Monday, August 14, 2017

Another Day, in the Park

The Santa Monica bluffs overlooking the sea: Palisades Park, 1885

View from approximately the same spot today. The cabins are gone, and the Pacific Coast Highway runs below, with beach clubs and houses beyond. The pier (not the same one as in 1887) is partly hidden by trees but can be glimpsed if you click to enlarge.

Here is a short essay I posted on Facebook, about Saturday's walk...followed by pictures:

The picture (top) of the Santa Monica bluffs, aka Palisades Park, was taken in 1885. This was before trees, Australian eucalyptus and palm allées, were planted, and when there were still beach huts on the sands below. It's where I walk now every evening, 130 years later. I used to think it was a pretty but not very interesting park, and didn't bother with it, preferring to stay indoors and wish I was in England. Now that I walk it regularly, I'm finding that every night I see more. Tonight I saw a brief gleam of orange sunset between two layers of heavy grey fog out to sea. I saw a probably mentally ill and homeless young woman, walking a skinny cat on a leash. The cat was ecstatically enjoying the outdoors, and tried to climb a fig tree. By contrast I saw the usual numbers of wealthy homeowners walking their posh exotic dogs on their own evening strolls - though not a dog person I've come to recognize many of them (but not their owners). There's a Newfoundland that looks like Nana in Peter Pan, several pit bulls, a silky brown she-creature with cascading hair, a velvety black dog with russet legs who wrestled with a palm frond, and many more. I saw a crazy eyed heavy set man with wild hair and a T-shirt on which I glimpsed the words "Ass" and "Shades of Grey." A squat, very aged, poor woman in layers of uncleaned schmatas and flat silver braids, walked with a very young Japanese man twice her height. I caught snatches of their conversation, which was about Tai Chi and Harry Potter. While doing my stretches, I was approached by a youngish man who wanted to know if the stuffed spider perched on the fence near me, was mine. I pointed out that it probably had been dropped by a child, and some kind person had placed it there to be found. He commented that he could do what I was doing, and I replied "I should hope so!" upon which he smiled and departed. A lovely young couple asked me to take their picture, and I did, with her sitting perched on the fence, he kneeling before her. I got some very nice shots and they were sweetly, ingenuously grateful. Reaching the lavender bed that's my turnaround point, I inhaled the powerful scent, and looked out to sea where a small boat had its lights shining. A young couple sat outside the fence in forbidden territory, dangling their legs dangerously at the edge of the cliff, and smoking marijuana. They glanced at me warily but I smiled and they puffed on, reassured. On the way back I paused for more stretches by a cinquefoil shrub, and noted how narrow and vertiginous the bluff was at that point, so eroded they'd put in metal posts to hold it up. A professional woman who sometimes paws over the jewelry at the Salvation Army beside me, nodded at me pleasantly, going the other way. Coming to a soft stretch of green turf, I gently jogged toward the Montana Avenue traffic light, where I turned for home.

Cinquefoil shrub (at least that's what I think it is)

Dancing by the cinquefoil

Lavender garden, at Inspiration Point, the fragrant turn-around spot of my walk.

Paul by one of the century-old, nearly horizontal Australian tea trees


Palm allée. This is where I start to run, because the turf is so springy.

Twisted Australian tea trees

And more ballet, another day...

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Review: To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters

I just watched To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters, the new drama about the lives of the Brontes that will be aired on Masterpiece Sunday night; PBS sent me a DVD for review. Really, I can only echo the excellent and accurate review in the Guardian:

It's a remarkable, fine film and I enjoyed it very much. Its realism and the psychologically devastating view of a family in the torturous throes of living with an alcoholic, are brilliantly convincing. The bleak remote setting (the film was shot in and around Haworth) has never been used before to convey so effectively the confines of the mid-Victorian narrowness of existence and the pressures that made the creativity of the three authors bloom and burst out of their desperation. Writer and director Sally Wainwright does not construct a typical pretty and romantic costume drama. She draws heavily on Charlotte Bronte's letters, which gives the film its utter verisimilitude; this may occasionally result in moments when those not well acquainted with the authors' biographies may be slightly at a loss, but it's a rich treasure for those who appreciate seeing an approach that portrays the unsparing truth with a passionate energy and attention worthy of the Brontes themselves. It's not a repeat of familiar tropes; it's a scholarly reconstruction of truth whose felt intensity is released to new heights.

The Haworth parsonage is seen here with such evocative perfection, you feel as if you are really sharing the sisters' daily lives and know the harsh almost primitive beauty of their world: the effect is almost a window into a particular past. Against this setting, the fine casting and vigorous performances shine forth. Jonathan Pryce is a pained and loving Patrick Bronte, whose daughters are visibly anguished at not being able to protect him from the horrific shocking depredations of his uncontrollable son, Branwell, devastatingly played by the fiery Adam Nagaitis. All the emotions roused in the wake of his painful self-destruction are evident on the quiet faces of his family: pity, anger, helplessness, grief. In a time when there was no help for such a problem, the Brontes struggle quietly and endure their inescapable pain. We are made to see the connection between the tragedy of Branwell's alcoholism and his and his sisters' deaths; destruction as well as genius all springing from the same source.

The casting of the three sisters, and the intense, passionate yet contained portrayals with their individual interpretations of character, is stunning. Without makeup, the plain, unadorned faces, the threadbare but ladylike clothing, the girls seem to have stepped out of the famous portrait by Branwell where his own face is painted out. Finn Atkins as Charlotte, a small and square fireplug of a woman, evinces a determination and ambition that could be the film's center were it not for the fact that every other family member's characterization is depicted with equal power. Chloe Pirrie as Emily, with her darting desperate eyes, reveals a kindness and compassion alongside her very wildness. And Anne, gentle and consoling, completes the tryptych with her understanding.

No, it's not a conventional narrative or a romance. But it's a riveting, fresh and unforgettable revisit that takes you to the heart of the Bronte story.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Cambridge Farewell - Seventh and last of post of my English trip

Woke up this morning at The Swan in Swinbrook, and friend Curzon kindly drove me into London. From there I caught a superfast train (45 minutes) to Cambridge. Hostess was being interviewed for a radio show, so I went for a wander into town...

Stopped at Fitzbillies' cafe in the town center (opposite Kings) and had some mushroom soup with soda bread, followed by cheese scone and cream...might as well stuff up on the English food as my trip is nearing its end!

Later enjoyed sitting in the garden where the flowers were in full spring bloom, and also feasting my eyes on the refreshing sight of hostess with her little grandsons. 

White lilacs in Cambridge

Clematis in Cambridge

Reading of course!

On Friday, the ritual walk to Grantchester, with tea at The Orchard, under the flowering apple trees. Very beautiful...

Later in the afternoon I met friend Elaine of Random Jottings of a Book and Opera Lover blog fame at what is becoming our usual appointed meeting place, The Gallerie restaurant on the bridge. A wonderful natter, and we also had a bookshop rove, hitting the triumverate of David's, Heffers, and The Haunted Bookshop!

At the Gallerie

At the Haunted Bookshop

That evening, an amazing pheasant dinner cooked by mine hostess's husband: an exercise in how delicious can pheasant be cooked with red wine and cabbage? Very!

Followed by an exquisitely beautiful, peaceful evening walk in the gardens at Newnham College...

Next day, another wander through Cambridge...with lunch at an excellent Sicilian cafe, Aromi. The thing on the right is filled with Chocolate. 

A man in the market walking a tightrope while playing a violin. 

And always, the beauty of the Backs, and the boats...though these extra-wide boats into which more tourists can be crammed, aren't all that beautiful...

Pinks...I think

Dinner at the Granta pub, fish and chips and a view...

The view

The pub as seen from the bridge opposite...

Next day, train back to London. St. Pancras Station in the sunshine...

On my last full day in London, I had a walk through Somerset House, and a divine meringue with summer berries at the coffee shop. Close readers might remember seeing one of these before, on my previous English trip, last October...

Then, a long-awaited visit with the beautiful style and fashion blogger, Miranda Mills of the popular blog Miranda's Notebook , and her delightful mother, Donna. We had long wanted to meet, and the accomplishment could only be celebrated by tea at Fortnum & Mason! We talked for  hours and felt like we'd known each other for ever...very similar book tastes will do that!

Later, a farewell dinner with friend Ron Dunning, who was kind enough to come join me at the Indian place again. Especially nice to see him for a second time, and to tell him all my adventures. And he gave me a most wonderful book: Two Early Panoramas of the Regent's Park by Geoffrey Tyack, put out by the London Topographical Society. Fantastic pictures! I am so indebted to Ron for the way he brings a new perspective on London background and history to my travels.

Next morning, didn't have to leave for the airport till noon, so there was plenty of time for a browse and some cake at the London Review of Books Tea Shop. Saw Cambridge hostess Janet Todd's brilliant book A Man of Genius on a prominent shelf...

(photo courtesy of Nancy Vermette)

...and then it was on to Heathrow, and the final fish & chips at the Bridge Bar. The eleven hour flight home was mercifully smooth, and at the end of it waited the best of all: Peter and Paul and the Cats!

But I must come back again to what is truly my second home, Britain; as C.S. Lewis said about the return of Aslan to Narnia, "And I say, the sooner, the better."

A few of the books I brought home...and a few of the trinkets.
I can only plead extremely limited suitcase space. It's hard to perform miracles of compression on china and books!

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Mitford Madness - Post 6 of my English trip

Portraits of six sisters, at The Swan Inn

I fell in love with Nancy Mitford when I was about fifteen, before I ever read Jane Austen. Her novel The Pursuit of Love was only the logical next step in a series of English books that had been inexorably shaping me into an Anglophile ever since my mother read A.A. Milne to me in an attempted English accent when I was two, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. Nancy exerted a similar charm. The phrase "light, bright, and sparkling" was used by Jane Austen to describe her own Pride and Prejudice, but it personified Nancy, too. "That," I resolved, "is the way I want to write." Since her language, jokes, style and context were utterly alien to a New York teenager of the 1960s, decoding and understanding took considerable study. In the fullness of time, Nancy was inevitably superseded and eclipsed by Austen; but my captivation with the Mitfords, their lives and their writing, has never faded. No, to write like Austen - or Mitford - or anyone else, isn't possible - but it's no bad thing to have such influences.

Me at Nancy's grave

It was about twenty years ago that I finally managed to meet, and actually became friends with, a Mitford - Jessica, who was then in her late 70s. I knew that the Mitfords' very stylized and eccentric literary personas needed to be checked against the reality in the flesh, to be really understood; and that if I was ever to meet a live one, the time was now. So I set out on this quest, ultimately benefiting from a Berkeley library auction for a dinner with Jessica. I ended up meeting her several times, organized a book party at her wish, and thoroughly enjoyed the privilege of friendly relations with her. (Hey, if I could have done the same with Jane Austen, you know I would have!)  I wrote up the story of our meeting, and it was published in the talented Lyndsy Spence's first book, The Mitford Girls' Guide to Life, in 2013.

You may well wonder why, with this interest, and with my predilection for hunting out authors' homes in England, I never explored "Mitford country" until now. Well, the truth is that I was deceived by Nancy's and Jessica's own descriptions of their childhood homes, which they invariably depicted as hideously unattractive, barracks-like, cold places without a shred of beauty. Certainly most of the girls got away at the first opportunity, and added to the fact that the houses, Asthall and Swinbrook, were not open to the public, there seemed little point.

Asthall (we only glimpsed the roof, in passing)

Swinbrook, before it was gutted by fire in 2011

But then one of my favorite bloggers, Rachel Fenn of Book Snob, whose taste in books was very much like my own, went on a literary quest, and wrote it up. From this I learned what I might have known before: Nancy and Decca were having a joke. Their old family homes were in the Cotswolds, for God's sake, a region of unsurpassing beauty and charm! So I resolved to go.

I mentioned to my friends at Dove Grey Books what I had in mind, and as quick as an email, friendly member Curzon replied, saying she'd love to go, and would drive me. I accepted this dream offer gratefully, and we agreed that we soon would be "shrieking at Swinbrook," a reference to the Mitfords' frequent and rapturous shrieks. (Jessica demonstrated one for me, and I was disconcerted to find it was actually a decorous little debutante-ish trill of laughter.)

Accordingly, Curzon picked me up at my friend Jean's house in Oxford, and off we went, with a stop to meet another Dove, Carol, at Batsford Arboretum. From there we drove straight into Mitford country, starting at the lovely Cotswold town of Burford, where we had lunch, and did a goodly spot of antique shopping.

Pictures of Burford

Burford church

Entering Burford

Lunch: me, Curzon, Carol

A really excellent Ploughman's plate, and cider

Picturesque wisteria

Lilacs, lovely against stone walls

Burford's high street

Beautiful views, sky constantly changing

Old street, posh shops

A delectable Burford antiques shop

If only I could have got these beauties home!

Leaving Burford, we drove through the country lanes (with occasional bursts of rain). We only passed by Asthall (house and grounds closed to public), but we really began to get the feeling of the countryside and its life when we entered Swinbrook. A pretty stone village, surrounded by green fields and a rushing river overhung with cow parsley (Queen Anne's Lace), it seems very little changed by the modern world. 

Cloudburst between Burford and Swinbrook

Arriving at the Swan Inn

We checked into the Swan, where we were to spend the night. This lovely old inn was owned by the family, and the Duchess of Devonshire, the last of the sisters, kept a room for her own use. The very pretty, welcoming inn is decorated with pictures of the sisters, at hunt meets, with chickens, and pursuing other characteristic activities.

The Swan

The Swan, with cow parsley

Cow parsley

The River Windrush

The cozy dining room at the Swan, filled with pictures

Debo and her chickens

Nancy, Unity, Decca, Diana, 1933.

The rain had stopped, the sun even came out after awhile, so we spent the afternoon walking through the countryside, starting with exploring Swinbrook Church, where the family worshiped. We marveled over the odd figures of stone carved men of the 17th century Fettiplace family, lying on peculiar shelves. The slightly later set were far more elaborately dressed and decorated than the stiff earlier set. We wondered what the girls, sitting bored in church, thought about them...I don't think they've ever been mentioned in their writings.

Swinbrook Church

Stiff Fettiplace men

Fancier Fettiplace men

Fettiplace plaque

Then we went out into the churchyard, where the sun was breaking through. Four of the sisters, Nancy, Unity, Diana and Pamela, are buried there, and the latter three had flowers on them - Nancy's grave alone did not. 

Graves of Unity and Diana. 

From Swinbrook church we walked across the very picturesque fields, past sheep and cows, to a tiny medieval church, a quiet place with wall paintings dating to the 13th century. 

Leaving the church

Carol and Curzon, looking like countrywomen!

Black sheep - I suppose the family would think that would be Jessica...

Curzon and Cows

First glimpse of the medieval church, St. Oswald's, Widford.

Interior. The building dates to the 11th century, though there was an even older church and relics on the site in the 7th century.

The wall paintings are 13th century.

Sunshine lit up the ancient church in its idyllic setting.

Then we walked back to the Swan, to thoroughly examine and rejoice in all the Mitford atmosphere. The rooms were comfort itself; mine, named Asthall, had a view of the river, an old-fashioned bathtub with silver feet, and an extremely comfortable bed. The inn was known for its locally grown food, and I must say I greatly enjoyed my dinner of roast lamb.

My room

...and silver-footed bath!

My view out the window in the morning

The Swan in sunshine

Farewell to the Swan

...and its lilacs.

The next morning was beautifully sunny and it was hard to leave this quiet place that had given rise to six of the most eccentric and talented sisters to be found anywhere. I have read dozens of volumes about them, including very careful reads of the compendious Letters Between Six Sisters and Jessica's vast letters (really enlightening to read back to back; the holes in one are filled in by the other). So how do I feel about the sisters now? Basically, unchanged. I will list them in the order of my liking.

Nancy: My favorite, for her indomitable wit and writing style.

Jessica: Second wittiest, and won my heart by being much more reasonable and less angry than I had expected. Considering some of the family's streaks (more than streaks! Bedrock) of Nazi and Fascist sympathy, I think Jessica has been given something of a raw deal. Although her Communism was an extreme stance, I admire her for turning left and leaving the family in reaction to utterly odious views such as Diana's.

Debo: The sanest and in many ways the most admirable sister.

Pamela: She seems to have made a career of not making an impression on people (also understandable, with such larger-than-life siblings), and as a result, hasn't made much on me.

Unity: No, perhaps surprisingly, I don't despise her for her Nazism. I simply feel very sorry for her. Obviously mentally ill and a tragic figure.

Diana: Absolutely despicable. Never recanted her support for and love of Hitler, the evil Fascism of her husband, or her own hatred of Jews. A monster in my eyes, and always will be.

The Mitford family, when young

Miranda Seymour has written a wonderful article about her own visit to Mitfordland, with more details, which I recommend:

My souvenir of Mitford country. A little Maling lustre bowl, 1930s, called "Peony Rose," from the Burford antique shop, Antiques at the George.