Archive | March 2009

Boscastle—A Cornwall Village, Resurrected

Mar9

Sunday, March 8, 2009
Cornwall

I am certain that my sleep patterns are affected by room temperature. I slept till almost 7. 30 am today—the hotel room being much cooler than my bedroom at home– finding only enough time to jump in the shower and repack before I met my colleagues in the lobby of the Sunnyside Hotel downstairs. The sun was shining upon Newquay and Sunday morning surfers were already hitting the waves by the time we sat down in Pistachio Restaurant for our full English breakfast.

Muesli and OJ started off our day as the waitress took orders for our fry-ups. Since we were not leaving for Boscastle until 10 am, I had the leisure to linger over coffee as I gazed out over the ocean and listened to the shrill calls of the gulls. A group of weekenders had descended on the hotel and as they piled in for breakfast, the place grew livelier. Hauling my strolley uphill, I made my way to the coach and at 10 sharp, we pulled out of Newquay, Surfer’s Paradise, and drove along sleepy country lanes on the journey to Boscastle.

Then, as happens to often in these parts, the sun disappeared behind menacing clouds and a light drizzle began. Raindrops splattered the windshield as our driver maneuvered his vehicle towards the little Cornish village. No one seemed to be stirring for villagers take their Sunday lie-ins seriously, it would seem.

Arrival at Boscastle:
The village of Boscastle sits in a river valley straddling both banks. We arrived and parked in the parking lot with instructions to get some lunch and return to the coach by 1 pm. Walking out into a playful breeze, I found the village still asleep or stirring very slowly and reluctantly. Most shops were clustered around the car park and none seemed in a hurry to open. At last, not right then.

Recovering from An Ecological Disaster:
It was only as I walked towards the riverbanks that it vividly came to me that I had seen the destruction that had been wrought upon this village in 2004 when a flash flood and a huge landslide had destroyed most of it. Thanks to BBC World News, I remember gasping at the scenes, so expertly shot, of houses tumbling into a gushing river. I had wondered then where in Cornwall this place was located for I had always thought of it as flat pastureland.

Well, it turns out that the flash flood had left a trail of destruction in its wake and Boscastle’s attempts to resurrect itself out of the mess are little short of miraculous. But for the occasional scaffolding that drapes itself across a stuccoed cottage, there isn’t much to remind the visitor of the disaster. This speaks so well for federal funding and the use to which it is put in the UK. Hailing from a country like India, where government assistance almost always ends up in the pockets of some slimy official, I was heartened to see the results of the valiant and determined efforts to rebuild that have overtaken this quiet Cornish outpost. Well done, Boscastle!

And then suddenly it came down again. The playful breeze became a vicious gust that wrapped itself around me as rain pelted down and drove me to the nearest tearoom. There, I found that a few of my students had treated themselves to a meal. Since I had eaten a massive breakfast, I could not face the thought of food and I waited until the rain stopped and sunshine flooded the streets again before I set out to explore.

Sunday Shopping:
Boscastle has a series of charming shops that are all interconnected—you enter one of them and find yourself walking through a whole string! As always, it is the antiques shops that first attract me and when I spied a sign for Pickwick Antiques, I just had to fish around inside. What a perfect little antiques shop I found! As the salesman later explained, the shop carries what he calls “small treasures”—the sort of antiques that tourists can carry easily with them in their pockets. I saw loads of silver cutlery including a bunch of odd pieces—butter knives and soupspoons, saltcellars and peppershakers, cut-crystal cruet sets and bits of jewelry. There was also a good variety of very pretty china—Trios, i.e. cups, saucers and cake plates. Lovely porcelain cake serving platters and many Limoges and Royal Albert sets graced the collection—all shown off strikingly in spotless glass vitrines.

My eye was drawn then to a little teapot that would be perfect for brewing one or two cups of tea. It was not an antique—in fact, it was a Victorian reproduction that featured purple violets against a pure white background. What made it special was its lid—it featured three bone china violets in a three-dimensional design that was as finely crafted as a brooch. It called my name urgently and though I took three or four rounds of the shop, I could not get it off my mind. Furthermore, the price was right—at ten pounds, I could not go wrong, not for so exquisite a piece of china.

“Right”, I said, to the salesman, “I think I will have that darling teapot”.
“Do you collect them?” he asked. (What is it that makes antiques’ dealers sniff out collectors so unmistakably?)
“I collect cups and saucers”, I responded, “but for want of space to display them, I now only buy sets that are very rare, very beautiful and very inexpensively priced”.
He laughed. “That is very wise indeed. But, collecting teapots is a natural progression from there, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe…but unless I am sure I will use it…”

All the while, he busied himself lovingly wrapping my little precious find in bubble wrap and tissue paper, and feeling as if I had bought a very appropriate souvenir from Cornwall—once the capital of china clay in the country—I walked out of the shop.

In Search of Boscastle Harbor along a Coastal Path:
The rain remained at bay and seeing the coastal path entwine itself along the riverbank, I decided to follow it uphill and see where it led me. My camera worked overtime in trying to capture the bucolic idyll that lay before me. As I wandered on, I passed by a National Trust gift shop and paused to buy a postcard for my travel scrapbook. That’s when I realized that so many of them featured “Boscastle Harbor”. Yet, I could see no evident signs of it. I then went up to the counter, asked one of the little old ladies whom one always finds in National Trust shops where I could find it and she simply said, “Just keep going, dear. You will not be able to miss it”.

At that point, I ran into some of my students and persuaded them to join me on the costal path. They were game, and braving the wind that had stepped up quite strongly, we began our climb to the promontory that, like Tintagel, jutted out into the sea. Pools of rain had accumulated along the narrow pathway that is maintained by the National Trust and I was pleased to see that my membership pounds did go towards these worthy causes. As we climbed higher, the wind became fiercer and by the time the harbor came into view, the scene was simply spectacular.

Gigantic waves dashed the rocks below and we saw a manmade ‘harbor’, probably newly constructed, way below us. It was clearly evident why smuggling had been such a lucrative pursuit in Cornwall for with high taxes levied on such things as tobacco and wine during the late 18th and 19th centuries, smugglers found ways to evade the tax man by bringing in contraband on small boats. In doing so, they risked their lives for such boats had only a fighting chance at reaching the small sandy strip of beach that we could see way below us.

Not content with taking in this scene, we pressed on along the pathway, determined to glimpse the other side of the rocky escarpment. By this point, the wind was almost lifting us off our feet. With many whoops and screams, we clung on to each other and posed for pictures, hoping to capture a scene that somehow seemed exclusively ours for there was no other human being in sight. In many ways, it was reminiscent of Tintagel in its remoteness and in the fury of Nature as wind and wave combined to create the sort of mystifying aura of which legend is made.

Then, it was time for us to return to the coach and when I boarded it, I could not quite believe what I had just seen. Little did I expect that I would have such an unforgettable adventure in Boscastle. I was delighted that I had asked where the harbor was located for, in doing so, I had the chance to indulge in something I had sorely wanted to do ever since I set foot in Cornwall—walk upon a coastal path towards the sea and allow myself to taste the salt spray on my lips. This walk, undertaken so spontaneously, had satisfied that desire and as I settled down in the coach for the long drive homewards, I felt as if I had enjoyed the county in every possible guise and created memories that would live with me forever.

Harry Potter came into his own as the coach ate up the miles along the highways of Devon and alongside the southeast coast as we brushed past Bristol. I could see the lovely white bridge that spanned the bay and led into Wales as we glided on. The landscape changed every few miles, the undulating waves of Cornwall and Devon giving way to the flat fields of Wiltshire. Then, we were stopping at a wayside restaurant for a quick bite (sandwiches and coffee for me as it was close to 4 pm and my breakfast had been long digested). Most of my students had dozed off by this point but I kept on reading The Goblet of Fire until we were skirting the periphery of London.

We arrived at the Nido hostel at 7. 15 pm though caught in Sunday evening traffic for a bit of the way. It took me only a few minutes to climb aboard the Number 17 bus and, fifteen minutes later, I was home, unpacking. A long call to Llew and a shorter one to Chriselle followed as I also tried to download my email and attend to the more urgent work-related messages that awaited my attention.

I worked steadily for almost five hours and it was long past midnight, when still feeling full of beans, I put out my bedside light and tried to fall asleep. I had finally visited Cornwall and toured this fabled holiday destination and I had returned home with memories that I knew I would cherish forever.

In Search of Eden and Camelot: The Eden Project and Tintagel

Mar8

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Cornwall

I slept well last night despite being a little chilly. The double comforter helped—I folded it in half since I was using only one side of my double bed. Waking at 6. 40 am, I was able to write my blog for a bit, then shower and dress and get ready for breakfast, which was served at 8. 30 am. We were antsy as our coach was scheduled to leave at 9 am and there was no way we could eat a full English breakfast in fifteen minutes. Still, after muesli and orange juice, we found space (and time) for scrambled eggs and bacon, sausage and tomato, hash browns and beans and warm buttered toast with coffee—basically, a heart attack on a platter. Why is it that full English breakfasts taste so much better when someone else has cooked and served them up to you? And why is it that we had to hurry through so scrumptious a meal?

Off to Eden:

Well, we did reach the Inn at 9 am and made our way to the coach with our students to start the long ride towards St. Austell to the Eden Project. This is one of the UK’s Millennium projects, the brainchild of Tim Smith who still remains its CEO. It was his plan to demonstrate man’s ability to live in harmony with nature and it took the form of a series of biodomes constructed out of recycled material to look like giant igloos. My view of it from the air as my plane was landing at Newquay will always remain unforgettable especially as you do not spy the domes until you are a mere two minutes away from them.

The biodomes are constructed in a former china clay pit that had long remained disused, demonstrating the fact that waste lands can also be put to practical use. Our coach parked and dropped us off and we were met by Eden Project staff who directed us to the Reception Center where we received stickers to indicate that we were ticket holders.

At this point, we were met by a botanist named Kathryn who conducted a tour for us through the Humid and Tropical Garden which is the largest and most spectacular of the biodomes. She took us around the world in a an hour as each part of the dome grows plants native to specific tropical parts of the world such as Malaysia, Africa, South America (the Rain Forest). The temperature in this part of the biodomes is considerably warmer and within seconds we were peeling off our jackets. Kathryn started with a very comprehensive introduction to the aims and objectives of the Project and once on the tour, stopped by select plants to point out their native requirements and to demonstrate their typical characteristics. A waterfall cascaded through the entire project and as we moved from one part of the world to the next, we climbed ever higher. The incredible design of the region inside the dome which maximizes the use of space was ingenious indeed and spoke very well of the thought and planning and effort that went into its making

One of the more interesting things I saw was a real cacao pod from a cacao tree that was freshly plucked off and then split open by one of the guides who showed us the cocoa butter and the seeds inside. We had a chance to hold it in our hands, smell it and find that it did not smell even remotely of chocolate. A great deal of processing has to be carried out before chocoholics like myself can find cocoa nirvana! We learned that it was in South America that the Incas drank chocolate after mixing it with pounded chilli. Chocolate as solidified in bars are a British invention, however, and for that we are all very grateful indeed! I also saw a Passion Flower for the first time and I have to say that it was strikingly vivid and rare.

For me, of course, taking a tour of the Tropical Forest felt a little bit like visiting India for I saw banana, papaya, cashew and mango trees and a host of herbs and spices that I use in my daily cooking—such as coriander and curry leaf, cardamom, cinnamon and turmeric.

Our tour ended in an hour and we were free to make our way into the Temperate and Mediterranean biodome where the emphasis was on the kind of plants and fruits that are grown in sunny but less intensely humid climes such as in Greece, Italy or Southern California. I saw a giant citrus fruit called a citron which hung from the branches but is not too heavy as it has very little pulp and juice. It is the peel that is mainly used today in cakes when candied peel is called for in a recipe. Lavender, olives, geraniums, etc. were in this area but, having seen the superb quality and variety of the tropical fruits and flowers in the first biodome, I was somewhat disappointed by the second which paled in comparison.

What was also marvelous was the large number of birds that I saw inside the domes though they are almost airtight. They seem to come in when people unwittingly leave doors open or, as Kathryn explained, often through the louvers in the domes that are occasionally opened for ventilation. They were incredibly tame and a robin came and almost ate out of my hand when I was seated in the café. The birdsong, the rushing downpour of the waterfall and the fragrance that surrounds the interior was so authentic as to make me feel as if I was on a cruise along the Amazon in Costa Rica. Truly, the achievement of the Eden Project is little short of brilliant and though I am neither a botanist nor a biologist but merely a humble gardener myself, I know I took back lessons on planting and harvesting techniques that I could easily use in my own cottage garden at home in Connecticut.

Then, it was time to sink into one of the squashy leather sofas in the café and to decide about getting a bite. Despite the fact that I had eaten a huge breakfast, I did not know how long it would be before I had my next meal and not willing to start feeling hungry, I ordered a pork and apple pasty and homemade chips. Just as I sat to eat those, along came Alice and I joined her and David at their table. The lunch was enormously filling though not very tasty and with a slight spray having started to fall, we left the Eden Project, boarded the coach again and set off for our next port of call—Tintagel.

In Search of Camelot—King Arthur’s Castle at Tintagel:

It was understandable that almost everyone in the coach was asleep as it made its way across Cornwall to take us to Tintagel Head and the ruined Castle that is supposed to be the legendary birthplace of King Arthur. I too closed my eyes and within minutes, I was deeply asleep as mist swirling over the fields had reduced visibility considerably.

When I awoke about a half hour later, we were negotiating our way through the narrowest lanes imaginable and we had several hair-raising moments as smaller vehicles had to back all the way out of the roads to make room for us. Indeed, at one point, we were told by a passer-by that our long coach would never make it through a narrow passage ahead. He suggested we turn back and take a wider road even if that meant a longer route. At another point, we almost slammed into a van that stopped suddenly ahead of us as a car in front of him came to a stop in order to make a sharp right turn. I swear that it was only a hair’s breath that separated us from this van as the coach came to a halt several seconds after our driver slammed on the brakes! It was certainly not the most enjoyable of rides and a colleague even commented, “This castle had better be the best one in the world”.

Well, no one could have been disappointed. Though we did arrive at the charming village of Tintagel a little behind schedule and with a light spray still playing over the region, it was quite the most spectacular natural sight I have seen in my yearlong travels. For Tintagel Head juts out into the Atlantic Ocean over a steep promontory that is composed almost entirely of slate. The English Heritage maintains and manages the site and, thanks to some ingenious engineering, a pathway has been cut through the rock escarpment to allow visitors to access the ruins of the castle, the mansion and the little houses that belong to Arthurian Legend.

This site is not for the faint hearted as we needed to make our way down into a very low ravine first to get to the bottom where the Visitors Center in located. At this lowest point itself, the swirling waters of the ocean crash into rocks creating large caves that remain battered by the sea’s fury. The steps are repeatedly lashed by these jade green waves and scaling them takes courage and grit. At one point, you actually cross a bridge that connects the mainland with the tiny rocky island on which the majority of the ruins are to be found. All these locations make superb settings for photography and it is difficult to know where to stop in selecting sights for celluloid. To add to the mystery and the aura of the Arthurian legends, mist swirled softly around the peaks and a light spray from the churning waves cooled us off after the long climb.

Our students bounded along the steps, the setting making them light hearted as they were struck by the remoteness of the crags and the complete isolation of the pathway leading to the peaks. The steps were very high indeed and I had a hard time trying to climb them as strong winds whipped around us. Fortunately, it was not too cold and the climb to the top had served to warm me well. I did reach as far as the mansion of Earl Richard who was supposed to be the brother of King Arthur. I also saw the Great Hall of what would have been his mansion, the gateway leading to it–much of which was reconstructed in the 19th century when the pre-Raphaelites began to paint scenes from the stories of Thomas Malory’s 16th century work Morte D’Arthur which, in turn, led to Tennyson’s collection of Arthur poems called The Idylls of the King.



Of course, even as I surveyed the ruins in their fairy-tale setting, I was conscious of the fact that there is very little we know with historical certainty about King Arthur. Did he really exist? Is he a creation based on several different ancient Cornish kings of England? Very little archaeological evidence exists to answer these questions in any definitive way. What has been found at the site are Mediterranean pottery pieces that suggest strong trading links between England the Middle East in ancient times.



There was a great deal more I could have seen including the ruins of a walled garden and a little church at the very top, but somehow I did not trust my feet to carry me all the way to the peak. In fact, I was more afraid of making my way downhill and since we had a deadline for returning to the coach and I did not want to keep anyone waiting, I began the slow descent to the base reminded constantly, by the remoteness of the venue and the heights we had scaled, of Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher.

At the base, I had the pleasure of watching a film in the Visitors Center that gave some more information about the combination of myth and historical account that has led to the creation of the Arthurian Legends and the industry that they have spawned—if one went by the end-of-daybusiness being carried out in the little shops that comprise the village of Tintagel. I did visit a couple of them to purchase a magnet and some postcards, then poked my head into a bakery selling pasties and a tea room where a few of our students had settled themselves down with Cornish cream teas. I was too full to face the thought of another morsel for a while and looked forward to a good dinner instead, later in the day.

The bus ride back took us on the ‘Atlantic Highway’, a dual carriageway that ran through the length of Central Cornwall passing fairly close to Padstow en route. Back at the coach station at close to 6pm, I parted company with my colleagues and decided that it would be a good idea to stretch out and try to even get a short nap in my room at Sunnyside Hotel before we met in the lobby at 7. 30 pm for dinner.

When 7.30 pm approached, I prepared for dinner and meeting my colleagues in the hotel’s lobby, we decided to eat dinner at The New Harbor Restaurant where we had eaten last night. David and Alice bowed out, having consumed a light dinner earlier in the evening, leaving Valerie and me to find our way to the harbor and to settle ourselves at a table overlooking the boats on the dark and dimly lit waterfront.

A Seafood Dinner to Die For:

I ordered a scrumpy (apple cider) but the restaurant did not carry it. They suggested a pear cider instead made by a Cornish farm named Heany and never having tasted pear cider before, I was up for it. It was absolutely delicious and very refreshing indeed. Valerie had a glass of house white wine and ordered the Crab Trio that she had enjoyed yesterday (salad, bisque and timbale). I went for the Lobster and Prawn Cocktail which was very fresh and very good, crammed full of small prawns and lobster tail in a light mayonnaise dressing. For mains, both of us had the grilled cod with saffron mash and baby spinach in a saffron cream sauce—very fresh, very tasty and very hearty indeed. David joined us just when we were finishing our mains and ordered pudding. Since the sticky toffee pudding that Alice had ordered was so good yesterday, I decided to go with it and indeed it was great—with a generous dollop of Cornish clotted cream served alongside. This melted against the warmth of the pudding and formed a gooey mass in the toffee base. Ah, heavenly!

I was seriously worried that I would be too stuffed to make the long uphill trek to our hotel, but climb it I did and had only enough energy to complete this blog and throw myself on the bed for a good night’s rest.

In Fowey and Padstow–Cornwall’s Famous Villages

Mar8

Friday, March 6, 2009
Cornwall

The view from my window stunned me anew when I awoke this morning at 6. 30 to watch dawn break over the Newquay sky that was tinged a startling pink. Immense cloud cover made it difficult for the sun to break through and the solitary figure walking towards the ocean was a dark silhouette at that early morning hour as he treaded water for a few paces, and then plunged into the foaming waves. I know that I will never again have so breathtaking a view from a hostel window and I want to keep this one preserved forever in my memory.

Devoting a Day to Writers:
Packing and unpacking, washing and dressing and getting ready to meet the day took the next half hour. I found the time to read up a bit of Cornwall tourist literature and discovered that the area on the opposite shore around the town of Fowey (pronounced ‘Foy’) would be a good place to explore. It is also rich with literary associations and it turned out that my day was devoted to following in the footsteps of some of England’s best known writers as I attempted to discover their favorite haunts.

In Search of Daphne du Maurier:
Daphne du Maurier, to whom I became introduced as a teenager, owing to my mother’s passion for her novels, spent a good deal of time in Southern Cornwall and used it as the setting of so many of her works. Jamaica Inn, the title of one of her novels, for instance, still exists in the region of Bodmin Moor but I wasn’t going to travel so far just to see in. Instead, I decided to take the Western Greyhound (“Green” Bus, as it is locally known) to St. Austell from where I was required to connect to another bus that would take me to Fowey.

Menabilly is the name of the town close by in which stands a huge mansion, which the du Mauriers had rented when they lived in Cornwall for a while. This would became the famous Mandalay of her best-known novel Rebecca. Who can ever forget that novel’s haunting first sentence? “Last night I dreamed I was at Mandalay again”. Just typing it gives me goose bumps and my reaction is based not on reading the novel alone but on the many movie versions of it that I have seen. The earliest was made by Alfred Hitchcock starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine and the most recent that I saw only a few months ago starred Charles Dance (whose work I have enjoyed and followed ever since I saw him play a very young British officer in The Jewel in the Crown many many years ago) and Emily Fox who is one of Britain’s best-loved actors with the inimitable Diana Rigg playing the chilly Miss Danvers.

So, I was keen to go to Menabilly to see Mandalay for myself. Only, when I arrived at Fowey and made my way down the steep hill that led to the harbor where most of the shops are clustered, I discovered at the Daphne du Maurier Literary Center (yes, there really is such a place!), that the Mandalay of the novel is a private residence and not open to the public. One cannot even catch a glimpse of it from the outside. The village of Menabilly does not have any associations with the author except for some shops that are named after her best-known characters. To get to Menabilly, I would have to walk about 4 to 5 miles as no public buses went to the area in the off-season.

Feeling Homesick in Fowey:
Abandoning my plans to get to Mandalay, I focused on Fowey instead and was left feeling deeply homesick for my beloved Southport. For Fowey reminded me so much of my little village in Connecticut. It shares a similar topography in that the river Fowey runs through the town and empties into the English Channel in the same way that the Mill River runs through Southport and empties into Long Island Sound. On both banks of the river are pretty houses rising in steep tiers along very narrow streets. You have to literally flatten yourself against a wall when a car passes by, as there isn’t enough room for both human and vehicle along the same street in Fowey! I realized all this, of course, only after I arrived at the waterside or what they call the Harbor (we call it the ‘Marina’ at home) where the beautifully sunny day had drawn anglers and sailors alike to the quay to keep them busy at their pursuits.

Along the street leading to the harbor were souvenir stores, bakeries selling the region’s specialty—saffron buns—books and card shops, chocolatiers, exclusive designer boutiques and jewelry showrooms and lots of places selling knick-knacks. I took pictures of the harbor because I wanted to show Llew and Chirselle how similar our lovely Southport is to an English seaside resort. I have said for years that Southport is the closest one can come to an English village in coastal Connecticut and the similarity between Fowey and Southport confirmed those impressions.

Like Southport, Fowey is dominated by the square tower of its local stone church with its gold clock face. Southport, of course, has two landmark churches—the Trinity Episcopal Church and the Congregation Church. Here too, in Fowey, stained glass windows in a Pre-Raphaelite style were visible as I passed by the steep path running along its side. But unlike Southport, Fowey can also boast what looks like a castle with its square turrets rising sharply against the bluest skies. It was only later, at the bus stop when I got into conversation with a local resident that I discovered that it wasn’t a castle at all but a private house—one that had remained in the same family, that of the Trefoys, not just for centuries, but maybe for a millennium! The lady’s son happened to be a stonemason who was at work on the house as keeping it up to snuff after all these years does take a lot of skilled local labor.

She lamented the fact that wages are so low in this part of the UK, that despite having been born in Cornwall and living there all their lives, none of her four children can afford to buy a home in the town which has been taken over by “holiday homes”—meaning seasonal houses that are rented to holiday-makers during the summer.

“I have no neighbors”, the lady lamented, “as the houses next door to me remain shut all year except for the three months of summer. I live alone and if something ever happened to me, no one would know. It’s awful!” she said.

Then, she continued: “My God, things have changed beyond recognition since I was a little girl growing up here. When I was a teenager, if I got into any kind of trouble, before I got home, you could be sure that mother already knew about it as a hundred eyes were watching my every move. Every one knew every one else in those days in the village of Fowey. I could not possibly expect that today—the place is full of strangers”.

And still later: “You don’t want to be here in the summer. It’s just crawling with city folk splashing around their money. It’s awful!”

She wasn’t quite done. “And you should see how much they are building here! Who do they expect to buy all these places? Why don’t they try to fill up the empty houses first instead of eating into more parcels of green?”

So there I was getting a lesson on the changing face of Cornwall from someone who certainly knew the area intimately. And this again is similar to Southport, isn’t it, I thought? There were all those condos being built by developers out to make a buck during the real estate boom only to lie untouched. All that lovely unspoiled Southport scenery forever altered by the arrival of those condominium colonies. It’s truly a travesty, I thought. All over the world, the same story…

Back on the bus, I arrived at St. Austell, then connected to another bus to Newquay, but not before I popped down another steep winding road into the town to buy a Mince Pasty from Nile’s Bakery as it was close to lunchtime and I was hungry. I have to say that I have become a convert to the Cornish pasty—probably because they are so much more satisfying and delicious than the ones I have tasted in London through the Cornish Pasty Company and other similar chains. This one was filled with thinly sliced potato and ground beef, the two flavors melded perfectly to make a very delicious lunch indeed.

In the bus, I enjoyed both the passing landscape and my travel companions. Many knew each other and cheery greetings were often exchanged as the bus passed through a village. Some had amusing names such as High Street and Higher Bugle! Many of the little villages had names that started with the letters “Tre’ as a kind of prefix and I believe it has something to do with some ancient language of the region. Women got on with their shopping strolleys to take a bus ride to the nearest Morrisons or closest town. The village houses were small with very modest gardens that were slowly coming into their own for the new growing season. I saw daffodils everywhere in places that made me believe they were wild—though I have always believed that since daffodils grow from bulbs they have to be planted and do not seed spontaneously as wild flowers do.

Back at Newquay, I had only enough time to browse in some of the shops on the main road before it was time for me to catch another bus—this one going to Padstow.

Padding Around Padstow:
Padstow, it is said, would have remained just another small Cornish fishing village were it not for the arrival of TV chef Rick Stein who put it firmly on the country’s culinary map and created a mini-empire in the process. His presence in the town is so ubiquitous that folks something jocularly refer to the village as Padstein. Of course, being a foodie, I was keen to eat in one of his restaurants, but since I never enter restaurants when I am traveling alone, I did not think that this would be a possibility.

In Search of Sir John Betjeman:
Apart from Stein’s celebrity, the town is renowned for the presence of another great literary figure—the poet John Betjeman whose work I have loved for years and with whom I also have a personal connection—many many years ago, when I was but a young teenager in India, I had run into his wife, Lady Penelope Chetwode, in Simla, in Northern India, and ever since then, I had followed his career with interest. Betjeman, of course, passed away a few years ago, but he lies buried in the village of Trebeterick in the graveyard at St. Enodoc Church where his tombstone is engraved with some of his most haunting lines celebrating the beauty of and his fondness for this part of Cornwall which he had made his home for most of his life. I hoped very much to see his grave and make a pilgrimage of sorts to one of my favorite poet’s worlds.

Meanwhile, I walked along the path leading from the harbor to the town where colorful sailing boats bobbed in the water surrounded by a number of equally colorful shop fronts. A visit to the Tourist Information Center told me that my wish would not be fulfilled as Trebeterick lay across the shallow waters of Padstow Bay and I needed to take a ferry to get to the other side. Once on the opposite bank, I would need to cross a golf course and then make my way into the churchyard to see the gravesite. Though the walk would take me less than 20 minutes, once I was on the other side, the ferry had stopped plying for the day at 4.30 pm and I would have to return on the morrow. I could see the general area, however, in which Betjeman lies buried and I have to say that this sight served to satisfy my deepest longings to pay my personal respects to the man that a recent poll named Britain’s Favorite Poet. As I gazed upon the tranquil land in which he lies buried, I thought of his own words:

“Lark songs and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere”.

Prideux Place:
Instead, I walked through the little coastal town and on seeing signs for Prideux Place decided to climb the steep hill that led to it. My guide book had informed me that this old pile is a favorite haunt of directors of period films and TV shows as it has all the correct atmospheric details to authenticate a location.

When I did get there, passing through a jumble of narrow winding streets with modest homes whose front doors were painted in strong primary colors, I arrived at a gray granite mass complete with square turrets and a forbidding gateway. There was a sign that informed me that the place was open to visitors only after Easter (I love how Easter is used here as the equivalent of a date though it changes every year depending on the Lenten calendar!)

Right opposite the mansion is a deer park and, as luck would have it, the herds of deer for which the park is known were obligingly close at hand. A few photographs later, I wound my way own the hill, once again, pulling my cashmere scarf closer around my throat for I had begun to feel the damp chill that sudden bouts of rain can bring.

Padstow’s Pleasures:
I did not see Padstow at its best. Indeed, the rain clouds that had been swirling all morning finally dropped their moisture as my bus had woven through the narrowest country lanes from Newquay to bring me to this seaside settlement. I had a few hairy moments on the front seat of a double decker as it speeded on the single lane roads occasionally coming upon a car headed in the opposite direction.

In the baffling code of etiquette that exists among drivers on these single-lane country roads, the car backed up for quite a while, as my heart remained caught in my throat, until it found a tiny space in which to wedge itself before the bus that had advanced menacingly upon it, found enough room to squeeze through. This is not the first time that I have been witness to such a happening. Indeed, when Llew has been behind the wheel of tiny rented English cars on our many holidays in this part of the world, we have encountered the same occurrence on a couple of occasions. But never have I watched the spectacle from a double-decker bus—and believe me, I felt as if I were witnessing the denouement of a hair raising drama.

Pasdstow’s lanes weave in and out of little squares each one punctuated with another one of the cafes, delis, gourmet food stores, patisseries and restaurants that comprise the Stein empire. Many of them were winding down for the day as it was close to 5 pm. I keep forgetting that in this country, as a rule, shops still close at five, though Londoners might be used to later closings. Once the shutters come down and the cleaning begins inside, towns suddenly become shrouded in mourning for all the gusto goes out of them like a balloon that has been suddenly pierced. Apart from the suddenness with which evening descended upon Padstow in this manner, I was also conscious of the fact that last bus out to Newquay was scheduled to leave at 6. 35 pm from the harbor. Not wanting to miss it, I made my way back towards Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips Restaurant and finding that it was almost as casual as a fast food place, I made an exception to my rule and decided to dine alone.

The Stein Empire:
As soon as our bus had disgorged its passengers on to the quayside at Padstow, the presence of Rick Stein was everywhere. Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips is on the harbor front and you cannot miss it despite its very modest exterior. Since it only opened at 5 pm, I resolved to return there and have my dinner inside.

When I did get there, I foudn that the restaurant had opened fifteen minutes earlier at 5 pm and already had a few early diners seated within. Done entirely in white subway tile (as it is known in New York) with occasional touches of navy blue as in the fish tiles that march around the restaurant, the interior is simplicity at its most classy.

I settled myself down at a wooden bench and awaited a waitress who brought me a menu. I had decided to have what everyone else was having—the Winter Special Cod and Chips with bread and butter and a pot of tea—I chose peppermint—all for 6. 40 pounds. Nothing could have been more welcome for Padstow had been an overall chilly experience for me and my insides craved the warmth of good food and drink.

They were not disappointed. When my meal arrived, in a thick paper container, I found a fillet of cod superbly fried in the lightest, crispest batter I had ever seen or tasted. It simply melted in my mouth. Indeed, it was so good that I did not even need to request tartar sauce. My chips, however, were sorely disappointing. I had, quite obviously, been given the last scraping from a batch for I received nothing but a handful of tiny fried crispy bits and but for three or four real chips, i.e. chewy meaty larger fries, the chips were a disaster.

I debated whether or not I should point this out to the waitress and then, being accustomed to American ways, I could not resist it, and showed them to her. She shrugged and appeared unable to deal with my complaint. The fish was hearty, however, and the few chips that I had eaten, had filled me up.

Then I saw her approach the chef and have a word with him and, a few minutes later, she returned to my table to say, “Chef would like to know if you’d like another small portion of chips”. I thanked her for the offer but declined as I was already too full and there was still my steaming tea to be drunk. In the end, I was grateful that though she did not apologize to me for what was obviously a huge culinary faux-pas, especially in a restaurant of such an acclaimed celebrity chef, she did at least try to address my complaint and make amends.

I did board the 6. 35 pm bus and was the sole passenger in it for almost the entire ride. When we arrived at Watergate Bay, another part of Cornwall associated with a TV celebrity chef—Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen Cornwall is located here–I looked everywhere for it but saw no signs. When I asked the driver if he had an idea where it might be, he responded with the kind of candor that is characteristic only of the English.

“Would you happen to know where Jamie Oliver’s restaurant is?”
“’Fraid not. Not the kind of place I could afford”.

So, while I was still mulling over his answer, the bus swung upwards along the cliffs and in just a little while deposited me at the Newquay bus stop. When I finally did find a strong enough signal, I had made telephonic contact with Alice of NYU who informed me that our student coaches had arrived there at 4 pm, leaving them with ample time to explore Towan Beach.

We made plans to meet at St. Christopher’s Inn and when I did get there at 8pm she arrived soon enough and led me down to The New Harbor Restaurant located at the water’s edge. There, I joined more colleagues, David Crout and Valerie Wells, who had just ordered a bottle of wine and were nibbling on some bread. They did ask me to order as well but I was still stuffed with my own dinner and decided to sip on a glass of white Bordeaux instead and then join them for dessert.

I wished I hadn’t eaten already when I saw their offerings which were simply enormous and superbly presented. Over fresh seafood (cod and plaice and crab for starters), they had a lovely meal while I looked on. When it came time for dessert, however, I caved in. It was close to 10 pm anyway and I had eaten at 5, so I was ready for some ‘pudding’. I chose a creamy dreamy Irish Coffee Crème Brulee which was exceptional—the brown sugar crust concealing a scrumptious custard that was delicately flavored with Irish whisky. I have to say that I have never tasted so novel a creme brulee and I thought so much of Chriselle as crème brulee is her favorite dessert!

When I did make my way up the hill to St. Christopher’s Inn to retrieve my bag, I was ready to wind down for the day. I checked in with the rest of the group at Sunnyside Hotel which overlooked the beach—though, sadly, I no longer had the stunning view of the last couple of days. My room was freezing and it was only after I fiddled around with the controls on the radiator that it started to feel better.

On a last literary note I wrote this blog and fell asleep after midnight, mindful of the fact that we had decided to meet at Pistachio Restaurant located on the ground floor of the hotel for a full English breakfast at 8. 15 am.

In Western Cornwall—Penzance, Mousehole and St. Michael’s Mount.

Mar8

Thursday, March 5, 2009
Cornwall

I had a rather restless night. High winds blew fiercely against my windowpane and I was very cold. Grabbing another comforter from a neighboring bed at the hostel, I tucked it around me and tried to return to sleep. It is a relief to have the 10-bedded dorm room with en suite bathroom entirely to myself. This is the sort of luxury for which you pay pennies and get massive returns.

Room with a View:
The sounds of the Atlantic’s breakers reached my ears and when I sat up in bed and turned slightly to take in the view, I was dumbstruck. Dawn was just breaking over the eastern skies that were tinged a pale orange. Soft jade waves lightly bordered with creamy surf flowed lazily towards shore. I could have gazed upon this scene without moving a muscle for hours. But though it was only 6.45 am, I decided to get ready to face my day as I had a lot of ground to cover.

Breakfast was a delightful affair as the sea kept me company outside my window. Over muesli, toast with butter and apricot jam and instant coffee (the only discordant note), I de-stressed as I watched the relentless waves make their journey to the sand-covered rocks of the cove. I took it really easy, savoring each bite, relishing each sip, but all too soon, it was time to pick up my backpack and rain slicker and leave for the bus station to start my long journey to Penzance.

Off to Penance:
I caught the bus an hour earlier today (at 8. 55 am) after purchasing an Explorer ticket for 6. 50 pounds. The journey to Truro was the same as yesterday’s except that the sun was out, shining full and glorious upon Cornwall, and bringing into sharp focus the lone stray horses in pasture, so similar to the ones I had seen in Ben Nicholson’s paintings in the Tate St. Ives yesterday—and I understood afresh the sources of his inspiration.

Exploring Truro:
When we arrived in Truro, I decided to explore the town a bit and my rambles took me towards the lovely Cathedral with its five spires. I got some beautiful shots of it from a bridge that forded a shallow stream en route to an antiques store in which I browsed. A flea market selling vintage items also caught my attention, and then it was time to catch the 10. 35 bus for the long ride to Penzance.

I enjoyed observing my traveling companions en route for they spanned many decades. The high school kids and the college students (most from Truro College) gave way to the elderly (loads of them) out on shopping jaunts into the bigger cities from their tiny pastoral villages. There is a uniformly polite interaction between them and the driver (Pleases and Thank yous every single time) and a tremendous patience as the driver waits for them to hop on and alight—the likes of which would be unseen in London where life is so much quicker paced. I got talking to a nice man who summed it up when he told me that in Cornwall everything can be achieved tomorrow and he said that when you have lived in such a place for a while, you grow accustomed to its lifestyle.

The Fabled Cornish Landscape:
I found the passing scene outside my window so fascinating that not for a moment did I doze off. Indeed, I can say that I saw Cornwall from a double decker bus and a better way to see it would be tough to find. The buses take rural routes that pass by villages that Time forgot. You see fields lying in fallow, daffodils blooming along wayside hedges (surely they can’t be wild, can they?), horses in pasture, the remnants of tin mines and their smoke stacks, occasional towns with their familiar high street retailers and everywhere the inevitable bakeries selling Cornish pasties and luxurious cream teas. This is the quintessential Cornish countryside and viewing it in this fashion was a dream come true for me. And then, of course, there is the sea that is never too far away. It is like being on New York’s Long Island where you are always just a stone’s throw away from the North or South shores.

First Glimpse of St. Michael’s Mount:
And so it was that we turned a corner en route to Penzance and there was Mount St. Michael looking for all the world like its French counterpart–Mont St. Michel–that sits in the English Channel just off the coast of Brittany. Llew and I had been there many years ago in the company of our friend Patrick LeClerc and the memory of that sunny day was strongly with me as we approached the bustling township of Penzance made famous by Gilbert and Sullivan through their opera The Pirates of Penzance.

On to Mousehole:
But I did not linger long in this area deciding instead to take the bus to Mousehole (pronounced ‘Mowzall’). Of course, by this time, it was 12. 40 and I had spent the entire morning on a bus…but what better way to see Cornwall on a relentlessly windy day than through the heated interior of a comfortable bus? I mean the sun was gorgeous but the wind made me miserable as it whipped around me in icy gusts flinging my hair all over my face and tugging on my hat. When I realized that a bus to Mousehole would follow not too much later, I decided to board it and off I went.

None of the books I had read had mentioned anything about the drive along the coastal road from Penzance westwards to Mousehole; but though short and brief, I would rate it as one of the best I have ever taken and in this category I include such world-famous rides as the one along the Italian Amalfi Coast from Naples to Sorrento, the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to San Diego and along the Hanna Coast on the island of Kauai in Hawaii. I mean it was breathtakingly staggering. The sea was a much deeper blue–almost aquamarine–than it was at Newquay and I understood for the first time why they call it the Cornish Riviera; for the blue of the water was as startling as that of France’s Cote d’Azur at Cannes or Nice!

I could not get enough of it as I kept my eyes peeled. The bus wound slowly along the low-lying hills past neat sea-facing cottages but each was more modest than the next and there was nothing showy or ostentatious about these homes that hugged the waterside as might have been expected of similar homes in Malibu or Carmel in California.

Along the way, we passed by the town of Newlyn, almost as famous as St. Ives for its own artists’ colony that led to the creation of the Newlyn Artists’ Circle. Their works are also on display in the renowned museum in the town whose cove is full of colorful fishing boats that bring in the famed Cornish seafood.

Within twenty minutes, we were in Mousehole, the tiny village in which the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”) spent his honeymoon and called ‘the loveliest village in England’. Now I know that a lot of English villages claim this distinction. My own particular favorite still continues to be Castle Combe in Wiltshire. Thomas’ new marriage must certainly have lent enchantment to his view! Though undoubtedly pretty, in that it clings to the softly rising hills in tiers and overlooks a jeweled ocean, I cannot imagine why Thomas was so taken by this place. It is very similar to all the Cornish villages I had traveled through all morning and can boast nothing to distinguish it so spectacularly from the rest.

Still, I decided to stroll at random through its ‘town’ and discovered that there wasn’t much of a town to explore. The few stores that dotted its narrow winding streets were mostly closed. At Jessie’s Dairy, I bought a take-out Steak and Potatoes Pasty for 2. 60 pounds that was made to Grandma’s recipe and was scrumptious. Not only was it gigantic but also it was stuffed to the gills with a very tasty stew-like stuffing that was hot and peppery and very satisfying. I felt so invigorated that I almost walked along the Cornish coastal pathway from Mousehole back to Penzance but then decided that I would save time and take the bus to allow myself to get in good time to my next destination—the village of Marazion from where I intended to reach St. Michael’s Mount. Already I could see it in the distance in Mount’s Bay and my desire to get there was suddenly fierce.

So I hopped on to the 1.25 bus and was back in Penzance at 2.00, which left me enough time to buy a few souvenir postcards and find my way down the High Street back to the Bus station for the 2. 15 bus to Marazion.

Marazion and Mount St. Michael:
The bus arrived at Marazion at exactly 2. 30 pm. I had stopped briefly in the Tourist Information Center in Penzance, obtained a map and was told that the Causeway that linked the island with the mainland and would allow me to walk across Mount’s Bay to get to where the castle and the Cathedral of Saint Michael were perched would be accessible by foot only after 3.30 pm when the tide receded. Not to be daunted, I boarded the bus and enjoyed the uninhibited view of a rainbow that painted itself magnificently against the cloud- filled sky. A passing storm had generated this natural wonder; but then the clouds had parted leaving the rainbow to stain the sky as the sun bore down upon us again dispelling the awful feeling of discomfort which the wind continued to create.

Marazion is tiny, a very small one-horse town (if that). At Marazion Square, I tried to find a few stores that would allow me to while away the time until 3. 30 (for I did want to give walking across to the Mount a try) but there were none. It seemed sensible to make my way down to the waterfront and finding a few stone steps very conveniently located, I began my slow descent to the pebbly beach, much in the manner of Louisa in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. The wind did not stop whipping itself around me, much to my annoyance.

I climbed a small rock called Chapel Rock and kept waiting for the tide to recede. It was almost
3 pm and I wondered whether I really ought to chance it and try to ford the chasm between mainland and rocky island. What kept me dithering was the fact that the entire island was closed (it being the off-season, it is only open to the public on Tuesdays and Fridays). I wondered if it was worth making the trip only to have to walk along the quay on the other side and do nothing more exciting.

While I was debating my options, I sat down on the rocks and enjoyed the mild afternoon sunshine and the cries of the seagulls. This was the Cornwall for which thousands of tourists descend upon this southwestern corner of England each year. And here I was–having the panorama all to myself. I hugged the scene closely to my heart and stored it in my memory…St. Michael’s Mount rising sharply not a few hundred meters in front of me, a couple of children playing with their dad on the shore, a black Labrador chasing a ball obligingly for its owner and those perpetually encircling seagulls whooping lustily at the sky. I soaked it all in as I sat in tranquil meditation thinking how fortunate I had been to undertake this journey and to arrive at so enchanting a destination.

Then, it was almost 3. 30 pm and I decided against the walk to the island—not because I was tired but because I felt that being unable to climb to the cathedral or the castle made the entire excursion pointless. I nipped into the Post Office instead, back at the bus stop, where I found postcards and a Cornwall magnet (featuring a Cornish cream tea!), then hopped on to the 4. 05 bus and made it back to Penzance in time to catch my 4. 20 pm Bus Number 18 back to Truro.

Savoring Cornwall:
It had been an amazing day, filled with sights that would stay with me, I was sure, for the rest of my life. In the summer, humanity must be converging upon this part of the country in a manner than can only be oppressive. So, I was grateful to be able to savor these spaces when I had them entirely to myself. For me, these spots are not just venues that I have visited, but stops on a journey that have served to make me conscious and appreciative of life’s simplest blessings.

Along the long ride to Truro, I continued to enjoy the Cornish countryside. After a ten-minute wait, I caught Bus Number 90 back to Newquay that entwined itself around tiny villages as we lost light rapidly. I was at the Newquay bus station by 7 pm and I spent the evening transcribing an interview (I knew I would use my laptop after all and get some work done) as I sipped Cornish cider in my room, munched Thai sweet red chilli crisps and then hammered out this blog as I relived my day.

The sound of the Atlantic’s breakers still echo in my ear as I get ready for bed. I can think of no better location for a writer than a room that overlooks the Atlantic in this most idyllic of fashions and I felt blessed that, for a few days at least, this was my room with a view!

Captivated by Cornwall–Discovering St. Ives

Mar8

Wednesday, March 4, 2009
St. Ives, Cornwall

Departure for Cornwall:
As always happens when I have to awake in the middle of the night, I slept sporadically throughout and awoke spontaneously at 2 am. It was I who called Llew to tell him not to bother to call me as I had awoken already. We chatted for a bit. He worried at the thought of my going out into the London night at 2. 30 am but I reassured him that the city is buzzing all night long. I got out of my building at 2.45 only when I saw the N8 bus a few meters away. This allowed me to cross the street and hop right into it without having to wait alone on High Holborn at that hour.

At Victoria, there were late-night commuters hauling their strolleys behind them all along the street leading to the Easybus stand where an older couple were already ahead of me waiting for our coach which arrived at 3. 30 am. Because there was no traffic at all, we reached Stanstead at 4. 48 and within minutes, I was all checked-in and waiting at the gate for my 6. 30 am flight to Newquay.

Touch Down in Cornwall:
Dawn had already broken over Southwestern England as our aircraft lost height on its descent into Cornwall. I was so pleased to be able to spy the biodomes of the Eden Project from the air. Indeed, though the sky was thickly overcast, Cornwall looked bright green at that early hour though I did discern some patches of leftover snow especially over Bodmin Moor. The landscape was crisscrossed with tarred roads that ran through it like narrow black ribbons and occasional traffic was easily visible on them. Then, we were touching down into the wilderness of Newquay airport (at exactly 7. 30 am) and since my bus to the City Center was not for another half hour, I sat in the airport lobby and waited.

It was horribly cold outside today and my expectations of mild Cornish weather were shattered as the icy wind whipped around me. I was so grateful for my warm layered clothing and was thrilled to be able to settle down in the heated coach that took me to Newquay Bus Station from where I followed directions on the five-minute walk to St. Christopher’s Inn where I had a reservation. The sound of the thundering Atlantic waves reached my ears and when I caught my first glimpse of the sea, I also caught my breath, as the pale jade expanse was startlingly beautiful.

At St. Christopher’s Inn, I discovered that check-in time was 2 pm. I could leave my bag there, however, and after extracting my camera and the few essentials I would need for the day, I left it in the care of a young staff attendant to look for the Tourist Information Office as it had just gone 9 am. However, when I did find the Office, I realized that they were closed. It is still off-season in Cornwall and many seasonal businesses remained shut.

A lovely man named Allan in the next-door Council Office did, however, go online to help me find bus schedules and other information. It was not long before I was seated on the bus making my way to Truro, a junction of sorts, from which I needed to connect to another bus. All along the way, I enjoyed the Cornish landscape. Our bus wove lazily through tiny villages somewhat pretentiously and amusingly named High Street and Higher Bugle! Fields with lone horses and new-born black lambs prancing in the early spring sunshine passed outside my window. For indeed Spring had arrived in Cornwall and daffodils were everywhere. Leaving the built-in recesses of Newquay behind with its garish casinos, amusement arcades and surfer’s supplies stores was a relief for rural Cornwall was serene and spiritual and a salve to my travel-weary senses. It wasn’t long before we arrived in Truro and I was able to get a quick look around the market.

Stopping in Truro:
Truro is a bustling town with a cathedral whose spires reach out above the rooftops of uniformly built houses. In the market square, as I was browsing around the stalls, it suddenly came down again ferociously, but just as suddenly, the rain stopped and it was then that I realized that it wasn’t rain at all but hailstones the size of small peas. No wonder the local folk were shaking their heads in bewilderment. It appears that such occurrences are rather rare in these parts and they were quite perplexed by the strangeness of the weather.

Arrival at St. Ives:
Back on the bus to St. Ives, I enjoyed the sun once again—in fact, I have rarely seen such mood swings in the people as impacted by the weather! When we finally reached the town of St. Ives, the sun had disappeared behind a dark cloud and it looked as if it would pour again any second. I decided that it would be a perfect time to closet myself inside the Tate St. Ives which, at any rate, is the chief attraction of the town other than its beaches. Within five minutes, I was at the waterfront and there was Porthmeor Beach with the fierce waves bringing froth and foam to the sand’s edge. The setting of the museum is indeed stunning–a very futuristic space built in 1993. I was grateful for my Metropolitan Museum connections that got me in for free and saved me the 12. 50 pounds that it would have cost to see both the Tate St. Ives and the Barbara Hepworth House and Garden for which a joint ticket is issued.

Exploring Tate St. Ives and the Barbara Hepworth Museums:
The Tate St.Ives does not have a permanent collection. Though created to showcase the work of the Cornish artists who made the area their home and set up an artists’ colony there as early as the 40s, it specializes in setting up periodic exhibitions that focus on the work of the major figures who contributed to the area’s development as a significant artistic Mecca. Leading this movement was Hepworth herself and her husband Ben Nicholson as well as other artists such as Luke Frost and Bernard Leach and it was the work of some of these artists that I saw for the first time today. Apart from their very abstract canvasses, the museum boasts a really singular design and a charming café on the top floor whose picture windows afford some of the most stunning views of the ocean and the lands that embrace it on this sheltered cove.

When I had taken my fill of photographs from this vantage point, I went out in search of Barbara Hepworth’s Studio and Garden and spent the next half hour taking in the individualistic vision that led to her arresting body of work. Ranging in size from small tabletop pieces to gigantic compositions that grace the garden that she personally designed and planted, it was interesting to see her workspace and the tools she used to accomplish her unique designs. Without the use of any machines, she was able to fashion abstract shapes and forms and give them depth and a character that was entirely her own. I shuddered to learn that she passed away in a fire that engulfed her home. Apparently, she was asleep while it broke out leaving her oblivious to it.

Becoming a Beach Bum:
Then, I was out on the cobbled streets of St. Ives enjoying the seaside ambience of this renowned beach resort, checking out its stores, enjoying the ‘tasters’ passed out by the old-fashioned chocolate shops and honey and marmalade stores, buying myself a genuine Cornish pasty from a small bakery that the locals patronized (I ordered a “Premier Steak” because that’s what I heard a regular Cornish customer order) and enjoying its warmth, the crispness of its crust, the flavor of its filling and thinking of the origin of this most regional of foods—the need for Cornish miners to fix themselves a meal that could be eaten underground without silverware. In fact, I remembered that in one of her recent novels, Anita Desai had talked about the Mexican empanada having originated when Cornish miners moved from the tin mines of Cornwall to the silver mines of Mexico in search of work taking the pasty with them and indigenizing it for local consumption.

Be that as it may, the town was a delight to stroll through and I was charmed by everything I saw. Best of all, I had it to myself. Though many of the restaurants were still closed, there was enough of a buzz to make the place feel lived in without becoming overwhelming. I had seagulls for company along the railings that separate rock and cliff from foaming breakers. I spied Godrevy Lighthouse on an island in the distance—the lighthouse that inspired Virginia Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness novel To The Lighthouse. I took pictures galore, trying to capture, as the artists had done through their paints and canvases, the light, the angles of the rooftops and the colors of the sand, the ocean and the sky in that particular brightness which only Cornwall seems to possess.

I walked through the entire curve of the harbor, stopping to buy postcards and searching for magnets (but finding none that took my fancy). I knocked around narrow cobbled streets that were reminiscent of Mykonnos’ ‘chora’ (Old Town) for me with its winding roads, small picturesque balconies and shop windows. I guess all beach resorts have the same laid back ambience, the same combination of bleached sea whiteness with the shocking dashes of color that come from kites and inflatable toys and beach wear. All of it was delightful and I soaked it in, glad to find myself finally in Cornwall where I have often dreamed of being.

Missing the Sea:
I realized, with a sudden pang, that the ocean took me sharply home to Southport and my beloved Connecticut coastline, for I have indeed missed the sea and my close proximity to it in the landlocked environs of London. All my life, I have lived close to the sea-side. In the Bombay suburb of Bandra where I grew up, I could walk to the promenade of the Arabian Sea in three minutes and in Southport, the harbor and the marina of Long Island Sound are similarly close at hand. The salt tang of the Atlantic and the waves that licked the St. Ives’ shores reminded me that these same ones had originated in the same ocean not too far from my permanent home in America and on that nostalgic and very sentimental mode of contemplation, I passed the rest of the afternoon.

A Commuting Faux-Pas:
Then, at close to five, after I had passed by a stone church and its adjoining Memorial Gardens filled with more vivid primroses and daffodils, I climbed uphill towards the bus station and caught the 5 pm bus to Truro where I arrived at 6.30. I had a half hour wait before I made my connection at 7 pm for a bus back to Newquay but that was where I wasn’t thinking right. I waited at the same place where I had alighted from St. Ives instead of at the gate where my bus to Newquay would depart. This meant that I missed the last bus and had to take one run by the Western Greyhound bus service, which did not leave for another 45 minutes. It had grown uncomfortably cold by this time and all the major stores had closed down leaving me with no place to shelter in while I awaited the bus.

Finally, I found the foyer of a hotel called Manning’s and there I settled for 20 minutes before the coach did trundle along and take it with me. I nodded off for a bit and arrived at Newquay at 9 pm and made my way to the inn where the bar was lively with youngsters.

I, however, was pooped and settling into my room, I wrote this blog and went straight to bed.

Lecturing at the V&A, Visiting the Royal Academy of Art and a Posh Private Club

Mar8

Tuesday, March 3, 2009
London

Today was a day for museum hopping. Awaking, as usual, at 5 am, I did a lot of writing in bed, then called my nephew Arav in Bombay and spoke at the same time to his mother, my sister-in-law Lalita whose birthday it was. I also caught up with my brother Roger and told both him and Lalita that I had a new understanding of the kind of life they have led for over 20 years as cabin crew members with Air-India, for I have often felt like a stewardess myself this year as I have lived out of suitcases on my many jaunts and awoken in strange beds wondering, for a few seconds, in which part of the world I was.

Then, I had my yogurt and muesli breakfast at 7. 30am, showered, and left my flat by 9.15. Instead of bussing it, I took the Tube to South Kensington and arrived a little too early to start my 10 am gallery lecture at the Victoria and Albert Museum for my South Asian Studies students. I decided to explore the area that is fashionably known as “South Ken”, a stronghold of London’s French community, according to my Parisienne student, Julia Anderson.

And she was quite right. I passed by Jolie Fleur, a tres chic florist whose window displays were as beguiling as the ones you see all over France. There were any amount of cafés trottoirs (pavement cafes—yes even in the chill of late winter) selling filled baguettes and cafes au laits and even a delicatessen with a stock of typiquement French ingredients such as pate and saumon fume and cornichons, not to mention Proust’s famous madelienes! It was fun indeed to wander around this little corner of Gaul and I did wish I had more time especially to browse in the vintage stores—another time, perhaps.

I arrived at the V&A a few minutes after ten, but my students were nowhere to be seen. I settled down in the lobby (as that was our meeting spot) and awaited their arrival while admiring the stunning Dale Chihuly chandelier, which is one of my favorite pieces in the museum. It is funny but after having spent only a few days in this place, it feels like home to me—in the same way that the National Gallery and the Metropolitan Museum in New York do!

When at 10. 15, there was no sign of my students, I began to worry. Did I not make myself clear that we were to meet in the lobby? Had I make a mistake with the time? We were meeting at 10 and not at 11, right? With all these worries floating through my brain, I took a deep breath, decided to stay calm and wait patiently. It was possible that they were stuck in the Tube, wasn’t it? A few minutes later, they burst upon me, laughing and apologizing and sighing with relief, all at the same time. It seems that they had been waiting for me at a side entrance, not the main one. When we failed to connect, they had begun to panic!

Well, all was well, fortunately, that ended well, and we made our way to the Nehru Gallery of South Asian Art which I had studied a few weeks ago and where I took them through a brief history of Modern India as manifested by its art and craftsmanship. We examined Mogul and Rajasthani miniatures, Indian calico cottons, marble and wooden (jali) carvings, gold (jari) embroidered sarees and sheraras as worn by Muslim nobility, gold and bejeweled ornaments including turban pieces worn by men that were studded with emeralds, rubies and sapphires, wooden furniture inlaid with ivory (gifts from Indian royalty to East India Company officials), bidriware, enamelware, ivory furniture, a golden throne, Tipu’s famous Tiger, the jade drinking cup of Shah Jehan, and a host of other marvelous items that had them exclaiming and asking all kinds of very relevant questions. I also took them up to the museum’s jewelry galleries where they did some more exclaiming and finally, I led them to the café where the restaurant rooms featuring the work of William Morris, Poynter and Gamble are showpieces in themselves.

We parted company as they returned to campus for their next class while I took the bus home. While eating my lunch (Pizza Paradiso’s pizza), I finished watching 1947 Earth as I do want to start work on the lecture I am giving in Italy later this month based on this movie. Despite the fact that I have seen it so many times before, it never fails to brings tears to my eyes and I was deeply saddened, once again, by the end of the film in which the author Bapsi Sidhwa herself makes a cameo appearance.

Meanwhile, in the midst of all these things, I was also trying desperately to reach the Podiatry Clinic as I had finally received my letter in the mail informing me that a referral had been received on my behalf and that I was required to call and make an appointment. Except that though I tried more than 50 times (I know because the number of tries I made are recorded on my cell phone), I always got the message “User Busy” back! All day—I mean from 9. 30 am (when they opened) until 3.00 pm—it said “User Busy”. I am convinced that something was wrong with that line. But, get this, at 1. 10pm, when I finally did get through, I got Voice Mail, informing me that they were closed between 1.00 and 1.3 0 for lunch! At 1. 45, I got “User Busy” once again. It was enough to make me want to tear out my hair by the handful in frustration! I was keen to make the appointment as I would be in Cornwall for the next few days and wanted to get the business of fixing an appointment over with!!! In the end, I simply gave up. I guess I shall try again tomorrow.

Next, I turned to packing—or rather re-packing. Having decided to take my laptop with me, my backpack was inadequate and I had to move all my stuff into my duffel bag. This was swift work and by 3. 45 pm, I was heading out the door again, this time to the Royal Academy of Art to meet Rosemary who is a member there. She is privileged to use the museum for free and to take companions along as well. We had planned to meet there at 4. 15 and since I did not want to be late, I took the Tube again—as buses are very unreliable and do not work if one has an appointment to keep.

Though I have passed by the Royal Academy dozens of time in the bus, I had never been to this gallery and I have to say that I was floored by the splendor of the building. Its Neo-Classical quadrangle is grand in every sense of the term and the rather contemporary fountain in the center is the only element that clashes, I thought, with the dignity of the place. Like Rosemary, my taste is much too traditional and both of us would have preferred a cascading fountain in the center rather than the kind that spouts water sporadically from the ground (as also seen at Somerset House). A wonderful bronze sculpture of Sir Joshua Reynolds at the entrance is a very appropriate touch for, undoubtedly, he had much to do with the setting up of this venerable institution.

Rosemary and I were there to see the special exhibition on ‘Byzantium’. It is funny how I have learned to pronounce the word “Byzantine” the American way—I now say “Biz-en-teen’. It sounded odd to hear the very English Rosemary pronounce it as “By-zin-tyne”. Yet before I moved to American that was exactly how I would have pronounced it myself! While we were in the midst of the exhibition, I realized that I had seen quite a few of these pieces before in the Treasures of Saint Mark’s Basilica in Venice last March. In fact, the signature piece that is used on all the publicity posters–a very ornate censer in three different metals—silver, brass and copper—I do remember seeing with my friends Amy and Mahnaz when we were in Venice last year. Some of the pieces reminded me so much of the staggering beauty of the Pala D’Oro especially in the precious stones that were studded in the gold settings that formed the frames of some of the work.

The last rooms contained some magnificent icons that had arrived in London from the Benaki Museum in Athens, Greece, and from the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Russia. They were superb and very exciting to examine as I have never really had the chance to study icons so closed and in such a large number. For me, this was certainly the highlight of the exhibition. I told Rosemary that I would like her to take me to the special exhibition that has just opened on Andrea Palladio, as coincidentally, I am, later this month, going to be staying in Vicenza, Italy, the city of Palladio, with my friend Annalisa Oboe, who lives there. While Llew, Chriselle and I have visited Annalisa in Vicenza before, this time I really do want to take careful notice of his ‘Palladian’ architecture that is showcased all over this city.

The museum closed at 6 pm and Rosemary suggested we go out for a drink as the evening was still young. It had started to drizzle by this time and since I had no umbrella, we shared her’s. Instead of hunting around for a pub in the rain, at her suggestion, we made our way down St. James’ Street towards her Club—The Royal Overseas League Club–where she has been a member for a while and her partner Christie Cherian is on the Board of Directors.

Indeed, the building was another one of those posh London residences that have been converted into private clubs or into hotels and in the lovely interior with its ornamental staircase, its portrait of the Queen and its beautiful flower arrangements, we ordered our drinks (a white wine for her, a Guinness for me) and settled down to one of our cozy chats. Rosemary ran into a friend called John Edwards to whom she introduced me as “her friend from New York” and John suggested that I take a look at a special exhibition in the foyer of oil paintings by an artist from New York.

Soon, it was time for us to leave as I had to wake up at 2. 15 am for my flight to Cornwall and at about 7. 30, we parted company and went our separate ways. Back home, I finalized the packing of my duffel bag, ate my dinner of Thai Green Curry (Chicken) with Tiramisu for dessert before I got ready for bed at 9 pm.

I called Llew and told him to call me at 9. 15 pm which would be 2. 15 am (my time), just in case my cell phone alarm did not go off, and on that note, I hit the sack.

A Routine Sorta Day!

Mar2

Monday, March 2, 2009
London

Up again at 5 am, I spent most of the morning preparing for my classes today and fine-tuning my grant application. I am also getting material ready for my trip to Cornwall on Wednesday and did remember to book my Easybus ticket from Victoria to Stanstead airport.

When I did get out of bed at 7. 30 am, I ate my breakfast (Tesco’s Muesli with yogurt and honey) while watching a part of 1947, Earth–Deepa Mehta’s film on the partition of the Indian sub-continent which is based on the novel Cracking India by Bapsi Sidhwa. I have been invited by my friend Annalisa Oboe of the Modern Languages Department at the University of Padua in Italy to give a lecture to her graduate students on March 19 and I do need to get started with the research and writing of this paper. And, of course, since I am intending to comment on the adaptation of the work from page to screen, I need to watch the film one more time and show excerpts from it. After a very long time, I shall be taking my laptop on a trip–this one to Cornwall–where I intend to continue working on this presentation as well as transcribing two of the interviews I did with Anglo-Indian subjects.

I set off from home a little earlier than usual to teach my Monday classes as Llew wanted me to pop into a camera store to take a look at a new camera that he intends to buy for us as I have damaged the one we have been using for almost ten years. I hopped into Jessops on New Oxford Street and took a look at the model, only to discover that it is very similar to the one we currently own–but sleeker, smaller, lighter and with a larger viewing screen. I liked it as much as Llew does and I green lighted his proposal to go ahead and buy it–in the States, of course, where it is much cheaper (almost half the price that was quoted to me by the guy at Jessops). Truly, we are so fortunate about the reasonable cost of living in America–this is being brought home to me not just while living here in London, but indeed on my recent visit to Norway where the prices of everything were just exorbitant!

My classes went off well and while I ate my tongue sandwich lunch at my desk, I managed to touch base with the real estate agent who represents my landlord in the hope of being able to extend my lease through the summer months. The issue of my summer accommodation continues to be a worry (as it is for my colleague Karen who has also been served with notice to vacate her Islington flat by the end of May) and I hope I shall be able to resolve it soon. What I am realizing is that it in London one only starts to look for June accommodation in May! It really doesn’t serve any purpose to try to be the early bird… so I simply must try to develop patience.

Right after my second class ended, I had a private Tutorial in my office with my South Asian Studies students who are coming along very well in their reading and writing through the independent study module that I am supervising. They handed in their assignments to me (0ne report on a film, another on a book) and have completed reading Dominic Lapierre and Larry Collins’ Freedom at Midnight as well as seen Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi. We had a very animated discussion indeed and I am very pleased with their progress.

I barely had the time to send in my application for the grant by the deadline when I had to leave my office to attend the General Faculty Meeting held upstairs at 6 pm. Dinner (an assortment of finger sandwiches and drinks) was provided and I had the chance to socialize with some of the new friends I’ve made among the faculty such as Emma Sweeney, Julia Pascal and Moira Ferguson. It is funny but though I do not see them very often (faculty members always have differing schedules and so rarely meet outside of such venues), I feel quite comfortable with many of them and do enjoy catching up with them. So many have been asking me to get together with them for lunch or coffee and I am keen to do this now that I know that my time here is limited and fast drawing to a close. I also met Karen today after a very long time. Now that we are teaching on different days, we no longer meet regularly and I do miss our weekly dinners. She has also been entertaining her in-laws from the States while trying to meet a publication deadline and coping with poor health. We resolved to get together soon, though with all the traveling I will be doing this month, any plans look doubtful.

I returned to my office after the meeting to tie up a few loose ends and left about 8. 30 pm to catch the bus and get home to respond to my email and write this blog.

It was a good beginning to the week and I am looking forward to the rest of it with much anticipation.

Chained to my PC!

Mar1

Sunday, March 1, 2009
London

I awoke again at 5 am. I am now convinced it has something to do with the temperature in my bedroom–perhaps it is too warm! While in Oslo, I slept effortlessly until almost 7 am each day. Yet, here I was, unable to get back to sleep and, left with little choice at that unearthly hour, I turned to my PC to hammer out my Norway Travelogue. I was all done by 7. 30 am–it did take me two and a half straight hours, but when it was done, it was time to say a quick Hello to my parents in Bombay and tell them that I would call them later for a longer chat as I needed to shower and get ready for Mass.

Stephanie and I had both decided that we would stay put at home this Sunday as she was feeling under the weather and I had a pile of things to do. When I was done showering, I made myself a cup of coffee and gulping it down quickly, I set off for St. Etheldreda’s Church to which I was returning after several Sundays as my weekly sojourns with Steph have taken me to services all over the Home Counties! It felt like home and quite suddenly I was gripped by the strange feeling that I have attended Mass in this church all my life–it helped, I suppose, that Fr. Sebu, a priest from Kerala was the chief celebrant this morning!

Indeed, as I walked home, London felt like home. There is a certain ease now with which I find my way around unfamiliar places, with which I use the internet to find bus routes, with which I find the cheapest ways to purchase air tickets or theater tickets or opera tickets. Though I still feel as if I am on a year-long vacation, I no longer feel unsure of myself in this city. And this is a blessedly calming feeling indeed.

I ate a big bowl of cereal with yogurt and honey as I was starving, but I did not linger over it as I had a great deal of items on my To-Do List. One after the other, I ticked them off, the most crucial being the finalizing of a draft for an application for a grant that I need for the summer. I brought my blog up to date, drafted my February newsletter, downloaded my Norway photographs from my camera, unpacked my backpack and put things away while re-packing for the trip to Cornwall that I shall be doing on Wednesday. I did have a long chat with my Mum in Bombay and then with Llew who told me all about a 50th birthday party he had attended last night for our friend Kim Walton in Connecticut.

A mid-afternoon telephone call brought me the very spontaneous invitation to supper from my friend Bishop Michael Colclough. I was looking forward to seeing him and his wife Cynthia again as I hadn’t seen them for a while as both they and I have been traveling so much. By 7. 15 pm, I was at their lovely and very gracious home at Amen Corner near St. Paul’s Cathedral were we sat down for a long chat. Their boys Aidan and Edward were home and we all sat down to a cozy family dinner of Cottage Pie and Corn and Coleslaw with fresh pineapple and butterscotch ice-cream for dessert. It was simple home-cooked fare brimming with flavor that was served in a mood of generous hospitality. Best of all, I managed to catch up with my friends and learn all about their recent trip to Tenerife and about the boys’ upcoming exams as they grapple with their Law studies.

Then, I was on the bus again returning home after a long day that had me practically chained to my PC. I have caught up with almost all my pending chores and have decided to carry my PC with me to Cornwall as I do wish to use the evenings to transcribe a couple of interviews, edit and caption photographs on my hard drive and just organize the material that I have been gleaning and collating through my research.

Another week begins tomorrow and with it comes the promise of more exciting travel and the joys of the English seaside. I can’t wait…

Goodbye Oslo, Hello London!

Mar1

Saturday, February 28, 2009
Oslo-London

Day Three–Tying up Loose Ends:
The Oslo Opera House:
I awoke to another hearty Norwegian breakfast and having packed my backpack for my 6. 20 pm Ryanair departure from Torp airport, I decided to spend my last day seeing a few things that I did not want to leave Oslo without covering.

Breakfasting with Katya, I discovered that the Oslo Opera House is a masterpiece of contemporary architecture and she urged me to take a look at it before leaving. She also told me that it was very easy to access it from the Central Train Station if I walked along a bridge that connected me to the waterfront where the building is located. I followed her guidance and did see the Opera House for myself. It is not as unusual as the Sydney Opera House in design but I am sure it has superb acoustics in addition to a very interesting design. With that item scratched off my list of Must-See Items, I headed to the next attraction.

The Baldishol Tapestry in the Museum of Applied Arts:
Reading my guide book, I had discovered that one of Norway’s greatest cultural treasures is the Baldishol Tapestry that hangs in the lightly-frequently Museum of Applied Art. This lies a little off the beaten tourist track and took some finding.

But when I got there, I discovered that it did not open until 12 noon on Saturdays. I was crushed. I really was determined to see it, especially as my ignorance of its existence had prevented me from seeing France’s famous Bayeaux Tapestry, about fifteen years ago, when I was only a few miles away from it in Normandy! If ever I have to return to Normandy some day, it will be to see the Tapestry at the Cathedral at Bayeux that tells the entire story of the conquering of England by William the Conqueror in 1066.

Now that I was here in Norway and was only a few feet away from the Baldishol Tapestry that dates from between 1040 and 1190 and is the only Nordic tapestry from the Middle Ages that uses the Gobelin Techniques, I was bent on seeing it. I am not going to detail the ways and means I used to get into the museum to see it, but suffice it to say, that see it I did and what a sight it was! The colors are so vivid, the detail so minute, the workmanship so fine and so breathtaking that I was so pleased I had braved hell and high water to cast an appreciative eye over it! Though it is only a fragment of a larger piece, this one showing the months of April and May, give only a small indication of what the entire work must have looked like!

The Tapestry is named after the Baldishol church in Hedmark, Norway, which came to light after the demolition of the Baldishol church in the late 1870s. I was delighted to have had the chance to see it and though I wasn;t able to take a photograph, I will carry its image in my mind forever.

Vigeland Park:
This left me enough time to take a tram to Vigeland Park, another great show case of fine art—this one the work of Norway’s most famous sculptor, Gustav Vigeland. Indeed, if Parc Gruell in Barcelona provides a showcase for the work of Antoni Gaudi, then Vigeland Park, which serves the same purpose, is a must-see for any visitor to Oslo. Though I clearly would not be seeing the park at its best (the green expanses must be awesome in summer), the snow-covered lawns were no less uplifting and I was stunned repeatedly by the size and the vision of this artist of whose work I have never heard until I set foot in Norway!

The park, which is right in the heart of the city, contains 212 sculptures by Vigeland done in the 1920, 30s and 40s in a variety of materials, though the most common are stone and metal. The visitor follows the path that leads to the Monolith, a tall obelisk that is covered quite splendidly with human nudes. All around the monolith are more stone sculptures. To get to the monolith, one needs to walk upon a granite bridge, both sides of which are full of sculptures (similar to Karlovy Most or Charles Bridge in Prague and I often felt as if I were there with Llew and Chriselle who followed me in my imagination of my discovery of these moving masterpieces). Of the sculptures on the bridge, the most famous is that of the Little Angry Boy and while most visitors take pictures of this animated baby in the midst of a tantrum, the little serene girl on the other side sadly goes unnoticed! I had to take her picture, of course, as I am sure the two were meant to be viewed together! The bridge leads to another colossal sculpture of six giants holding up a gigantic bowl on their shoulders. In the summer, this also serves as a fountain. At this time of year, it is invariably filled with snow which is also a pretty sight.

Return Journey Home:
One could, doubtless, spend hours in this park, and had I leisure enough and time, I would had lingered. But I needed to get on the bus and then the metro to return to the Oslo Bus Terminal to take my bus back to Torp—a good two hours away. Almost all Ryan air flights land at remote airports and the journey to the airport from Oslo took me more time that the flight across the North Sea from London to Oslo! But this too is something to which I have become accustomed and I do choose my flights accordingly.

All went well. I enjoyed another lovely drive through the heart of Norwegian winter landscapes as I took in the beauty of lakes, hills, mountains and meadows all draped uniformly in thick fluffy mounds of snow. It had been a very interesting experience and though I did not return filled with a sense of historical awe as I had done from my visit to Berlin, Oslo was so full of fascinating surprises that it kept me completely under its spell for three full days.

As I returned home on the Easybus coach, I couldn’t help thinking that this past year is like a Gap Year for me—the kind of year to which students treat themselves between high school and college when they leave their familiar environment behind to launch into the unknown. It is a year filled with discovery–of themselves and the world they inhabit. In every respect that is exactly what this year is proving to be for me. And I cannot help but feel deeply blessed that I had this incredible opportunity to explore our world in this carefree fashion.

Bygdoy–Oslo’s Lovely Peninsular

Mar1

Friday, February 27, 2009
Oslo, Norway

Exploring Bygdo–The Viking Ships Museum:

I decided to devote Day Two to Bygdoy (Like Big Boy, except this is Big Doy!), a peninsular that juts into the fjord. Once an island, it was reclaimed by Karl Johans and now had a motorway that connects the island to the mainland. Claimed as prime real estate, it has a number of embassies and consulates located here as well as beautiful residential mansions and homes that were magically transformed into million-dollar beauties under the cover of winter. I loved the drive on Bus Number 30 that got me to Bygdoy and having purchased an Oslo Pass for 24 hours (220 kroner), I was able to visit all the museums on the peninsular free of charge as well as use all forms of transportation for free.

My first port of call was the Viking Ships Museum which is set in a fabulously designed building (by Arnestein Arneberg in 1914) in the shape of a cross—each arm containing one of the ships themselves. These ships were found in burial mounds (similar to the concept behind the Sutton Hoo Buried Viking ship and its contents in the British Museum) in southern Norway. The three 1000 year old Viking ships, the Oseberg, the Gokstad and the Tune ship (this one in the least well-preserved state) were excavated in the early years of the 20th century, then restored beautifully and exhibited in this museum where they stand as silent sentinels of Norway’s history, telling, nevertheless, many intriguing stories of belief in the afterlife. We saw a burial chamber as would have been on every ship together with a vast number of metal artifacts that were buried with the dead. The gold, silver and previous jewelry that would have also been buried with the dead Viking chieftains were plundered many years ago, but the articles left behind speak eloquently of a long lost civilization that once lorded it over the waters of Europe. The ships and the hoard left behind had me spellbound.

The Nordic Folk Museum:
A short stroll away along ice encrusted streets is the Nordic Folk Museum, a vast open air museum that documents the lives of Norwegians through the centuries. While it must seem like Disneyland in the summer when mobbed by tourists, it was empty but for a few school kids who had come with their teachers on field trips. Despite the cold, they enjoyed themselves fully in the open air running around in their winter gear and playing tag.

My tour book had informed me that there were three highlights I should not miss in this vast space and I headed first for Gamlebyen or Old Town, a cluster of homes, shops, post office, etc. dating from the last century and transported to this space in a bid to preserve them. These Tudor-like structures with their stucco walls and exposed beams had a quiet beauty about them. Inside, I could peak into the rooms and see the fitments that proclaimed the kind of rural lives led by Norway’s ordinary people back in the day. Following the path through the museum, I arrived at a grand building that was open. I pushed the heavy door and found myself in an apartment building. Each floor was recreated to produce an idea of what life would have been like in Oslo over the past century. There was, for instance, an apartment decorated to look like the interior of Torvald and Nora Helmer’s home in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. This was superbly done and I felt as I was on the film set with Jane Harris and Jason Robards in the film version that I have seen. And wasn’t Torvald played by Christopher Plummer?

On another floor, there was a replica of the apartment once owned in the 1960s by Norway’s then Prime Minister. The Beatles played on the radiogram, Beatles and Rolling Stones posters filled the walls of the teenage son’s room and the gadgetry in the kitchen spoke of cozy family dinners in the winter. Loving interior decoration and design as much as I do, it was a treat to wander through the silent home and try to place myself in those epochs.

Then, I was out on the street again making my way towards Setesdaltunet, a whole street containing old wooden homes built on stilts that were transported from Setesdal in Northern Norway and brought there. The snow was melting in the bright sunshine and fell in great big drops on the grounds or formed mini-stalactites around the eaves of these charming wooden structures—many of which I entered and found to be dark and sparse.

The last highlight of this museum, according to my book, is the 11th century Gol Stave Church and to get there, I had to climb a steep winding hill to gaze upon a small wooden church that was very reminiscent of the many pagodas I saw in Thailand in the ancient wats that dot the Northern highlands. The layers of the church’s exterior were densely covered with snow (at least six inches had fallen) but it was the inside that was amazing. The rear wall was covered with a faint painting of the Last Supper and in front of it was a very rustic altar—just a table basically with two candle stands. It was in this church that I saw the carved portal at the door which took me back to the magnificent specimen I had seen in the History Museum and I realized where in such a church, this sort of structure would fit. It was mind blowing and the impressions these discoveries made on me were heightened by the utter silence of the landscape that allowed me to contemplate my surroundings and seemed to spiritualize my discoveries.

The Kon-Tiki, Fram and Maritime Museums:
It was time then to board the bus (the Oslo Pass includes free rides on all modes of transport) and make my way to the tip of the peninsula to get to the Kon-Tiki Museum. I had done bit of reading and knew that the Kon-Tiki is associated with Thor Heyerdahl, one of Norway’s best known oceanographers. Indeed, Nordic sea-faring history which began with the Vikings who were aggressive sailors, explorers and adventurers, carried forward well into contemporary times in the many explorations and experiments undertaken by Heyerdahl throughout his life.

The Kon-Tiki Museum documents the two main voyages he undertook—one from Peru to the Easter Islands with a crew of six in a balsam raft he called the Kon-Tiki and another called the Ra II, a papyrus boat (as existed in ancient Egypt) that he sailed from Morocco to Barbados with a multi-racial and multi-cultural crew of eight. The museum has done such a wondrous job of educating the visitor on the planning, preparation, dangers and accomplishments of these voyages that, unbelievably, were undertaken successfully on such primitive craft as to leave on speechless. The Kon-Tiki expedition was completed in 1947 and a few years later, in 1954, the documentary film that was made on it won the Oscar Award for Best Documentary Film. Not only were we able to see the actually award-winning documentary in a marvelous setting—the inside of a cave as found on Easter Island—but, get this, we were actually able to see the Oscar that the film won! For me, a devoted cinema-buff, to finally see Oscar face-to-face and so unexpectedly, was a thrill that words cannot describe. Naturally, I had to take a picture right by the golden statue and it was for me more exciting that the news than the crew braved a 60 foot long killer whale shark that encircled the raft for hours on end before one of the crew members could stand the stress no longer and harpooned it off into the Deep! So, I went to see the Kon-Tiki and I ended up seeing a real Oscar!

My next destination was the Fram Museum, another quite wondrous structure built around the height and width of the great ship, the Fram, that had participated in so many expeditions to the South Pole including the last one by Roald Amundsen in 1910-1912. Not only could you see the great dimensions of this ship but you could actually walk upon its deck. It was similar to the experience I had walking upon the deck not inches away from where Lord Nelson had fallen on the H.M.S. Victory at Portsmouth only a few days earlier. A visit into the interior of the ship proves that shipping had improved enormously since Nelson’s time.

The small crews on these voyages had almost luxurious cabins (tiny but very well fitted out indeed) and none of the squalor that characterized life at sea for sailors who were “hard-pressed” (forced) into sea service in the 18th century. There actually was a billiards table and a piano on board that spoke of evenings of leisure and happy entertainment. It blew my mind to think that I was actually standing on a ship that had been to the farthest points in the north and south of our planet—parts of the globe on which, I know, I will never set foot. Outside, in the expanses that faced Oslo harbor, is the Gjoa, a small boat that Amundsen used when negotiating the Northwest Passage for the first time in 1912. This area also afforded some terrific views of the fjord and the port.

And then I could not resist popping into the Maritime Museum next door which is the receptacle of all of Norway’s sea-faring history. Here, another unexpected treat awaited me for visitors are led into a vast auditorium to watch a film on a multi-plex screen (five parts) similar to the experience of watching an IMAX movie. This marvelous film took us on a guided coastal visual tour of Norway with stupendous camera work from a low-flying helicopter and a boat. In and out, we wound through fjords that rose with steep cliffs facing ahead of us which reminded me so much of the real helicopter ride that Llew and I had taken on the island of Kauai in Hawaii when we had skimmed only feet above the famed Na Pali Cliffs. Though I was seated in an auditorium, I had a few nail biting moments as we swerved with the camera over these heights then dropped rapidly to the depths of the sea shore where fishing villages that scar the landscape offered a glimpse into the plain rural life of Nordic country folk. From villages to cities, we passed through Bergen and made our way to Oslo as we learned about the role she has played in global maritime life. Truly, this was one of the highlights of my trip—and it ranked almost as close as did the seeing of the Oscar Award for the first time.

Also very interesting about this museum is the painting Leif Erickson Sees America for the First Time by Christian Krogh which fills one wall. It is based on the theory that the Nordic seamen had arrived in North American long before Columbus did and is proudly displayed in this space. I was also deeply touched by a special exhibition on the Boat People of Vietnam who were rescued by Nordic sailors and brought as immigrants to Norway right after the end of the Vietnam War. A recent reunion brought these half starved and dying immigrant people together after thirty years and it was in their honor that this exhibition was held together with one of the actual boats on which they were rescued from those troubled Asian waters.

Night had fallen by the time I arrived at Haraldsheim as the tram I chose to take had to come to a standstill for almost an hour as another one ahead of it had broken down. By this time, I felt confident about finding my way back to the Youth Hostel and the darkness no longer served to unnerve me. A hot shower later, I was in bed and reading and marveling at everything I had seen.