Legal Settlement

I love taking photos of quirky signs, and came across this in the Yorkshire market town of Settle recently. I'm not sure I'd like to be on the receiving end of this firm in any legal dispute, but I suppose it's one way of settling an argument . . .

(For more quirky signs click here.)

Glastonbury: Hippie Heaven (Too Much Of A Good Thing Can Be Wonderful)

In the middle of September we spent a long weekend in Glastonbury. Yes, between festivals Glastonbury town is alive, well and gently stoned: it's a haven for spiritual seekers and old hippies at any time of year. I liked it a lot but, amid the welter of New Age flummery and soul chic, found it hard to distinguish between the real and the sham, the true and the fake, the non-material and the commercial. Note the red telephone box — this is definitely the genuine article! The hanging sign in the photo reads: 'The Buddha Maitreya Soul Therapy Meditation Center'. 

The muralist scratches his head. What on earth shall the last letter be? Ah, I know — 'l'!

There are so many delightfully artistic corners in Glastonbury.

Madonna and Child wall shrine with candles.

The Chalice Well, one of Britain's most ancient holy wells (do read the Wikipedia link — it's fascinating, and explains the mythological significance of the well cover design). The spring produces chalybeate water — containing traces of iron carbonate, sodium chloride, calcium sulphate and other minerals, which have supposedly health-giving properties. It's also known as the Red Spring, as the water has a reddish tinge due to the iron content. The well is surrounded by the most beautiful gardens, and the whole sanctuary is a place of healing tranquillity. 

The lovely Carmen in the Chalice Well gardens.

Day 37: Montreux To Aigle

Looking back towards Clarens and Vevey.

The challenging terrain means that the Swiss have had to become master engineers, both in railway construction and road building.

Montreux in the early morning.

The older part of Montreux the tourists often miss — so busy are they celebrity spotting in the casinos.

Yes, it's another quirky sign! 

I just can't stop . . .

. . . taking photographs of Lake Geneva, and have a hundred more you haven't seen (thank God, you cry . . .)

You've viewed this on a thousand calendars and chocolate boxes. It's the Château de Chillon, and the Via Francigena goes right by it. Naturally I went inside — it was 9 am, so there weren't many other visitors. I spent a happy hour or two there. This is a popular tourist destination, and I was lucky to see it so uncrowded.

Just look at that walkway! This legendary castle is associated with Delacroix, Lord Byron, Gustave Courbet, Henry James, Salvador Dalí and numerous other literary and artistic figures  . . . 

I love this humble strip of geraniums. Ok, it may not be mentioned in the serious historical literature and audio guides most of the visitors were hauling around, but, hey, I like these choses cachées et imprévues . . . 

This is positively the last picture of Lake Geneva (Lac Leman in French and Genfersee in German. Both French and German are spoken in Switzerland  — as are Italian and Romansh in some southern parts). You can see the motorway curving round on the left.

Oh, well, just one more. Here another paddle steamer chugs out of Villeneuve at the head of the lake. And it's that Swiss flag again!

In Villeneuve I did a very foolish thing. It was lunchtime, and I passed a Thai restaurant offering as much food as you could eat for 20 Swiss francs. I couldn't resist. I stuffed myself — soup, salad, spring rolls, pork, chicken, rice, noodles. I would regret this later. At 2 pm I took a cycle path through the woods and left Lake Geneva behind. I was heading up a wide, flat-bottomed valley dotted with farms and maize fields, the valley of the river Rhône. High, wooded hills rose sharply on either side. I would be following this valley for three days as far as Martigny. After negotiating a maze of farm tracks, I joined the route I should have taken according to my guidebook, the cycle track by the railway line. By the time I reached Aigle (meaning 'Eagle'), I felt very lethargic and had stomach ache. I was glad to retire to the Auberge des Messageries and a room with a comfortable bed. I vowed to eat less the next day, though I had lost weight during my trek. Highlight of the afternoon: a young grass snake coiling and uncoiling on the cycle track.

Day 36: Vevey To Montreux

The villa 'Le Lac', designed by Le Corbusier. I was not impressed. It looked more like a prison or a dilapidated shack.

A paddle steamer . . .

. . . approaches the landing stage at Vevey. Eight steamers operate on the lake, all constructed early in the last century. It's the largest Belle Époque fleet in the world, and the boats have been classified as Historic Monuments of National Importance.

An ice cream parlour in Vevey. What can I say about Vevey? I can mention the usual collection of bizarre museums: the Museum of Cameras, the Museum of Games and the Museum of Food. I can also mention the many famous people who have lived or spent time here — Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, Charlie Chaplin, Graham Greene, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Gandhi, Freddie Mercury . . . 

We, however, had breakfast, and then moved on.

 As I've written before, I love quirky signs, and I was really amused by this one. 

From here to Montreux it's almost continuously built up. Old, rich people walk their fancy dogs along the lakeside promenade — which is pleasant enough, and festooned with exotic trees and gaudy flowers. There are many modern sculptures to be seen, such as the one above, which is a tribute to Adolphe Sax, inventor of the saxophone. 

Moody sky over Lake Geneva.

Day 25: Langres To Champlitte

I won't say I'm paranoid, but, whenever I pass a green field, I feel as if I'm being watched . . .

In Balesmes, the Marne . . .

. . . is hardly a river at all.

But I'm happy to report that the Salon in Grenant is a true river. For what use is a river without water?

'Rotten' driving school? I will not be going for driving lessons in Chalindrey . . .

. . . nor will I be ordering a beer here. Like many French village bars and cafés, this one had closed down. There's something ironic and sad in that name — the 'Brasserie de la Renaissance' . . .  

The gîte in Champlitte . . .

. . . belongs to the winegrower, Pascal Henriot. All his wines are completely organic — produced without the use of weed killers, insecticides or chemical fertilisers. He invited me to a tasting in his cellar and poured me a glass of last year's Chardonnay. It was quite lovely — unoaked and mineral dry, with a surprisingly strong, flowery bouquet. Also staying in the gîte was Sylvie, who was visiting her elderly mother in a nearby nursing home. She was a big traveller and a Himalayan trekker. When I went down to the kitchen the next morning, she had sweetly prepared my breakfast from her own food store: bread, jam, eggs, fruit, orange juice and coffee. 

Pascal Henriot (picture taken from his website).

Fountain and Rue du Bourg, Champlitte.

Religious detail on a wall in Champlitte.

South West Coast Path. Day 17: Weymouth To Lulworth Cove

Looking back at Weymouth across Weymouth Bay. I did not especially like Weymouth when I arrived (it seemed too big and busy and tatty round the edges), but it took on a warmer glow later that evening from the plush interior of a sea front Chinese restaurant. Perhaps it was something to do with the comforting sizzling beef, the noodles and the wine?   

What a glorious day it was —  one of the best days weather-wise of the whole journey. The sea was blue, the sky was blue and the sun hardly stopped shining. It was cold, but, hey, this was December 1st!  

Apart from the beautiful Somerset coast, and Cornwall's remote Lizard peninsula, this was some of the best scenery on the whole coastal path. The Dorset-shire downlands swept in waves before me like an endless, natural switchback. And just look at those white cliffs! 

'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both...' Or, in this case, two roads diverged in a yellow field. Resisting a compulsive itch to head for the intriguingly-named Scratchy Bottom, I turned right for Lulworth Cove. I wonder what I missed? Ants in my pants?

Wonderful cliffscape. See that steep path I've just come down? Well, I'm now half-way up the other side. Up and down, up and down — the theme of the trip. 

I surveyed the next staggering vista and groaned at the prospect of yet another punishing slope. Note the single sea stack on the bottom-right.

A better view of that chalk pinnacle.

This is the rock arch of Durdle Door, one of the most well-known geological features in England...

... and this is the lovely St Oswald's Bay...

... and this is the equally stunning, scallop-shaped Lulworth Cove in the late afternoon sun. I sensed another fine day was in store.

The Goode, The Mad And The Shrigley: Cultural Adventures On The South Bank

Richard Goode

To the Royal Festival Hall last Sunday to see the American pianist, Richard Goode. This is a big venue — potentially hazardous for a pianist renowned for his shyness and musical introspection. But what a performance! (Luckily my seat was reasonably near the front and on the keyboard side; I felt a bit sorry for those at the back.) There was not a sound from the audience, only a concentrated hush, as Goode  captivated us with an emotional yet precisely balanced interpretation of Schumann's Kinderszenen, then his Kreisleriana suite. The second half was all Chopin: a nocturne, a scherzo, a ballade, a couple of waltzes. In some pieces he brought out, particularly with the left hand, melodies I swear I'd never heard in those pieces before. The piano sang with a rare intimacy — a welcome change from the extrovert, key-thumping renditions of so many contemporary concert pianists. I quietly warmed to Goode's sensitive, self-contained personality, and his ability to lay bare the inner depth and beauty of the music with the lightest of touches.

Afterwards I spent a very happy hour going round the David Shrigley exhibition next door at the Hayward Gallery. How to categorise Shrigley? First of all, he's very, very funny — but the humour has a dark, mordant edge to it. You smile — but often feel quite uncomfortable doing so. Shrigley himself hopes that his work will provoke laughter, intrigued confusion and disquiet. He uses all types of mixed media to put across his quirky, left-field take on life: cartoons, handwritten texts, sculpture, photography, animated films, neon signs, music, tattoos.

Stepping through the portal of Shrigley's Brain Activity retrospective, you enter a mad world. The writing on the black, metalwork, spider's web-like entrance says 'Do Not Linger At The Gate', and you don't; but you do linger before many of his other faux-naïf artworks and installations. You try to figure them out: there's intellectual activity involved here, as well as an immediate emotional and blackly humorous reaction!

In one photograph, a sign in the middle of a river announces: RIVER FOR SALE (the capitals are underlined with a wavy line). Another photo shows a small, rough box with a door-like flap at the bottom, situated on a razed urban plot where a house used to be. On the box is written in crude capital letters: LEISURE CENTRE. Yet another photo features a plastic-smiling Barbie doll, grotesquely rounded and fattened from neck to knee in a pumpkin dress. And another — my favourite — is a close-up of a piece of paper, roughly torn from a spiral-bound notebook and pinned to a tree, upon which is written:

LOST GREY + WHITE PIDGEON WITH BLACK BITS. NORMAL SIZE. A BIT MANGY LOOKING. DOES NOT HAVE A NAME. CALL 257 1964

(Could this be a real objet trouvé, not a work created by Shrigley? How do you lose a pigeon? Isn't there something quite hilarious about it being a pigeon, rather than a dove, or a canary, or a parakeet? And isn't it amusing that 'pigeon' is spelt incorrectly, with a 'd' in the middle? Yet isn't that also a bit patronising — to laugh at someone who can't spell 'pigeon', particularly if they've recently lost their 'pet'? [Anyway, 'pidgeon' is the old, archaic spelling for 'pigeon'.] And what is a normal size for a pigeon? And how would the fact of it having a name help you if you found it? Birds don't respond to their names like dogs, or do they? And would you really recognise it, anyhow, from the whole description? We can smile — yet there's a poignancy there too, and you can quite easily believe that Shrigley did actually find this rather pathetic notice on a tree, and that possibility makes it touching and sad, and you feel a little guilty for laughing...)

It would take a hundred blogposts to describe all these Shrigleyisms. Just type 'David Shrigley' into Google Images if you want to see the real things (or rather the reproductions of the real things). Myself, I think they're brilliant, and they make me smile, and they make me think — but they make me wince too.

Later, walking through London, Shrigleyesque images seemed to pop up everywhere: in stick-man signs, in shop windows, in street furniture. A little of Shrigley's sideways view of life had obviously rubbed off on me.