It’s August; holiday time. Our book group doesn’t meet in the school summer holidays. This is historical. In fact, as our children are no longer young, we can actually sometimes manage to finish a book at a sitting even though they are at home. We don’t really need that break any more. So when one groupie invited us all for a social evening – albeit with a literary theme - we were all up for it. And everyone did their homework.
The suggestion was that we all note down our favourite books. I was one of those who was actually up against it time-wise and so cheated by reading out my blog (The 3 R’s: reading, reading and re-reading) of February 2007. Strangely – or perhaps not - most people mirrored my views. Nearly everyone chose books that reflected different stages in their lives.
Enid Blyton came out as a clear winner in the childhood choice: today it would be Rowling for much the same reasons. They were books with a clear structure, a story that was full of excitement with a good moral underlying it all. Many said that it was the Enid Blyton books that got them reading: the plots are sequential – not too many time shifts - so it’s not necessary to re-read great sections every time the story is picked up again.
A few of the same books cropped up as ones we enjoyed as teenagers: The Catcher in the Rye and To Kill a Mocking Bird for example. And then most of us seemed to have enjoyed books such as The Great Gatsby and Gone With the Wind, and easily digestible books such as those by the Mitfords, Laurie Lee or H E Bates.
I was surprised, though, at how many of us chose Thomas Hardy as a favourite author. So many people immediately dismiss his works as too lengthy and descriptive. Perhaps it’s because Hardy was often the exam choice when we were at school and maybe because we had to read the whole book we got a taste for it.
On the other hand, no-one mentioned Dickens: another author who often gets a bad press as ‘difficult’ to read. Nothing could be further from the truth. His novels are a doddle, amusing and colourful. George Elliot, on the other hand, cropped up in several groupies’ choices.
Overall, Midnight’s Children – which had been one of our book group choices - was the clear favourite. Others that several groupies chose were My Name is Asher Lev, The God of Small Things, Wuthering Heights, anything by Margaret Attwood or Jane Austen.
For re-reading Dorothy Dunnant was mentioned by a few, as was The Alexandria Quartet, Music & Silence by Rose Tremain and The Mill Stone by Margaret Drabble. Latterly – so it must be an age thing – several groupies are enjoying biographies: two we’ve read in the group - Georgina, Duchess of Devonshire and Samuel Pepys – were both mentioned by more than one member.
It was a very interesting exercise and a great way to remind each other of books we had loved, those that we should read and those we intend to: a very successful evening altogether.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Friday, 29 August 2008
Thursday, 31 July 2008
The Death of Vishnu, by Manil Suri
One of our book groupies has been to India and fallen in love with it. Now, back in grey skied England, she enjoys books about India instead, revelling in their colourful, magical quality. And The Death of Vishnu- her choice - certainly gets that across.
Vishnu – in this case no God – is homeless and lives on a landing of a small block of flats. He relies on the owners – four families – to keep him alive in return for errands. Unfortunately, they are not very successful because he lies dying on the landing. As he lies comatose he relives, as in a dream, his past: his mother, his lover and his life.
In alternating chapters of the book we are introduced to the families and how they interact with each other, and how they react to Vishnu in his dying state. Apparently, in Indian mythology, the God Vishnu is there to establish order when there is friction: in this story the man Vishnu – or rather his imminent demise – creates disorder where there is friction.
The inhabitants of the apartments represent a microcosm of life in Mumbai: Hindu and Muslim living in close proximity to each other, with all those unable to afford a flat living wherever they can, doing whatever they can to survive.
Mrs Asrani and Mrs Pathak share a kitchen but this close-proximity causes tension. They are arch rivals and vie for one-upmanship but their efforts are doomed. Both have ineffectual, hen-pecked husbands who constantly have to subjugate their finer feelings to agree with the petty demands of their wives. These are comedy characters, and although Sunil illuminates the small time mentality of these people and their lives it is difficult to empathise with them.
Their respective offspring, looking for romance and escape, rashly decide to elope. Their disappearance causes much speculation and leads to the most interesting part – and denouement - of the book. Mr Jamal, the boy’s father, is a Muslim but has a Hindu vision. This religious awakening leaves him more oblivious than ever to his wife’s feelings, which eventually has serious results.
The Death of Vishnu was not badly written but the characters were stereotypical caricatures that did not develop: it read like a TV sitcom. No-one felt any warmth towards the characters and many felt this was because they were not well drawn. However, the novel did give the reader a glimpse of how the different castes and religions rub along in India and, to its credit, ‘politics’ were refreshingly missing.
It was the dream sequence chapters – steadily more surreal and lurid as the book progressed – that annoyed many of the book group. They were rambling – as many dreams are of course – and some thought too odd to bear any resemblance to what Vishnu’s life could have been. Fortunately, those who did quite enjoy this aspect of the book reassured our host – who was feeling a little unsure of the wisdom of her choice - that the book had been worth reading!
The Death of Vishnu had certainly been wildly hyped: it is a poor man’s Midnight Children, a pale God of Small Things. Perhaps in Manil Suri’s next novel he will manage to balance creativity with believability and pull it off. I hope so.
Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Vishnu – in this case no God – is homeless and lives on a landing of a small block of flats. He relies on the owners – four families – to keep him alive in return for errands. Unfortunately, they are not very successful because he lies dying on the landing. As he lies comatose he relives, as in a dream, his past: his mother, his lover and his life.
In alternating chapters of the book we are introduced to the families and how they interact with each other, and how they react to Vishnu in his dying state. Apparently, in Indian mythology, the God Vishnu is there to establish order when there is friction: in this story the man Vishnu – or rather his imminent demise – creates disorder where there is friction. The inhabitants of the apartments represent a microcosm of life in Mumbai: Hindu and Muslim living in close proximity to each other, with all those unable to afford a flat living wherever they can, doing whatever they can to survive.
Mrs Asrani and Mrs Pathak share a kitchen but this close-proximity causes tension. They are arch rivals and vie for one-upmanship but their efforts are doomed. Both have ineffectual, hen-pecked husbands who constantly have to subjugate their finer feelings to agree with the petty demands of their wives. These are comedy characters, and although Sunil illuminates the small time mentality of these people and their lives it is difficult to empathise with them.
Their respective offspring, looking for romance and escape, rashly decide to elope. Their disappearance causes much speculation and leads to the most interesting part – and denouement - of the book. Mr Jamal, the boy’s father, is a Muslim but has a Hindu vision. This religious awakening leaves him more oblivious than ever to his wife’s feelings, which eventually has serious results.
The Death of Vishnu was not badly written but the characters were stereotypical caricatures that did not develop: it read like a TV sitcom. No-one felt any warmth towards the characters and many felt this was because they were not well drawn. However, the novel did give the reader a glimpse of how the different castes and religions rub along in India and, to its credit, ‘politics’ were refreshingly missing.
It was the dream sequence chapters – steadily more surreal and lurid as the book progressed – that annoyed many of the book group. They were rambling – as many dreams are of course – and some thought too odd to bear any resemblance to what Vishnu’s life could have been. Fortunately, those who did quite enjoy this aspect of the book reassured our host – who was feeling a little unsure of the wisdom of her choice - that the book had been worth reading!
The Death of Vishnu had certainly been wildly hyped: it is a poor man’s Midnight Children, a pale God of Small Things. Perhaps in Manil Suri’s next novel he will manage to balance creativity with believability and pull it off. I hope so.
Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Half of a Yellow Sun
Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamamanda Ngozi Adichie was our book group choice for November. The novel came widely recommended as it won Adichie the 2007 Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction, following on from her first novel, Purple Hibiscus, which had been short listed for the Orange Prize.
Adichie is certainly a good writer who tells a story well, and it's a good story: one that shows how the ideals one believes in so ardently can wither and die, how love can blind us to faults, betrayal in all its forms and how people cope with loss. On the whole her characters are multi-faceted and 'grow' convincingly as events progress.
Olanna is the central character who, with her estranged twin sister, Kaniene, is an intelligent and well-travelled daughter of a rich Nigerian businessman. They are members of the Christian Igbo tribe of Nigeria. The pliant Olanna falls in love with Odenigbo, an educated man but a blustering idealist, whilst Kaniene falls for Richard, an insecure Englishman.
A key narrator is Ugwu, the houseboy, whose fortunes change when Odenigbo becomes his master; then adapt again when Olanna moves in to live with his master. And finally change very dramatically when war breaks out between the Muslim dominated forces of the north and the Igbo of the south.
None of us knew a great deal about the 1966 coup in Nigeria and the resulting Nigeria-Biafran war before reading this book – all remembered those heartrending photographs of malnourished children however – and so this formed quite a large part of our discussion.
We felt that Adichie's portrayal of the issues that surrounded the war - tribalism, nepotism, bribery and how war brutalizes – were spot on. It's a novel with a strong political message: Adichie admits that she wants to educate her readers about the Biafran war but also that she thinks only Africans should write these stories. Her parents' stories formed the backbone to this novel, which is all very fine, but Adichie doesn't mention that she has lived most of her own life in America. Somehow, that jars with her secondary message.
The characters and the fictional aspects of the story were woven through the true story (Adichie's view of it, anyway) of the violence, the blockades, the ethnic rivalry and the food shortages. She explains that although she fictionalized some places or names she could not let a character be changed by anything that had not actually happened: I agree that's a truthful way to approach such a story.
Adichie says that her main hope was that her novel should have 'emotional truth', an empathic human quality. And on the whole she's succeeded, most of her characters do. Her observance of the roles women are left to play during war are particularly shrewd and her descriptions of passionate love equally well-written.
The fact that the Olanna is an educated, middle class black woman was considered by everyone in the group as a welcome change. The character is believable and her reaction and response to the troubles that eventually befall her are too: initially she was a compliant character but became strong and decisive as a result of her trials.
Odenigbo was also a well rounded and believable character: he begins full of self-belief and conviction but as his ideals collapse, so does he too, into alcoholism and inefficiency. Ugwu, however, changes and grows in stature as the story progresses: he reacts to events and has a canny knack for survival. The role of master and protégé are eventually reversed.
However, not all the groupies thought the character Kainene was convincing and everyone felt that Richard was contrived; stereotypical and considered by all to be the weakest character. Mohammed, another bit player, was also singled out as the token good Muslim character.
Adichie uses time shifts to keep the reader's interest – which some felt worked, others didn't - and devices to keep them guessing, which work less well. One device was the keeping of a child's parentage a mystery: everyone considered this arbitrary (though felt it was cleverly constructed) and for which no-one could see any point. However, the quotations from a book that one character was writing – and the eventual outcome – we all agreed was cleverly done.
Everyone in the book group enjoyed the novel but few of the group found the book riveting; there was a surprising lack of passion for it. Perhaps it was because the book was just too long: most of those who were not able to read it at one sitting found they were not champing at the bit to get back to it. Those of us who read it at one go – I was on holiday so could indulge myself – enjoyed it more.
But there was real interest in the historical setting of the novel and in Adichie's plea that the atrocities of this war should not be forgotten, "May we always remember": we've heard this before, but it's none the less applicable.
Adichie is certainly a good writer who tells a story well, and it's a good story: one that shows how the ideals one believes in so ardently can wither and die, how love can blind us to faults, betrayal in all its forms and how people cope with loss. On the whole her characters are multi-faceted and 'grow' convincingly as events progress.
Olanna is the central character who, with her estranged twin sister, Kaniene, is an intelligent and well-travelled daughter of a rich Nigerian businessman. They are members of the Christian Igbo tribe of Nigeria. The pliant Olanna falls in love with Odenigbo, an educated man but a blustering idealist, whilst Kaniene falls for Richard, an insecure Englishman.
A key narrator is Ugwu, the houseboy, whose fortunes change when Odenigbo becomes his master; then adapt again when Olanna moves in to live with his master. And finally change very dramatically when war breaks out between the Muslim dominated forces of the north and the Igbo of the south.
None of us knew a great deal about the 1966 coup in Nigeria and the resulting Nigeria-Biafran war before reading this book – all remembered those heartrending photographs of malnourished children however – and so this formed quite a large part of our discussion.
We felt that Adichie's portrayal of the issues that surrounded the war - tribalism, nepotism, bribery and how war brutalizes – were spot on. It's a novel with a strong political message: Adichie admits that she wants to educate her readers about the Biafran war but also that she thinks only Africans should write these stories. Her parents' stories formed the backbone to this novel, which is all very fine, but Adichie doesn't mention that she has lived most of her own life in America. Somehow, that jars with her secondary message.The characters and the fictional aspects of the story were woven through the true story (Adichie's view of it, anyway) of the violence, the blockades, the ethnic rivalry and the food shortages. She explains that although she fictionalized some places or names she could not let a character be changed by anything that had not actually happened: I agree that's a truthful way to approach such a story.
Adichie says that her main hope was that her novel should have 'emotional truth', an empathic human quality. And on the whole she's succeeded, most of her characters do. Her observance of the roles women are left to play during war are particularly shrewd and her descriptions of passionate love equally well-written.
The fact that the Olanna is an educated, middle class black woman was considered by everyone in the group as a welcome change. The character is believable and her reaction and response to the troubles that eventually befall her are too: initially she was a compliant character but became strong and decisive as a result of her trials.
Odenigbo was also a well rounded and believable character: he begins full of self-belief and conviction but as his ideals collapse, so does he too, into alcoholism and inefficiency. Ugwu, however, changes and grows in stature as the story progresses: he reacts to events and has a canny knack for survival. The role of master and protégé are eventually reversed.
However, not all the groupies thought the character Kainene was convincing and everyone felt that Richard was contrived; stereotypical and considered by all to be the weakest character. Mohammed, another bit player, was also singled out as the token good Muslim character.
Adichie uses time shifts to keep the reader's interest – which some felt worked, others didn't - and devices to keep them guessing, which work less well. One device was the keeping of a child's parentage a mystery: everyone considered this arbitrary (though felt it was cleverly constructed) and for which no-one could see any point. However, the quotations from a book that one character was writing – and the eventual outcome – we all agreed was cleverly done.
Everyone in the book group enjoyed the novel but few of the group found the book riveting; there was a surprising lack of passion for it. Perhaps it was because the book was just too long: most of those who were not able to read it at one sitting found they were not champing at the bit to get back to it. Those of us who read it at one go – I was on holiday so could indulge myself – enjoyed it more.
But there was real interest in the historical setting of the novel and in Adichie's plea that the atrocities of this war should not be forgotten, "May we always remember": we've heard this before, but it's none the less applicable.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Blood & Sand
Blood & Sand, our book group choice for last month, October, is Frank Gardner's account of his time as a correspondent in the Middle East and his subsequent injuries after being gunned down by terrorists.
Gardner read Arabic and Islamic Studies at university and fell in love with the landscape and peoples of the Middle East during visits there. After a less than enjoyable spell as a banker he finally plucked up the courage to become a lowly paid journalist in order to live in and visit the lands he loved.
There are primarily two interesting facets to the book: firstly, Garner gives a fascinating and knowledgeable insight into the Islamic world, including that of such terrorist groups as al-Qaeda. His story is a personal one but politics are very much part of it: the differences and complexities of the tribes and cultures are very apparent.
Secondly, Gardner's strength of character (active, determined, intrepid and courageous) shines through: it was this that fuelled his second career and also what brought him through the disability he suffered. Other more negative characteristics were what possibly got him into the fix: stubborn, arrogant, single-minded and competitive.
He appears marvellously and commendably lacking in bitterness although there is still disbelief that he, an Arab lover and admirer, should suffer such terrible injuries in their country and at their hands. It seems that the attack finally made him realise that the Arab in his own land is not always an honourable being: he certainly observes that the fundamentalist terrorist is not a true follower of Islam.
Gardner is clearly a talented journalist with a wealth of knowledge of the Arab world but what he is not is a writer: on the whole the text is plodding, stuffed with too many details and the jokes are forced. It was almost impossible to keep track of characters, countries and creed and every one of the group was thankful that a map was included for reference.
However, when Gardner stays for weeks in the tents of a Bedu tribe – and he desists from bombarding us with his achievements and contacts – his writing suddenly soars. His description of the landscape and the people becomes more lyrical and the reader really gets a feel for the place and understands what it is that he loves about it all.
I admire the manner in which Gardner never tried to instil his own culture or ideas on the people he met with but wholeheartedly embraced their way of life whether it was to sleep in a rug on the floor, to eat at their communal meal or respect their religious belief.
Everyone in the book group found Blood & Sand interesting: we all learnt a great deal (when we concentrated) about the Middle East and recent events there. Much of it was fascinating but not everyone finished the book – due to the plethora of facts or the plodding.
But it did cause as all to think because discussion of the book turned into political discussion generally: the Iraq war, the fate of the Palestinians, the role of the US, Israel, al-Qaeda, Afghanistan, the Taliban and the role – or lack of power – of women in the Islamic world. Of course, left to us – a roomful of women – we could have that whole lot sorted in a matter of months.
We agreed that Blood & Sand (originally Life, Blood & Sand in the hardback version) had probably started as a form of therapy for Gardner and every one of us was full of admiration for a man that has so spectacularly and successfully come to terms with his changed circumstances. Would we read it again? No, but we might give it to a husband, brother or son – they seem to like facts and Blood & Sand is a very macho title.
Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: for those in love with the Middle East the definitive book must surely be TE Lawrence's, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom (1922). Now there was another singular man and one who's commitment and love of the Middle East shines through all his writing. It was my grandfather's favourite book but I have to admit I've never finished it. Better to start with Robert Graves biography of Lawrence, Lawrence and the Arabs (1934), on which the film ´Lawrence of Arabia´was based, one of my Best Beloved´s favourites.
Gardner read Arabic and Islamic Studies at university and fell in love with the landscape and peoples of the Middle East during visits there. After a less than enjoyable spell as a banker he finally plucked up the courage to become a lowly paid journalist in order to live in and visit the lands he loved.
There are primarily two interesting facets to the book: firstly, Garner gives a fascinating and knowledgeable insight into the Islamic world, including that of such terrorist groups as al-Qaeda. His story is a personal one but politics are very much part of it: the differences and complexities of the tribes and cultures are very apparent.
Secondly, Gardner's strength of character (active, determined, intrepid and courageous) shines through: it was this that fuelled his second career and also what brought him through the disability he suffered. Other more negative characteristics were what possibly got him into the fix: stubborn, arrogant, single-minded and competitive.He appears marvellously and commendably lacking in bitterness although there is still disbelief that he, an Arab lover and admirer, should suffer such terrible injuries in their country and at their hands. It seems that the attack finally made him realise that the Arab in his own land is not always an honourable being: he certainly observes that the fundamentalist terrorist is not a true follower of Islam.
Gardner is clearly a talented journalist with a wealth of knowledge of the Arab world but what he is not is a writer: on the whole the text is plodding, stuffed with too many details and the jokes are forced. It was almost impossible to keep track of characters, countries and creed and every one of the group was thankful that a map was included for reference.
However, when Gardner stays for weeks in the tents of a Bedu tribe – and he desists from bombarding us with his achievements and contacts – his writing suddenly soars. His description of the landscape and the people becomes more lyrical and the reader really gets a feel for the place and understands what it is that he loves about it all.
I admire the manner in which Gardner never tried to instil his own culture or ideas on the people he met with but wholeheartedly embraced their way of life whether it was to sleep in a rug on the floor, to eat at their communal meal or respect their religious belief.
Everyone in the book group found Blood & Sand interesting: we all learnt a great deal (when we concentrated) about the Middle East and recent events there. Much of it was fascinating but not everyone finished the book – due to the plethora of facts or the plodding.
But it did cause as all to think because discussion of the book turned into political discussion generally: the Iraq war, the fate of the Palestinians, the role of the US, Israel, al-Qaeda, Afghanistan, the Taliban and the role – or lack of power – of women in the Islamic world. Of course, left to us – a roomful of women – we could have that whole lot sorted in a matter of months.
We agreed that Blood & Sand (originally Life, Blood & Sand in the hardback version) had probably started as a form of therapy for Gardner and every one of us was full of admiration for a man that has so spectacularly and successfully come to terms with his changed circumstances. Would we read it again? No, but we might give it to a husband, brother or son – they seem to like facts and Blood & Sand is a very macho title.
Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: for those in love with the Middle East the definitive book must surely be TE Lawrence's, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom (1922). Now there was another singular man and one who's commitment and love of the Middle East shines through all his writing. It was my grandfather's favourite book but I have to admit I've never finished it. Better to start with Robert Graves biography of Lawrence, Lawrence and the Arabs (1934), on which the film ´Lawrence of Arabia´was based, one of my Best Beloved´s favourites.
Saturday, 6 October 2007
Tips on writing a book
Writing historical fiction is a lengthy business admitted Sarah Waters, talking with John Mullan, author of How Novels Work (see my weblog archive for May), at the Sevenoaks Literary Festival last week: her latest novel The Night Watch took her four years.
A friend remarked that four years seemed a very long time: the problem is that we hear of authors that rattle off a book in a couple of months and we think it the norm. But it's often hype. Well, it is possible of course if the story is straight off the top of your head (and you have all day, every day to do it in) but not if the author has to research historical periods that are not familiar.
First there's the background reading: books and novels that are in and around the period the story is set in that will give the author a taste for the time, slang used, social mores etc. Double that reading if the place the story is set in is unfamiliar: the author will want to visit the setting too to get the 'feel' of it.
So, here we go, tip number one: choose to set your novel somewhere nice, or somewhere close, or preferably both. Jane Austen often went with the close and nice option: Bath. You could choose your own backyard (quick and cheap) or an exotic location but bear in mind the latter will add to the budget as well as the time scale (although it might be fun).
Then there's the research to check facts that may be alluded to: dates, names, fashions, music etc. There may be cultural differences, unfamiliar weather, flora etc. And throughout research there will be note taking that needs to accessible – probably put on the computer: so altogether there goes a substantial chunk of time. And after the book is finished and edited you may have to check the facts again because they may have been mangled in the process.
So, tip number two: don't choose to write historical fiction at all – or non fiction for that matter – if you only have a couple of months to spare. Write a book about your dog. Or better still write a book about your expertise growing dahlias: it will appeal to publishers and sell much better than fiction anyway.
John did question Sarah about the risky time shift she chose in The Night Watch: as she pointed out, the author has to decide on structure very early on and can't change mid-stream. And certainly not when the novel is finished, that is, unless you are a very talented, successful and obsessive author who completely rewrites his finished novel in a different tense.
So, tip number three: write your book in chronological order, in the third person, past tense and cross all the T's and dot all the I's. It might be boring but at least you'll be in the majority: no-one will ask you why you put this before that or what happened to whom. Ignore the alternatives John Mullan discusses in his novel: what does he know anyway.
When cross questioned Sarah did admit to a few idiosyncrasies that she feels inclined to include in her novels – like making sure her characters know where the loo is and (obviously a practical woman) that they make use of it. Another was a fondness for bondage: now some might say that's not idiosyncratic, simply a perfectly normal lifestyle choice. Bound to be for some.
So, tip number four: know how to untie knots. That is if you intend to take research to the nth degree and try everything you have your characters do. This is also applicable if you're simply writing about your dog or your dahlias.
That brings me on to tip number five: include something dirty. Sex for starters, it's worked for Sarah and it could work for you. If the book is about your dog my advice is, be careful, discretion is all: if it's dahlias, digging the dirt is de rigueur.
Now don't expect these tips to automatically make you a successful author like Sarah (amazingly, without my help, she's managed to complete four novels with only several years of study behind her and bags of talent) but if you do follow them you may find yourself with a bestseller on your hands. And if you do, you sooo owe me.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: was it Philip Roth who completely rewrote his finished novel in a different tense? Everyman perhaps? It's driving me mad: please, someone, put me out of my misery.
A friend remarked that four years seemed a very long time: the problem is that we hear of authors that rattle off a book in a couple of months and we think it the norm. But it's often hype. Well, it is possible of course if the story is straight off the top of your head (and you have all day, every day to do it in) but not if the author has to research historical periods that are not familiar.
First there's the background reading: books and novels that are in and around the period the story is set in that will give the author a taste for the time, slang used, social mores etc. Double that reading if the place the story is set in is unfamiliar: the author will want to visit the setting too to get the 'feel' of it.
So, here we go, tip number one: choose to set your novel somewhere nice, or somewhere close, or preferably both. Jane Austen often went with the close and nice option: Bath. You could choose your own backyard (quick and cheap) or an exotic location but bear in mind the latter will add to the budget as well as the time scale (although it might be fun).
Then there's the research to check facts that may be alluded to: dates, names, fashions, music etc. There may be cultural differences, unfamiliar weather, flora etc. And throughout research there will be note taking that needs to accessible – probably put on the computer: so altogether there goes a substantial chunk of time. And after the book is finished and edited you may have to check the facts again because they may have been mangled in the process.
So, tip number two: don't choose to write historical fiction at all – or non fiction for that matter – if you only have a couple of months to spare. Write a book about your dog. Or better still write a book about your expertise growing dahlias: it will appeal to publishers and sell much better than fiction anyway.
John did question Sarah about the risky time shift she chose in The Night Watch: as she pointed out, the author has to decide on structure very early on and can't change mid-stream. And certainly not when the novel is finished, that is, unless you are a very talented, successful and obsessive author who completely rewrites his finished novel in a different tense.
So, tip number three: write your book in chronological order, in the third person, past tense and cross all the T's and dot all the I's. It might be boring but at least you'll be in the majority: no-one will ask you why you put this before that or what happened to whom. Ignore the alternatives John Mullan discusses in his novel: what does he know anyway.
When cross questioned Sarah did admit to a few idiosyncrasies that she feels inclined to include in her novels – like making sure her characters know where the loo is and (obviously a practical woman) that they make use of it. Another was a fondness for bondage: now some might say that's not idiosyncratic, simply a perfectly normal lifestyle choice. Bound to be for some.
So, tip number four: know how to untie knots. That is if you intend to take research to the nth degree and try everything you have your characters do. This is also applicable if you're simply writing about your dog or your dahlias.
That brings me on to tip number five: include something dirty. Sex for starters, it's worked for Sarah and it could work for you. If the book is about your dog my advice is, be careful, discretion is all: if it's dahlias, digging the dirt is de rigueur.
Now don't expect these tips to automatically make you a successful author like Sarah (amazingly, without my help, she's managed to complete four novels with only several years of study behind her and bags of talent) but if you do follow them you may find yourself with a bestseller on your hands. And if you do, you sooo owe me.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: was it Philip Roth who completely rewrote his finished novel in a different tense? Everyman perhaps? It's driving me mad: please, someone, put me out of my misery.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Summer Is Over
Summer is over: as I walk up the lane behind my house the signs are everywhere. Purple damsons covered in a powdery bloom have fallen from the trees - no-one picks them now – and lie scattered like marbles. In the hedgerows brambles shoot out all over the place, their tips weighed down by tumbling blackberries: I pick the most succulent and they taste sweet.
Trees laden with apples, pears and quinces can be seen in the gardens I pass and shiny copper conkers lie along the edges of the road, their prickly cases split and discarded. I can't resist picking some conkers up - so smooth and glossy – and I pocket them to display or give little boys to play with.
The wheat has been harvested for some weeks now and as we walk through the stubble, crows and pigeons fly up, hen pheasants scuttle away and a cock rises and calls out for them to follow: fortunately Freddie is on the lead. As we go up towards the farm the geese – now very large and snowy white – stick out their chests and march towards us menacingly, honking loudly. I warn them not to push their luck, it may not be long before they meet their maker.
Passing the barn there are already trestle tables and benches of straw bales laid out for the Harvest Festival Supper (Shepherd's Pie and Blackberry & Apple Crumble). It's harvest end, tomorrow is Michaelmas, the Archangel Michael's feast day, and the Quarter Day on which landlords traditionally collected the rents.
It was on this day that servants were hired, farms changed hands and magistrates were appointed. And many tenant farmers presented their landlord with a goose as a gift or sometimes in lieu of rent. A goose was a gift to prize: dried, salted or pickled it would last through winter and roasted goose was a meal to celebrate with. But a goose produced more than just food.
Goose down and feathers – they are the very devil to pluck – made the best pillows and quilts, light but very warm. In days gone by their wing feathers were used for arrows and quills and their fat was used to keep bodies warm and waterproof a variety of things. Nowadays, gourmets will tell you that their fat is the best in which to roast potatoes.
Geese are monogamous – although some ganders may have three or five geese as a harem – and will live for up to 20 years, often pining if their mate dies. It is some years now since we kept geese: Ghandi (the gander) and Gertie were a devoted couple but sadly they didn't ever have goslings. We gave them a pond to help them perform but still nothing. When Ghandi died we found out it was due to being egg bound: which explained a lot.
For hundreds of years geese were herded for miles to be sold at the Goose Fairs in time for Michaelmas: these old goose markets have gone now, the name living on in large annual markets and fun fairs. Geese – or the eating of them at Michaelmas - have traditionally been considered good luck and they feature in many myths and fables.
In 1813 Jane Austen wrote to her sister Cassandra, "I dined upon goose yesterday which I hope will secure a good sale for my second edition". We all remember the nursery rhyme Goosey, Goosey, Gander and Old Mother Goose was a favourite character: much earlier, it was Aesop's goose that laid the golden egg.
And, according to Livy, Rome was saved by the sacred geese when they cackled and alerted them to the invading Gauls. Geese can still be seen in flocks around the whisky distilleries in the Scottish highlands where they provide a similar service, warning of unwanted visitors and threatening them off.
That reminds me of our brush with the strident farmyard geese today. I think their luck may be running out: if Michaelmas doesn't get them Christmas surely will. There have always been feasts to celebrate the end of harvest – in England the old pagan feast of the Autumn Equinox became the Christain feast of St Michael as celebrated by King Ethelred in 1014. A crisp skinned roast goose stuffed with apples, a flagon of cider and a plum cake: now there's a feast fit for a king when summer is over.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: Some of Dorothy Parker's poems are excellent such as Penelope quoted in last week's blog but many are ironical (see my blog archive of 6 January, Twelfth Night). Having so recently looked up her poems again I shouldn't have been surprised to find another lovely one: what was a surprise however was to read this excerpt from Paths after I had written this piece.
I shall hear the pheasants call,
And the raucous geese;
Down these ways, another Fall,
I shall walk with Peace.
I don't know why, but it always makes me sit up when I realise that across continents and seas we have such similar experiences: even for sophisticated townies, nature and the wild touches us all.
Trees laden with apples, pears and quinces can be seen in the gardens I pass and shiny copper conkers lie along the edges of the road, their prickly cases split and discarded. I can't resist picking some conkers up - so smooth and glossy – and I pocket them to display or give little boys to play with.
The wheat has been harvested for some weeks now and as we walk through the stubble, crows and pigeons fly up, hen pheasants scuttle away and a cock rises and calls out for them to follow: fortunately Freddie is on the lead. As we go up towards the farm the geese – now very large and snowy white – stick out their chests and march towards us menacingly, honking loudly. I warn them not to push their luck, it may not be long before they meet their maker. Passing the barn there are already trestle tables and benches of straw bales laid out for the Harvest Festival Supper (Shepherd's Pie and Blackberry & Apple Crumble). It's harvest end, tomorrow is Michaelmas, the Archangel Michael's feast day, and the Quarter Day on which landlords traditionally collected the rents.
It was on this day that servants were hired, farms changed hands and magistrates were appointed. And many tenant farmers presented their landlord with a goose as a gift or sometimes in lieu of rent. A goose was a gift to prize: dried, salted or pickled it would last through winter and roasted goose was a meal to celebrate with. But a goose produced more than just food.
Goose down and feathers – they are the very devil to pluck – made the best pillows and quilts, light but very warm. In days gone by their wing feathers were used for arrows and quills and their fat was used to keep bodies warm and waterproof a variety of things. Nowadays, gourmets will tell you that their fat is the best in which to roast potatoes.
Geese are monogamous – although some ganders may have three or five geese as a harem – and will live for up to 20 years, often pining if their mate dies. It is some years now since we kept geese: Ghandi (the gander) and Gertie were a devoted couple but sadly they didn't ever have goslings. We gave them a pond to help them perform but still nothing. When Ghandi died we found out it was due to being egg bound: which explained a lot. For hundreds of years geese were herded for miles to be sold at the Goose Fairs in time for Michaelmas: these old goose markets have gone now, the name living on in large annual markets and fun fairs. Geese – or the eating of them at Michaelmas - have traditionally been considered good luck and they feature in many myths and fables.
In 1813 Jane Austen wrote to her sister Cassandra, "I dined upon goose yesterday which I hope will secure a good sale for my second edition". We all remember the nursery rhyme Goosey, Goosey, Gander and Old Mother Goose was a favourite character: much earlier, it was Aesop's goose that laid the golden egg.
And, according to Livy, Rome was saved by the sacred geese when they cackled and alerted them to the invading Gauls. Geese can still be seen in flocks around the whisky distilleries in the Scottish highlands where they provide a similar service, warning of unwanted visitors and threatening them off.
That reminds me of our brush with the strident farmyard geese today. I think their luck may be running out: if Michaelmas doesn't get them Christmas surely will. There have always been feasts to celebrate the end of harvest – in England the old pagan feast of the Autumn Equinox became the Christain feast of St Michael as celebrated by King Ethelred in 1014. A crisp skinned roast goose stuffed with apples, a flagon of cider and a plum cake: now there's a feast fit for a king when summer is over.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: Some of Dorothy Parker's poems are excellent such as Penelope quoted in last week's blog but many are ironical (see my blog archive of 6 January, Twelfth Night). Having so recently looked up her poems again I shouldn't have been surprised to find another lovely one: what was a surprise however was to read this excerpt from Paths after I had written this piece.
I shall hear the pheasants call,
And the raucous geese;
Down these ways, another Fall,
I shall walk with Peace.
I don't know why, but it always makes me sit up when I realise that across continents and seas we have such similar experiences: even for sophisticated townies, nature and the wild touches us all.
Friday, 21 September 2007
The Penelopiad
In the Bookgroup I belong to we're trying to vary the genre we read: fiction, poetry, plays, biography etc. The choice for September was John Updike's Gertrude and Claudius, printed in 2000, in which – in a more modern idiom - he develops the background to Shakespeare's Hamlet from a woman's point of view.
However, as the publisher, Canongate, has recently brought out a new series in which various authors refashion well known myths in a contemporary way it was suggested that as the Updike book was difficult to track down we might also, or alternatively, look at The Penelopiad, by Margaret Atwood.
In Human beings have always been mythmakers, the religious historian, Karen Armstrong, explains the background to the series and explores our continuing interest in our ancestors and the myths attached to our past.
In one of the first in the Canongate series, Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles, Jeanette Winterson takes a fresh look at the story about Atlas, doomed to hold up the world for ever, when Heracles agrees to exchange the weight of the earth and the heavens in exchange for one of the golden apples of youth: she refashions the myth choosing to explore the journey to self-knowledge.
Margaret Atwood chose an alternative approach when she agreed to retell Homer's Odyssey: she deconstructs the myth and not only tells it like Updike did from a female perspective – that of Odysseus' wife, Penelope – but she also probes the unjust and uncertain reasons for the death of Penelope's handmaidens who also have a collective voice. Both they and Penelope speak from the Greek Underworld.
Psychoanalysts certainly have a field day with the psychological patterns in The Odyssey and you get the feeling that Atwood enjoyed writing The Penelopiad for much the same reasons. In the acknowledgements, she says it was from Robert Graves's, The Greek Myths, that she owes the theory of Penelope as a possible female-goddess cult leader and the convention of burlesquing the main action from satyr plays. The theory I'm not sure about but she certainly carries off the second very successfully.
The whole tone of this short and easily readable book is one of wit, sarcasm and, yes, burlesque, quite unlike the original tone of The Odyssey. I don't know if Canongate's concept was to make famous myths appeal to a modern readership or just to use the myths as inspiration, either way I guess it doesn't matter. But if readers enjoy this I'm not sure they'll ever trudge through the original.
Atwood adds her own interesting variations to the story filling in the gaps in the original: her Penelope could be the very embodiment of some modern army wife, left for long periods of time while her husband is away waging war or on manoeuvres. She is lonely, sad and sometimes embittered as she carries out her domestic duties: not quite a female-goddess cult leader.
But Penelope is also brave and resourceful having to juggle the many roles she is forced to play – in this case warding off suitors, running the palace and kingdom, keeping the expenses and her servants in check. Atwood shows us too a Penelope that is swayed by the same emotions as any modern wife: jealous of her husband's possessive old nurse and her heartless but beautiful cousin, Helen; loving her spoilt son but fed up with his bolshie teenage ways.
Atwood offers the reader several reasons for the death of the handmaidens – they slander Odysseus within his hearing, they are his property but have allowed themselves to be raped (!), they are dispensable, their death will punish Penelope, they knew too much and could implicate Penelope, Penelope herself suggests it by retelling her dream.
According to her handmaidens Penelope was a wily and adulterous wife but Penelope maintains that she was an anxious, faithful wife doing her best in difficult circumstances and so in this way Atwood allows Penelope to remain somewhat of an enigma. Read it and see what you think: the general bookgroup view of The Penelopiad was that it was an easy and enjoyable read, although one they would be unlikely to read again. Everyone liked the character Penelope but some were disappointed in the conclusion.
One of us had seen the play called, not surprisingly, The Penelopiad, based on the book: it's a Royal Shakespeare Company production in collaboration with Canada's National Arts Centre. She thoroughly recommended it: all the characters are played by women - a lovely take on Greek tragedy plays where every character was played by a man.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: Try The World's Wife, by Carol Ann Duffy, for a gentle and amusing take on myths and classic works or any of those mentioned in the text above.
I can take no credit for finding the following poem by Dorothy Parker:
Penelope
In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.
Clever Carla Nayland mentioned this poem which sums up Homer's Odyssey quite wonderfully: as a precursor to The Penelopiad it could seem to be inspirational.
For other essays about myths scroll through my blog archive: there's 'Moon, meteors and myths' (August 12) or 'Sculpture – Hare today' (June 3)
However, as the publisher, Canongate, has recently brought out a new series in which various authors refashion well known myths in a contemporary way it was suggested that as the Updike book was difficult to track down we might also, or alternatively, look at The Penelopiad, by Margaret Atwood.
In Human beings have always been mythmakers, the religious historian, Karen Armstrong, explains the background to the series and explores our continuing interest in our ancestors and the myths attached to our past.
In one of the first in the Canongate series, Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles, Jeanette Winterson takes a fresh look at the story about Atlas, doomed to hold up the world for ever, when Heracles agrees to exchange the weight of the earth and the heavens in exchange for one of the golden apples of youth: she refashions the myth choosing to explore the journey to self-knowledge.
Margaret Atwood chose an alternative approach when she agreed to retell Homer's Odyssey: she deconstructs the myth and not only tells it like Updike did from a female perspective – that of Odysseus' wife, Penelope – but she also probes the unjust and uncertain reasons for the death of Penelope's handmaidens who also have a collective voice. Both they and Penelope speak from the Greek Underworld.
Psychoanalysts certainly have a field day with the psychological patterns in The Odyssey and you get the feeling that Atwood enjoyed writing The Penelopiad for much the same reasons. In the acknowledgements, she says it was from Robert Graves's, The Greek Myths, that she owes the theory of Penelope as a possible female-goddess cult leader and the convention of burlesquing the main action from satyr plays. The theory I'm not sure about but she certainly carries off the second very successfully.
The whole tone of this short and easily readable book is one of wit, sarcasm and, yes, burlesque, quite unlike the original tone of The Odyssey. I don't know if Canongate's concept was to make famous myths appeal to a modern readership or just to use the myths as inspiration, either way I guess it doesn't matter. But if readers enjoy this I'm not sure they'll ever trudge through the original.
Atwood adds her own interesting variations to the story filling in the gaps in the original: her Penelope could be the very embodiment of some modern army wife, left for long periods of time while her husband is away waging war or on manoeuvres. She is lonely, sad and sometimes embittered as she carries out her domestic duties: not quite a female-goddess cult leader.
But Penelope is also brave and resourceful having to juggle the many roles she is forced to play – in this case warding off suitors, running the palace and kingdom, keeping the expenses and her servants in check. Atwood shows us too a Penelope that is swayed by the same emotions as any modern wife: jealous of her husband's possessive old nurse and her heartless but beautiful cousin, Helen; loving her spoilt son but fed up with his bolshie teenage ways.
Atwood offers the reader several reasons for the death of the handmaidens – they slander Odysseus within his hearing, they are his property but have allowed themselves to be raped (!), they are dispensable, their death will punish Penelope, they knew too much and could implicate Penelope, Penelope herself suggests it by retelling her dream.
According to her handmaidens Penelope was a wily and adulterous wife but Penelope maintains that she was an anxious, faithful wife doing her best in difficult circumstances and so in this way Atwood allows Penelope to remain somewhat of an enigma. Read it and see what you think: the general bookgroup view of The Penelopiad was that it was an easy and enjoyable read, although one they would be unlikely to read again. Everyone liked the character Penelope but some were disappointed in the conclusion.
One of us had seen the play called, not surprisingly, The Penelopiad, based on the book: it's a Royal Shakespeare Company production in collaboration with Canada's National Arts Centre. She thoroughly recommended it: all the characters are played by women - a lovely take on Greek tragedy plays where every character was played by a man.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: Try The World's Wife, by Carol Ann Duffy, for a gentle and amusing take on myths and classic works or any of those mentioned in the text above.
I can take no credit for finding the following poem by Dorothy Parker:
Penelope
In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.
Clever Carla Nayland mentioned this poem which sums up Homer's Odyssey quite wonderfully: as a precursor to The Penelopiad it could seem to be inspirational.
For other essays about myths scroll through my blog archive: there's 'Moon, meteors and myths' (August 12) or 'Sculpture – Hare today' (June 3)
Friday, 14 September 2007
Cote d'Azur
Nice is a lovely place to visit at this time of year. Last week, a chance to visit the South of France was transformed at short notice by Best Beloved and me into a week of holiday: this meant I had to do rapid research to make sure I made the most of all the art on offer.
It really bugs me to find out I visited someplace and missed the most interesting garden, museum or view to be found there: we were staying near Nice and the surrounding area is simply stuffed with great things to see.
The Cote d'Azur was – and still is - such a popular area for artists and in Nice is a museum dedicated to Matisse and another to Chagall. But there's no need struggle with city traffic when in the charming medieval hilltop village of St Paul de Vence, only half an hour away by car, there is a museum of modern art and contemporary works: Fondation Maeght.
At the moment there's a Spanish exhibition on there with an enormous collection of Miro's works – all the famous pieces - but there are also paintings by Bonnard and Leger – as well as Matisse and Chagall – including wonderfully leggy sculptures by Giacometti and ceramic works by Braque.
The setting of the building lends itself to all the sculptures that are on display outside: courtyards and lawns, pools and pine clad hillsides all form a perfect background for some pretty wacky or positively wonderful forms. Miro was keen on mobiles and these and his disconnected surreal works seemed ideally suited to outdoors: wind, branches, leaves, air - the asymmetricality of nature.
Henri Matisse first visited the Cote d'Azur in 1916 and, fascinated by the light, continued to visit it until he eventually settled in Vence. It's fun to search out his works here: in a famous hotel restaurant at St Paul can be found sketches of his as well as those by other penniless artists who visited -Picasso, Leger, Braque, Dufy. An exciting treasure chest to come across.
In the Chapelle de Rosaire – a Dominican convent - just north of Vence, Matisse decorated the vault: the tiled walls have simple black line paintings but two walls have stunning stained glass windows. The light from these is wonderful – sunlight coming through the blue glass glows, the yellow is frosted and diffuses the light – and the whole design is exceptional.
Marc Chagall – born in 1887 of Russian-Jewish descent – fled Russia and lived in Paris before moving to America in 1941. But in 1949 he returned to France and settled in Provence where he began to work in stained glass – more of this another time – and ceramics.
In the former 11-17c cathedral (now the church of Sainte Anne) in Vence he designed a superb mural mosaic, 'Moses saved from the Nile', in the Baptistery. The sunshine, colours and elements of nature depicted in the composition were meant to evoke the joy of baptism. I thought that the space and simplicity – naivety - of it was mirrored in his painting 'La vie', seen in the Foundation.
The area still appeals to artists, not only because they are inspired by such as Cezanne and Matisse but because the light is so very different from anywhere else. Further on from Vence yet another hilltop village, Tourettes de Loup, has been transformed into a a place for artists and craftsmen to live and work.
Up narrow, steep and winding streets, in cavernous spaces through small doors you can see weavers, potters, jewellry makers and painters at work in their small ataliers. The old stone walls and steps, ancient wooden doors and shutters, window boxes overflowing with geraniums and pots with sedums all supply a ready made composition for the artistic.
Away from the hilltop towns there are pink painted villas, green shuttered windows and terraces shaded by lush green climbers: Cannes cum California. Passing open topped sports cars racing along the corniche makes me think of the roaring twenties and thirties and high society life on the coast then: I'm inspired to read Scott Fitzgerald's novel, Tender is the Night, again when I get home. Those were the days my friends, and this is the place.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Books: anything on Matisse & Chagall.
A Year in Provence (see blog archive, 9 July 2007)
It really bugs me to find out I visited someplace and missed the most interesting garden, museum or view to be found there: we were staying near Nice and the surrounding area is simply stuffed with great things to see.
The Cote d'Azur was – and still is - such a popular area for artists and in Nice is a museum dedicated to Matisse and another to Chagall. But there's no need struggle with city traffic when in the charming medieval hilltop village of St Paul de Vence, only half an hour away by car, there is a museum of modern art and contemporary works: Fondation Maeght.
At the moment there's a Spanish exhibition on there with an enormous collection of Miro's works – all the famous pieces - but there are also paintings by Bonnard and Leger – as well as Matisse and Chagall – including wonderfully leggy sculptures by Giacometti and ceramic works by Braque. The setting of the building lends itself to all the sculptures that are on display outside: courtyards and lawns, pools and pine clad hillsides all form a perfect background for some pretty wacky or positively wonderful forms. Miro was keen on mobiles and these and his disconnected surreal works seemed ideally suited to outdoors: wind, branches, leaves, air - the asymmetricality of nature.
Henri Matisse first visited the Cote d'Azur in 1916 and, fascinated by the light, continued to visit it until he eventually settled in Vence. It's fun to search out his works here: in a famous hotel restaurant at St Paul can be found sketches of his as well as those by other penniless artists who visited -Picasso, Leger, Braque, Dufy. An exciting treasure chest to come across.
In the Chapelle de Rosaire – a Dominican convent - just north of Vence, Matisse decorated the vault: the tiled walls have simple black line paintings but two walls have stunning stained glass windows. The light from these is wonderful – sunlight coming through the blue glass glows, the yellow is frosted and diffuses the light – and the whole design is exceptional.
Marc Chagall – born in 1887 of Russian-Jewish descent – fled Russia and lived in Paris before moving to America in 1941. But in 1949 he returned to France and settled in Provence where he began to work in stained glass – more of this another time – and ceramics.
In the former 11-17c cathedral (now the church of Sainte Anne) in Vence he designed a superb mural mosaic, 'Moses saved from the Nile', in the Baptistery. The sunshine, colours and elements of nature depicted in the composition were meant to evoke the joy of baptism. I thought that the space and simplicity – naivety - of it was mirrored in his painting 'La vie', seen in the Foundation. The area still appeals to artists, not only because they are inspired by such as Cezanne and Matisse but because the light is so very different from anywhere else. Further on from Vence yet another hilltop village, Tourettes de Loup, has been transformed into a a place for artists and craftsmen to live and work.
Up narrow, steep and winding streets, in cavernous spaces through small doors you can see weavers, potters, jewellry makers and painters at work in their small ataliers. The old stone walls and steps, ancient wooden doors and shutters, window boxes overflowing with geraniums and pots with sedums all supply a ready made composition for the artistic.
Away from the hilltop towns there are pink painted villas, green shuttered windows and terraces shaded by lush green climbers: Cannes cum California. Passing open topped sports cars racing along the corniche makes me think of the roaring twenties and thirties and high society life on the coast then: I'm inspired to read Scott Fitzgerald's novel, Tender is the Night, again when I get home. Those were the days my friends, and this is the place.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Books: anything on Matisse & Chagall.
A Year in Provence (see blog archive, 9 July 2007)
Monday, 3 September 2007
Highgrove: organic is beautiful
When I heard that I could visit the garden at Highgrove, the country home of His Royal Highness, Prince Charles, I was over the moon. Demand is so high that the waiting list can be up to five years and only one visit per person is allowed, so for me to get 'in' was fantastic.
The garden is a delight: Charles planned it to be not only an organic landscape but a beautiful one too and he's achieved his goal spectacularly. I walked around it with a smile as wide as a frog: from a design point of view vistas radiating from the house are achieved with paths and clipped hedges whilst wild natural areas (woods and wild flower meadows) juxtapose well with more formal planting.
The walled kitchen garden combines beauty and practicality: old varieties of apple tree are pleached or espaliered whilst other fruits are fan trained on the high brick walls. The geometric planting beds have neat rows of vegetables enclosed by low clipped box hedging – a natural form of pest control.
Scented perennials, flowering shrubs and old fashioned roses spill over the gravel paths, a good foil for the uniformity of the vegetables. Everything is grown organically using compost and natural liquid manures and with no need for sprays: as good an advert for this method of growing as anyone could find.
Throughout the park there are new structures – a dovecote, beef shed, rustic oak temples, brick paths, dry stone walls – that are all designed with the vernacular in mind. The quality of these is quite obvious and the concept perfectly in keeping with the whole ethos.
One fun aspect of walking around it – which one can only do under the guidance of a knowledgeable volunteer - is picking up the clues to inspiration. A laburnum walk is pure Rosemary Verey (Barnsley House), a pair of wrought iron gates leading into a yew hedged garden is definitely Lady Salisbury (Cranbourne Chase) and the wild flower meadow could be a Miriam Rothschild blue-print.
Sadly the giant cedar of Lebanon at the back of the house is dying if not already dead. But nothing lasts forever and although The Prince regrets the loss it's a chance to plant something else in its place for posterity.
The garden pushes every ecological button: planting suits its site and is sustainable; species and methods encourage bio-diversity; endangered native species are thriving; the estate is self-sufficient in vegetables and fruits; there is an ongoing tree planting programme for the benefit of future generations which is also a healthy carbon offset.
And most of the ideas are excellent: a reed-bed waste sewage system may not be suitable for your average Joe but re-cycling rainwater is a measure that can be copied by nearly everyone. Rainwater is free and can be used to irrigate gardens: a win-win situation if ever there was one.
Composting is also big at Highgrove and even owners of the smallest gardens can recycle kitchen vegetable waste using enclosed compost bins. These hardly ever need emptying as an organic liquid is produced that simply seeps into the soil: no sweat.
But I do hope The Prince gives up his idea to produce bio-fuel from rapeseed and other vegetable fats as this is not an efficient – or desirable - use of land. It's also a poor example to set third world countries: if they make over large tracts of arable land to produce fuel(much of it for the West), they will not be able to produce a wide choice of affordable crops for their own population.
Transport can be fuelled by electricity which is produced from timber: the production of a sustainable timber supply not only uses less land than oil seed crops but it leaves arable land free for food crop production. There is often a backlash to alternative methods: think again, Charlie.
But, apart from this one small point, the garden at Highgrove and the message Prince Charles conveys with his ideas and his methods is exemplary. For hundreds of years landscapes were made by men of wealth and power but few did so throughout the 20th century: Prince Charles is an exception. His house and garden combine to make a most beautiful landscape – a real inspiration - certainly the highlight of my gardening year so far.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: HRH The Prince of Wales' book, The Garden at Highgrove (published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson), is still in print and available now in paperback. Even if you have not been to the garden it is a very attractive book with plenty of ideas to inspire....tho' better still if you have been!
This year another handsome book, The Elements Of Organic Gardening, is available. It's a practical guide to organic gardening as practiced at Highgrove and other properties owned by The Prince. All proceeds from these books – and everything sold in the shop at Highgrove – goes towards The Prince's Trust for the worthy causes it supports.
The garden is a delight: Charles planned it to be not only an organic landscape but a beautiful one too and he's achieved his goal spectacularly. I walked around it with a smile as wide as a frog: from a design point of view vistas radiating from the house are achieved with paths and clipped hedges whilst wild natural areas (woods and wild flower meadows) juxtapose well with more formal planting.
The walled kitchen garden combines beauty and practicality: old varieties of apple tree are pleached or espaliered whilst other fruits are fan trained on the high brick walls. The geometric planting beds have neat rows of vegetables enclosed by low clipped box hedging – a natural form of pest control.
Scented perennials, flowering shrubs and old fashioned roses spill over the gravel paths, a good foil for the uniformity of the vegetables. Everything is grown organically using compost and natural liquid manures and with no need for sprays: as good an advert for this method of growing as anyone could find.
Throughout the park there are new structures – a dovecote, beef shed, rustic oak temples, brick paths, dry stone walls – that are all designed with the vernacular in mind. The quality of these is quite obvious and the concept perfectly in keeping with the whole ethos.
One fun aspect of walking around it – which one can only do under the guidance of a knowledgeable volunteer - is picking up the clues to inspiration. A laburnum walk is pure Rosemary Verey (Barnsley House), a pair of wrought iron gates leading into a yew hedged garden is definitely Lady Salisbury (Cranbourne Chase) and the wild flower meadow could be a Miriam Rothschild blue-print.
Sadly the giant cedar of Lebanon at the back of the house is dying if not already dead. But nothing lasts forever and although The Prince regrets the loss it's a chance to plant something else in its place for posterity.
The garden pushes every ecological button: planting suits its site and is sustainable; species and methods encourage bio-diversity; endangered native species are thriving; the estate is self-sufficient in vegetables and fruits; there is an ongoing tree planting programme for the benefit of future generations which is also a healthy carbon offset.
And most of the ideas are excellent: a reed-bed waste sewage system may not be suitable for your average Joe but re-cycling rainwater is a measure that can be copied by nearly everyone. Rainwater is free and can be used to irrigate gardens: a win-win situation if ever there was one.
Composting is also big at Highgrove and even owners of the smallest gardens can recycle kitchen vegetable waste using enclosed compost bins. These hardly ever need emptying as an organic liquid is produced that simply seeps into the soil: no sweat.
But I do hope The Prince gives up his idea to produce bio-fuel from rapeseed and other vegetable fats as this is not an efficient – or desirable - use of land. It's also a poor example to set third world countries: if they make over large tracts of arable land to produce fuel(much of it for the West), they will not be able to produce a wide choice of affordable crops for their own population.
Transport can be fuelled by electricity which is produced from timber: the production of a sustainable timber supply not only uses less land than oil seed crops but it leaves arable land free for food crop production. There is often a backlash to alternative methods: think again, Charlie.
But, apart from this one small point, the garden at Highgrove and the message Prince Charles conveys with his ideas and his methods is exemplary. For hundreds of years landscapes were made by men of wealth and power but few did so throughout the 20th century: Prince Charles is an exception. His house and garden combine to make a most beautiful landscape – a real inspiration - certainly the highlight of my gardening year so far.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: HRH The Prince of Wales' book, The Garden at Highgrove (published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson), is still in print and available now in paperback. Even if you have not been to the garden it is a very attractive book with plenty of ideas to inspire....tho' better still if you have been!
This year another handsome book, The Elements Of Organic Gardening, is available. It's a practical guide to organic gardening as practiced at Highgrove and other properties owned by The Prince. All proceeds from these books – and everything sold in the shop at Highgrove – goes towards The Prince's Trust for the worthy causes it supports.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Historical Fiction and Real Life
For some, 'historical fiction' is that set upto the 19th century but actually anything set over a hundred years ago - or now pre-1945 – comes within the genre. But whichever period a story is set in, one of the facets that a writer of historical fiction is concerned with is historical accuracy.
When a novel has a glowing write-up (like an excellent reviewer from Historical Novels Review gave A Little Blue Jacket this month!) the author is likely to be on cloud nine: but clouds are insubstantial things. It can be down to earth with a bump if a reviewer criticizes areas of the work that the writer thinks unfair.
Once an author has published a novel it's out there to have its bones picked over by anyone. Criticism of style or structure is a very subjective thing – one man's meat is another man's poison – but historical accuracy can be checked.
Most authors of historical fiction go to great lengths to ensure historical, geographical and social facts are researched but it is amazing how often the reader is surprised by either lifestyles or words currently in use at the time, altered locations or historical views.
Given the chance, most authors are able to explain the historical context and back up their facts (certainly in the large format of my novel A Little Blue Jacket I included extensive historical notes as even local South Africans told me they knew little of SA history after 1900 and before 1950) and so give the reader a chance to follow up research for themselves.
Many historical facts had to be cross-referenced for my novel as what appears obvious is not always the case. For example - the original Malay houses around Bo Kaap have not, contrary to popular belief, been repainted in their original pastel colours: they were originally white. After frenzied building a hundred years ago Victorian buildings in Cape Town outnumbered Cape Dutch ones and the architect 'darling' of the time, who was building in the vernacular style there, was in fact British: Herbert Baker, partner of Edwin Lutyens.
Fish Hoek is now a thriving small town but a hundred years ago was little more than a few fishing cottages: the Martello tower of Simon's Town is now little more than a ruin. On Muizenberg sands the tin hut of 1905 is long gone, replaced as it was by a grand pavilion in 1913, along with the charming stilted beach huts that are so well known today.
Similarly, the writer of historical fiction has to make sure of geographical facts that may send readers reaching for their street map or atlas. To demonstrate: in Cape Town, Roggebaai (present spelling) with its jetty is now reclaimed land – old street names bear testimony to its previous bounds - and many names of streets and squares have since been changed in tune with society.
Political and social facts too can be authenticated. Those living in Johannesburg today may find it difficult to believe that a hundred years ago Indians and Malays were allowed to buy properties in new residential districts of Cape Town: apartheid has so dominated South Africa in the recent past that many cannot believe that in the Western Cape a hundred years ago there was no apartheid and were no pass laws.
This is what was meant when those in the Western Cape were described as 'colour blind': today reference to this might be interpreted as a politically correct view but it is, indeed, a fact. Certainly among the British in the Western Cape, Malays were sought out as house servants and treated, on the whole, well: indeed many of the female servants became close confidantes of the mistress of the house.
History is written by people and of course can be re-written to suit, but there is much that cannot be disagreed with. A writer can point out historical facts to dissenters, and back up social facts with contemporaneous sources used, but little can be done to countermand ingrained prejudice or ignorance on the behalf of a reader or critic.
But, when all's said and done, most authors of historical fiction are not historians: they are writers of fiction. And, like all fiction writers, they can invent characters and places. They can also manipulate actual events and dates to serve fictional purposes: they can choose to write their story in the spirit of the time or be exact in every detail.
Or writers can marry the two: for example, I made a choice when writing my novel not to make the speech as stilted as it may have been but to observe speech patterns and the odd words of regional dialect used at the time instead. This involved considerable research as words used today – or understood today – are not necessarily those of the period in which the book was set: it's a device that can give the book a sense of period as well as place.
And, for myself, some of the personal facts on which I based the story of A Little Blue Jacket no-one can dispute: my grandmother was born in the Cape and, orphaned, was brought up by her sister and her Malay nurse of whom she was very fond. Without 'giving away' the story (and it is fiction), the least likely and most dramatic events that happen in it are actually true: that old adage that real life is often more surprising than fiction.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
When a novel has a glowing write-up (like an excellent reviewer from Historical Novels Review gave A Little Blue Jacket this month!) the author is likely to be on cloud nine: but clouds are insubstantial things. It can be down to earth with a bump if a reviewer criticizes areas of the work that the writer thinks unfair.
Once an author has published a novel it's out there to have its bones picked over by anyone. Criticism of style or structure is a very subjective thing – one man's meat is another man's poison – but historical accuracy can be checked.
Most authors of historical fiction go to great lengths to ensure historical, geographical and social facts are researched but it is amazing how often the reader is surprised by either lifestyles or words currently in use at the time, altered locations or historical views.
Given the chance, most authors are able to explain the historical context and back up their facts (certainly in the large format of my novel A Little Blue Jacket I included extensive historical notes as even local South Africans told me they knew little of SA history after 1900 and before 1950) and so give the reader a chance to follow up research for themselves.
Many historical facts had to be cross-referenced for my novel as what appears obvious is not always the case. For example - the original Malay houses around Bo Kaap have not, contrary to popular belief, been repainted in their original pastel colours: they were originally white. After frenzied building a hundred years ago Victorian buildings in Cape Town outnumbered Cape Dutch ones and the architect 'darling' of the time, who was building in the vernacular style there, was in fact British: Herbert Baker, partner of Edwin Lutyens. Fish Hoek is now a thriving small town but a hundred years ago was little more than a few fishing cottages: the Martello tower of Simon's Town is now little more than a ruin. On Muizenberg sands the tin hut of 1905 is long gone, replaced as it was by a grand pavilion in 1913, along with the charming stilted beach huts that are so well known today.
Similarly, the writer of historical fiction has to make sure of geographical facts that may send readers reaching for their street map or atlas. To demonstrate: in Cape Town, Roggebaai (present spelling) with its jetty is now reclaimed land – old street names bear testimony to its previous bounds - and many names of streets and squares have since been changed in tune with society.
Political and social facts too can be authenticated. Those living in Johannesburg today may find it difficult to believe that a hundred years ago Indians and Malays were allowed to buy properties in new residential districts of Cape Town: apartheid has so dominated South Africa in the recent past that many cannot believe that in the Western Cape a hundred years ago there was no apartheid and were no pass laws.
This is what was meant when those in the Western Cape were described as 'colour blind': today reference to this might be interpreted as a politically correct view but it is, indeed, a fact. Certainly among the British in the Western Cape, Malays were sought out as house servants and treated, on the whole, well: indeed many of the female servants became close confidantes of the mistress of the house.
History is written by people and of course can be re-written to suit, but there is much that cannot be disagreed with. A writer can point out historical facts to dissenters, and back up social facts with contemporaneous sources used, but little can be done to countermand ingrained prejudice or ignorance on the behalf of a reader or critic.
But, when all's said and done, most authors of historical fiction are not historians: they are writers of fiction. And, like all fiction writers, they can invent characters and places. They can also manipulate actual events and dates to serve fictional purposes: they can choose to write their story in the spirit of the time or be exact in every detail.
Or writers can marry the two: for example, I made a choice when writing my novel not to make the speech as stilted as it may have been but to observe speech patterns and the odd words of regional dialect used at the time instead. This involved considerable research as words used today – or understood today – are not necessarily those of the period in which the book was set: it's a device that can give the book a sense of period as well as place.
And, for myself, some of the personal facts on which I based the story of A Little Blue Jacket no-one can dispute: my grandmother was born in the Cape and, orphaned, was brought up by her sister and her Malay nurse of whom she was very fond. Without 'giving away' the story (and it is fiction), the least likely and most dramatic events that happen in it are actually true: that old adage that real life is often more surprising than fiction.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Sunday, 12 August 2007
The moon, meteors and myths
The moon and meteors have long been the subject of myths: for thousands of years cultures have studied the stars and been ruled by their movement. Terrestrial travellers throughout the world used the stars and the moon to guide them, seafarers navigated by the constellations.
Historically farmers have grown crops according to the phases of the moon. Wheat was sown during the waxing of the moon and small holders planted their peas: all above ground crops. When the moon was waning however, it was the time to sow root crops and trees.
Now, when tending their vines, winemakers of the New World are considering the lunar activity that ancient viniculture abided by: full circle. They are harvesting their grapes as close to the full moon as possible in order that the fruit is full of moisture and flavour.
And it's not such a daft idea: after all, it's the gravitational interaction between the Earth and the moon that causes the tides to change and similarly the moon affects moisture in the soil. Depending on whether the moon is waxing or waning, so light is increasing or decreasing, affecting plant growth.
In the 20th century interest was renewed when Rudolph Steiner encouraged such biodynamic agricultural techniques as planting according to the moon's phases: it seems that seeds germinate more quickly if planted at full moon. But you ask any countryman about when to grow fruit and veg and he'll spout planting and gathering times based on the lunar calendar that were part of folklore long before Steiner gave it any scientific credentials.
The Romans were heavily into the lunar calendar as we all know and belief in the mythical powers of the planets and stars is still with us in the 21st century: so strong is it that we even organize our lives by consulting the twelve constellations of the Zodiac on a daily basis. What star sign are you? is one of the most popular openers for women (in particular) on speed dates and many have been know to reject a partner on the strength of his perceived personality: in some cultures a potential bride or groom can be rejected after consulting the stars for fear of an inauspicious match.
For more down-to-earth types however, tonight, Sunday, after midnight, there will be a spectacular shower of shooting stars through the British skies: the Perseid meteor shower occurs every year around the time of the St Lawrence's feast day on 10th August (Romans again). The show has already begun but will peak tonight. A new moon – a darker sky – should help us see the spectacle more clearly: that and the absence of light pollution.
Killjoy, I hear you groan, why mention pollution. Why can't you just celebrate this wonderful astronomical phenomenon without recourse to green issues: quite simply, because light pollution of our night skies may stop us seeing this colourful cabaret.
Light pollution is the adverse affect of artificial light on the night sky: in many cities throughout the world only the brightest of the planets and the moon are now visible. In our village we boast of having a clear night sky: there are no street lights or large illuminated signs so astronomers travel miles to study the stars on the elevated Common. But in the distance there can be seen sky glow from the nearby town and it's creeping ever nearer.
So what? Well, light pollution affects us all, star gazer or not. Lighting burns money and it uses up our natural energy resources: it harms nocturnal wildlife and it destroys our night skies which is a crying shame. There is nothing like walking home from the pub on a chilly evening under a starry, starry night: nothing more wonderful that going out into the garden after a warm day, when there's not a cloud in the sky, and seeing above you a canopy of stars. It's apt to stir mystical or philosophical (or romantic!) thoughts depending on character (or company).
Down in Devon this spring, my sister-in-law brought out her telescope. She said that it was an excellent evening to see the rings round Saturn and the mountains on the moon: sensational and spooky both. They too live in a village with an unpolluted night sky and the clarity of the images was extraordinary.
If only every night sky was as clear: it actually takes very little – and costs next to nothing - to cut light pollution in residential areas and so increase visibility. When some town dwellers move to the countryside they feel insecure without street lights, but country dwellers know that a torch is all that's necessary to find your way. And lights on gateways or porches have simply to be changed to lower wattage, put on a time switch and, most importantly, designed with a narrow beam angled downwards to minimise the affect of pollution.
The stars and the moon and the sky: we can make or mar magic.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: books on mythology abound and it’s a fascinating subject. Two of the books I used when researching myths for my novel were The Myths of Greece and Rome by H A Guerber - because it was published in 1907 and therefore reflected the presentation of them at that time - and African Mythology by Geoffrey Parrinder because it included myths that linked the coming of death with the waxing and waning of the moon (go to www.nmm.ac.uk for more South African myths)
In the same Paul Hamlyn series are books about Greek, Egyptian, Indian, Oceanic and American Indian mythology and I can bet there are myths about the moon and the stars in all of them.
Historically farmers have grown crops according to the phases of the moon. Wheat was sown during the waxing of the moon and small holders planted their peas: all above ground crops. When the moon was waning however, it was the time to sow root crops and trees.
Now, when tending their vines, winemakers of the New World are considering the lunar activity that ancient viniculture abided by: full circle. They are harvesting their grapes as close to the full moon as possible in order that the fruit is full of moisture and flavour.
And it's not such a daft idea: after all, it's the gravitational interaction between the Earth and the moon that causes the tides to change and similarly the moon affects moisture in the soil. Depending on whether the moon is waxing or waning, so light is increasing or decreasing, affecting plant growth.
In the 20th century interest was renewed when Rudolph Steiner encouraged such biodynamic agricultural techniques as planting according to the moon's phases: it seems that seeds germinate more quickly if planted at full moon. But you ask any countryman about when to grow fruit and veg and he'll spout planting and gathering times based on the lunar calendar that were part of folklore long before Steiner gave it any scientific credentials.
The Romans were heavily into the lunar calendar as we all know and belief in the mythical powers of the planets and stars is still with us in the 21st century: so strong is it that we even organize our lives by consulting the twelve constellations of the Zodiac on a daily basis. What star sign are you? is one of the most popular openers for women (in particular) on speed dates and many have been know to reject a partner on the strength of his perceived personality: in some cultures a potential bride or groom can be rejected after consulting the stars for fear of an inauspicious match.
For more down-to-earth types however, tonight, Sunday, after midnight, there will be a spectacular shower of shooting stars through the British skies: the Perseid meteor shower occurs every year around the time of the St Lawrence's feast day on 10th August (Romans again). The show has already begun but will peak tonight. A new moon – a darker sky – should help us see the spectacle more clearly: that and the absence of light pollution.
Killjoy, I hear you groan, why mention pollution. Why can't you just celebrate this wonderful astronomical phenomenon without recourse to green issues: quite simply, because light pollution of our night skies may stop us seeing this colourful cabaret.
Light pollution is the adverse affect of artificial light on the night sky: in many cities throughout the world only the brightest of the planets and the moon are now visible. In our village we boast of having a clear night sky: there are no street lights or large illuminated signs so astronomers travel miles to study the stars on the elevated Common. But in the distance there can be seen sky glow from the nearby town and it's creeping ever nearer.
So what? Well, light pollution affects us all, star gazer or not. Lighting burns money and it uses up our natural energy resources: it harms nocturnal wildlife and it destroys our night skies which is a crying shame. There is nothing like walking home from the pub on a chilly evening under a starry, starry night: nothing more wonderful that going out into the garden after a warm day, when there's not a cloud in the sky, and seeing above you a canopy of stars. It's apt to stir mystical or philosophical (or romantic!) thoughts depending on character (or company).
Down in Devon this spring, my sister-in-law brought out her telescope. She said that it was an excellent evening to see the rings round Saturn and the mountains on the moon: sensational and spooky both. They too live in a village with an unpolluted night sky and the clarity of the images was extraordinary.
If only every night sky was as clear: it actually takes very little – and costs next to nothing - to cut light pollution in residential areas and so increase visibility. When some town dwellers move to the countryside they feel insecure without street lights, but country dwellers know that a torch is all that's necessary to find your way. And lights on gateways or porches have simply to be changed to lower wattage, put on a time switch and, most importantly, designed with a narrow beam angled downwards to minimise the affect of pollution.
The stars and the moon and the sky: we can make or mar magic.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: books on mythology abound and it’s a fascinating subject. Two of the books I used when researching myths for my novel were The Myths of Greece and Rome by H A Guerber - because it was published in 1907 and therefore reflected the presentation of them at that time - and African Mythology by Geoffrey Parrinder because it included myths that linked the coming of death with the waxing and waning of the moon (go to www.nmm.ac.uk for more South African myths)
In the same Paul Hamlyn series are books about Greek, Egyptian, Indian, Oceanic and American Indian mythology and I can bet there are myths about the moon and the stars in all of them.
Sunday, 29 July 2007
Flanders Fields: wheat and poppies
A field of ripening wheat is a beautiful sight: jade green stalks around the edges of the fields enclose the sea of wheat, a soft dun colour. When there is a slight breeze the ears sway in unison like dancers on a ballroom floor.
When it's not raining (which it's doing a lot lately) one of my favourite walks with Freddie is along a footpath that cuts right through the middle of a large wheat field. But first I have to negotiate the kissing gate without Freddie noticing either the hens or the giant pet rabbit asleep in the adjoining garden. That accomplished I can relax.
From the top of the field there's a 300 degree panoramic view: the land falls away to hedges and trees, a stream at one edge. I never fail to stop awhile and admire the wide open landscape, the large sky – a perfect scene - and marvel at how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful, peaceful place.
When the sun shines the wheat takes on a golden glow, the green of the hedges and trees in deeper contrast, the blue of the sky an excellent foil for the wheat: opposite sides of the colour spectrum. In years gone by, before fields were sprayed, the bright contrast of poppies was a lovely and common sight among the corn but now such annuals are an undesirable contaminate.
Freddie is less impressed with aesthetics. When he first enters the field his eyes scan the horizon: he's looking for prey. I pull him on and he adapts to nice smells mode. When I stop to admire the view he's happy to stay still for a minute and immediately adjusts to micro hunter: eyes to the ground, he's motionless, waiting for some movement among the stalks.
As we approach the farm we surprise the geese, lying in the shade of an elder. The downy yellow goslings of a few weeks ago have turned into handsome snowy white geese, small feathers on their necks still those of an adolescent.
They have not yet learned the art of the guard dog, either that or my dog and I have burglar's tread. Freddie shows no interest in the geese: it's possible that he's been on the receiving end of a goose's beak. It's a long time since we kept geese and I still miss the eggs but not the gander's battle cry.
Wild flowers, in muted shades, fill the verges of the road we follow: tall stems of meadowsweet wave fluffy heads of rich cream, pale pink bristles and spiky thistle leaves overshadow the small yellow flowers of rattle and buttercup in the grass.
But, ahead, one stab of searing colour. Where a car went over the hedge just opposite my house a stray poppy – bright scarlet – has appeared: some escapee seed from a neighbour's wildflower bank. The spinning car wheels did the job of the plough.
Poppy seed can lie dormant for years and years just waiting for a lucky break. I have gravel paths in the garden and this constantly disturbed surface is the perfect medium for poppies. I leave them wherever they appear, never knowing where they will come up next year. There are soft red poppies and mauve ones and various ones in shades of pink from cross fertilization. Some are frilly doubles, others simple singles.
I dry the heads of the poppies I like and plan to scatter the seeds immediately. Unfortunately, I often forget and find them the next year. Nevertheless I throw them onto roughed up bits of ground, if they come up it's a bonus, if they don't it didn't cost anything.
They look particularly good growing next to tall grasses – it's that old combination poppies and wheat. When the wheat field is ploughed it brings the poppy seed to the surface and allows it to germinate: tanks did the same on the Fields of Flanders.
July 31st is the anniversary of the main battle of Passendale (3rd battle of Ypres, 1917). Shelling, tanks and unseasonal heavy rain – very similar to the rain here this year - made the battle ground into a mud bath which was horrific and caused the death of many.
One of Siegfried Sassoon's poems sums it up, "I died in Hell – They called it Passchendaele". Not peaceful fields of wheat but Flanders fields of poppies must be on the minds of many: such a moving sight. Life and death: wheat and poppies.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: the poetry of those who died in the First World War, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, Isaac Rosenberg, and those that survived it, Robert Graves, A.E.Houseman, Edmund Blunden and Siegfried Sassoon, quite changed the language of poetry: romanticism was replaced with reality.
The darkness crumbles away -
It is the same old druid Time as ever.
Only a live thing leaps in my hand -
A queer sardonic rat -
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
'Break of Day in the Trenches' Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
The American civil war and then the Boer war had exposed the reality of modern warfare but it wasn't until the Great War that the true horror of it was so movingly expressed in poetry. And the poems of these soldier-boy poets, which convey the horror of war so graphically, still have resonance today.
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) is one of the best known of the British war poets. His six volume autobiography is a semi-fictional account of his life, the first three volumes entitled The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston. There are at least five biographies of Sassoon and, for those good at 'googling', there is a wealth of information out there about him.
When it's not raining (which it's doing a lot lately) one of my favourite walks with Freddie is along a footpath that cuts right through the middle of a large wheat field. But first I have to negotiate the kissing gate without Freddie noticing either the hens or the giant pet rabbit asleep in the adjoining garden. That accomplished I can relax.
From the top of the field there's a 300 degree panoramic view: the land falls away to hedges and trees, a stream at one edge. I never fail to stop awhile and admire the wide open landscape, the large sky – a perfect scene - and marvel at how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful, peaceful place. When the sun shines the wheat takes on a golden glow, the green of the hedges and trees in deeper contrast, the blue of the sky an excellent foil for the wheat: opposite sides of the colour spectrum. In years gone by, before fields were sprayed, the bright contrast of poppies was a lovely and common sight among the corn but now such annuals are an undesirable contaminate.
Freddie is less impressed with aesthetics. When he first enters the field his eyes scan the horizon: he's looking for prey. I pull him on and he adapts to nice smells mode. When I stop to admire the view he's happy to stay still for a minute and immediately adjusts to micro hunter: eyes to the ground, he's motionless, waiting for some movement among the stalks.
As we approach the farm we surprise the geese, lying in the shade of an elder. The downy yellow goslings of a few weeks ago have turned into handsome snowy white geese, small feathers on their necks still those of an adolescent.
They have not yet learned the art of the guard dog, either that or my dog and I have burglar's tread. Freddie shows no interest in the geese: it's possible that he's been on the receiving end of a goose's beak. It's a long time since we kept geese and I still miss the eggs but not the gander's battle cry.
Wild flowers, in muted shades, fill the verges of the road we follow: tall stems of meadowsweet wave fluffy heads of rich cream, pale pink bristles and spiky thistle leaves overshadow the small yellow flowers of rattle and buttercup in the grass.
But, ahead, one stab of searing colour. Where a car went over the hedge just opposite my house a stray poppy – bright scarlet – has appeared: some escapee seed from a neighbour's wildflower bank. The spinning car wheels did the job of the plough. Poppy seed can lie dormant for years and years just waiting for a lucky break. I have gravel paths in the garden and this constantly disturbed surface is the perfect medium for poppies. I leave them wherever they appear, never knowing where they will come up next year. There are soft red poppies and mauve ones and various ones in shades of pink from cross fertilization. Some are frilly doubles, others simple singles.
I dry the heads of the poppies I like and plan to scatter the seeds immediately. Unfortunately, I often forget and find them the next year. Nevertheless I throw them onto roughed up bits of ground, if they come up it's a bonus, if they don't it didn't cost anything.
They look particularly good growing next to tall grasses – it's that old combination poppies and wheat. When the wheat field is ploughed it brings the poppy seed to the surface and allows it to germinate: tanks did the same on the Fields of Flanders.
July 31st is the anniversary of the main battle of Passendale (3rd battle of Ypres, 1917). Shelling, tanks and unseasonal heavy rain – very similar to the rain here this year - made the battle ground into a mud bath which was horrific and caused the death of many.
One of Siegfried Sassoon's poems sums it up, "I died in Hell – They called it Passchendaele". Not peaceful fields of wheat but Flanders fields of poppies must be on the minds of many: such a moving sight. Life and death: wheat and poppies.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: the poetry of those who died in the First World War, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, Isaac Rosenberg, and those that survived it, Robert Graves, A.E.Houseman, Edmund Blunden and Siegfried Sassoon, quite changed the language of poetry: romanticism was replaced with reality.
The darkness crumbles away -
It is the same old druid Time as ever.
Only a live thing leaps in my hand -
A queer sardonic rat -
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
'Break of Day in the Trenches' Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
The American civil war and then the Boer war had exposed the reality of modern warfare but it wasn't until the Great War that the true horror of it was so movingly expressed in poetry. And the poems of these soldier-boy poets, which convey the horror of war so graphically, still have resonance today.
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) is one of the best known of the British war poets. His six volume autobiography is a semi-fictional account of his life, the first three volumes entitled The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston. There are at least five biographies of Sassoon and, for those good at 'googling', there is a wealth of information out there about him.
Sunday, 22 July 2007
Findings by Kathleen Jamie
In a further quest for something other than a novel, our Scots groupie suggested a 'sort of book' for our July book group choice: Findings, by the award-winning Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie.
Jamie obviously loves the Scottish landscape and wildlife and this book is a series of 'essays' that investigate different themes. Whether they were essays or not was a subject for discussion: all agreed they probably were although not of the 'school essay' type. So, fond of getting it right in my head, I looked up the word in the trusty OED
essay: noun 1. a short piece of writing on a particular subject.
2. formal an attempt or effort
essayist noun 1. a person who writes essays, especially as a literary genre
On a simplistic level I thought the essays were about the landscape and nature but Jamie says Findings 'is a book about being human, conscious, implicated.' She doesn't recognise the idea of 'the outdoors' or of 'nature' because she contends that we are nature, and are not – or should not be - divorced from it.
Well, of course she's right but most readers will probably enjoy her being at one. This comes across in her writing when she feels it imperative to be part of her surroundings, to interact, to get closer, whether moving along on her bike or sitting still up close on a bank.
But whether Jamie is cycling along a lane, on an island, in a boat or by a river bank she is listening as much as watching. We hear the mewing of a buzzard, waves sucking on rocks, the wind sloughing and so the reader is given a very complete picture.
She is a curious, keen and close observer and one who loves to use her binoculars to magnify, her telescope as an eye that can sweep in close. Like a camera. And I found her 'seeing' quite detached: unemotional. Like a scientist. Perhaps that's why she can put her observations into words so clearly.
Although, now and then, we are allowed odd glimpses of Jamie's personal life and views – her husband ill, her daughter's accident, her ageing grandmother: her politics, relationship with her mother.
Jamie doesn't do God, but she has a beneficent view of the natural world and a very philosophical one at that. When her husband was seriously ill she didn't pray to God to save him but concentrated instead on the minutiae of life - cobwebs and the play of sunlight – and wondered if 'noticing', paying heed to small things, was a kind of prayer.
It takes a bit of getting used to, this Kathleen Jamie view of life: she waited for hours to see a corncrake and when she finally did, one expected her to be delighted but she merely remarks 'That's that. I do not punch the air'. However, when an unexceptional man visiting the corncrake field described the small, modest birds as 'little gods of the field' she says she felt like punching the air, obviously delighted with his appreciation of the small things upon which all of nature is reliant.
Reading the book one can understand why Jamie's a lecturer in creative writing: her descriptions of the natural world are sharp and fresh, her similes humorous and original. Corncrakes don't like bad weather and are described as 'the kind of bird who'd want to be excused games'. Brilliant.
Her ability to pare down her writing – which must be part of a poet's art – is impressive in prose and the way in which she leaves her readers to draw their own conclusions shows amazing restraint.
One of my favourite chapters was Darkness and Light, describing her visit to the Neolithic tomb of Maes Howe, Orkney. Quite apart from the wonderful descriptions of the natural landscape – sky, birds, light, wind – she also explains how five thousand years ago the Stone Age builders were so skilled they lined-up a narrow passage so that on a few mid-winter days, at solstice, a beam of sunlight fell directly along that passage and illuminated the tomb. In those days darkness – black - was not associated with death as it is now. She wishes it was still so.
In The Braan Salmon the descriptions of the salmon leaping and the water they are leaping about in is superb. The river Braan is not a natural salmon river: tourists watch the salmon and admire their brio as they try to get back upriver to spawn. Is it survival of the fittest, is a conundrum Jamie raises. Few know that, try as they might, the salmon will never achieve it. It is impossible for them to clear the falls. The fittest fish die in the attempt and those that survive are those that give up and spawn where they can.
Jamie also likes to introduce us to a wider vocabularly: there are the Scottish words, of course, which pepper the text but never exclude the reader but there were also a few words that were new to me. Which perhaps indicates her love of finding out, pushing boundaries: knowing.
Findings was thoroughly enjoyed by the whole book group: 'beautifully presented book', 'an easy read', 'a gem', 'worth re-reading', were some general remarks. More specifically it was described as: informative, clever, with a wonderful sense of place. And every one understood when one groupie remarked that she had been 'transported by the descriptions'.
So, "Beam me up, Scottie", this sort of book is a real find.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Jamie obviously loves the Scottish landscape and wildlife and this book is a series of 'essays' that investigate different themes. Whether they were essays or not was a subject for discussion: all agreed they probably were although not of the 'school essay' type. So, fond of getting it right in my head, I looked up the word in the trusty OED
essay: noun 1. a short piece of writing on a particular subject.
2. formal an attempt or effort
essayist noun 1. a person who writes essays, especially as a literary genre
On a simplistic level I thought the essays were about the landscape and nature but Jamie says Findings 'is a book about being human, conscious, implicated.' She doesn't recognise the idea of 'the outdoors' or of 'nature' because she contends that we are nature, and are not – or should not be - divorced from it.
Well, of course she's right but most readers will probably enjoy her being at one. This comes across in her writing when she feels it imperative to be part of her surroundings, to interact, to get closer, whether moving along on her bike or sitting still up close on a bank.
But whether Jamie is cycling along a lane, on an island, in a boat or by a river bank she is listening as much as watching. We hear the mewing of a buzzard, waves sucking on rocks, the wind sloughing and so the reader is given a very complete picture.
She is a curious, keen and close observer and one who loves to use her binoculars to magnify, her telescope as an eye that can sweep in close. Like a camera. And I found her 'seeing' quite detached: unemotional. Like a scientist. Perhaps that's why she can put her observations into words so clearly.
Although, now and then, we are allowed odd glimpses of Jamie's personal life and views – her husband ill, her daughter's accident, her ageing grandmother: her politics, relationship with her mother.
Jamie doesn't do God, but she has a beneficent view of the natural world and a very philosophical one at that. When her husband was seriously ill she didn't pray to God to save him but concentrated instead on the minutiae of life - cobwebs and the play of sunlight – and wondered if 'noticing', paying heed to small things, was a kind of prayer.
It takes a bit of getting used to, this Kathleen Jamie view of life: she waited for hours to see a corncrake and when she finally did, one expected her to be delighted but she merely remarks 'That's that. I do not punch the air'. However, when an unexceptional man visiting the corncrake field described the small, modest birds as 'little gods of the field' she says she felt like punching the air, obviously delighted with his appreciation of the small things upon which all of nature is reliant.
Reading the book one can understand why Jamie's a lecturer in creative writing: her descriptions of the natural world are sharp and fresh, her similes humorous and original. Corncrakes don't like bad weather and are described as 'the kind of bird who'd want to be excused games'. Brilliant.
Her ability to pare down her writing – which must be part of a poet's art – is impressive in prose and the way in which she leaves her readers to draw their own conclusions shows amazing restraint.
One of my favourite chapters was Darkness and Light, describing her visit to the Neolithic tomb of Maes Howe, Orkney. Quite apart from the wonderful descriptions of the natural landscape – sky, birds, light, wind – she also explains how five thousand years ago the Stone Age builders were so skilled they lined-up a narrow passage so that on a few mid-winter days, at solstice, a beam of sunlight fell directly along that passage and illuminated the tomb. In those days darkness – black - was not associated with death as it is now. She wishes it was still so.
In The Braan Salmon the descriptions of the salmon leaping and the water they are leaping about in is superb. The river Braan is not a natural salmon river: tourists watch the salmon and admire their brio as they try to get back upriver to spawn. Is it survival of the fittest, is a conundrum Jamie raises. Few know that, try as they might, the salmon will never achieve it. It is impossible for them to clear the falls. The fittest fish die in the attempt and those that survive are those that give up and spawn where they can.
Jamie also likes to introduce us to a wider vocabularly: there are the Scottish words, of course, which pepper the text but never exclude the reader but there were also a few words that were new to me. Which perhaps indicates her love of finding out, pushing boundaries: knowing.
Findings was thoroughly enjoyed by the whole book group: 'beautifully presented book', 'an easy read', 'a gem', 'worth re-reading', were some general remarks. More specifically it was described as: informative, clever, with a wonderful sense of place. And every one understood when one groupie remarked that she had been 'transported by the descriptions'.
So, "Beam me up, Scottie", this sort of book is a real find.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Monday, 9 July 2007
Lavender Blue
As cyclists on the Le Tour de France whizzed along Kent roads this week-end they by-passed a landscape feature more often recognized in Provence than Kent: fields of lavender in bloom.
The Romans originally brought lavender from the Mediterranean to Britain: it was prized for its medicinal qualities and, as it contains camphor, was used as an insect repellent. The name lavender comes from the latin, lavare, to wash, as it was used in laundry processes. For hundreds of years thereafter it was planted in monastery gardens and by the 16th century was found in most private gardens too.
By this time dried lavender was valued for many uses: as well its antiseptic qualities it was scattered on floors, cupboards and beds to deter vermin, used to purify the air, in washing and as a water to scent linen and clothes. When food was not always fresh, and spices were expensive, it was also used to flavour food and as a garnish for meat and fish dishes.
The historical importance of the plant is still apparent in the names of places throughout the south east of England - Lavender Hill, Lavender Court, Lavender Cottage – and those whose ancestors were laundresses (la lavandiere) still carry the family name of Lavender.
The plant requires free drainage and chalk soils provide similar growing conditions to that found in the south of France. A chalk seam runs through Kent and in the late 19th century there were thriving lavender fields in Seal, near Sevenoaks. In those days there was hardly a household without bottles of lavender water, lavender linen sachets hanging in wardrobes, lavender soap or perfume.
In the Seal lavender fields Victorian ladies in wide skirts, high necked blouses and hats picked the stalks by hand to provide these products. But, unfortunately, the lavender fields failed although the variety Seal Lavender (Lavandula x intermedia 'Seal'), which has green foliage and strong stems of pale mauve flowers, still survives.
Lavender fields in Norfolk were the most famous during the 20th century but now farmers in West Kent are producing lavender on a commercial basis again. Steam distillation is still the most widely used method of extracting the essential oils, inherited from the Arabs hundreds of years ago. However, technical improvements mean that the reliability and quality of the product has improved.
Lavender oil is still used for traditional toiletries but it is now big business as an ingredient in aromatherapy products, desirable for its calming and relaxing properties. It's also a natural antidote: yep, it's antiseptic, anti-inflammatory, anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, anti-depressant and anti-convulsive. In addition lavender has had a renaissance for culinary uses: cooking essences are used in breads, puddings and preserves and cold essences in ice-creams and drinks.
Driving or travelling by train to Shoreham in Kent there can be seen a wonderful purple haze across the landscape: lavender fields in bloom instantly transport the commuter to the south of France. Rows of lavender spikes create stunning mauve hummocks that run down a south facing slope right up to the sixteenth century farmhouse of Castle Farm.
You can see how beautiful these lavender fields are by visiting their website, www.hopshop.co.uk (yes, you've guessed, they grow hop bines too), and can find out about the many activities provided for visitors. This week-end they had a Lavender Festival and visitors could buy lavender products, try lavender flavoured foods, visit the distillery and take a tour of the lavender fields.
Art courses at the farm tempt painters to try and create the quintessential Provence landscape, but lavender bushes and lavender scents are as English as English can be. If you don't believe me, on yer bike.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk
Book Note: long before Peter Mayle's book A Year in Provence (1990) was written there languished on my mother's bookshelves a slim purple covered book entitled Perfume from Province, by Lady Winifred Fortescue (1935). Finding it one day, I read the delightful record of the renovation of her small stone house near Grasse, surrounded by olive groves and lavender bushes, in which she gave a warm account of her experiences with the charming, if sometimes trying, local craftsmen.
The whole tenor was a more gentle – less scathing – version of Mayle's later book on the same subject, in the same area of Provence. However, a small consolation: Perfume from Province was republished after the roaring success of Mayle's book and it too - belatedly - became a best seller.
The Romans originally brought lavender from the Mediterranean to Britain: it was prized for its medicinal qualities and, as it contains camphor, was used as an insect repellent. The name lavender comes from the latin, lavare, to wash, as it was used in laundry processes. For hundreds of years thereafter it was planted in monastery gardens and by the 16th century was found in most private gardens too.
By this time dried lavender was valued for many uses: as well its antiseptic qualities it was scattered on floors, cupboards and beds to deter vermin, used to purify the air, in washing and as a water to scent linen and clothes. When food was not always fresh, and spices were expensive, it was also used to flavour food and as a garnish for meat and fish dishes.
The historical importance of the plant is still apparent in the names of places throughout the south east of England - Lavender Hill, Lavender Court, Lavender Cottage – and those whose ancestors were laundresses (la lavandiere) still carry the family name of Lavender.
The plant requires free drainage and chalk soils provide similar growing conditions to that found in the south of France. A chalk seam runs through Kent and in the late 19th century there were thriving lavender fields in Seal, near Sevenoaks. In those days there was hardly a household without bottles of lavender water, lavender linen sachets hanging in wardrobes, lavender soap or perfume.
In the Seal lavender fields Victorian ladies in wide skirts, high necked blouses and hats picked the stalks by hand to provide these products. But, unfortunately, the lavender fields failed although the variety Seal Lavender (Lavandula x intermedia 'Seal'), which has green foliage and strong stems of pale mauve flowers, still survives.
Lavender fields in Norfolk were the most famous during the 20th century but now farmers in West Kent are producing lavender on a commercial basis again. Steam distillation is still the most widely used method of extracting the essential oils, inherited from the Arabs hundreds of years ago. However, technical improvements mean that the reliability and quality of the product has improved.
Lavender oil is still used for traditional toiletries but it is now big business as an ingredient in aromatherapy products, desirable for its calming and relaxing properties. It's also a natural antidote: yep, it's antiseptic, anti-inflammatory, anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, anti-depressant and anti-convulsive. In addition lavender has had a renaissance for culinary uses: cooking essences are used in breads, puddings and preserves and cold essences in ice-creams and drinks.
Driving or travelling by train to Shoreham in Kent there can be seen a wonderful purple haze across the landscape: lavender fields in bloom instantly transport the commuter to the south of France. Rows of lavender spikes create stunning mauve hummocks that run down a south facing slope right up to the sixteenth century farmhouse of Castle Farm.You can see how beautiful these lavender fields are by visiting their website, www.hopshop.co.uk (yes, you've guessed, they grow hop bines too), and can find out about the many activities provided for visitors. This week-end they had a Lavender Festival and visitors could buy lavender products, try lavender flavoured foods, visit the distillery and take a tour of the lavender fields.
Art courses at the farm tempt painters to try and create the quintessential Provence landscape, but lavender bushes and lavender scents are as English as English can be. If you don't believe me, on yer bike.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk
Book Note: long before Peter Mayle's book A Year in Provence (1990) was written there languished on my mother's bookshelves a slim purple covered book entitled Perfume from Province, by Lady Winifred Fortescue (1935). Finding it one day, I read the delightful record of the renovation of her small stone house near Grasse, surrounded by olive groves and lavender bushes, in which she gave a warm account of her experiences with the charming, if sometimes trying, local craftsmen.
The whole tenor was a more gentle – less scathing – version of Mayle's later book on the same subject, in the same area of Provence. However, a small consolation: Perfume from Province was republished after the roaring success of Mayle's book and it too - belatedly - became a best seller.
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Beowulf and Boy's Own
We groupies were all very nervous and none too enthusiastic with our June Book Group choice – one bright spark suggested we read Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf: could we do justice to an Anglo-Saxon epic that is a set university text to challenge the best of boffins.
We need not have worried: here was Raiders of the Lost Ark crossed with the best Boy's Own story. Hrothgar, King of the Danes, was in a bit of a pickle because the nasty Grenfel (it's mentioned that he's a descendent of Cain so you get the message) was terrorizing his kingdom.
Beowulf, Scandinavian prince and Germanic warrior, sails over from south Sweden with some of his men to help him out. But Unferth – one of Hrothgar's warriors – is envious of Beowulf, strongest of the Geats, and has a swipe at him: Beowulf is no wimp and retaliates.
The very next day Beowulf is off and mortally wounds Grenfel with his bare hands. We're all treated to a little reminiscence: the legend of Siegmund slaying a dragon. Beowulf cuts off Grenfel's claw and carries it off to show King Hrothgar: he gets royally rewarded (lots of alliteration in Beowulf) and feted and at this celebration we hear the Song of the Finns.
Unfortunately (or fortunately if you're into myths) Grenfel's mum comes to avenge her son's death and kills Hrothgar's most trusted friend: Beowulf, hero that he is, rides off in search with a sword no normal man could wield.
In a cave under a lake he breaks the she-trolls neck and finds the dead Grenfel. He cuts off the dead demon's head with the sword the shaft of which immediately melts with the heat of the monster's blood: all very gory but excellent material for an epic.
Beowulf returns to the grateful Hrothgar with Grenfel's head and the encrusted hilt of the sword: soon he sails home to the land of the Geats with a pile of goodies for his King. Eventually Beowulf inherits the kingdom and rules for fifty years in peace and harmony. Until, that is, some stressed Dane helps himself to some loot from a dragon's lair.
The angry dragon wreaks fire and brimstone on the Danes: again Beowulf – with eleven warriors - sails to help. He knows his destiny is to finish the dragon off but that his fate will be to die too. He does manage to wound the dragon but finds his sword will not kill the beast: ten of his warriors retreat but brave Wigluf helps him.
Between them they kill the dragon but Beowulf is fatally wounded. He asks Wigluf to show him the dragon's treasure before he dies: a pyre is built for Beowulf and the treasure is buried with him in his barrow. Good has nevertheless triumphed over evil.
Yes, it's a jolly good tale, listened to over the centuries around many a camp fire –feuds, bravery, loyalty and fate all play their part. But of course there's a lot more to it than that. The poem is a prime example of the oral Germanic tradition – all myth and legend - and we learn what life was all about then. Read aloud the narrative is powerful, beautiful and very moving but must be even more so in the original Anglo-Saxon.
The poem starts and finishes with ceremonies for the brave dead but the structure is not straightforward. Surprisingly it's not so very different from the time shift found in many novels of today: for example the legends of Siegmund and the Finns are slotted into the narrative and past and present intermingle.
Inaccuracies of events and exaggeration of feats and character's abilities make the stories believable and these devices have been used throughout the centuries in all folk stories. We only have to look at the tales of Robin Hood to be reminded of that.
Those of us who finished the book thoroughly enjoyed it and those who did not were so enthused with the discussion that they pledged to do so. We were so glad to have tackled what we had imagined was, if not a chore, then a challenge and to have found it a pleasure: our bright spark was transformed into an enlightened groupie, if not a total visionary.
So anyone can read Beowulf, nothing to worry about, the poem is simply brilliantly imaginative Boy's Own stuff: enjoy it.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: JRR Tolkien was born in Blomfontein, South Africa in 1892 but came to live in England in 1895. In 1936 he was made Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford University.
His books, The Hobbit (1937) and Lord of the Rings trilogy (1954-56), are both tales about mythical creatures (elves, wizards, dwarfs, dragons and orcs) and their legendary past.
Tolkein wrote his critique Beowulf and the Invention of Myth in 1938, shortly after The Hobbit was published, and parallels are frequently drawn between his works and Beowulf.
In all three texts characters shape future legend, past and present are interconnected , there is the same form or structure with inset narratives and, in both, characters exaggerate the deeds of their protagonists.
Be this as may, it was Tolkien's contention in Beowulf and the Invention of Myth that scholars and students should cast aside all previously complicated, high-brow ideas about the poem Beowulf and simply view it as a work of imagination.
We need not have worried: here was Raiders of the Lost Ark crossed with the best Boy's Own story. Hrothgar, King of the Danes, was in a bit of a pickle because the nasty Grenfel (it's mentioned that he's a descendent of Cain so you get the message) was terrorizing his kingdom.
Beowulf, Scandinavian prince and Germanic warrior, sails over from south Sweden with some of his men to help him out. But Unferth – one of Hrothgar's warriors – is envious of Beowulf, strongest of the Geats, and has a swipe at him: Beowulf is no wimp and retaliates.
The very next day Beowulf is off and mortally wounds Grenfel with his bare hands. We're all treated to a little reminiscence: the legend of Siegmund slaying a dragon. Beowulf cuts off Grenfel's claw and carries it off to show King Hrothgar: he gets royally rewarded (lots of alliteration in Beowulf) and feted and at this celebration we hear the Song of the Finns.
Unfortunately (or fortunately if you're into myths) Grenfel's mum comes to avenge her son's death and kills Hrothgar's most trusted friend: Beowulf, hero that he is, rides off in search with a sword no normal man could wield.
In a cave under a lake he breaks the she-trolls neck and finds the dead Grenfel. He cuts off the dead demon's head with the sword the shaft of which immediately melts with the heat of the monster's blood: all very gory but excellent material for an epic.
Beowulf returns to the grateful Hrothgar with Grenfel's head and the encrusted hilt of the sword: soon he sails home to the land of the Geats with a pile of goodies for his King. Eventually Beowulf inherits the kingdom and rules for fifty years in peace and harmony. Until, that is, some stressed Dane helps himself to some loot from a dragon's lair.
The angry dragon wreaks fire and brimstone on the Danes: again Beowulf – with eleven warriors - sails to help. He knows his destiny is to finish the dragon off but that his fate will be to die too. He does manage to wound the dragon but finds his sword will not kill the beast: ten of his warriors retreat but brave Wigluf helps him.
Between them they kill the dragon but Beowulf is fatally wounded. He asks Wigluf to show him the dragon's treasure before he dies: a pyre is built for Beowulf and the treasure is buried with him in his barrow. Good has nevertheless triumphed over evil.
Yes, it's a jolly good tale, listened to over the centuries around many a camp fire –feuds, bravery, loyalty and fate all play their part. But of course there's a lot more to it than that. The poem is a prime example of the oral Germanic tradition – all myth and legend - and we learn what life was all about then. Read aloud the narrative is powerful, beautiful and very moving but must be even more so in the original Anglo-Saxon.
The poem starts and finishes with ceremonies for the brave dead but the structure is not straightforward. Surprisingly it's not so very different from the time shift found in many novels of today: for example the legends of Siegmund and the Finns are slotted into the narrative and past and present intermingle.
Inaccuracies of events and exaggeration of feats and character's abilities make the stories believable and these devices have been used throughout the centuries in all folk stories. We only have to look at the tales of Robin Hood to be reminded of that.
Those of us who finished the book thoroughly enjoyed it and those who did not were so enthused with the discussion that they pledged to do so. We were so glad to have tackled what we had imagined was, if not a chore, then a challenge and to have found it a pleasure: our bright spark was transformed into an enlightened groupie, if not a total visionary.
So anyone can read Beowulf, nothing to worry about, the poem is simply brilliantly imaginative Boy's Own stuff: enjoy it.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: JRR Tolkien was born in Blomfontein, South Africa in 1892 but came to live in England in 1895. In 1936 he was made Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford University.
His books, The Hobbit (1937) and Lord of the Rings trilogy (1954-56), are both tales about mythical creatures (elves, wizards, dwarfs, dragons and orcs) and their legendary past.
Tolkein wrote his critique Beowulf and the Invention of Myth in 1938, shortly after The Hobbit was published, and parallels are frequently drawn between his works and Beowulf.
In all three texts characters shape future legend, past and present are interconnected , there is the same form or structure with inset narratives and, in both, characters exaggerate the deeds of their protagonists.
Be this as may, it was Tolkien's contention in Beowulf and the Invention of Myth that scholars and students should cast aside all previously complicated, high-brow ideas about the poem Beowulf and simply view it as a work of imagination.
Sunday, 17 June 2007
Cape Town Here I Come
This week-end is the Cape Town Book Fair and, not surprisingly, my thoughts are there along with my novel, A Little Blue Jacket, even if I'm not: mind you, the environs of Cape Town are so beautiful that it's not a difficult place to dream oneself into.
Writing the book - which is based on my grandmother's young adult life – I was very keen to get not only my historical and geographical facts right but also to imbue the novel with a real sense of place.
So to address the last two in particular I did a lot of walking in Cape Town and, whilst Best Beloved heroically drove where indicated, I photographed all the places my grandmother and therefore my protagonists lived, worked or visited.
Although set a hundred years ago, a reader will still be able to recognise the streets that my characters tread: many of the civic buildings still stand in Adderley Street and Long Street – a little tattier now but improving - is as eclectic as ever.
In the 1900s the balconies of the buildings with their decorative ironwork, the wide avenues and squares, the public gardens of Cape Town were redolent of other coastal towns across the globe - whether Melbourne, Boston, Amsterdam or Bournemouth.
Cape Town was an amalgam of architectural styles – Cape Dutch, colonial, Victorian – and along with it was a very cosmopolitan population. Greek, Polish, Portuguese, British, Dutch, Huguenot, Malay, African, Indian – you name it – they were there.
Many were there as manual workers, others as administrators or in military service; some were fleeing pogroms or came looking for a new and exciting life. The list goes on but all appreciated the extraordinary beauty of the Cape landscape and the mildness of the climate.
Fewer, like my grandmother, were born in the Cape: one such elderly lady who still lives in Cape Town read the book when it first came out and told me that it described exactly what it was like when she was a girl. She was thrilled with the memories it evoked and I was thrilled to think that my parents had recalled things correctly and my research had paid off.
However, she then told me how she remembered the old man who kept his cow on Green Point Common. Every morning she had walked there with a pail, he had milked the cow, and back home she had tottered with the milk.
I did wonder how many bugs and dust ended up in the milk and whether much of it got home at all but I was also a bit disappointed: if I'd known such a charming local detail it could have been incorporated somewhere in my book.
But that's what happens with research: you finish an article (admittedly editing out much and using only a tiny percent of material) and send it off just to find a really fascinating, useful or essential piece of information. Fortunately, the effect of most articles is fleeting and not there too long to frustrate with omissions or embarrass with any errors.
With a book it's much worse: words or phrases you'd like to correct or improve on will sit there on the page, a taunt forever. A good editor can really help but nowadays this service is not always extensive: which is why many authors spend as much time re-working and checking facts themselves as actually writing.
When I started writing A Little Blue Jacket – over five years ago – I almost exclusively used books, libraries and contemporaneous sources when researching: since then the amount of information available online has increased a thousand fold.
Now I can use the internet to check all sorts or unrelated or obscure facts: I can ask a question of someone on the other side of the world before I make a coffee and have an answer before I've had time to drink it.
But it's only a quick and handy tool: my reference books sit there on the shelf behind me, always to hand, not reliant on electricity or time zones. And, of course, as I start my next book it's essential that I visit the setting for a little on site research: what a stroke of luck that it will start in Cape Town.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
www.alittlebluejacket.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk
Writing the book - which is based on my grandmother's young adult life – I was very keen to get not only my historical and geographical facts right but also to imbue the novel with a real sense of place. So to address the last two in particular I did a lot of walking in Cape Town and, whilst Best Beloved heroically drove where indicated, I photographed all the places my grandmother and therefore my protagonists lived, worked or visited.
Although set a hundred years ago, a reader will still be able to recognise the streets that my characters tread: many of the civic buildings still stand in Adderley Street and Long Street – a little tattier now but improving - is as eclectic as ever.
In the 1900s the balconies of the buildings with their decorative ironwork, the wide avenues and squares, the public gardens of Cape Town were redolent of other coastal towns across the globe - whether Melbourne, Boston, Amsterdam or Bournemouth. Cape Town was an amalgam of architectural styles – Cape Dutch, colonial, Victorian – and along with it was a very cosmopolitan population. Greek, Polish, Portuguese, British, Dutch, Huguenot, Malay, African, Indian – you name it – they were there.
Many were there as manual workers, others as administrators or in military service; some were fleeing pogroms or came looking for a new and exciting life. The list goes on but all appreciated the extraordinary beauty of the Cape landscape and the mildness of the climate.
Fewer, like my grandmother, were born in the Cape: one such elderly lady who still lives in Cape Town read the book when it first came out and told me that it described exactly what it was like when she was a girl. She was thrilled with the memories it evoked and I was thrilled to think that my parents had recalled things correctly and my research had paid off.
However, she then told me how she remembered the old man who kept his cow on Green Point Common. Every morning she had walked there with a pail, he had milked the cow, and back home she had tottered with the milk.
I did wonder how many bugs and dust ended up in the milk and whether much of it got home at all but I was also a bit disappointed: if I'd known such a charming local detail it could have been incorporated somewhere in my book.
But that's what happens with research: you finish an article (admittedly editing out much and using only a tiny percent of material) and send it off just to find a really fascinating, useful or essential piece of information. Fortunately, the effect of most articles is fleeting and not there too long to frustrate with omissions or embarrass with any errors.
With a book it's much worse: words or phrases you'd like to correct or improve on will sit there on the page, a taunt forever. A good editor can really help but nowadays this service is not always extensive: which is why many authors spend as much time re-working and checking facts themselves as actually writing.
When I started writing A Little Blue Jacket – over five years ago – I almost exclusively used books, libraries and contemporaneous sources when researching: since then the amount of information available online has increased a thousand fold.
Now I can use the internet to check all sorts or unrelated or obscure facts: I can ask a question of someone on the other side of the world before I make a coffee and have an answer before I've had time to drink it.
But it's only a quick and handy tool: my reference books sit there on the shelf behind me, always to hand, not reliant on electricity or time zones. And, of course, as I start my next book it's essential that I visit the setting for a little on site research: what a stroke of luck that it will start in Cape Town.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
www.alittlebluejacket.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk
Sunday, 3 June 2007
Sculpture - Hare Today
My visit to Chelsea Flower Show highlighted more than just wonderful blooms, it reminded me of all the excellent forms of garden art there are from around the world: South Africa included.
Sculpture and landscape have a symbiosis: you only have to look at how the works of Henry Moore complement - and compliment – sites and their various axes or wider views to believe this. On a smaller scale Barbara Hepworth's tiny garden in St Ives comes alive with her sculptures.
The Nicholson Wall at Sutton Place – mirrored in the still pool – is a sublime example of abstract sculpture in a formal landscape: a classic sculpture of a something like a Greek God in a totally timeless landscape can be just as effective.
In more modest settings smaller works are needed and there's a wide variety of sculptures - modern, contemporary, classic or retro – on offer in small galleries, garden centres and shows. Terracotta, stone, lead or bronze are the upmarket materials with pottery, tin, glass or resin the more affordable: there's a medium to suit every situation.
But of all the many subjects I think that those from the natural world are the ones that most easily fit into the great outdoors. I'm not so keen on hippos installed in Hanover but give me a seed pod in Sydney and I'm there: or a hare, nearly anywhere.
When we look at the full moon in Britain we think we can see 'the man in the moon', but in the southern hemisphere they are looking at it from another angle and, in Africa at least, they see the hare.
The mythology that's attached to hares is widespread; in Southern Africa the Khoisan people have several legends. I incorporated a reference to one in my novel but had a real struggle tracking down the end of the fable because there were many versions: finally I found it and here it is.
The moon asked the hare to run as fast as he could to tell men that as the moon died and lived again so would they. The hare ran fast and when he arrived he told men that as the moon dies and comes to an end so men would die and come to an end. When the hare told the moon what he'd said, the moon was so angry at the distortion of her message to men that she cursed him to run forever.
The hare is also a favourite subject to sculpt: I think it might be a combination of their elongated shape, extraordinary large ears and feet and the mystery that surrounds them that intrigues. Sculptures in bronze are particularly pleasing and, although I saw a few at Chelsea, I particularly liked those of Jan Sweeney's.
Jan, the daughter of an Irish vet, grew up in England: she visited Africa and the scene and wildlife had such a powerful influence on her work that she bought a house in Zimbabwe. She now has her own workshops and foundry there and divides her time between Zim and Somerset: hares are native to both places.
If I could work out how to get photos from where I store them on Picasa2 onto my blog I might now impress you with my snapshot of one of her sculptures. But I can't. You are now aware just how technically challenged I am: I therefore suggest you visit her website (www.jsweeney.co.uk) to see the handsome creatures there.
Not being a quitter, I've just had another go at getting the said photo onto my blog (if any of my photos suddenly appear on your screen out of nowhere please send them back to me) but just as I thought I'd cracked it, all was lost again: its a case of hare today, gone tomorrow. Groan.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
www.alittlebluejacket.com
Book Note: one of my favourite books for children is Masquerade by Kit Williams (Jonathan Cape 1979). It’s a wonderful looking item - the illustrations are so finely and beautifully painted – and a book and puzzle in one. Jack Hare and Lady Moon are featured in the story and whoever solved the riddle embodied in the paintings was promised buried treasure: someone did of course and was rewarded with an amulet.
Sculpture and landscape have a symbiosis: you only have to look at how the works of Henry Moore complement - and compliment – sites and their various axes or wider views to believe this. On a smaller scale Barbara Hepworth's tiny garden in St Ives comes alive with her sculptures.
The Nicholson Wall at Sutton Place – mirrored in the still pool – is a sublime example of abstract sculpture in a formal landscape: a classic sculpture of a something like a Greek God in a totally timeless landscape can be just as effective.
In more modest settings smaller works are needed and there's a wide variety of sculptures - modern, contemporary, classic or retro – on offer in small galleries, garden centres and shows. Terracotta, stone, lead or bronze are the upmarket materials with pottery, tin, glass or resin the more affordable: there's a medium to suit every situation.
But of all the many subjects I think that those from the natural world are the ones that most easily fit into the great outdoors. I'm not so keen on hippos installed in Hanover but give me a seed pod in Sydney and I'm there: or a hare, nearly anywhere.
When we look at the full moon in Britain we think we can see 'the man in the moon', but in the southern hemisphere they are looking at it from another angle and, in Africa at least, they see the hare.
The mythology that's attached to hares is widespread; in Southern Africa the Khoisan people have several legends. I incorporated a reference to one in my novel but had a real struggle tracking down the end of the fable because there were many versions: finally I found it and here it is.
The moon asked the hare to run as fast as he could to tell men that as the moon died and lived again so would they. The hare ran fast and when he arrived he told men that as the moon dies and comes to an end so men would die and come to an end. When the hare told the moon what he'd said, the moon was so angry at the distortion of her message to men that she cursed him to run forever.
The hare is also a favourite subject to sculpt: I think it might be a combination of their elongated shape, extraordinary large ears and feet and the mystery that surrounds them that intrigues. Sculptures in bronze are particularly pleasing and, although I saw a few at Chelsea, I particularly liked those of Jan Sweeney's. Jan, the daughter of an Irish vet, grew up in England: she visited Africa and the scene and wildlife had such a powerful influence on her work that she bought a house in Zimbabwe. She now has her own workshops and foundry there and divides her time between Zim and Somerset: hares are native to both places.
If I could work out how to get photos from where I store them on Picasa2 onto my blog I might now impress you with my snapshot of one of her sculptures. But I can't. You are now aware just how technically challenged I am: I therefore suggest you visit her website (www.jsweeney.co.uk) to see the handsome creatures there.
Not being a quitter, I've just had another go at getting the said photo onto my blog (if any of my photos suddenly appear on your screen out of nowhere please send them back to me) but just as I thought I'd cracked it, all was lost again: its a case of hare today, gone tomorrow. Groan.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
www.alittlebluejacket.com
Book Note: one of my favourite books for children is Masquerade by Kit Williams (Jonathan Cape 1979). It’s a wonderful looking item - the illustrations are so finely and beautifully painted – and a book and puzzle in one. Jack Hare and Lady Moon are featured in the story and whoever solved the riddle embodied in the paintings was promised buried treasure: someone did of course and was rewarded with an amulet.
Monday, 28 May 2007
Old Filth
Our Book Group choice for May was Old Filth by Jane Gardam. We all thought we would know what it was about because we all knew what Filth in the title stood for - Failed In London, Try Hong Kong. Obviously it was about a guy who couldn't make a living in the UK, went out East and did well there: it turned out that it wasn't that simple.
The story is based on the life of a famous judge who was deprived of his parents at a tender age: his loneliness, resilience and courage overcoming his unfortunate start in life and his wisdom and compassion as a judge. As the story unfolds the reader sees that he is also blind to others feelings and an emotional cripple to boot.
People are often perceived two dimensionally and the novel gets this over so well: most of the characters don't realize that the highly successful man with an apparently easy and blessed life has actually had unimaginable hardship to contend with.
The humour has a touch of rollicking Tom Sharpe crossed with Marina Lewycka's Short History of Tractors in Ukranian: funny but insightful. There are also many touching observations: for instance, Gardam does ageing very well. She shows how elderly partners can become accustomed (and often unfeeling) to each other, how marriages work and people in relationships become reliant on each other – particularly the successful man's reliance on the 'little woman'.
We all (except our American groupie) said we know at least one Raj orphan: those that were shipped off to school in England as small children. We recognized in the characters aspects and qualities of Raj orphans we know. One of our groupies is up on the psychology aspect of these things and explained that traumatic early experiences either produce an 'anxious' adult or one that only achieves 'distant attachment patterns'. These are manifested in later relationships by either jealousy, never becoming totally attached or managing to achieve real intimacy: Gardam got this just right.
The book was well structured and the time shifts kept the reader interested and tension up, although those who didn't read the book in a condensed period of time found the chronology confusing. Chapter headings were a clue but not always a very clear one: present time, past, present, past. But it may have been Gardam's style - which shifts between several different streams of consciousness and also moves easily between present and past – that confused some.
The coincidences in the story annoyed everybody – not for nothing are they viewed with suspicion in literature: in real life they happen all the time but on paper they seem too pat. Some found the novel a bit shallow and all agreed that the ending – by which time the twist in the tale has been flagged once too often - was a bit disappointing.
Everyone of the group read Old Filth and all thought it well written: 60% enjoyed it but wouldn't recommend it or read it again; 40% thought it was good, by which they meant that they thought it was above average and would read other novels by the author.
Old Filth is a great book for the beach: short, smart, full of pathos and humour. I for one will look for other novel's by Jane Gardam and hope that I shall be writing such clever stuff when I'm aged 79.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk
www.alittlebluejacket.com
History nitpick: Jane Gardam intimates that Rudyard Kipling was anti the colonial life when in fact he was not always critical of the British Empire and everything it stood for (although he was certainly critical of being sent away as a small boy to strangers in the UK). Kipling was a fervent supporter of the Boer War and believed that if the colonies were given independence it would lead to their ruin. It was only after his beloved son was killed in the First World War that his attitude to the Empire changed. His early views are as nothing now compared to his genius.
The story is based on the life of a famous judge who was deprived of his parents at a tender age: his loneliness, resilience and courage overcoming his unfortunate start in life and his wisdom and compassion as a judge. As the story unfolds the reader sees that he is also blind to others feelings and an emotional cripple to boot.
People are often perceived two dimensionally and the novel gets this over so well: most of the characters don't realize that the highly successful man with an apparently easy and blessed life has actually had unimaginable hardship to contend with.
The humour has a touch of rollicking Tom Sharpe crossed with Marina Lewycka's Short History of Tractors in Ukranian: funny but insightful. There are also many touching observations: for instance, Gardam does ageing very well. She shows how elderly partners can become accustomed (and often unfeeling) to each other, how marriages work and people in relationships become reliant on each other – particularly the successful man's reliance on the 'little woman'.
We all (except our American groupie) said we know at least one Raj orphan: those that were shipped off to school in England as small children. We recognized in the characters aspects and qualities of Raj orphans we know. One of our groupies is up on the psychology aspect of these things and explained that traumatic early experiences either produce an 'anxious' adult or one that only achieves 'distant attachment patterns'. These are manifested in later relationships by either jealousy, never becoming totally attached or managing to achieve real intimacy: Gardam got this just right.
The book was well structured and the time shifts kept the reader interested and tension up, although those who didn't read the book in a condensed period of time found the chronology confusing. Chapter headings were a clue but not always a very clear one: present time, past, present, past. But it may have been Gardam's style - which shifts between several different streams of consciousness and also moves easily between present and past – that confused some.
The coincidences in the story annoyed everybody – not for nothing are they viewed with suspicion in literature: in real life they happen all the time but on paper they seem too pat. Some found the novel a bit shallow and all agreed that the ending – by which time the twist in the tale has been flagged once too often - was a bit disappointing.
Everyone of the group read Old Filth and all thought it well written: 60% enjoyed it but wouldn't recommend it or read it again; 40% thought it was good, by which they meant that they thought it was above average and would read other novels by the author.
Old Filth is a great book for the beach: short, smart, full of pathos and humour. I for one will look for other novel's by Jane Gardam and hope that I shall be writing such clever stuff when I'm aged 79.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk
www.alittlebluejacket.com
History nitpick: Jane Gardam intimates that Rudyard Kipling was anti the colonial life when in fact he was not always critical of the British Empire and everything it stood for (although he was certainly critical of being sent away as a small boy to strangers in the UK). Kipling was a fervent supporter of the Boer War and believed that if the colonies were given independence it would lead to their ruin. It was only after his beloved son was killed in the First World War that his attitude to the Empire changed. His early views are as nothing now compared to his genius.
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
Chelsea - not bigger but better
Yesterday was the first day of the Chelsea Flower Show where every plant, flower and display is perfection itself. Chelsea is one of the first social events of the season and considered the most prestigious event in the horticultural calendar.
Visitors flock to London to order their new roses, unusual narcissi bulbs or sweet pea seeds and to admire the marquees packed with the most glorious flowers and foliage from around the world. A plantsman's paradise. Small stalls along the paths offer pots, paintings, gumboots or plant ties. Large stands have garden furniture, sculpture or lawn-mowers. And there's always some grand conservatory you can buy (if you're very rich) when the show is over.
But the real crowd-pullers are the famous show gardens: these are sponsored by those companies who can afford the tens of thousands they cost to stage and if the 'garden' wins a coveted gold medal the designer is guaranteed clients for life. Unfortunately, on public days they're so popular that it's impossible to see them properly as the crowd is ten deep.
So it's a real treat to come on press day when numbers are so limited; one can actually stand right in front of a show garden and see everything. Although yesterday there was a blip: it was raining. But the weather brings out the stiff upper lip in the British (only Brits sit on the grass and eat a picnic under an umbrella or a woollen rug) and we all pretended it wasn't wet. We wore our linen and our open toed shoes – even though it's only May – and topped it with a brolly.
The large show gardens are very impressive with elegant structures, mature hedges and trees, cascading waterfalls, ponds or rills. And to get the wow factor in the planting they do what no gardener would - 300 plants can go into a small bed only one metre square just to get the right effect: these gardens are designed to be impressive and inspirational, not real.
This year there are fewer large gardens but, overall, better ones. Although it seems that many of the famous designers play 'safe': gardens are often a combination of formal layout with cottage garden planting and water, for the largest, or cottage garden/natural theme for the medium sized. It's the new boys on the block – Antipodeans among them – that are proving to be the innovators.
But there are more small gardens – in categories of courtyard, city, chic or roof - which need a lot less sponsorship but a great deal more unpaid blood, sweat and tears to produce. These are increasingly popular because they are built to the same exacting standards whilst being more applicable to most people's gardens and this year they are excellent, better than ever in design and finish.
I'm interested in Chelsea on two levels, as a designer and as a writer. As a designer I'm fascinated by the show gardens: the inspiration and innovation, the spaces, structure, combinations and colours. I know how incredibly difficult it is – logistically and physically – to achieve the final effect of a 'show' garden.
As a writer I'm obviously looking for an angle to do an article on Chelsea but I also enjoy the chance to do some celebrity people watching. Big-wigs – usually attired in outfits circa 1950 - generally lack animation (too much good breeding) and the judges – not so many in Panama hats this year - simply stand in a huddle, confabbing and raising their hands.
But when a celebrity breezes by there's a frisson even if everyone is trying to look nonchalant: we move in these circles all the time you know. Famous stars are there in dozens but seldom smile at anyone they don't recognize: petrified someone will ask for an autograph.
Although, there are also plenty of not-so-famous personalities (although I forgot to mug up on soap stars so probably missed some of them) who, like any normal punter, have obviously just come for a good day out: I'd love some of those roses, might order one for mum's birthday; shall we have a cup of tea ..nah! lets have some Pimms.
Overall the show was fun and the quality superb this year - and when I got home I wandered out in to my garden to see what I should or could be doing. I was greeted with weeds, messy corners, unclipped hedges and, heavens, signs of a dog!
But strangely I didn't feel dissatisfied: Chelsea show gardens are beautiful - perfect installations - but give me a seat, a glass of wine, a ball to throw for Freddie and I can live with imperfection. It's so much more restful.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
www.alittlebluejacket.com
Book Note: arriving in London I spotted A Little Blue Jacket on the bookshelves of WH Smiths store at the railway station; a warm glow that quite set me up for the day. I felt obliged to accept the first glass of bubbly I was offered at the show, even if it was only 11am.
Visitors flock to London to order their new roses, unusual narcissi bulbs or sweet pea seeds and to admire the marquees packed with the most glorious flowers and foliage from around the world. A plantsman's paradise. Small stalls along the paths offer pots, paintings, gumboots or plant ties. Large stands have garden furniture, sculpture or lawn-mowers. And there's always some grand conservatory you can buy (if you're very rich) when the show is over.
But the real crowd-pullers are the famous show gardens: these are sponsored by those companies who can afford the tens of thousands they cost to stage and if the 'garden' wins a coveted gold medal the designer is guaranteed clients for life. Unfortunately, on public days they're so popular that it's impossible to see them properly as the crowd is ten deep. So it's a real treat to come on press day when numbers are so limited; one can actually stand right in front of a show garden and see everything. Although yesterday there was a blip: it was raining. But the weather brings out the stiff upper lip in the British (only Brits sit on the grass and eat a picnic under an umbrella or a woollen rug) and we all pretended it wasn't wet. We wore our linen and our open toed shoes – even though it's only May – and topped it with a brolly.
The large show gardens are very impressive with elegant structures, mature hedges and trees, cascading waterfalls, ponds or rills. And to get the wow factor in the planting they do what no gardener would - 300 plants can go into a small bed only one metre square just to get the right effect: these gardens are designed to be impressive and inspirational, not real.
This year there are fewer large gardens but, overall, better ones. Although it seems that many of the famous designers play 'safe': gardens are often a combination of formal layout with cottage garden planting and water, for the largest, or cottage garden/natural theme for the medium sized. It's the new boys on the block – Antipodeans among them – that are proving to be the innovators.
But there are more small gardens – in categories of courtyard, city, chic or roof - which need a lot less sponsorship but a great deal more unpaid blood, sweat and tears to produce. These are increasingly popular because they are built to the same exacting standards whilst being more applicable to most people's gardens and this year they are excellent, better than ever in design and finish. I'm interested in Chelsea on two levels, as a designer and as a writer. As a designer I'm fascinated by the show gardens: the inspiration and innovation, the spaces, structure, combinations and colours. I know how incredibly difficult it is – logistically and physically – to achieve the final effect of a 'show' garden.
As a writer I'm obviously looking for an angle to do an article on Chelsea but I also enjoy the chance to do some celebrity people watching. Big-wigs – usually attired in outfits circa 1950 - generally lack animation (too much good breeding) and the judges – not so many in Panama hats this year - simply stand in a huddle, confabbing and raising their hands.
But when a celebrity breezes by there's a frisson even if everyone is trying to look nonchalant: we move in these circles all the time you know. Famous stars are there in dozens but seldom smile at anyone they don't recognize: petrified someone will ask for an autograph.
Although, there are also plenty of not-so-famous personalities (although I forgot to mug up on soap stars so probably missed some of them) who, like any normal punter, have obviously just come for a good day out: I'd love some of those roses, might order one for mum's birthday; shall we have a cup of tea ..nah! lets have some Pimms.
Overall the show was fun and the quality superb this year - and when I got home I wandered out in to my garden to see what I should or could be doing. I was greeted with weeds, messy corners, unclipped hedges and, heavens, signs of a dog!
But strangely I didn't feel dissatisfied: Chelsea show gardens are beautiful - perfect installations - but give me a seat, a glass of wine, a ball to throw for Freddie and I can live with imperfection. It's so much more restful.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
www.alittlebluejacket.com
Book Note: arriving in London I spotted A Little Blue Jacket on the bookshelves of WH Smiths store at the railway station; a warm glow that quite set me up for the day. I felt obliged to accept the first glass of bubbly I was offered at the show, even if it was only 11am.
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