It was the most stupid place on the island to let down my guard, and I don’t even know why I did – because I was in a familiar place? Sunday, car boot sale in Guaza, a melting pot of humanity, including always some suspect and weird folk. Since I’ve been downsizing for years now, bit by bit, I’ve sold things at this sale several times, and never had so much as a paper clip knicked – perhaps because I always keep my wits about me, and often take my dog.  Last Sunday, however, I was just visiting a friend who was doing the market, but clearly I’d let my previous good fortune and my familiarity with the place make me too relaxed.

I’ve been through the anger, the upset and the depression, and now I am blaming myself. Are we justified in doing this? I’m certainly not the only blogger who’s been robbed and observed afterwards that they should have been more alert, both Dave from Medellin Living and Matthew from Expert Vagabond have written about being robbed in recent months, and whilst my loss isn’t as scary as Dave’s (at gunpoint!) nor as devastating as Matthew’s (his laptop on which he totally relies for his work – but read his post to see how he is getting his revenge!), my heart still sank to my boots when I realized that my Blackberry was gone, and when I yelled expletives it was myself I was yelling at as much as the thief.

I’m guessing there are few of us who haven’t been robbed somehow or other in this modern world, and one thing I learned is that it happens everywhere. When folk tutted about the theft of my handbag years ago here in Tenerife, implying that it was the island’s fault, I was able to retort that only five days previously I’d had a bag stolen from a car in England. It had happened to me twice before over the years in UK, and I can honestly say that it was partly my own fault, in as much as I let down my guard in every case for the split seconds it took.  But, honestly, shouldn’t we be able to do that? Shouldn’t we be able to relax and carry on our normal lives without being suspicious of everyone who passes us by? Normally I’m alert to the possibilities of theft, I hide stuff, I choose where I walk at night, I’m aware of what’s going on around me, but it only takes a moment and all that vigilance was useless.

Of course, the loss of the phone will be hard. I can’t just go out and buy another Blackberry, it was part of the deal with the contract I took out with Vodafone, that I  paid only €24 for it, and I am already missing the convenience of seeing Twitter and Facebook and email updates without having to turn on my computer. Most of all I miss being able to contact my sons whenever I want to because I had Blackberry Messenger. I certainly can’t afford to SMS them as much, nor the close friends who have WhatsAp.  I suspect strongly that the thief is better off than I am. I like my techie stuff these days, my laptop, my camera, my ipod and I did enjoy my phone, but I don’t spend money on much else the way I once did, say on clothes, wine or dining out and entertainment. I suppose it’s a matter of one’s priorities in life, and it’s wrong that I scrimp and save for stuff to risk it being stolen. From where do thieves get the mentality that if they want something they can just take it, regardless of from whom they steal? Yeah, I know there are much, much worse stories, old folk being half -beaten to death for a few dollars, or people with serious injuries after being mugged.

I just want to vent this anger at the whole mindset.  I want to stamp my feet and cry and get back at someone. Mostly I want all those lovely pix and memories that were in the fotos and videos on the phone back. That’s the thing which always hurts most. Even though I can’t afford it, it isn’t the monetary value it’s the sentimental stuff you can’t replace, and I hate the person who took my phone for stealing a part of me, and also for making me stupid.

A.  Age you went on your first International trip:  I was fifteen. It was a school exchange trip to Sölingen in Germany. I had a big, old suitcase like something out of Agatha Christie, with a tennis racket strapped to the outside – how many black & white movies had I seen??? And it was train and ferry – pity the poor teachers in charge of a gaggle of teenage girls! I was thinking about it only the other day, and have a partly written post when I get time to finish it!

B.  Best (foreign) beer you’ve had and where:  According to knowledgeable friends, my taste in beer is pathetic (I actually like light, lager-type beers), but I do have a good memory of a wet, blustery and boozy afternoon and  “Black Velvet” – Guinness with champagne – in the Isle of Man off the coast off north west England some years ago.

C.  Cuisine:  Default response – Italian, even though I love Thai, French, Indian and sushi  – yep, even after consideration, it’s Italian, especially homemade with really fresh ingredients natch.

D.  Destinations, favorite, least favorite and why:  Least favorite, Paris. Maybe expectations were too high, maybe because it was February (dreary month for northernEurope), maybe in wrong company – oh I had a good time, and I did enjoy it, but it simply didn’t “do it” for me the way I expected. Rome, on the other hand, twists itself around my heart more each time I return.

Phew – that was fun, drifting down memory lane a while, and now I nominate the folk below to do the same!

Okey, doke, now I’ve looked back at other posts with this theme, and I’m really not sure who began it, so a thanks to whomever it was, and thanks to Cathy for nominating me.  I’m also not sure who’s already done it. Looks like it’s being going around for a while, so here I’m tagging some random folk, and if you’ve already done it, or don’t have time, well just ignore I guess!

Katrina of Tourabsurd.com

Andy and Jack from Buzztrips.co.uk

Barbara from Holeinthedonut.com

Laurel from Expat in Germany

Lily from Sunshine  and Stilettos

We had a day almost like that for a short hike on Thursday. The temperatures were warm, but not hot, the sun shone and the skies were blue.  The only complaint was the calima which made the views less than perfect…….and it seems really picky to complain! As we twisted our way up to the National Park from Arona the mountains shimmered in the haze, and as we rose higher the ocean became a kind of whitish blur below us, and finally became invisible.

Calima is the suspension in the air of Saharan sand and dust, blown across that stretch of the Atlantic which separates these islands from Africa. The culture here is so very European that if it weren’t for this reminder from time to time we might forget that geographically we have far more in common with that continent than with Europe. Sometimes the calima’s effect is the same as low cloud, blocking the sun and giving life a gloomier backdrop than usual, but this day it wasn’t so intense.

When we stopped for coffee in Vilaflor, even at 10am, the sun was warm and bright, and it was hard to believe that this is Spain’s highest village, something that never fails to amaze me in Winter. Sitting there at a Coca Cola- red, plastic table and remembering similar chairs and tables in the ski resorts of the Sierra Nevada,  it was hard to take in that I was higher here than there.

Instead of driving into the caldera, we turned left and took the road which eventually leads down to Chio and the west coast. It’s a bleak stretch of road at times, depending on the weather and time of day, but Thursday morning the stark badlands to our right, with distinct, ancient lava flows and little vegetation contrasted with the intense sapphire of the sky, and seemed warmer than I remembered. We were heading, however, away from Tenerife’s most famous volcano in the direction of its youngest, Chinyero.

Chinyero last erupted a mere 103 years ago, in 1909, Cristina remarked that her grandmother had remembered the event, and I was struck by, often, how little we treasure the living links with history we have amongst family and friends. I love to hear Cristina’s own reminiscences about her childhood and insights from older generations. Life in the Canary Islands, under Franco, meant that progress we took for granted in western Europe and north America in the 50s and 60s didn’t happen here until later, with the effect that there are still folk living who are young enough to remember the much harsher kind of life which my long-dead grandparents used to talk of…….. but I digress (what’s new?!).

Pulling off the main road and leaving the car on a cleared space on the hard shoulder, we set off through sparse forest and  barren lava fields.  The forests of these slopes are pine, and almost exclusively Canary Pine, a hardy tree which can withstand the strong winds which whistle across the spaces between the island’s volcanoes, and which bring down the less stalwart species, which have been planted over the years to fill in deforested areas. Their needles, long and graceful,  collect the morning dew, channeling it to earth to seep through the porous rock and underground to feed hidden reservoirs.

In this area almost all the trees we saw bore witness to the forest fires which raged there four years ago, their blackened trunks,  left charcoal stains on your fingers when touched. Canary Pines are almost totally fire-resistant, and new growth on the charred trunks signaled rebirth and life’s continuing cycle.

With Chinyero to our left and El Teide and Pico Viejo to our right, though veiled by the calima, there really was a sense of pre-history, as we emerged from the trees to pass through lava fields so bleak and desolate it wasn’t hard to imagine them steaming as they cooled down a hundred years ago. It most certainly was a landscape to inspire musings on the powerful forces of Nature.  Between the reminders of raging forest fires and Nature’s ability to renew, and the stunning lava landscapes, from the fine, black sands to the huge boulders all spewed from earth’s mysterious interior, a walk here has the effect of putting you, as a puny human, in your place.

Rugged badlands of basalt opened up before us as we turned a corner. The route we had chosen was circular, and would bring us back to our starting point without having to retrace our steps. We passed from dark and arid landscape and back into forest, crisp with pine needles underfoot. We haven’t had any rain to speak of this winter yet.  Canarian pine forests typically have little undergrowth, in contrast to the lusher forests of the Anaga Mountains with their bracken and moss.  Here the undergrowth was dominated by pennyroyal, locally known as poleo, and widely used in infusions, despite its dubious reputation.

Since 1994 the area around the main volcanic cone of Chinyero has been a Protected Natural Reserve, and I was really happy to note that everyone going there seems to respect that, because we didn’t see one piece of  litter of any kind.  The paths are well laid out, and the signs, hmm, quite good, could be better, there were a couple of places where they were a tad confusing. Pilar, the expert amongst us, had anticipated a two-hour walk, but with stops to admire views and take snaps it took us around three. It was easy, not at all steep on the circular route, just a bit rocky underfoot at times, and although there are stretches which are quite exposed, it isn’t long before you’re under cover of trees again. We passed other walkers, all either German or Italian, but we had moments of silence and solitude too.

I never cease to be surprised at things I learn here, and on this day my learning curve came when Pilar observed that the bird call we could hear in the background as we picnicked at the end of our walk was a crow. My surprise  was that the sound was worth remarking on, but apparently there are very few on Tenerife, Pilar knew the statistic for the number of pairs breeding in the area. For me, even after living here for almost 25 years now, the sound was nothing out-of-the-ordinary, to the point where I even remember once going on a crow shoot in England, at the invitation of a farmer whose crops they were devastating. It’s surprising how another culture can seem so familiar and yet so different at the same time.

I was doing normal chores, I’d done a bit of shopping and went to pay my rent.  The real estate office is in Plaza Roja, close to where I live, and of late I’ve gone back to carrying my camera everywhere with me again. I’d stopped doing that during the move, and the not-doing-it kind of stuck. When I came out of the office around 6-ish the sun was going down, and so I thought I’d stroll over to the harbor to see if it was going to be a spectacular sunset. It showed no signs of being out of the ordinary, although ordinary is pretty good here, but it was pleasant after the heat of the day, so I walked along the boardwalk and onto the shore opposite to Montaña Roja.

This shoreline is pure volcanic lava frozen in time, sharp and sinister rocks which creep darkly into the ocean, and where countless rock pools form at low tide.  I took a few snaps. It wasn’t ideal. Foreground too dark, sun too bright, it was too early. As I picked my way amongst the rocks, the haunting cry of a curlew, who circled round in his search for easy pickings, and a lone, wee plover bobbing amongst the dark rubble.

There were few clouds around, and the sunset didn’t look like amounting to much, so I trod my careful way back to the promenade and the corner of the harbor, and as I ducked under the small bridge there it was the photo which had been worth waiting for, and which made me smile to realize that this was just an average day.

After the sun dipped beneath the horizon the sky took on a rosy afterglow, not as sensational as it can be perhaps, but pretty, and the for-once calm waters in the harbor and across this small bay turned that unreal shade of metallic blue they achieve after sunset and before sunrise.

I sat for a while longer, because you never know what may happen next at this time of day.  The old boys who hang out by the boats next to the slipway decamped for warmer places, it was beginning to get chilly, and the gulls circled as if they were surveying the waters one last time before they went to rest, and somehow all the things which had been nagging at me faded, not away, but into the background for now at least.

Just when you’ve had five days of eating healthy, getting rid of the bloated feeling from Christmas and New Year feasting, there is roscón. “Kings’ Day” isn’t known for feasting in general, although it’s the day the kiddies get their presents, the family feast is over Christmas, but roscón is a traditional sweet bread, made especially for the beginning of Epiphany.

On the night of the 5th Austin and I heroically resisted temptation, I am proud to report, despite the delicious aromas coming from the bakeries still open in both La Laguna and Güimar.  It was made easier for me by the report on local t.v. I’d watched that morning.

“What are the main ingredients?” the reporter had asked the baker.

“Sugar,” was his first reply.

“Butter and salt,” he went on. “Some flour, and dried fruits.” You get the picture?

When he said dried fruits he meant crystallized dried fruits, and he didn’t mention that there are fillings of cream or confectioner’s custard according to your taste. I saw one advertised this year with truffle filling, so I am guessing that meant chocolate truffle filling, unless anyone can advise me otherwise?

In other words, in my words – heaven on a plate, or death on a plate, depending on your point of view or your mood! Sufficient people must be avoiding the worst of the recession because the baker interviewed said they were making 20,000 this year, and didn’t expect any to be left over.

If your viewpoint is heaven, here’s what you do: on the night of the 5th the bakeries stay open very late, you go and choose your roscón, which is huge, by the way, and comes in a colorful box, and then you proudly parade through the streets carrying the box on high to avoid being crushed by all the folk around who are also shopping, waiting to see the kings or just having a bevy.

When you get home and open up the box inside you will find a “golden” crown as well as a ginormous sweetbread.  Don’t throw away the crown even if you don’t have kids around, because when you cut into the bread/cake and are munching away, someone is going to crack a tooth on a piece of “coal” and someone else on a saintly figurine.  The person who gets the “coal” – usually a small, boiled sweet these days – pays for the cake, and the person who gets the king/saint gets to wear the crown for the day – presumably they are also entitled to lord it over everyone to go with that!  It’s not unlike the silver threepenny bits we used to find in our Christmas puds in England as kids.  Although how this stuff gets past the EU rules and there aren’t reports of multiple deaths by choking every year I don’t know!

Joking apart, roscón is yummy (for me best without filling), it’s just the slide back into gluttony I don’t like!

Thursday night the Three Kings arrived in Tenerife, and also in the rest of the Canary Islands, Andalucia, Cataluña and all points on the map of Spain. Los Reyes Magos are sprinkled with the same star-dust as Santa, and arrive laden with toys for the good kids and coal for the baddies. Known to the English as “The Three Kings,” they are based on the wise men, or kings, who supposedly visited the infant Jesus bringing gold, frankincense and myrrh.  Although these days it seems that they are in a neck and neck race with Santa for kiddies’ affections, they seem to be ahead of the game, and most lucky Spanish kids get presents from both, a little something from Santa and the real booty from the Kings. My kids used to get it the other way around as we accustomed ourselves to different ways of doing things years back.

Guess this guy was left over from Chinese New Year!

Melchior, Balthazar and Caspar make an appearance in most towns, sometimes on camel, sometimes on horseback and sometimes by vintage car (the kings of El Médano I spied by the roadside as I left the town late yesterday afternoon atop the back seats of coupés). In Los Cristianos they arrive on the ferry …. it’s a bit non-specific where they come from, there is, apparently no equivalent of the North Pole in “Kingsland.” In both Santa Cruz and Adeje they have been known to zoom down by helicopter, so the variations are endless.

See the huge bag of confetti?

I hadn’t been to see a parade since my kids stopped believing, but in the wake of a difficult Christmas and a disrupted New Year I felt the urge to see them arrive in somewhere traditional, and I asked Austin if he wanted to go to La Laguna with me. The suggestion appealed because he’d found a new tapas bar, and was eager to eat there again.

Parking outside of the center, and strolling in, we sussed out the route, had a drink and found a decent spot to take photos, where no folk as yet had gathered, and we hung around and chatted. First hint that this was possibly not going to be the fun night I hoped for was when a podgy granny pushed past us and plonked herself stoutly in the front line. Happily for me, being fairly tall, she just about came up to my boobs, so zooming over her head was no problem. An “Excuse me,” would’ve been nice though.

The parade eventually (as all things here are) arrived. It was mostly colourful, there was some jolly marching-type music from various music groups, and onlookers were pelted with confetti and candies – that UFO in the picture below is an incoming caramel, which landed on my nose, much to the chagrin of  podgy granny, who was grabbing all she could and stuffing in her mouth.

What seemed to be missing was fun and jollity.  The folk on the floats who weren’t wearing giant heads looked cold and bored, barely a smile between them. The little kids around looked bewildered, and the older ones interested only in screeching for the caramelos.  It was all in contrast to the good-nature and bonhomie of the Romeria back in summer.

Before it ended, I lost interest, and we went in search of tapas, a fruitless endeavour because as we tried to worm our way through the crowds the procession seemed to wind its way back and forth and block our progress.  On the night of the 5^th all the shops stay open, so folk were there not just for the parade, but for last-minute shopping too.  We plunged into dark, narrow streets, hoping to get ahead, only to hear the ominous thumping of the drums alerting us that the procession had turned our way. In the end we gave up trying to reach the bar and returned to Güimar for Chinese food – there is one thing you can rely on here, as in many other parts of the world (outside of China, that is) there will always be a Chinese restaurant open! Happily for us the one near toAustin’s house is most excellent, so no disappointment there!

Even the giant heads looked kind of sad or grumpy!

Maybe to really enjoy this, particular, parade you need to be with kid of just the right age – you know, old enough to have a willing suspension of disbelief, but young enough not be fuelled by greed.  At any rate, for me, it didn’t resonate.  I’ll just parcel it up with the tail-end of memories of 2011 and file it away. The thing I think I like about the English and US celebrations is that it’s a year-end blow out, and then the New Year dawns all bright and shiny. I don’t think I believe in the Kings any more.

My favorite picture from the evening.  This young lady looked as happy as you can playing the flute, and looked as if she was taking pride in her music.

And this was me, as I emerged from the fray – I’d already shaken off most of the confetti by the time Austin raised the camera!

Trixy and I trotted down to the end of the street in the darkness. She hates it. She’s a daytime gal too. I made strong coffee, and we were off to meet up with Maria at 7am at the autopista junction.  I even managed to get a lousy #walkingwithTrixy pic of the Christmas lights, still shining bright in the morning gloom.

We were headed for Poris de Abona, just beyond the beach about which I wrote last month.  When I was pottering about on that evening it struck me that a good sunrise from around there, complete with lighthouse, might be quite spectacular. Maria and I decided, oh, let me see, about five years ago that we would do a project to record all the island’s lighthouses, and this was the first time we’d actually set out to do it! It’s been one of those things life got in the way of, although don’t hold your breath waiting for the complete set of photos!  Still, it’s a start.

As we meandered through the sprawl which is Poris, the sky, which had been coal-black only minutes before, began to pale on the horizon, and light leaked along the line where sky meets ocean. As I inched “Fred” (my faithful, old car) over the bumpy terrain beyond the proper road, and to the foot of the lighthouse, the pale was already turning to crimson.  Photographing sunrises and sunsets is such a “time is of the essence” thing.  We abandoned the coffee, left Trix to guard the car and wandered off, clicking happily away.

There is a point to a sunrise, here at least, where the sky is pale blue, but the sun hasn’t actually shown its face. The spectacular part is before it actually rises.  In that space we moved a bit further up the coastline to capture the emerging sun. We could see the outline of its fore-glow seeping along the tip of the purple mass of the island of Gran Canaria.

We were a short distance apart but with the noise of the waves crashing onto the ragged coast I couldn’t make out what it was that Maria shouted, but I looked over to see her gesticulating excitedly and swinging her tripod around.  When I glanced behind me El Teide and the surrounding mountains were bathed in the reflection of a sun we hadn’t even seen yet.  It it any wonder that ancient peoples found something magical and godlike in those peaks?

You have only minutes, in the absence of cloud, to photograph a sunrise, before the sun is too bright, at least with the equipment we have, and with the wind rising I found myself unexpectedly nervous. My determination (I hesitate to use the world resolution because the failure rate on New Year’s Resolutions makes the phrase an oxymoron!) is to improve my photography this year, and I don’t think this attempt was that good, but for the record, here it is.

With the rising,  the mountains turned back to brown and green, and the horizon became too bright, but the early sunlight was reflected in the foam and spray as ocean crashed onto rock, and close to shore the sea took on a turquoise hue it would lose with the brightness.

One more turn around, to see the lighthouse clear in the early morning sunshine, for now it was sunshine and not sunrise, and it was time for that coffee, and one of the great things about rising early with the sun is that the day still stretched before us, new and full of possibilities.

My visit to York was very personal, too personal to write about any time soon, but I did make time in the mornings for a walk in the chill.  There was a serious cold snap whilst I was there, unprecedented they said…..coming from some quite balmy weather in London, and a heatwave on mainland Spain I really felt it – to my bones!  Still, I loved the walking and managed just a few snaps.

Said if before and I’ll say it again, the thing I love about cities is the energy, and despite the cold there were people out running along the riverbank, and even people learning to kayak (goodness knows what would have happened had they overturned and fallen in!), and it was motivating to see.  York is a gentle city compared to many, but still has that buzz.

Romeria Vilaflor, Tenerife, Canary Islands

There is no doubt that, as a foreigner at least, you can get romeria/fiesta burnout, which is probably why I wrote about an abandoned house by the roadside and not about the Romeria in Vilaflor the day I went there. It was a charming fiesta, more casual than the huge event I’d been to in La Laguna a few weeks before, but still with all the traditional ingredients – oxen pulling carts laden with children or folk in traditional dress….and the whole village seemed to be in traditional dress….the plaster saint, to whom homage was paid with folk dances and songs, strolling minstrel groups, goats and horses, toiling along dusty roads in the afternoon heat.  Vilaflor is Spain’s highest village, and steep, it trails down a hillside, so he was carried from the church at the bottom to the church at the top, followed by, well, everyone, plus some tourists like us.  It was very mellow, marred for me  by some young drunks, which is surprisingly unusual at these events.

Fiesta in Amparo, Tenerife, Canary Islands

This is likely the best fiesta I didn’t go to! 20,000 artificial flowers were made by residents of this barrio of Icod de los Vinos to celebrate their saint’s day. I passed through twice during the time of their celebrations, but never at a time when there was anything happening!  Still  the decorations were stunning, quite the most elaborate I’d seen on the island, and in this rich arable area many contained real fruits and vegetables, so rather like a harvest festival in England. Tradition has the women out collecting poleo (so far as I can make out this is pennyroyal, not a herb with which I’m familiar) which is also used prominently in the decorations.

Katrina’s Visit, Tenerife, Canary Islands

Making new friends is always something nice to look back on at the end of a year, and getting to know blogger Katrina Stovold of TourAbsurd.com was a great pleasure in early Fall. Her posts about the island can be found here.  Katrina is a witty and inquisitive person and I’m sure we would have gotten along in any event, but I was secretly delighted that the places she chose to visit were not the usual tourist haunts. Sure, it’s hard to get away from tourism on Tenerife if you only have a week to spend here, but there were a few places on her agenda which most don’t bother to see. We went to  Garachico, Icod de los Vinos, Santa Cruz’s Museum of Man and Nature, and the Pyramids at Güimar, for instance….where Katrina displayed her amazing affinity with cats! As luck would have it, the one day we decided to chill on the beach at Los Cristianos fierce winds blew in from the Atlantic and sent us scurrying!

La Caleta, Tenerife, Canary Islands

I mention La Caleta because I had several seriously good meals there during the course of the year, most at Restaurante La Caleta or at 88, and one over the other side of the bay at Celso. Some of it was in the course of research for this wee post for Tenerife.co.uk but truthfully I didn’t need the excuse, this what-was-once-a-small village really is the gourmet capital of South Tenerife so far as I am concerned, and it’s also very pretty at night and has terrific ocean views by day.

Guildford, England

Guildford has become a staple on my English itineraries since my son moved there, but I was so glad to have discovered it! This is why:

Waiting for him to finish work on the day I arrived, I grabbed a sandwich and coffee from Starbucks and sat on a bench by the river. It was warm, but refreshingly so after the heat of Sevilla and Barcelona. It felt very…..English!

Las Galletas, Tenerife, Canary Islands

Las Galletas I mention mainly because it’s an illustration of my mantra “Always have your camera with you”.  It’s somewhere I go reasonably frequently.  I had breakfast there just a couple of days before Christmas.  Driving back from Santa Cruz a few weeks ago I could see the sunset shaping up to be memorable, and even though I put my foot down I knew I wouldn’t make the best part of the coast to photograph it there,  so I dodged off  the autopista and headed for Las Galletas.  It turned out to be not quite as spectacular as I’d expected, but it was worth the detour :=)

Pinolere, Tenerife, Canary Islands

The annual craft fair at Pinolere was delightful, as always, though very frustrating this year on account of being broke!  There were wonderful jewelry, musical instruments, scarves and shawls, woven baskets and more on which I could have spent fortunes.  I contented myself with edible goodies on the basis that at least they were fodder, and came away with delicious cheeses, honey and some coffee liqueur for my dad. The highlights were this ecological carousel, which knocked me out, and performances of medieval-style plays by a local group, both of which proved that yesterday’s entertainments are quite as valid today.

Of course,  I can think of dozens of other things I didn’t record here, but, yes, I think I am done with 2011 now, in more ways than one. Not sad to see the back of it, bring it on 2012!

If his photos seem to have more of the horror of war about them than Capa’s, which seem more distant and more like pieces of history,  it’s because techniques and cameras had evolved over the years.  In a way, I felt as if McCullin took over where Capa left off, which is a chilling thought – that “modern” conflict has been ongoing for so long, with all its consequences, and apparently without our learning to get along. That sensation was just in my own mind, of course, because I saw the two exhibitions in the same year.  Brilliant reporters and photographers  routinely risk their lives to try to tell the real story, and many, like Capra, lose their lives doing so. 2011 wasn’t a good year for war photographers, notably Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros were killed in Libya, so this exhibit touched a topical sense of sadness as well as an historic one.

McCullin’s work is amazing and I struggle to find adjectives on account of the subject matter. How can you call a photograph, say,  beautiful when it captures  agony on a worn face? They are superb illustrations of  hurt, loss and weariness – like Capra, McCullin captures all of that in just one countenance or stance.  That he evokes emotion in his audience speaks volumes, and really the adjectives are superfluous – just go and see.

There are some more recent photos, black and white landscapes, which didn’t move me so much, according to the information he found solace in this work after a lifetime reporting wars, which I can understand. It made me wonder about survivor guilt.  For me, photographing landscapes in black and white lends a sense of  sadness, even doom, but perhaps that is what he wants to convey. I haven’t spent my life trudging around battlefields and refugee camps, so who am I to criticize?

I whole-heatedly recommend anyone who finds themselves in London to take in the exhibit, which is on until mid-April. It’s been traveling for a while now. I know because I missed it twice in England last year, so I don’t know where it goes after Londong.  That said the Imperial War Museum is always worth a visit anyway.

It was, in a way, one of my first “travel” destinations. It was where the 17-year-old me was headed with my boyfriend the first time I hitchhiked – now there’s a long-lost mode of travel in most countries … simply sticking out our thumbs and trying to look innocent enough that someone would take pity on us. It worked too.  We got there safely, although I have no memories of how we got back, and the only vehicle I vaguely remember picking us up was an old truck with pigs in the back – honestly…..sounds like a scene from some movie set in Alabama doesn’t it!  After a sinful (I was under age) night in a real country pub we slept in a farmer’s barn – gets more like that movie all the time, doesn’t it!  So for a long time after that the town was associated in my mind with sin and being a rebel.  Oh, and also…… cow pats ……as we gingerly made our way out of the farmer’s field the next morning!

Fast forward 30 years or so, and Derwent Water, on whose shores Keswick nestles, was the scene of duck feeding and boating with my own kids. By then the town had grown considerably, of course, and there were interesting outdoor shops and craft shops, and on busy summer days (which it always was because of school holidays) it was a bit packed. There is now a Theater by the Lake too, and they always seem to be offering something terrific, but I never have the opportunity to go :=(

And now it’s another 20 years or so on, and my dad is only up for gentle walks down to the waterfront, a sit for a while and a walk back into the town square.  I like to go on a Saturday because it’s market day, and this time I was delighted to discover a cheese stall I hadn’t seen before! Cartmell Cheeses make, simply, the best cheese I’ve ever tasted in England, and the guy was so friendly and full of helpful tips about keeping cheese (which unfortunately won’t work in this climate i.e. cheese should not be kept in a fridge), and about their products and ethos.  Next visit I intend to go to Cartmell, which is a fair way from Keswick, and take a closer look.  My dad wasn’t up for it this time, but if you come across them – buy!!! Silly me came all over shy and didn’t ask him if I could take his photo!

Like so many places in the Lake District now Keswick is a tourist magnet, and isn’t the sleepy village I remember from my teens. However, one of the good things about that is that there are plenty of excellent cafés and eateries around. We ate in the lovely café above – spicy lentil soup, sandwiches just oozing fillings, elderflower water and long, tall, milky coffees.  Now, much as I appreciate Canarian cuisine, that’s the sort of snackery I miss!

The famous place to eat is Brysons Tea Rooms, which surprises me by not having a website – despite some bad reviews on Tripadvisor evidently – although considering you always have to queue for a table maybe they aren’t bothered, the service is pretty average too, but the traditional afternoon teas may just be worth it, and the price! There are no complaints that I saw about the food, just the service and the prices.  The service we received in the Wild Strawberry Coffee Shop on the other hand was much pleasanter, even though it was packed, on account of it being market day.

The place in Keswick you must not fail to visit, however, is Friar’s Chocolate Heaven Shop.  I always go and indulge, and my dad sends me regular care packages!  It’s kind of like DisneyWorld for chocoholics!

Even before I’d been to Keswick or the Lake District I used to be fascinated by a picture on my aunt and uncle’s sideboard.  It showed an idyllic country scene with a lake, mountains, bracken and trees on the cusp of Autumn.  It was a photo taken at Friar’s Crag on the shore of Derwent Water, and I ached to go there.  When I made it eventually it wasn’t quite so bucolic as the photo, in the infancy of mass tourism it had been smartened up a bit, but it’s still a nice place to pause and gaze a while. We strolled down to Derwent Water, but the clouds rolled in and it was getting a bit nippy for my dad, so I didn’t get time to snap much. These days it always seems to be winter or autumn when I go, but at least I don’t miss the summer holiday crowds!