

The manager - straight out of Jennifer Saunders or Victoria Wood - asked if I wanted a fruit scone. Ooh yes, I said. We then had to move along and instruct one of 'the girls' what we had ordered, whilst the sit-com woman instructed 'no more than one girl on each thing' (filter coffee machine, teapot, microwave) - she was having to micro-manage schoolchildren. The cup of tea was pushed at me, with a mere mention of milk. No oppotunity for topping it up with further milk. And the scone, butter and jam were presented on a paper plate.

Note the lack of fruit in the fruit scone. Note also the plastic pack of strawberry 'jam' - jelly with seeds, never seen a bloody strawberry.

What this photo can't show you is stale saltiness of the cheap scone, mass produced in a factory. Or that the tea was stewed. It's not really too much to ask, is it, to have a cup of tea made properly, to be able to add my own milk without being under suspicion of wanting to steal it. And a scone that was made this month? Last time I had tea and scone, the tea came in a pot. The crockery was crockery: cup and saucer, plate, milk jug. The scone was big, bobbly, rustic and fresh. The jam had pieces of fruit in it, and along with the clotted cream, was served in a little ramekin. Apparently we can't expect such luxuries in Wimbledon.

It is entirely possible that tourists might come to Wimbledon. A town that is famous around the world for its tennis and its Wombles, an Olympic town. Disgusting.

On Clapham Common is a café called Oasis. Someone sat down one day and thoughtfully designed a chilled place. Inside, cushions on benches round a central table. Outside, picnic tables on decking. We should have been alerted on arrival by how empty the decking was - this photo was taken as we left, this woman's man had just gone inside. Don't know if they stayed.

An attractive-looking menu, with mint tea and green tea, with paninis filled with crayfish or mozzarella and tomato. 

The amiable but dim server tried to charge immediately after we (two people) had ordered just one drink. Neither Jimmy's espresso or my latte actually tasted of coffee. Several Clapham types came, took one look, and walked away. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade in selling chips and fizzy drinks to the kids in the new, nearby skate park. Which, by the way, is great. The kids looked happy, and occupied, and I'd hate to see a café that turned kids away for being, well, kids. 

The cushions smelled.

What a waste of a great location and a good concept. We didn't dare eat, didn't have confidence that the current management knew the first thing aboout food hygiene - no certificates on display. Would you buy a crayfish panini in a café that smells as if someone's been sleeping there?

It's increasingly an irritation to me. How do these people get away with it? How have they got the franchise or lease to run these places? There are so many people with a passion, the drive to make a success out of business, understanding of customers, who could make these places a destination, but are denied that opportunity by these complacent dullards who are happy to serve up crap from te 70s, or  who mess up a good idea and drive people away?

Reviews by others:

Windmill Tea Rooms by Wimbledon People

This place provides the sort of customer experience which I thought had disappeared along with Communism!...A cup of coffee and a rather overcooked flap-jack came to over £4...Overall, a disappointing experience which I won't be paying to repeat.

Windmill Café & Tea Room - Virtual Tourist

She had pre-warned me that she hadn't had very good experiences there in the past, so I wasn't expecting much.

links 05/20/2012

• Open Squares

  9-10 June. Advance tickets £9

  tags: london

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

Dinner at the Lido

Last month was the first time we'd ventured to the Brockwell Lido café for dinner. It was interesting to see how they transformed the place from a spot for coffee, snack or casual lunch to somewhere to eat an intimate dinner.

Most obvious change was to décor: bare wooden tables transformed by table linen. Candles and dimmed overhead lighting. The play area removed. And a different menu.

We went on the third Saturday of April. It already felt like it had rained for ever, and yet it seems so long ago. Because of the forecast rain, we did the two bus trick, change at Windrush Square. We didn't want to risk a drenching walking across the park - who would - but, actually it didn't rain. Part of me was a bit sad about that, because I had already planned to blog or tweet "Dinner looking out as the rain pours into the pool. Just like being on holiday".

The dinner menu is fancier than at lunch time. They change it every month to reflect the seasons, although some items appear to be perennial, and not every single item seems to change every month.

I very nearly ordered Smoked salmon with pickled beetroot and rye bread as a starter but, in the nick of time, realised this wasn't the wisest starter for my preferred main. I always choose my main first. The starter must fit round that. Instead, I had smoked haddock fishcake, creamed spinach, sorrel and a poached egg. Perfect dish in itself. I could happily live on poached eggs, except that making them myself is so hit and miss. always great to order one when out, and this did not disappoint. I'm also a big fishcake fan, having loved them when I was a kid. They seem to have gone out of fashion for a long time, so it's great to see them back on menus.

For my main I had Sea Trout with crushed Jersey Royal potatoes, White Wine herb sauce and Spinach. Which of course means that I had spinach for both courses. A fate I could have avoided by having both salmon and trout. I see in May's menu, one could have either a pea starter or an asparagus starter, and then an asparagus and pea risotto. Not so much a criticism as an observation. It doesn't bother me in practice as it does in theory!

I couldn't fault the taste or presentation of either dish. I think they have a a splendid combination of elegantly presented fresh food that nevertheless veers to the accessible, rustic or homely - in a good way. It's not pretentious or poncey, and the prices are modest. The prices for alcohol are less so, but I have absolutely no problem with places that hike up the booze prices to keep the food reasonable.

I finished with Almond and pistachio tart with orange and cardamon. This was perfectly fine, with no cause for complaint. But, having declared in February: 

I feel my future lies in roaming round Brixton eating almond cake

this almond cake felt like a poor relation to the ones I had tasted in Brazas or Boqueria. But it didn't detract from the evening, and was at most a minor quibble. I no longer recall the eminently quaffable wine I enjoyed with the first two dishes, but I do recall I started with a Manzanilla, and enjoyed a Pedro Ximénez, as recommended. Service was fine, and ambience was pleasant and relaxed, and far more intimate than one would ever imagine from what is essentially a cafeteria attached to a 1930s municipal swimming pool.

It is entirely possible we ill return to sample May's menu. If not, flaming June!

Amaretto amaretti cheesecake

I bought the book impulsively. When one of your favourite authors writes a book on baking, you buy it, don't you? And, of course, having bought it, you have to use it, don't you.

To summarise, Marion has suffered from depression for years and has tried all sorts of different treatments. But, almost by accident, she discovered that obsessive baking somehow has worked.

Now, I like the book. It has some lovely ideas in it and some gorgeous photos, so it seems almost churlish to be critical. But I do have a major question. Apart from the recipes she describes as having been handed to her by her in-laws, what is the source of the other recipes. Sure, once you've grasped some basics, it's easy enough to experiment. It's easy enough, even when baking, to mix and combine elements of several different similar recipes, and, in effect create something new. But I have read nothing that suggests she experimented. So, I'd rather appreciate a credit to the source of the recipe.

She recommends using muffin tins with an 8 cm diameter. Mine are only 7 cm - at the top. less at the bottom. In retrospect I should have followed mu instincts and made more smaller cakes rather than trying to squeeze all these ingredients into six cavities just because it was convenient.

Other than that, it's very smple to make, but you do have to make it the day before.

Take some amaretti biscuits and bash them into submission, mix them with melted butter, and squash them into the muffin tins. Bake them blind, them cool and then refrigerate for an hour.

In one bowl mix cheese, egg yolks and sugar. In another, beat egg whites.

 

When the egg whites are in stiff peaks fold them into the cheese mixture

At this point, you must remember that you should have added the amaretto to the cheese mixture even before you'd added the egg whites.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No worry, though. Just dollop the resulting mix into the biscuit base. At this point I realised that my earlier instinct was right. Too few muffin tins (or sufficient too small muffin tins). I was just piling the mixture into greater and greater piles, a precarious balancing act entirely dependent on it being fairly stiff as a result as the beaten egg whites.

Bake them in the oven for 40 minutes, then switch off the oven and leave the cheesecakes in there for two hours while the oven cools down. And refrigerate them overnight.

 

 

 

The finished article shouldn't overflow the sides like this
Althugh in practical terms, this really isn't a problem . You just get mushroom-shaped cheesecakes rather than ones suitable for food porn.

And if you want them to look neat, just trim round the edge, like so. But remember to co-ordinate the camera settings and ambient light, like I didn't!

Very very nice. I shall make them again.

Meanwhile, my trusted assistant shows how theu should look!

Strolling around Ashton upon Mersey

An Easter visit up north for daughterly duties. For various reasons, complicated and trivial, it was wise to stay at the Premier Inn rather than Chez the Mother. Not least because it gave us the freedom to wander down to Ashton Village, one of the more interesting parts of Sale.

I don't have many nice things to say about Sale, so perhaps I should say them now. It is well situated in the Mersey Valley, perfect for cycling the TransPennine Trail - just a few yards from the Premier Inn. It's pretty much without hills, but there are views of the Peak District if you know where to look. It's handy for the motorway network, which takes you quickly to the airport, and handy for the tram into Manchester. Also, it's not as smug as Altrincham. Partly because, alongside the sleek over-priced villas and the complacent semis are council estates and other vaguely affordable housing. 

The Local Government Act of 1929 merged Sale and Ashton upon Mersey. Historically, Ashton was the more important place, but the canal and then the railway were built further East, diminishing Ashton's importance. And yet, Ashton Village still has the feel of a village, and we experienced genuine warmth in the pubs and the Co-Op. Both village pubs are worth a visit, with CAMRA Hulme and Trafford splitting their April meeting between the Plough and the Buck.Even pre-recession, the village was reported to be blighted by the arrival of the ubiquitous and destructive Tesco Express

 Unfortunately, it rained a lot when we visited, and in between relatives, we didn't have much time to get out-and-about, making the best of it while we can.

Buck Lane used to be cobbled when I was small, but it isn't now. Some attractive cottages, this one in particular displaying a well-loved garden.

We were heading beyond the village, to the village church, which unusually, lies a considerable distance from the village. Comfortable walking distance, though! I'm no expert but I can't think of anywhere else I've visited where the ancient Anglican church doesn't form the epicentre of the village.

A stroll down Church Lane, which coincided with work by British Gas contractors!

As I took this photo, I realised that someone was banging on the window of the extension, not visible to the right. I wasn't intending to intrude, be it the private home of a reclusive celebrity, or an institutional home. My apologies for seeming to intrude, when all I wanted was a shot of notable local building.

I was amused to see the village stocks. They date from 1836 but repairs and refurbishments sponsored by Sale Civic Society were unveiled by then Mayor Lydia Burton in 1992. And frankly, I couldn't think of a more fitting candidate to sit there and be pelted with rotten fruit. 

Oops, did I say that out loud!

Wandering along the lane was like being in the country, hardly surprising as we were right on the edge. If we'd walked further along, it would have been just fields (and Ashton on Mersey golf club). And, in the distance, there was snow on the hills, probably somewhere like Glossop.

And so, to St Martin's. Locals believe that there was a church here back in the 9th century. This sort of sounds impressive until you consider it was two centuries after Bede and the Synod of Whitby.  And Ashton is not actually mentioned in the Doomsday Book. Wikipedia says the first church was built in 1304 on the site of an old Saxon burial place. But this was destroyed in the Great Storm of 1703, which forms the basis of some fascinating reading. The most severe storm or natural disaster ever recorded in the southern part of Great Britain. Some extended reading December 1703 windstorm - 300 year retrospective (pdf).

The ancient edifice had not many claims to architectural features, and was exceedingly plain in its proportions. The interior, owing to the arrangement of the pews, was very inconvenient and uncomfortable, and in the aisles at one time was placed a continuous bench for the Sunday Scholars, which had to be stepped over by each worshipper who entered the pews.

Altrincham & Bowdon : with historical reminiscences of Ashton-on-Mersey, Sale, and surrounding townships

A new church was built ten years later, perhaps reflecting its relative unimportance in comparison to other post-storm re-building. Some of the beams from the current church are thought to have been in the original church. Unsurprising, considering that it was a storm, not a fire, and new materials would have been at a premium. The tower and the lychgate were added in 1887, at about the same time that Sale was embracing Methodism. The church is Grade II* listed, the lychgate Grade II. 

It's a nice little church and I think the stained glass window is very pretty. We were kindly met at the door by one of the ladies of the parish, who helpfully explained some of the history. They had received a grant from English Heritage to repair the tower, so are obliged to open the church to the public for a set number of hours per week. It seems from their website that the works were more or less completed by Christmas.

As I say, it's a lovely little church, but despite their best efforts it's pretty much moribund. They are without an incumbent vicar, and their dated-looking website has received less than 900 hits. There was a Parish magazine on sale, but no evidence of this being available online. I can see the attraction for people to hold their wedding there, but a church wedding is a once-in-a-lifetime event. There is no school associated with the church, so I can't really see any reason for young people to attend. St Mary Magdalene's is just a short drive away and seems a lot livelier and has an associated school.

We wandered round the graveyard, which contains an impressive War Memorial, which I previously didn't even know existed. That having been said, War memorials are all over the place. I don't know if there's an actual distinction between 'official' - where civic dignitaries lay wreaths on Remembrance Sunday  - and 'unofficial' ones, which serve their local community - or if it matters.

In the distance, you can see the spire of All Saints RC Church (1959). Their car park was packed for Good Friday service*. All Saints' Primary School is rated 'Outstanding' by Ofsted. Pity so many of them can't walk.

I'm not sure what this building is, but it looks as if it was once agricultural buildings, now converted to desirable suburban residences, literally a stone's throw from the golf club and riding school.

We walked back to the village. Jimmy popped into the betting shop, while I photographed the Old School House. It was the school attached to St Martin's church, but never in my memory. And if I recall, the Church Lady, who was probably fifteen years older than me, said she had been to Wellfield Primary School. It is currently used as office premises. Pity they can't be bothered fixing the clocks. It was quite amusing that as I walked round snapping shots, several people paused. I wasn't sure whether they were wondering if I was maybe from some property developers, or whether they decided just to take a longer look at something they drive past every day without noticing!

  

 

 I also decided to take a photo of the side wall of what is now a beauty parlour

and on the way back to the hotel I couldn't resist this picture of this fairly expensive house, with a view of Sale's only tower block of flats!

We got back to the hotel just before it started raining. That, for April, is what we regard as a victory! 

* not Mass.

Bubba's Restaurant, Tulse Hill

We went here in mid-April, a month after it opened. I don't go to first nights, for restaurants or for operas. The critics cast their judgements and this becomes the accepted wisdom. I don't fully trust professional critics, anyway. I read a review of this restaurant which suggested that the customers were 'uncomfortable' with the 'formal setting'. A restaurant that is owned and managed by Black people, with a Caribbean-influenced cuisine, and, going by both their own photos and what I noticed when we visited, quite a lot of Black customers.The professional critic thinks Black people are uncomfortable in formal surroundings. Hmm.

Location. Challenging for professional food critics. With no parking. It's converted out of part of Tulse Hill Station, even having a ticket machine outside. But once inside, I didn't hear any trains and forgot I was near a station. Just along the South Circular from us, but too far (for me) to walk. So we bussed it, because loads of buses pass nearby.

Bloggers who had been before us made a big deal of the blue light. A blue light that makes photos of the food look either washed out or strangely, well, blue. I would say my biggest criticism is the blue light. It's not just about photography; it tinges companion and food (less obviously) with a slight but disorienting blue rinse. If I had one piece of advice, I'd say, get rid of the blue light.

Otherwise, I liked the decor. Clean and crisp and clear. It even smelled of new-ness. Lights that were optical illusions and looked like they were small alcoves with a distant vanishing point. I've been to restaurants where the decor is tasteful, modern and crisp - and bland and impersonal. Take away the blue light and Bubba's would verge on this. I prefer some details or touches that give it individuality and personality. There again, I don't like places where the decor becomes the dominant statement. It's a fine balance to achieve.

I'm not familiar with Caribbean food despite my decades living in South London. Jimmy, on the other hand, claims to be an expert. And this is where I made a mistake. He ate jerk pork and curried goat. Classic dishes with a 'fine dining' twist. Being that I don't eat meat, I didn't have those, but I should have stayed close to what I am familiar with.

We started with cocktails. I had a Gin Smash, which was luscious. My starter was Black sesame, kidney bean camembert fondants with plaintain smalls and glazed boad beans, elegantly presented and interesting to taste. I really liked the taste, but bizarrely, I'm not sure I'd necessarily have it again. A lot of complex flavours battling with each other, satisfying but perhaps rather heavy-going for a starter. Jimmy declared his jerk pork belly with apple and nut crunch and apple and cinnamon puree a great success.

Service was of a high standard, perhaps veering towards the deferentially subservient. The front-of-house manager and the waiter both introduced themselves, but didn't then give their life stories or attempt to engage in unrelated chit-chat. Attentive and prompt, without hovering and intruding. We'd booked for 8pm but arrived closer to 7.30pm, when there was only one other party. By 8.30, the place was full, with a good lively buzz. I've read reviews praising the RnB soundtrack, but I can't say I noticed, which is good, because RnB is one of those genres where I can get very quickly annoyed at the mediocre formulaic offerings.

I made a mistake with my main course. I saw the word 'crab' and pounced, not noticing or processing the words 'soft-shell'. And I have to be honest, I didn't like it. I think that was me, not a criticism of the restaurant. I liked everything else on the plate but really struggled to eat the crab. I just felt that it was a lot of salt water. So many other things on the menu I could have chosen. But I loved the plaintain chive mash and rustic tomato sauce. I ordered a Singapore Sling, but I don't think the drink that turned up actually was. In a fog, I'd recognised the phrase 'Singapore Sling' as something I like but not being able to remember what it was or what I liked about it. (And, no, I'm not stupid. the fog is a side-effect of fibromyalgia; not only does it occur, but it also diminishes one's confidence so you doubt you're remembering properly).

Jimmy was very pleased with his Authentic Caribbean curried goat in a roast petal tuille basket served with avocado puree and plantain rings. The goat was tender and well-flavoured. He didn't eat the filo basket, but, looking around, nor did other people. It makes for attractive serving, but I'm sure isn't really intended to be eaten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jimmy finished with a selection of exotic ice creams. Yet again. He loves ice cream, almost invariably picks ice cream as his dessert and, more often than not, the ice cream isn't what he expects, and he's disappointed. I'm sure everybody else who likes ice cream would love these, but he only cares for ice creams made from organic unicorn tears and the noble perspiration of passionate artisans. This wasn't!

 

 

 

 

I had carrot cake with carrot and rum sorbet and spiced puree. The carrot cake was beautiful, dense yet light. Too many carrot cakes are stodgy; this was melt-in-the-mouth but substantial. I also enjoyed the trimmings. But the sorbet wasn't for me.

So, I am definitely going back to Bubba's and would urge other people to go, too. Remember, right next to Tulse Hill station, and close to a plethora of buses. And a cab office just round the corner. Next time I go, I shall opt for dishes that are closer to my comfort zone.

I think I concur with several other bloggers that there are a few hesitations about the place, but I feel that these are inevitable when an establishment is clearly ambitious and wants to be innovative. If you want to avoid this go to a chain restaurant or somewhere that has been cooking the same old same old for twenty years. 

Other blogposts:

Noshable

The Picky Glutton - special thanks for photographing the menu

How to Cook in High Heels

Hollow Legs

The restaurant has its website but as I write it's not really up and running. They are active on Facebook

A meander round Greater Battersea

It seems so long ago now, and difficult to believe, but the weather in March was glorious, the third warmest and sunniest March on record. Difficult to remember, considering that April was the wettest April since records began

Fortunately, we took advantage of a glorious sunny Sunday at the very end of March, actually the first of April, and set off for a leisurely bike ride to The River. Rather than treating it as a sporting test of stamina and speed, we decided to treat it like a walk, but easier.

We hadn't gone far when we took a stroll round our local park, Agnes Riley Gardens.

Frederick George Riley gifted 'Oakfield House', and surrounding lands, to London County Council on the proviso that it made the site into a public open space, and name it Agnes Riley Memorial Gardens. Work began to develop two acres in 1937. But World War II intervened the two acres used for allotments and occupied by the military. In 1952, and against F.G. Riley’s wishes, the LCC decided to drop the word ‘memorial’. In 1954 the whole site was laid out as a small park.

I've never actually been in before. It's a nice little park. Not one you'd travel to see, but epitomising everything a small-ish local park should be. A highlight is the ornamental pond:

 

 

It's an interesting design, and very new, so I was concerned that the planters seemed neglected, uncared for when someone should have been watering them.

Similarly, the Community Garden looked a bit dried. Still, I think it's a  great use of the space. Handy for people living in the nearby flats, and good for people like us, just walking through. Hopefully it connects children a little to plants and the origins of their food.

 

 

 

I was a bit perturbed to see the following sign. It has a  very simple message to convey. A message which is important to people who have English as a second language (if that) or have poor literacy skills. I am steeped in the language of bureaucracy but read it twice before I got it. The most important thing should be at the top. Nobody really cares about 'the interest of all user groups and the sustainability of Lambeth sporting facilities'.

If you run a sporting group you must book this pitch in advance. Call this number to make regular and one-off bookings. You cannot book this pitch on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays after 12 noon. For more information about Agnes Riley Gardens call ...between 9am - 5pm (and don't just list the number of the Council switchboard)

We continued our bike ride to Wandsworth Common. But Wandsworth Common holds no appeal. It is a nice park, well, it has a nice pond. But it's just a staging post en route to the rest of the world.

It's nice to cycle along the Common, avoiding the heavy traffic on Bolingbroke Grove. This is supposedly a cycle route, but Wandsworth Council need to learn that 'cycle route' requires more than painting a bike on the road. We thought we'd have to take to the road in heavy Sunday morning smug traffic, but instead, we discovered St Mary's Cemetery. I don't recommend cycling through this or any cemetery, even though we were the only people there, and its burial lands were exhausted in the 1960s. It's actually quite sad to see a cemetery entirely deserted on a Sunday, even though I personally never visit people's graves.

It was also sad to see graves that had seemingly been vandalised. I only hope that whoever did this will one day have a loved one buried and realise with horror what a mindless act they committed for the lolz.

Nice weather vane on the chapel, incidentally

 

It's curious walking round a graveyard. I seem to be fascinated by them and I can't really say why. In some ways, it's a way of remembering people, but in other ways it just serves as a reminder of how forgettable most lives are, unless we leave a great work for posterity.

You do get snippets or vignettes of lives. Enid lived almost fifty years as a widow after the death of her husband, and yet is for ever defined by him, her body lying with that of her sister-in-law. Perhaps John Rayner Sidney King is her brother, otherwise he seems a cuckoo in the Hellings grave.

I have stated above that I don't go to visit graves, but I know a lot of people do. That they do is none of my business. My opinion should be of no consequence to them.

However, I am entitled to express my opinion and I do find something mawkish about frequent family visits to a grave, almost as if the relatives can't let go. 

Merdy died when she was 40. I imagine it was a cancer, perhaps it would have been curable now. Her family visited her grave on Mother's Day, two weeks before our visit. They left her a Mother's Day card, and flowers in a vase marked 'Nan'. I doubt her grandchildren were alive when she died, but the ritual of visiting her grave continues. Death is part of life; it seems cruel to say 'get over it'. But she's been gone almost as long as I've been alive. She died the same year as my grandmother.

George and Blanche get visited, too.

It wasn't a pleasant cycle from there. Traffic was at a standstill on St John's Hill, and we had to play 'Dodge the rail replacement buses' as well as the arsehole drivers who think they own the road. But we reached the river via the Candle Factory, where Jimmy' mother worked when she first arrived in London, and before he came along.

I love the sight of abandoned rotting jetties and groynes. This seems especially picturesque juxtaposed with the gleaming modern 'apartment' blocks that overlook the river.

 

 

 

 

 

Especially the unbridled wealth that is Chelsea Harbour

A bit weird, because it was fairly busy on our side of the river. Cyclists, ramblers, dog-walkers, toddlers on scooters. And on the Chelsea side. No one. I got excited at the thought that someone was actually alive in Chelsea Harbour. then I realised she was someone like me, just walking through and photographing. Mind you, the Yuppie flats on the Battersea side were pretty deserted, too. I hope they'd all gone out for lunch.I hope these complexes aren't just second homes for people with mansions in the provinces. Taking up valuable land that could have been used for affordable and social housing.

The Thames Path has to divert away from the river so that people don't walk or cycle through the heliport. It's slightly strange, because out on York Road are discreet hints of being near an airport, most noticeable being the green 'RVP' signs one more often sees in deep countryside. I was quite impressed by this helicopter, thinking it was from some exotic location such as Macedonia or Mexico. I was a bit disappointed to find it is from the more prosaic (and closer) Isle of Man.

I'm not sure what to think of that block of flats. I like the design and the brash colours. I like the ceiling to floor picture windows. But there are no balconies. Understandable next to the heliport. Perhaps a condition - they couldn't have people standing on the balconies hurling things at helicopters as they take off. But who'd pay a fortune to live in a block of flats and not even have a balcony!

I seem to have got into a habit of photographing the Thames's abandoned power stations. Often Battersea, about which so much has been written so often, but also Lots Road.

The Lots Road Power Station was built at Chelsea Creek between 1902 and 1904, to power the District Line and then most of London Underground. LBC and Capital Radio were transmitted from the towers from 1973 to 1975. It closed as recently as 2002, and London Underground is powered from the National Grid. There was a massive failure of the National Grid in 2003 affecting much of Central and Inner London. Coincidence? I wonder...!

Its longterm future is undecided although the building has been stripped out and cleaned up. Some folks actually broke in and photographed it between 2006 and 2009, I would guess. Impressive, but don't try this for yourself. And some more break-in photos here, from November 2011. Okay, I'm officially envious of these extreme phloggers! Brief history.

We cycled towards St Mary's church, which has a rather nice beach in front of it. It was a noticeably low tide when we visited. 

St Mary's Church dates from the 18th century, although they claim to have had a church on the site since Saxon times. Back in 693, it was known as Badrices Ege and in the Domesday Book, Patricesy. I feel that the parish history is somewhat clutching at straws. For the sake of argument, I will accept that there was a church on the site since 800, but the current church only dates from 1775. It's Grade I listed, the only such church in Wandsworth. But I'm afraid I have to give it a great big 'so what'?. It tells us nothing of the people that lived in Badrice's Ege/Patricesy/Battersea, how they lived, loved, worked and died. Just that a great deal of money was spent to build a church, seemingly paid for by 'rich city merchants'. It tells us nothing about the rise of non-Anglican Christian worship, including the development of Methodism and the revival of Catholicism. So, historically unhelpful and verging on the pointless. Also, it seemed pretty deserted for a Sunday! Certainly in comparison to St Phillips Battersea which we saw last week teeming with members of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church that now uses the building.

As far as I can tell, the cemetery we visited earlier was purchased by this church in the 1860s when its own churchyard ran out of burial space.

Still, it's a nice beach

In front of the church are moored some houseboats. I've always had a secret liking for houseboats. I'm slightly jealous of a journalist I was at school with who occasionally writes about her houseboat. It's often struck me as being a bit Bohemian. I overheard a woman saying to her boyfriend 'Ooh, I wouldn't like to live on a houseboat', and it stuck me. It's not that people choose between luxury yuppie flat or houseboat. Although it can be expensive in Cheyne Walk, elsewhere it's a lot cheaper way to be an owner-occupier in Central London. All mod cons, too, including satellite TV.

We passed Chelsea Wharf, presumably where they landed the coal for the Power Station

and also the mouth of the River Westbourne, which I recently blogged about

We then cycled to and through Battersea Park, which has been visited and photographed before, and on to Battersea Park Station. I've been through this hundreds, if not thousands of times on a train but have never previously used it as a station.

According to Wikipedia, 

The station remains effectively unmodernised since its construction in the Victorian era. It has an attractive polychrome brick Venetian Gothic facade. Access to the 5 platforms is via steep wooden staircases, and (as of October 2003) it is unusable by infirm or physically disabled travellers. Platform 1 is made completely from wood and Platform 5 is rarely in use, with through Southern and Gatwick Express services passing towards Clapham Junction.

However, because of weekend engineering works, they were running only a half-hourly service to Streatham Hill - from Platform 5, which has signs warning of the steep stairs 'Take care'. With two minutes til the train we practically ran, carrying our bikes (and me, the rucksack with water bottles, camera, pump, tool-kit etc) up the daunting stairs. Ironically, it was the first time I broke sweat all day!

And nice to get home, shower and eat a deliciously tasty late lunch.

Der Freischütz, Barbican

Der Freischütz (usually translated as The Marksman or The Freeshooter) is an opera in three acts by Carl Maria von Weber with a libretto by Friedrich Kind. And, as far as I can tell, it is rarely performed. I like it, I like Weber. I once read a description of him being the link between Donizetti and Wagner, which I think has a plausibility to it, even though it probably wouldn't stand up to scrutiny, and is probably quite meaningless anyway.

This was a concert performance, at the Barbican and I attended it over two weeks ago. I suppose I should have written my blogpost at the time, in order to capture and reflect upon nuances, memorable moments. But, in truth, I don't think I have lost anything by being slow. It was a lovely and enjoyable. But memorable, no. In a good way and a not so good way. It was a concert performance, for all the advantages and disadvantages that offers. Advantages being that it actually gets to be performed, and isn't ruined by a dull, over-literal stage production. Although, on the way in I overheard someone say that they had seen it and there was an actual wild boar on stage, so no production I ever see is ever going to live up to that!

Another advantage is that they can  get exceptional singers like Christine Brewer and Simon O'Neill to perform. I don't believe I've ever seen either of them in staged opera, but by all accounts Simon O'Neill isn't a natural actor, and Christine Brewer, well, her stage demeanour is constantly one of disengagement, even though she usually sounds divine. The disadvantages are, well, opera was written to be performed on stage; concert performances, like audio recordings, are a compromise. Limited rehearsal time signals a lack of familiarity with the interior of the score - although, conversely, works performed frequently can sound routine and thoughtless.

Falk Struckmann was scheduled to sing the other main role, but withdrew due to illness after the programme was printed, and replaced by Lars Woldt, whose circulated biography listed no previous appearances in the UK. I think I probably enjoyed him most of all the singers; presumably he was engaged due to his familiarity with the role, ironically.

As I say, it was an all round enjoyable performance, with nothing standing out either as being profoundly moving or unfortunate. The LSO Chorus were in top form, and it was wonderful to see Colin Davis's lively conducting, at the age of 84. He sat down to conduct, but obstinately refused well-intentioned good mannered offers from both Simon O'Neill and Marcus Farnworth to assist him up and down the stairs to the stage. To be honest, Christine Brewer, nearly thirty years younger, had greater mobility problems. I was sat in the extreme left wing of the hall, just a few rows from the front. One notices these things.

Musically, it's a lovely work. Afterwards, I remarked in jest that it only has one tune. Of course this isn't strictly true, but, nevertheless, there is one theme that dominates again and again. And it's a tune I love. The story could be seen as being very silly - being a folk myth and supernatural, but I think the librettists carries it off, and the music makes it worthwhile.

All round sound vocal performances, although I felt Christine Brewer didn't sound as solid as I normally hear her, and Simon O'Neill's voice, though pleasant to my ears, didn't move me. But, ultimately, they just stood there, with no attempt to portray the characters, move around or interact. Which was a shame. But did not spoil the musical performance.

Telegraph Review

tacky sound effects... struck an incongruous note and achieved a great deal less, one couldn’t help thinking, than the decision to dim the lights a little might have done.

One did think that, and thought the attempt at a thunderstorm compared unfavourably with that offered outside by Nature!

Intermezzo

Classical Iconoclast

Guardian

Capriccio at Bach Track

Lunch at the Manor

I wrote at leangth about the Manor Arms Streatham in October, so I won't repeat myself. suffice to say we have been back several times. Most recently for a Sunday lunch on one of those hot days in March that seem so long ago.

I had Jersualem Artichoke soup

followed by John Dory with shrimps and mussels

Jimmy had beef and Yorkshire (he was a bit disappointed that it was slow-boiled beef rather than roast)

I finished with Burnt Cream

Very nice all round.

Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 3

For earlier stages see Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 1 and Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 2.

The final stage is from Brockwell Park to Ruskin Park.

To be honest, it doesn't really a merit a stroll in itself. But, when he tackled the earlier part of the walk, we had finished with late lunch in the Lido Café and had preferred to walk home across the park rather than continue to the end of the walk. The Lambeth guide includes a partial tour of the park, including the Walled Garden, the Mansion House and the Miniature Railway, but we're familiar enough with the Park. 

Instead, after a mooch round Brixton Market, we caught the bus to Herne Hill Station, and re-started our stroll. This was "built in 1862 in the Gothic Venetian style and is typical of the period. The square tower contains a water tank that held water for the steam engines."

It's a complicated junction, with 6 roads meeting and on the corner stands the Half Moon pub. For years, I assumed it was a Wetherspoons, given their liking for 'moon' in the names of their pubs, eg Lord Moon of the Mall, and, more ubiquitously, the Moon Under Water, after George Orwell. Jimmy remembers it as a boxing venue: his boys, now in their late 30s, attended a gym there. It's also renowned as a venue for live music and comedy, but I'm not sure its claims to be a 'gastropub' are really supported by a menu consisting only of pizza and burgers, albeit homemade, and Sunday Roast. We didn't go in.

We started the slow ascent up Herne Hill, pausing to note the former Fire Station

Built in 1906, it dates from a time when fire engines were pulled by horses. The fire station closed in 1920.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next door is the former postal sorting office. I couldn't resist photographing the sign, noting in particular its missing apostrophe.

And, of course, its statement of employment practice! It only closed in 2007 or 2008, as far as I can make out from the internet - it's now a dancing school.

I have no objection to historic buildings retaining signs that point to a bygone era when women were not really considered to be workers - or, often, people in their own right. And I photograph them as a reminder that women have had to fight for what resembles equality today. None of what we have achieved was by baking cup cakes!

Incidentally, the Herne Hill Society doesn't seem to know the origin of Herne Hill as a name.

Not mentioned in the Lambeth Walk, but worth a deviation from their suggested route to have a look at St Paul's Church.

The original church built in 1843-4 by G Alexander was damaged by fire and rebuilt by Street in 1858.  The west tower, spire and long outer walls of the Commissioners' church were kept and the chancel was enlarged and embellished. It is Grade II* Listed for its special architectural or historic interest. (The pub and railway station are also listed). It seems that it is a joint parish with St Saviour's at Ruskin Park, perhaps more evidence that South London is over-provided with 19th century Anglican churches.

 

 

 

Some interesting views from Herne Hill - this of Battersea Power station

 

 

 

 

 

The Lambeth Guide suggested we walked along Fawnbrake Road.

Enjoy the late-Victorian houses and variety of doorways, some set back and at an angle. A few upper windows have original stained glass. Look out for pretty tiles beside the doors on the left.

At the time, the Bill to privatise the NHS was about to go through Parliament, so this sight was no surprise.

 

 

I enjoyed how the terraced houses were joined together behind the main line

I suppose it appeals to the snobby, who can almost pretend they live in a semi, but I suppose it also means that the main habitable rooms only share a party wall on one side.

 

 

A nice little touch, with flowers planted where you normally only see soil or litter.

 

 

I photographed the front of this house, not realising that the owner was there, tending to his plants. He, Mr Brooks, invited us in to view and photograph the rest of his garden, out the back, and show us some traditional hospitality. It is certainly impressive what he has achieved, and it is very different from anything I have ever seen in a suburban house. He has at least 120 hanging baskets, and can spend up to three hours watering the plants. He is a retired builder, and has constructed the double decker, and the system for capturing rain water.

I thought there were some lovely aspects about the garden, and it is evidence of hard work and dedication. I suppose, ultimately, though, it isn't really to my preference. I think I would feel hemmed in, and I'd miss chance to sit or lie in the garden, to dine al fresco.

  

 

       
At the end of the road lies the magnificent Carnegie Library. Closed on Sundays, of course.Grade II listed, it was opened in 1906 after Lambeth received a grant from Andrew Carnegie. I'm not sure if he had any connection with the area; he was born in Dunfermline and emigrated to Pennsylvania at the age of 12. He made a fortune from steel, and spent his later years as a philanthropists, donating to public libraries. Perhaps motivated by a childhood in extreme poverty.

Also an interesting view from the road opposite

Unfortunately, that ugly St George Wharf Tower, like The Shard is set to dominate too many cityscape photos in South London. Talking of which...

We wandered into Ruskin Park, which for me was hitherto mythical. Not only have I never been there, I don't think I've even been past it. And, I have to say, it probably isn't the most exciting park in Lambeth's portfolio. But pleasant enough. Or would have been if the weather hadn't deteriorated sharply. I was sensibly clothed in layers, but Jimmy had been over-confident about the temperature, and was beginning to feel cold. Still, it was good to see another park that's had money spent recently to do it up.

View over London

 

Another church, St Saviour's lies just outside the park. There's a lot of St Saviour's around these parts, and further afield, but is not listed by the Catholic Church. According to Wikipedia, Saint Saviour may refer to: 

Sanctus Salvator, a Latin dedication of churches or places to Jesus, translated in English as "Saint Saviour" or, more accurately, "Holy Saviour"

so, it seems to be somewhat of a historical 'head desk'! I assume this is actually the church hall (listed).

 

 

 

As we walked parallel with Finsen Road, I had one of those lucky moments. Despite the looming dark clouds the light was surprisingly bright, combining to set off the fresh colours of the housing terrace

 

 

 

 

 

 

We strolled around Ruskin Park, which was largely empty, except for the children's playground. I don't photo children's playgrounds unless unoccupied, for obvious reasons.

 
 

 

 

 

We retired to the Cambria for a drink. I can see that they're trying to make it a very nice place, but I'm not sure I'd return, even if I happened to be in the area, which, hospital visits aside, is unlikely.

On the way to the bus stop I saw a couple of random sights worth snapping. Or so I think, anyway!

 

I think they've rather ruined the stucco by painting it. But each to their own, I suppose.

Unfortunately, we made a right mess of getting home. There's a bus that would have taken us almost to our door (45), but the bus countdown app said it wasn't sue for half an hour. So we thought we'd beat the system and get a bus via Brixton (35) to intersect with a bus coming from Clapham (137 or 417). We waited more than 15 minutes for the 35, and then had another 12 minutes waiting for the second bus. And the weather was getting colder and colder.

Still, I'm glad we finished off the walk.

Lambeth's guide is found as a PDF here and more about Walking in Lambeth here. 

Ravioli and crème brulée

A new toy for my birthday, a pasta maker. (Not my photo, I got it off t'internet). I used it once but was very dissatisfied with the results. I didn't cry, though, just seeing it as a learning or practice session. And I threw away the resulting tagliatelle.

 

In making pasta, the most important thing is to get the dough right. I've done a bit research, and the consensus seems to be, don't handle it any more than necessary. That is, don't knead it particularly, because the subsequently rolling will give it a good old battering and develop gluten sufficiently.

 

 

 

 

 Very easy in practice. Just get some eggs and flour, and whizz them in the food processor, until the  dough looks distinctly unappetising, then bring it together with your hands, and leave it in the fridge for at least half an hour, or until you're ready.

 

 

 

 

 

Next, decide where you're going to eat out for a meal. This time, we decided we wanted Indian, and we thought we'd be a bit adventurous. We headed to Tooting, home of a lot of Indian restaurants, and chose a Keralan, the Rhada Krishna Bavan. We were lucky to get in there, because it was just about full by the time we received our starters - partly because there was a party of 14 celebrating a birthday.

They seemed mainly to be medical-type staff, unsurprising given its proximity to St George's. 

I liked the place, although I wouldn't massively rave about it, and I would certainly go back if I lived - or worked - nearer. Although there's a door-to-door bus service, it is, nevertheless, a long trawl along Streatham High Road and the arse-end of Furzedown.

Usual poppadom accompaniments but slightly different from my usual

My starter was, if I remember correctly, a Vada. I think I went for the lentil option. It was drier than I expected but pleasant enough and went will the accompanying sauce.

I thought I had ordered a fish curry, but when it came it was prawn curry. That didn't bother me in the slightest, indeed it was really delicious. The picture I took of the entire dish didn't turn out well. This picture illustrates one of my pet hates with a lot of long-established English restaurants - and in that I specifically include Indian. Sad salad.

What is sad salad all about? This really is a case in point. Juicy king prawns, a rich aromatic sauce. Green peppers, crispy and succulent. The right amount of onion. and to set it off, tired lettuce and a slice of lemon. I had no intention of eating either, and they had no aesthetic appeal. Just made the dish look amateurish. Can I make a plea? Please stop serving sad salad!

The next step is to go home and go to bed.

Next morning: 

Mix egg yolks and caster sugar

Heat cream and vanilla essence on the hob

Mix the two mixtures together and pour into ramekins

Gather the ramekins together and put them into a bain marie. When we made egg custard at school, two out of the 16 girls in my cookery group were called Ann(e) Marie (it was that sort of school). Whenever I put custard dishes in a roasting tin of water, I think of them. Weird, because I wasn't close to either and never kept in touch after we left school.

Leave the custards to cool

Then, because it's not even mid-March and it's hot and sunny, leave the house and head out to the Common for a walk.

Pass by the house you've often coveted and yet never photographed.

Decide, after all, not to go to the Common, but, instead. head down to Balham. Why, I don't know? Pleasant enough town, the Spiritual Centre of Nappy Valley.

Wander around Balham and take photos of its Parish Church

And go home.

Once home, the excitement begins!It helps if your trusty assistant has already peeled, sliced, boiled and mashed a sweet potato. All I had to do was crumble some goat's cheese, and mix the two together.

As a novice, I did find rolling and cutting the pasta to be tricky, especially as I was paranoid about the dough drying out. But, conversely, it was easier than I feared.

And, then, simply pop them in the pan for about 5 minutes

However, in this house, food is made for eating. Photographing it comes a very poor second. So no further photos of the pasta, as we wanted to eat it piping hot!

Finally, sprinkle sugar on the crème brulée

Ideally, you should also photograph the finished product, post-blow torching, but there was an epic fail with the blowtorch. It had no adverse effect on the finished product, but the only way to extinguish the flame is to let it burn until the fuel runs out!

Upstairs, Acre Lane

If it wasn't for the hyperlocal social media internet, I would never have known that Upstairs exists. It has been there about five years, and is not very far from home. An interesting restaurant, quite different from anywhere I've been to before.

It's not easy to find, the entrance being a door on a side road with a very small sign visible only when you are actually at the door. Buzz the entry-phone and climb several flights of stairs to the bar. We made a mistake in not going to the bar; I think you're supposed to sip cocktails and peruse the menu until called to the dining room. Part of an attempt to create a more intimate setting than one usually finds in a restaurant.

The dining room is several floors up, and a window seat gives a good view of Acre Lane, and, until the sun sets, the far vista of London. Cocktails and an amuse bouche were followed by our selection from a small menu - which changes every two weeks. I'm becoming more a fan of the tiny menu. Even though my non-eating of meat limits me, I feel more satisfied making a choice from just one fish and one veggie dish than worrying whether I've made the 'right' choice out of several, or wishing I could have this piece of fish with that accompaniment. Also, a smaller menu gives a higher guarantee of the food being cooked fresh, rather than taken from vast reserves in a freezer and pinged in the microwave.

I started with a Warm Jerusalem Artichoke Salad. I doubt I would have chosen this from a vast array of starters, simply because I'm unfamiliar with Jerusalem Artichoke, warm or otherwise.

It turned out nothing to be frightened of! The waiter explained the various ingredients, but this was some time ago, I didn't take notes, and I had a fair amount to drink - hence my current frustration. But note the dainty arrangement of ceps, and an emulsion, which, IIRC, was made from a root vegetable. The Jerusalem artichoke dominated, but the dish tasted as a coherent whole, not a main ingredient indifferently supported by others. Jimmy had Confit Pork Belly & Kumquats and expressed his satisfaction.

  For my main course I went for Lemon sole, Alexanders, and Jersey Royals, a daringly early exposition of Jersey Royals, which has clearly become a 'must-eat' of this season. Is this despite or because of their drought-caused rarity value. Nice to see something so traditional and seemingly humdrum as a potato acquiring almost celebrity status. 

I was not previously familiar with Alexanders, which is, apparently, also known as 'Horse Parsley' and has a flavour between parsley and celery. "It is common among the sites of medieval monastery gardens".  I was not overly thrilled at the prospect of a lump of fish, some boiled potatoes and an indeterminate greed veg, so was relieved and pleased when presented with a thoughtful dish. Again, the flavours all complemented each other. Most importantly, each element was cooked perfectly, allowing the flavours to linger tantalising in my mouth. Jimmy had Blackleg chicken & walnut gnocchi, with a veritable cabaret of additional adorning ingredients, each patiently explained by the engaging waiter.

We were undecided about pudding, changing our minds several time. Against my better judgement, I was talked into having the Blood orange & gingerbread, which turned out to be a delicious combination of all sorts of seemingly random ingredients. They included gingerbread (obviously), fresh and frosted blood orange, quenelles of mousse and sorbet in subtle flavours. There is another ingredient, visible at the front on the far left, that added some extra crunch; again, I can't remember what it was. The surprise ingredient was beetroot jelly. Slightly anxious, not being a big beetroot fan, but this Really Worked. A gently sweet taste and a smooth jelly substance, it didn't really taste like my bad experiences of beetroot. Perhaps close to a blackcurrant jelly but without any tartness. And, of course, adding an extra dimension of colour.

Jimmy went for Mint mousse, chocolate spaetzle & raspberries. Overall, he enjoyed it, including the additional unlisted ingredients, but the spaetzle just didn't work for him. The internet suggests that 'spaetzle' are German dumplings, typically an element of savoury dishes working similarly to pasta. Chocolate versions seem to be one US cook's idea, and, according to Jimmy, not that good an idea. But of all the ingredients in six dishes, this was the only one that didn't work.

We came away with mixed feelings. Very good service and an intimate atmosphere. Good attention to detail. I really liked everything I ate, and found the presentation fun and appetising. Jimmy enjoyed just about everything, appreciating the fresh ingredients and the attention to detail in the cooking. But, I think, ultimately he was disappointed. The dishes were too delicate, too 'poncey', and too much about presenting a variety of different ingredients. He didn't  feel as full as he felt he should have done after three courses. But he's a bit capricious. He referenced another restaurant previously visited as being 'hearty and wholesome' yet just a few days ago he stated he wouldn't go back there 'because it's nothing special'.

We also enjoyed the cocktails, which were different from the usual run-of-the-mill predictable names. He had several of an Irish whiskey based one, with 'Celtic' in the name, and I had a couple of gin-based London ones, which I would definitely have again.

We will definitely return to Upstairs. With an ever-changing menu, I'd happily go every month, if not more frequently, and I'm sure Jimmy will entertain another visit some time this year. Not least because it's so close!

Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 2

For the first part of this route, please see Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 1

After we had strolled around Windrush Square and its immediate surroundings, we turned into Coldharbour Lane 'once a winding country lane connecting Brixton to Camberwell' and followed the directions through the area dominated by the market. If I was a serious photographer, or fancied myself as one, I would take lots of photos of the market, the vibrant product and the 'interesting' characters, stallholders and shoppers. That's where I have a problem. If you are very self-absorbed I suppose it's easy to see people merely as objects to be photographed. I also feel uncomfortable being white and middle class and, somehow treating people who aren't as a curiosity. Either in far flung places or in my own town.

The first interesting sight to be photographed was the Six Sided Clock on the Railway Hotel. Several times subsequently, I have approached this corner from a different direction, and there is a much better view. But either I don't have a camera, or the weather is wet, or it's dry and I have a camera, but I'm also encumbered by shopping.

After I had started drafting this post, the Urban75 blogger posted some much better photos Brixton landmarks: the Brady’s clock tower, Atlantic Road. Brixton, London SW9 and links to further posts providing a bit of history.

...there's railways all around, with three separate lines passing within metres of the pub and this was reflected in the design of the clocktower: its six-sided design ensuring that it could be read from trains passing in all directions

Still, I accidentally managed to capture a couple of people on this photo, which seem, at least with this obscured view, to represent two of the many types of Brixtonians!

The route is supposed to go through Brixton Village, but we decided to by-pass it rather than spend/waste time, and I've recently blogged about an aspect of it.

The walk took us along Railton Road. I think this was taken along Kellett road, a distant view of St Matthew's shimmering in the haze.

This roadsign, and the housing development it describes, I suppose was a well-intended attempt by the council to remind shivering newly-arrived immigrants of sunshine, sand and palm trees. Unless it was meant to be homage to a British Leyland car

For some reason, we were then directed along Barnwell Road, which isn't exactly the most interesting road in Brixton, despite the council's attempt to convince us of the architectural interest of an incongruous bit of infill and the different styles of arches over the front doors of the cottages.

 

The most interesting garden was sadly obscured by a car parked outside

And so we came to Brixton Water Lane, which follows the line of the now buried River Effra.

A delightful Georgian villa, although I'm not entirely sure about the colour, which is better suited, in my opinion, to artisan cottages

Talking of which...

These were built around 1820 to house the staff of Brockwell Hall. 

This is called 'Surrey Lodge'. The internet throws up a historical reference to a Surrey Lodge, Brixton Hill, but I doubt this is it. I suspect it's a modern-day pretension, not necessarily by the current occupiers.

The walk then took us into Brockwell Park, a place we know reasonably well, having visited it numerous times. Nevertheless, it was a rare thing to enter from this particular entrance and take a walk along the Eastern side. 

This is the view of the rather ugly looking flats on Dulwich Road. I imagine though, that they're not necessarily a bad place to live, given that the higher floors will have a particularly pleasant view.

This is St Jude's church,

A very large church (originally 1000 seats). Last used for worship in 1975, it was declared redundant in 1979 and sold freehold in 1980 for £38,000 as a furniture warehouse (Budget Furniture plc) which was still in business as of 2005. An alternative sale to a wine merchant was rejected as an unsuitable use. By 2008 it was the home of Mark Allen Group (publishers). There were no burials in the churchyard, nor memorials of note in the church. The Willis organ was allegedly sold to a school.

The parish is united with St Matthew's in Brixton. It does seem to be further evidence of over-provision of unwanted churches in 19th century England. Unwanted now, probably not wanted then, but preserved in aspic for all eternity. I feel a future blogpost coming on, questioning the wisdom/public utility of the heritage-of-unimportant-churches industry!

The leaflet describing the walk suggests walking past Brockwell Lido, but we thought we would pop in for a coffee, as one does!

 

A coffee that 'magically' became the best mushroom burger I have tasted, lashings of umami.

While we were there, the actual pool was being pained in readiness of its re-opening (on 20 April). I worried that these chaps would end up surrounding themselves with wet paint and become trapped. The didn't.

As you can tell from the photos, it was a gloriously sunny and warm March day, but as school home-time approached, the warmth of the day was gone, and we decided to walk home across the park, leaving the final leg to Ruskin Park for another day, and another blogpost.

 

 The Shard, and other ghostly towers of London

Newly re-landscaped duckpond

The new children's playground

I laughed - cruelly - at the thought of a small child sliding down the slide, and down the hill, into the flower bed. Oops!

Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 1

London is full of interesting walks; you can make your own way, or you can rely on the research of others. If you  make your own way, you can discover some gems, if you follow a guide, you will find out more about the history that lies behind the sights.

Lambeth Council has several walks on its website. They use the term 'Lambeth Walks' somewhat hesitantly, with a knowing air that they'll be damned if they do and damned if they don't. In any case, one shouldn't confuse Lambeth Walk, in the old area of Lambeth, roughly Waterloo and Kennington, with the London Borough established in 1965, expanding from the 1900 Metropolitan Borough, which even then included Brixton, West Norwood etc

I have been to many places in England and beyond and taken a great many photographs - close to 20,000 - and very few of the place where I live, Brixton. so, one amazingly sunny and warm day in mid-March, technically still in winter, we set out on our epic journey.

We got off the bus outside the Town Hall and crossed over to inspect the Tate Library. What we mainly noticed was the shocking waste of having ground-lights on full beam in glorious sunshine. Frustrating when you know that Lambeth, like all authorities, is having to cut back vital services.

The walk starts at Tate Library, named after Henry Tate, who philanthropically donated towards the founding of this of and several other libraries, and an Art Gallery. The Lambeth leaflet describes him as Tate of Tate & Lyle, who invented the Sugar Cube. But Wikipedia says Henry Tate & sons only merged with Abram Lyle & Sons two decades after his death, and he only bought the patent for sugar cubes from a German concern. 

He lived in Park Hill, in the more rural part of Streatham. His house was a Convent until the late 90s, and is now a Gated Residential Community, providing some enviable Property Porn on Google Images.

 

I have heard accusations that he made his fortune from Slavery, which Tate & Lyle deny, somewhat disingenuously. I think it's probably fair to say that the business prospered on the back of ex-slaves and their descendants labouring for low pay and in questionable conditions. But the same could be said for much of Britain's Industrial Heritage. In his defence was his philanthropy; on the other hand, he made a major donation to the fraudulent quackery known as Homeopathy, which I had no idea dated back to 1796. His bust stands outside the library.

 

A major recent change to Brixton town centre was the landscaping of Windrush Square, which was formally opened in 2010. Previously, much of it had been Brixton Oval and Tate Gardens. An otherwise vacant piece of once derelict land was renamed Windrush Square in 1998, because its cleaning-up happened to coincide with the 50th anniversary of the arrival of the MV Empire Windrush. This brought the first large group of West Indian Immigrants to the UK. They were initially housed in the deep shelter at Clapham South, and some went to Brixton's Labour Exchange; this is why Brixton became the capital of Black Britain.

We walked into the gardens of St Matthew's Church. A large church with a capacity of 2,000 people

It was one of four new Lambeth parish churches commissioned under the Church Building Act of 1818, in which Parliament granted one million pounds for the building of new churches...to ensure that the masses were kept well instructed by the church and attention diverted from revolutionary ideas filtering over from France

The architect was called Porden; he is remembered in a pokey little road that goes round the back of the Town Hall and acts as a handy shortcut to Tescos.

I have read that many of the churches in Brixton, and, I daresay, elsewhere, were built by local industrialists and property developers. Their purpose wasn't particularly to meet the needs and wished of the local population but as an ostentatious sign that they were full of Christian virtue and not seeking to make a vast profit, oh no. I don't know whether this includes St Matthew's, given the history quoted above. In any case, it is under-utilised and various parts have long been used for more worldly pursuits, the rent for restaurants and nightclubs funding upkeep of the building. I miss the wonderful Bah Humbug restaurant which in the late 90s was probably my favourite; two nightclubs have recently defaulted. The rents seem prohibitively high, but are presumably what is needed to maintain the building. I wonder how much public and private money is going to keep old churches preserved in aspic for fear of destroying our 'Heritage'. 

For a long time, the so-called Peace Garden was dominated by drinkers, druggies and other down-and-outs. It seemed almost bereft when we wandered through. It's nice to have an open space so close to a town centre; it's not something you often see in towns, whether they're part of big cities or stand-alone in rural surrounds. My eye was caught by an appealing park-bench, and the strong shadow it cast. 

 

At the northern end of the park stands what I firmly believe to be the worst statue in London, the Richard Budd Memorial Mausoleum. It also commemorates his son Henry and his wife Charlotte. They lived in Russell Square.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We looked to the left to capture Lambeth Town Hall, venue of perhaps far too many evenings of my life. Four figures represent  Justice, Science, Art, and Literature. Your guess will be as good as mine as to which we can see in this photo.

We then walked to the right, past the Ritzy Cinema, where, nowadays, the Trendies & Yummies congregate for coffee. I suppose if you're walking through the market, this is probably as safe a place as any to park your bike. I don't suppose many are taken from here.

We carried on into Coldharbour Lane, but that will form another blogpost on another day.

Smoked fish and cider pie

I made this in honour of National Pie Week in early March. I have been told by a Self-Appointed Pie Expert that dishes can only qualify to be pies if they have pastry on the bottom and sides as well as the top. Wikipedia suggests that what I made was a Cobbler, which I find a bit odd, because a cobbler has something more resembling scone than pastry to top it. And, of course, when you say fish pie people tend to assume you're doing a mashed potato topping. It's enough to make a simple blogger sigh.

I sent my manservant out to Brixton market to procure the goods, the fish and seafood ingredients. And I set to spend a great deal of time in 'prep'.

Actually, a very simple dish to cook, especially if you use shop-bought puff pastry. Life being way too short to actually home-make puff pastry.

I soon got squeamish as I peeled the raw prawns. Then I didn't even bother taking a photo of the haddock fillets, smoked or fresh, I was that hard/cynical.

 

But I thought all the effort I put into chopping the parsley and spring onion merited a photo. Even though I did wonder whether I'd chopped too much parsley and it would taste only of that and of nothing else.

The next stage was to make a Béchamel Sauce, starting with a Roux. Thankfully, the recipe didn't phrase it that way, because if it had, I would have panicked, remembering my old O-Level Home Economics teacher (yeah, that's what it was called back then, because 'Cookery' was far too trivial to teach at a Grammar School. Fools.). She impressed upon us how difficult it was to make the classic French sauces, pessimistically assuring us that they were bound to be lumpy. Perhaps thinking lumpy schoolgirls were not worthy to approach the Holy Grail of French classic sauces, which are taken way too seriously for what they are.

So, melt some butter and stir in some flour

Then stir in some cream and some cider, add the fish and the greens, and le voilà

Bung it all in a cooking utensil - in this case a small silicon loaf-tin, for the freezer

Stick some pastry on it, cook it in the oven, and take it out to see your cooking utensil transformed (No, not really. Obviously, I didn't cook the ones that were going in the freezer.)

And, hey, a picture of a pie, which is a pretty rubbish thing to photograph, what with one pastry-covered pie looking a lot like another pastry-covered pie.

And you have to take my word that they taste very very nice. One to make again, for certain.

Thanks to Delicious for the recipe

Exhibition Rooms SE19

We first went to The Exhibition Rooms on Westow Hill soon after it opened. We don't go as often as we might, because it's awkward to get to, but, consistently, it delivers well cooked and well-presented food, with an emphasis on seasonal and English. It seemed like a breath of fresh air when it arrived, but it does seem a bit dated now, maybe four years after opening. 

I think they need to re-think their website. Jimmy is always more enthusiastic about visiting than I am. I am never clear whether they have the current menu on the site and there are usually errors and broken links. For example, as I write, they are currently listing their desserts as Buttered new potatoes, Mixed leaf & herb salad etc; they have a few admittedly pleasant photos of their décor but are surprisingly coy about their food. I suppose they're busy enough so don't need to worry about their website, but it looks tired and lacking in attention to detail.

In actual fact, when I do go there, I am pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food. It's not perfect; for example, on this visit, Jimmy got a roast and the accompanying vegetables weren't worth the effort, and there have been a couple of other minor things of that nature. There appears to be a general criticism of the lack of vegetarian choice - I eat fish but not meat - and often, I feel I could happily eat three or four starters and choose a main by process of elimination.

On this occasion, I started with Caramelised scallops, having being assured that the crisp pancetta was not an integral part of the dish and could easily be omitted. This was served with pea and mint puree,  and hazlenut butter. Very nicely cooked, juicy and succulent. I notice on the photo, and the same goes for the pudding that there was an inelegance in executing what was supposed to be elegant presentation. However, I didn't even notice when it was presented to me, and this probably shows that the camera captures in a sixth of a second what the eye edits out

My main course was Tranche of Halibut in a warm salad of new potatoes & marjoram, confit lemon and salsa verde and fennel seeds. Again, I couldn't fault it, although, conversely, I have to take their word that it was lemon and salsa verde and fennel seeds. The portions are hearty, and generally well-presented. Jimmy used to complain about the portions being too small, but he seems to have changed his tune. I think he's realised that they're well balanced; I think he's also been to more poncey restaurants where the portion size leaves much to be desired.

 

 

My dessert was rum and raisin cheesecake, which actually tasted better than it looked. When I was eating, I didn't even notice the heavy handedness with the toffee sauce - even though my hand clearly shook when I took this snap! The cheesy bit might look a bit artificial, I can assure you it isn't.

Overall, I would give high marks to the Exhibition Rooms. I love the light and airy decor, and I think they make the best use of their space: plenty of tables, but I've never felt that the people at the next table are too close. Unfortunately, on this occasion there was a multi-generational family where pudding was accompanied by running round and under their table, but that seems to be de rigeur almost wherever you go for Sunday lunch, so I can't blame the restaurant. 

I will undoubtedly go back on more occasions, but they need to be aware that there are an awful lot of very good eating places that have emerged in the southern half of Lambeth, and there is no longer the need to go to Crystal Palace to eat. They also need to ensure they keep an eye on trends, because I suspect that they already appear way behind to expert foodies.

Brixton Village Market & Casa Sibilla

Brixton Village is nothing short of a phenomenon. Housed in the market hall previously known as Granville Arcade, and with some overflow in spirit if not in strict technical fact into Market Row. For years, the home of stalls you'd expect to find in any market. A useful if now somewhat dated article from the Evening Standard How Brixton's arcade got a new lease of life explains the background.

For a long time, there was very much a feeling that there's hardly anywhere worth eating in Brixton. I feel the renaissance of the market has had a knock-on effect more widely. I also feel that Twitter, Facebook, and sites such as Qype also help. I know you're supposed to find restaurants by word of mouth, but I've had too many people tell me somewhere's 'amazing', but their tastes extend no further than freezer-to-microwave-to-plate.

One Saturday in February, we made our way to the village. We had already decided on where we wanted to eat, although we also knew that if it were full, there were other options. We had been to Casa Sibilla before, and were pleased that a table for two, inside, came available just as we arrived. It is possible to sit 'outside' - actually under cover of the market, and most of the restaurants provide blankets, but at that time of year, inside is better.

 

I am amazed at how Casa Sibilla and other restaurants (I was similarly struck at Etta's Seafood Kitchen) do it - create a range of gorgeous food in kitchens that are smaller than mine at home. As far as I can see, there was only one person cooking and two serving, hence my biggest 'criticism', we did have to wait a while. I don't mind waiting for a main, but I did start to feel slightly impatient when I felt I'd been waiting an age for our bread selection, wine and tap water. I wouldn't wish to labour the point, though. The bread selection was a nice selection of sourdough, grissini and plain but delicious rustic white.

I opted for the spinach & ricotta tortellini, whilst Jimmy went for roast chicken with veg and roast potatoes. He was perfectly satisfied with his, and he's a hard man to please when it comes to roast potatoes!

I would have thought that there's very little one can say about spinach & ricotta tortellini. A staple of supermarket ready meal shelves, it is what it is. But this a tortellini which highlighted how poor the supermarkets are. Smooth and delicate pasta, filled with a subtle combination of flavours which remained in the mouth to savour after the substance had been swallowed. Simple traditional food, prepared and cooked to perfection. But photographed out of focus...!

Although the pudding selection was tempting, we decided to move on, and savour Laboratorio Artigianale del Buon Gelato, or Lab G, which is what it says it is. I loved my white chocolate and salt caramel combination; Jimmy, a connoisseur of good ice cream, highly rated his chocolate and pistachio scoops. 

Another highlight of the market is Dagon's fish stall, which supplies many of the restaurants not just in the market but in the wider area. They've been there 25 years, so are not part of the new hip Brixton Village sensation. We bought some very nice monkfish, which I had for my Sunday dinner while Jimmy and our guests had roast beef.

 

 

Brixton Village is a remarkable place, even if there are compromises - Metro

 

 

Walking the River Westbourne

Determined to make the most of a decent, if not spectacular Winter's day, we set off an intrepid adventure. Sadly, I misread my guidebook and thought we were walking the entire length of the River Westbourne but subsequent research shows that it rises in the Hampstead foothills, not where we joined it at the Bayswater Road.

Our first mistake was to walk briskly away from Paddington Station. On reflection, we should have ventured into the mainline station to risk whichever chain coffee place, because there was a distinct lack of any, chain or independent, as we yomped down to Hyde Park via Sussex Gardens. Rather too many down-market chains of the Angus Steakhouse/KFC type. It was cold as we approached the fountains of the Italian Gardens, north of the Long Water!

Too many of my photos have the sky shot-out. It can provide a brilliant contrast with the subject matter, but if it keeps occurring, it just looks like one big error. I could edit in sky from other photos, but I won't do that as a matter of morality. If I start adding in sky, what's to stop me adding all sorts of other lies, and prostituting my integrity?

I've tried different ways of fixing this honestly. One is to take several versions of the same photo at different exposures and blend them together in processing. Definitely a good idea if you think you have a 'money shot' but tedious for tourist snapshots. I've also used the ND filter (Neutral Density) built in to the camera. Not very satisfactory - it leads to a longer exposure time and less exposure of the subject, resulting in dark blurry photos. Maybe I should practice it some time when the pressure is off, the weather is warm-ish, and I'm not embarking on a strenuous walk.

The other option is to use flash. I don't especially like using flash outdoors - or indoors, if I can avoid it - because I think it gives an artificial warmth to the light. But I switched to using flash. It helped but didn't really solve my white-sky problem; fortunately, the light doesn't look too artificial.

A brisk stroll along the East bank of Long Water, with barely another soul around. It's quite overgrown here; in Spring and Summer it would probably be impossible to see the water. As we passed under the West Carriage Drive bridge, we were now alongside the Serpentine, a more managed urban environment. A broadly North to South walk increasingly became West to East, and as we progressed, we were joined by more and more park users. Most striking were those learning to ski, not daunted by the absence of snow.

 

There didn't seem to be any hire boats out on the Serpentine, but the Boathouse was open for selling tourist tat. I was tempted to buy either a cuddly squirrel or a cuddly swan, but Jimmy wouldn't let me. Amongst his arguments was "Wagner (the doll) wouldn't like a swan..." Little does he know!

It became positively busy as we approached The Dell, and decided not to stop in the coffee shop, assuming that there would be an 'in park' premium. Years ago, when I worked at Kensington Town Hall, I sometimes walked up through the park to Hyde Park Corner, in order to get the bus home and avoid the dreaded District/Circle Line black-hole via High Street Ken. Those were the days...But I never noticed The Dell, a pleasant little cultivated garden just across Rotten Row from Albert Gate.

Coffee in the Knightsbridge café was fine, although subsequently reading the web reviews doesn't make me want to go back there again. Perhaps because we were so cold and thirsty, quality didn't matter. 

Back on our walk to meander round the route of the River Westbourne. We stopped at the Wilton Arms for a decent ale and a glimpse of the ultimately disappointing Liverpool v Manchester United FA Cup tie. A decent 3 star pub: not really doing anything wrong but nothing outstanding. Perhaps we should have walked along to the idiosyncratic Nag's Head further down the street.

An estate agent's described Kinnerton Street as London's prettiest street. We laughed at that. Some bits were nice, but it's mostly a higgledy piggledy mess of building styles, some of them pretty enough, but some positively hideous. I think many of the roads around the North West of Brixton Hill are as pretty, and Trinity Gardens is much more so. I suspect most Inner London areas can boast similarly.

The only real interest were the private mews owned by the Grosvenor Estate, complete with signs warning about all sorts of activities that are prohibited. We poked around a few, but I'm hazy about the legal boundary between private and right-of-way, and carry an inbuilt guilt that I may be suspected of casing the joint.

 

We resisted temptation when confronted with Ottolenghi, Patisserie Valerie and Roccoco Chocolates cheek by jowl all on one street, and continued along the route of the Westbourne through the backstreets down to Sloane Square. Here more than anywhere were we aware of people with more money than taste. Shops selling absolute tat, with no prices displayed, no doubt on the basis of if you have to ask the price you can't afford it. We were reminded of the shop in the comedy sketch I Saw You Coming. Either that or it's a cover for an elaborate money laundering scheme.

 

 

(Obviously, taking snapshots into shop windows does tend also to capture reflections off the glass).

There are very few statues of women in London, so I definitely had mixed feelings of these two women near Sloane Street, especially when I discover via the internet that this is just to advertise a company that does dry-cleaning with 'discreet and attentive service'. So, women not even shopping but just picking up the dry cleaning. 

 

 

We passed some momentarily interesting buildings on our way.

 

I really liked this mini. Especially since it had been cleaned with such loving care and attention. By the owner, or a servant, I don't know.

We could have inspected the River Westbourne as it passes through a pipe at Sloane Square Underground station, but decided instead to walk onto the Royal Hospital at Chelsea. An amusing incident as we waited to cross a side road off Royal Hospital Road. A large 4x4 turned in. Unable properly to drive the car properly, the driver turned a wide circle and tried to  drive down the wrong side; surprised to find oncoming traffic, the driver was forced to reverse and attempt the turn a second time, properly - although not entirely successfully - tightly and driving on the left. A couple were standing next to us. He said "Chelsea tractors" with more contempt in his voice than I could ever muster. Of course, the driver was entirely oblivious to four pedestrians waiting patiently to cross.

Extraordinary that neither Jimmy or I have ever been either to the Royal Hospital or the adjoining Ranelagh Gardens. Even more surprising considering how near they are to home. They were virtually deserted of other visitors late on this winter's afternoon; I doubt it will ever be so on any subsequent visit. We didn't linger long, because the sun was going down and the temperature was falling, and we hadn't quite finished our walk.

  

For a few brief minutes, the sun came out and shone brightly in that incomparable time that some people call The Golden Hour. This Avenue of trees almost made me think I was no longer in Central London.

 

We finished on Chelsea Embankment, where we could have seen the outfall of the River Westbourne if it had been low tide on the Thames. But the tide was fairly high; still, we had a lovely view of the sun setting over Battersea Power Station and distant Vauxhall. We walked across Chelsea Bridge, pausing to inspect the mouth of the (former) Grosvenor Canal where it meets the Thames. We caught a bus to Clapham, and, ultimately, home.

More pictures from today and other days out are in my London photo album

The Lido Cafe & Brockwell Park

One mild if cloudy Autumn day we decided to take a walk across Brockwell Park.

I sometimes describe Brockwell Park as my local park, but it really isn't. Both Tooting Common and Agnes Riley Gardens are nearer, as is Rush Common, which I have to cross to get to Brockwell Park. Streatham Common and Clapham Common can be reached directly by bus. Brockwell Park requires two buses, or, of course, can be reached on foot via some rather boring and steeply undulating residential roads. So, over the years I've tended to ignore its existence too much.

Considering it is a formally laid out and maintained park, Brockwell is full of surprises. Wide open spaces, some of the best views in London. Managed wilderness and areas devoted to specific activities. 

It is currently undergoing a programme of refurbishment, a process that is bitter-sweet to watch, knowing that the money being spent is probably among the last vestiges of the previous Labour government. I wonder how long it will take for our public parks to regress to the derelict, threatening no-go danger areas I remember from my teens and young adulthood.

The ponds are being dredged, re-lined and re-planted. I believe work is being done on drainage. A refurbished adventure playground is due to open in Spring 2012. And, over winter, the secret walled garden has been closed. The model railway isn't running, certainly not on weekdays. The tennis courts are empty, the BMX track barely used. Presumably there is relatively little to do in the Community Greenhouses

A new play area, using water and sand, has been developed, although the water is off during the winter months. We realised after we had walked round that, strictly speaking, as adults unaccompanied by children, we shouldn't have even been in there. Hopefully, as there was only one mother and child there, and we kept our distance, our mistake can be overlooked.

Each time we visit Brockwell Park, we try to take a different route. I often lose my bearings, never quite grasping its vastness and the different communities that abut it. And being high up, and vast, one can see for miles.

Previously, we always used to go into the café in Brockwell Hall, but were becoming increasingly dissatisfied. Basically, we found their coffee undrinkable, which makes one reluctant to try anything else.

It was purely by chance we heard about the Lido Café. We had both been to previous incarnations, but once you absorb the message that it's closed, you just forget it ever existed. But we decided to try it. "I'll have a coffee and some carrot cake," I decided, looking at the tempting display of cakes on the counter. One of the staff suggested we sit down, she'd bring us our coffee, and why don't we look at the menu. One French onion soup later, I was able to exclaim 'No wonder people rate this place so highly!'. I didn't take my proper camera out of my bag but was very pleased at how this phone picture turned out

Fast forward to February. Jimmy was due to have a minor hospital procedure on a Monday, and I decided to take the Tuesday off work just in case he needed looking after. It turned out he didn't even have a general anaesthetic, so he was more or less fine the next day. The next day was Valentine's Day, and neither of us wanted to go out for a Valentine's dinner. Nothing says 'Unromantic' quite like being spontaneous to order from the multinational conglomerates, or even spending an evening among the slight desperation of couples who think a Valentine's Special dinner is the only way to show they care. Yes, I know most decent restaurants do a Valentine's special, unfortunate for the numerous friends and acquaintances who celebrate a birthday that day or work away from home. It's business...

So, instead we booked ourselves a lunch at the Lido Café. We chose to walk there, along the uninteresting and hilly residential streets,

We took a different route around the park, and saw different sights.

The upper most duck pond being refurbished

Pond still frozen

The remnants of the previous week's snowmen: although it wasn't warm on our walk, the snow and the bitter cold of early February seemed distant memories

 

A random snapshot of the trees on the pathway next to Brockwell Park Gardens (a residential road)

Odd traffic signals at Norwood Road

 Mocking the stone-cladding

 I like this view but was too impatient to wait until a train passed. Stupid of me, because the grace and elegance of a train skimming across the sklyline is a sight to behold

 And finally into the Lido Café to fulfill our lunchtime reservation

 Mackerel bap with tartare sauce, crushed peas, and triple cooked chips; & Luscombe organic (medium dry) Devon cider. A simple cheerful meal, tasty and cooked to perfection, with some nice little presentational tricks. Incidentally, the novelty tomato, so often a disguise for cheap and nasty ketchup thankfully contained good quality stuff, Heinz or equivalent.

 And pudding was ginger chocolate pot with orange sorbet. Again, a simple dish most of us could probably make at home, if we could bothered, and presented in an attractive way that complements the tastes.

 Arguably, it's a misnomer to describe the Lido as a café. It's in a different league, and a different priceband, than the other café in Brockwell Park, and in some other neighbouring parks. But you can go for a coffee or soft drink, as well as a three course meal with choice wines and beers. I've never been when the pool's been open, and I've not been in the evening to this incarnation. I guess I'll just have to go back (and have been since I started writing this blogpost!)

These and other photos are in my Brockwell Park album

links 03/10/2012

• Pioneering Women - First Female Tube Driver: Going Underground's Blog

  tags: london

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

Abbotsbury Subtropical Gardens

Our last full day out was in Abbotsbury Subtropical Gardens, one of Britain’s best collections of open-air exotic plants.

When we visited Abbotsbury Swannery, we bought a combined ticket for these two attractions, and also the Children's Farm. Even without visiting the Farm, the combined ticket is a saving. It then obliges one to make use of it, of course.

I actually preferred the gardens to the Swannery. And, therefore, this final blogpost of our holiday in Dorset should be a case of going out in a blaze of glory. But, what is there to say, especially so many months afterwards? We started with coffee in the very nice and very evocative Colonial restaurant.

I don't believe it rained all day, but I have a picture of me sitting here, and another one of me walking round, dressed in my kagoule. There's no public interest in publishing such photos, but the fact that I was wearing, not merely carrying it, suggests there may have been short-lived showers

We walked for several hours round the gardens. We could have done it more quickly, we could have been slower. Admission price includes a superficially informative leaflet, which maps out a route to take in mostof the gardens. There's an alternative wheelchair route which attempts to highlight the accessible parts (about 50%) which would perhaps be more suitable for all with mobility difficulties, including pushchairs.

What is there to say about a garden?Ultimately, it's a great collection of plants, which are often a visual delight, but also impact upon other senses, most of all, smell.

Even the visual: a photograph cannot capture the sense of space or the contrasting sense of enclosure by shrubs and trees, nor the full impact of a vista.

I walk around and I see plants, which I judge by 'That's nice' or 'That's unusual'. If I can, I read the labels to learn the names but then I forget them. I doubt I'll ever be a 'gardener', and I certainly never want to be one of those women in a Crimplene frock that descend with (a slightly superior) attitude on a formal National Trust garden with its uniform borders and perfectly manicured hedges. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's possible, though not essential, but highly recommended to take the marked diversion out of the gardens and climb the unrelenting incline to take in an impressive view of the Fleet Lagoon and Beach back towards the Swannery, to sit on a bench and bask in the sun which made a welcome and somewhat unexpected appearance at this time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 My favourite feature, apart from the sum of all the plants was this amazing bench, carved out of a 200-year-old oak tree felled in a winter storm, by chainsaw artist Matthew Crabb.

    

The garden also included a Sculpture Exhibition. I think the Buddha is permanent

and the other statues are there until sold

 

Some statues had already been sold; on the empty plinth, visitors were making an abstract sculpture of 'found' objects - I added a pine cone

 

2010 was the year that I really appreciated the sight of a bed of lavender densely planted, and its rich colour

Towards the end of the walk we spotted a pheasant, and then we had tremendous fun throwing goldfish feed, from a handy dispenser installed next to the pond, into the goldfish pond.

 

By the end of the afternoon, I was quite tired, but there was still plenty to see

 

Taken overall, the day's walk was reasonably strenuous for me although not challenging. Most people we met were pleasant and intent on keeping themselves to themselves, except for one party with a Primary School Age child, presumably either home-schooled or truanting, who needed to demonstrate loudly to everyone else how learning-outcome focused was their trip round the garden whilst also ensuring the child  experienced learning through the play of throwing and kicking a ball. Even the dogs were on leads and under control, their owners heeding the warnings that they had lost two Golden Pheasants to dogs held on unlocked extendable/retractable leads and beyond their owners' control.

Dinner - or high tea - was panfried crevettes in a chilli sauce with dressed salad & crusty bread at The Anchor at Seatown, below the Golden Cap

More photos of today and the entire holiday are in the Dorset photo-album

Le Nozze di Figaro at Royal Opera House

I have been feeling slightly disenchanted with opera. Or, perhaps, I have been struggling with nights out. Precisely, I have found that a night out may have the ability to lift my spirits and re-energise me, but I have seen too many operas recently that have served only to tire me, leave me aching from sitting too long, and deprive me of rest.

I booked Le Nozze di Figaro because I have not seen it for quite a while. I returned my ticket in 2010 because it clashed with taking a holiday, which was necessary to fit in before the several Simon Boccanegra performances at the Royal Opera House. Overall, the cast did not massively attract, except for Simon Keenlyside. When he withdrew, I intended to return my ticket, but never actually got round to doing so, so I went sort of by accident, with very low expectations, not least of myself.

So it was a sheer delight to sit in an amazing seat and bask in what was a gorgeous performance. The production is the same as I originally saw six years ago and is available on DVD. In short, I still vastly enjoy the production. I could make criticisms about some details, as I could then, and I know there was an argument that it made no sense setting it what appeared to be the early 19th century, but despite this, or irrespective, it's definitely my favourite production I have seen.

My seat was amazing because it was fairly cheap but afforded a great view of most of the stage, up close. Certainly no need for binoculars, as I was sitting in line with and to the side of the orchestra pit in the stalls circle. So when the singers stood at the front of the stage, on my side, it sounded, looked and felt very intimate. During the interval, I tweeted that I had three different shows going on: the singing and acting on stage, the sublime orchestral concert at my feet, and the interesting show given by Tony Pappano on the podium. I was tempted even to write that Such-a-Role was sung by Jo Bloggs and Tony Pappano.

The highlight was the orchestra playing. I am as familiar with the sound of this work as I am with any opera, although I don't actually study scores, pretty much like I don't require a recipe when I dine out.

I guess some people would argue that dynamic contrasts, and, to some extent, those of tempi, were brash. I couldn't persuade otherwise but am convinced that the brashness was deliberate. In any case, the lyrical passages were extraordinarily plangent, and I never got a feeling of disembodied numbers being played.

I just loved the sound the orchestra makes. It surprises me that Tony Pappano is so talented at Mozart and yet so clearly detests Baroque and especially Handel.

The cast was on average better than good. I was particularly taken with Lucas Meachem as Il Conte, more than just a replacement for Keenlyside. Not a beautiful voice, but robust and effortless. A convincing stage presence if not necessarily oozing with charisma. Physically attractive if not a conventional barihunk. I also really liked Aleksandra Kurzak as Susanna. I'd previously heard her as Norina, and enjoyed her with reservations. Those reservations were gone this evening, a delightful voice, and a lively stage performance.

I want to like Ildebrando Arcangelo more than I do. I've seen him good and I've seen him not so. I concluded that being close to him was a definite advantage. He demonstrated he is capable of singing loud, but when he's not singing loud, he can be hard to hear from far away over a big orchestra; certainly loses the vocal nuances.

I also found him a delight to watch at close quarters. Again, a nuanced and intelligent performance. Perhaps overall he is perfect for a small house or on DVD, not so from up high in a larger house.

Anna Bonatatibus was fine as Cherubino, a role that must be a dream for any mezzo to play. The supporting cast all played their supporting roles wonderfully; it was particularly nice to see Ann Murray as Marcellina and remember Philip Langridge, her late husband, as Don Basilio.

I really didn't take to Rachel Willis-Sørensen one bit as the Contessa. It's difficult, because the cheers at the end made it clear that most of the audience loved her, and I am very aware that my 'I don't like' is purely subjective and is not an objective assessment of her ability. I thought her loud and squawky; I would only like to see her in those loud squawky Verdi soprano roles in preference to Sondra Radvanovsky, whom she vocally resembles.

I thought she moved as if she had conscientiously and ably learned complex stage directions, and got no sense of her being a natural actor, almost as if she was constantly fighting the urge to park-and-bark. But maybe I am unnecessarily harsh on account of my my vocal dislike of her.

What was nice was that the performance brought back memories of the exceptional cast from 2006; it confirmed my belief that cast was exceptional. And yet, I enjoyed this cast, not despite the previous cast, but regardless. I know that it's possible to treasure memories of highlight performances without them ruining future enjoyment.

And I'm seriously convinced again that Figaro might just be my favourite opera, even thought tenors are giving scandalously tiny roles.

Photos from the Royal Opera House Facebook page

An offbeat walk around Mayfair

On my bookshelf I disovered a little book called Discovering Offbeat Walks in London. Eight different walks of attractions that are omitted from the standard tours or are inaccessible from an open-topped bus. The book has its flaws, but it's pocket-sized and has clear directions, and having done two of the walks, I can say they are not too strenuous for someone like me.

We arrived at Green Park underground at quarter to one, and finished our walk at half three, having stopped en route for coffee and beer.

We did this walk in mid-January. Saturday afternoon is always busy in London, and a gloriously sunny, if cold, afternoon in midwinter is probably going to busier than most. The Tube was busy and, at the end, Oxford Street was heaving, but, in between, we walked along streets quieter than a typical country village.

We strolled along Piccadilly until Jimmy decided that - going against the book's instructions - we should walk down Half Moon Street to take a closer look at the Third Church of Christ Scientist. We had shunned Starbucks and Pret as purveyors of crap coffee, and were about to go in Cafe Nero, but we spotted an independent Lebanese cafe. We always prefer independents to chains, given the choice, and we had good coffee at Beiteddine Express. Jimmy had some snacks, too, which he said tasted good, and even I was impressed that the kebab spit clearly contained proper slices of proper meat.

We passed the bookshop where Nancy Mitford had worked, before entering Shepherd Market. I had been there 21 years ago with a then boyfriend, but, surprisingly, have never been back. I think I shall return sooner than 2033! Some almost laughably chi-chi shops. One, sadly not open, had a sale on, and was selling stuff like decorative twigs. The jewellers were real, a diamond ring for a five figure sum casually displyed in the wondow, its many facets glinting in the low bright winter sun. The toy soldier shop attracted the eye, all superbly crafted, and not a price tag in sight.

We looked at several restaurants - but it was too early to eat. None of them stood out, except, perhaps the Polish-Mexican brasserie, but I made a mental note of them collectively, as a possible alternative to the perennial Covent Garden. All of them looked priced at Central-London-reasonable ie more expensive and less exciting than trendy South London, but not 'Mayfair'! There are four pubs: we randomly chose the Market Tavern, which was good, notwithstanding me being served ale in a 'Lady's glass' without being asked!

 

We walked via Charles Street to Berkeley Square, listening out carefully, in vain, for a nightingale! It's a strange place - a largish square with old townhouses on one side and fairly ghastly post-war commercial premises on the other, and famous London plane trees in the middle.

From there, onto Farm Street and a look around the Jesuit Church. Now, I'm not into religion, but I do like walking round them as a tourist, taking (non-flash) photos where it doesn't affect other people. I also feel that, as I use them as a tourist attraction, I should put some money, my "admission fee" in the box (they always have boxes).

Also on Farm St is an attractive looking pub, The Punchbowl, where we paused for another drink. While in there I read a review where someone mentioned they had spotted Guy Ritchie. I had to rack my brain to remember who he was and very certain I wouldn't recognise him if I did see him. It wasn't until later that I learnt that he actually owned it, as had his ex-wife Madonna before their divorce. 

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  After there, we diverted slightly from our route to admire Mount St. Gardens, which are more than a pocket park, although probably not a destination in themselves. A pleasant little garden, and I was moved by the plaque I found planted there.

 

 

 

 

 

Onwards into South Audley Street, which is definitely worth a stroll along, even if just to window-shop and laugh

We spend some time looking in the windows of Thomas Goode, which claims to be the largest china and glassware shop in the world. I do like a nice dinner service, and acquiring one would seem to be one of the few reasons to get married. Perhaps the only reason...! I also appreciate that tastes differ, and also that to build up a proper dinner service eg Wedgewood from a shop such as John Lewis is going to run close to four figures, and yet people who are super rich can spend thousands like I spend tens. Even so, I could not get excited about the £7000 reduction on a set proudly displayed in the window and looking like it wouldn't be out of place in a tired unmodernised suburban curry house. I can't see the need for those crescent-shaped plates, and I wonder why it lacks coffee cups. 

We proceeded down the road, which just got sillier and sillier: a table display featuring...twigs. I said to Jimmy, mark my words, twigs are the next big thing, fashion-wise. Perhpas summing up my disdain for the utter futile superficilaity of 'fashion' per se*. But, after all the tat I saw, I think that possibly the most egregious was this toilet. Obviously designed exclusively with the (straight) male in mind, it shouted out bad taste. If I had the misfortune to be invited into the house of someone with this toilet, I would run for the hills, wondering exactly what sort of pervert was so keen to pee so close to a woman's breasts...or my mind would wander to other more unsavoury possibilities.

We finished off by strolling down to Grosvenor Square and looking at the US Embassy. A more boring London square you could not imagine, so we passed through swiftly. Although not before posing with the most unusued, dust-covered phone!  We headed in the direction of a visible road with obvious bus routes - which turned out to be Oxford Street - and ended the afternoon in the forgettable indifferent Marlborough Head pub for a swift drink. A bus ride took us to Covent Garden and an early dinner in one of our favourite chain restaurants.

 

  

 

 * I'm not anti manufacturing, or proper design, and acknowledge their role in job creation, exports etc, and I would be a hypocrite to condemn people for buying Nice Things, but I've never worked out who decides what is 'fashionable' at any given time, how they are elected, to whom they are accountable, and why people make themselves miserable with the thought of not being 'in fashion', rather than trusting their own eye and having what seems nice, for its own sake.

More photos from this day and many others in my London photo album

Brazas, Tulse Hill

I'd read positively of Brazas, and decided that it was worth trying. It's sort of quite close to where I live, but I just never go up Tulse Hill, never have any reason to. Once  upon a time, it used to be the Two Woodcocks, which I've never been in. I like the way that the interior is recognisable as having been a pub, and yet modernised. Accusations of gentrification, of course, because this is Brixton, and Brixtonians are never happier than moaning about Gentrification, which results from Yuppie Flats.

It's a good, local restaurant, and one we intend to go to again, and fairly soon. It was probably not wise going here just a week after going to Trinity. They're aiming at different markets. We went to Trinity for my birthday; we went to Brazas for a pleasant Saturday night out. We paid three times as much at Trinity.

One thing that attracted me on the website was a clear distinction between meat, fish and veggie dishes. It's like they take veggie seriously, not just tack something on grudgingly because they feel they have to. They also had a Specials board, offering a 2 mains for £15 deal

I started with Wild Mushroom Strogonoff in puff pastry sheets; Jimmy had Chargrilled Chorizo w black honey syrup & toasted bread. I'm sorry I didn't photograph that, because it was very eye-catching, even to me, although I wouldn't have eaten it! And their website Gallery is not good. They'd be better off without one - it makes it look like a cold unwelcoming place, which it isn't, and there are no photos of the food.

There was no sophistication in how the stroganoff was presented, but it was very tasty. The puff pastry sheets were noteworthy - a nice crumbly texture - and the Stroganoff was comforting. The right consistency, creamy but not greasy.

 

For mains, I had Chargrilled Whole Filleted Mackerel, crushed potato & fennel w gremolata. I Googled gremolata on my phone, having never previously encountered it. The presentation was rustic, unfussy, good home cooking. The photos don't really do it justice, partly because I didn't use the flash, and partly because their presentation doesn't do the food's flavour, preparation and cooking any favours. It's a moot point, I guess, because too much focus on plating turns it into poncey food, which is less comforting. Jimmy had the chargrilled piri piri chcicken and new potatoes, which he really liked, although he could have done without the sad salad - undressed green bits and only four halves of cherry tomato worth rescuing.

I finished with Blueberry, Raspberry and Amaretto Cake w vanilla ice cream, which again didn't really look all that, but tasted  delicious as it melted softly on my tongue. I also had some booze, so I tweeted 

Like the Flying Dutchman is doomed to sail the oceans forever, I feel my future lies in roaming round Brixton eating almond cake

 

I guess at the time I thought it was poetic!

So, to conclude, a good quality local restaurant that I couldn't really fault. Friendly staff, relaxing atmosphere, well-made lovely tasting food. Good value for money. 

Burton Bradstock and Little Bredy

Perhaps, in another life, one of these places would be my spiritual home.

By now, it won't surprise you that rain was forecast, so we wrote off sightseeing and headed out for a highly recommended lunch at the Hive Beach Cafe: quality food, served in a tent. I had Lyme Bay lemon sole with garlic & anchovy butter, new potatoes & salad. Main courses were in the region of £20 or more, and worth it, because the fish was fresh and cooked to perfection. But, obviously, at that price, café is in some ways a misnomer.

Jimmy commented that there was no shortage of money; many of our fellow diners were obviously retired, and, judging by the red trousers prevalent among the men, the quilted body-warmers of the women, and the dogs, of a certain background. There were signs about dogs only welcome when on leads; unfortunately on the table next to us the red trousered/quilted bodywarmer dogowners felt that justified their dog crawling under our table and actually touching me. Shudder. Obviously, one can't blame the business owners, and they probably get more business from attracting the dog-obsessed than they lose form deterring the dog-phobic. It's just a bit weird!

  We strolled along the cliffs over-looking the beach, but the weather became colder and windier. I followed a whim and as ace-navigator, I directed my driver along winding narrow country roads. I wanted to find some picturesque village; in my head was a barely-formed plan to wander around taking atmospheric photos of its utter tweeness.

I'm an urban girl and don't understand the village system. I've never been able to understand, when watching Midsomer Murders, how there can be so many villages around one market town. Bridport opened my eyes, and, to be honest, I wouldn't be entirely surprised if Midsomer was set there. Except that there's no sea near Midsomer.

Looking at the map, I now have no idea how we got there, but, seemingly close to the middle of nowhere, was a sign advertising afternoon teas and a secret walled garden, open to the public. The sun had come out, and I could not resist. We drove down a steep road that barely resembled a track, and found ourselves somewhere that barely constituted a village, at the bottom of a valley seemingly cut off from the rest of the world. The middle of nowhere! And I loved it immediately. 

This sign welcomed us to the garden, explaining that it was run as a not-for-profit by volunteer gardeners. The sun came out and for a while we basked in its rays, sipping tea out of china and eating fresh cake, and then we set off for a walk around the garden. 

We were given a leaflet which not only showed the layout of the garden but also encouraged us to walk through the village, along the river and past the church, to re-enter the garden at the top via the vineyard.

I took many photos, although I find that photos rarely do justice to a garden or to plants.The beauty of plants lie partly in their 3-Dimensions. A garden is about scent, the air, a sense of space, peace and tranquility, none of which are captured by the camera. Rapid changes between bright sunshine and light drizzle only added to the mystique. The history on the village website concentrates, as these places tend to, on the manorial quasi-aristocratic heritage rather than the normal people, which would be more interesting to me.

But here's a selction of photos from the garden and the village. Very little further narrative required.

 

As ever, more photos of this and other days in the Dorset photo album

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.