Author Archives: shane harrison

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About shane harrison

Short story writer, novelist, visual artist, journalist and librarian.

Glasgow Again

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Glasgow is an hour’s flight from Dublin. The airport is south of the city and the bus takes us there in thirty minutes for £11. The driver doesn’t have change of a fifty, Britain being weirdly averse to high denominations, but my friend obliges and pays the fare with his magic phone. We are dropped off just below Blythewood Square, close to our hotel. When I say below, I mean below, remembering now how hilly Glasgow is. The city’s modernist grid system accentuates this, with a quite San Franciscan undulation of steeply sloping sidewalks and buildings. 

The Sandman Hotel is on West George St. The desk is excellent and we are given comprehensive guides and recommendations for our wining, dining and cultural pleasure. Plenty of that in Glasgow for sure. A short walk around the neighbourhood brings us past the Glasgow Art Club. But why pass when there’s people wandering in with paintings under their arm? We figured to blag our way in, though in fact it’s open to public callers; simply ring the bell. Eslyn Barr of the Paisley Art Institute, fellow inmates of the building, gave us a fascinating tour. The Club has occupied these premises on Bath Street since 1893 when a gallery was added. Architect John Keppie designed this and was assisted by his draughtsman and future partner Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Eslyn shows us the Mackintosh frieze and the beautiful paintings and artefacts accumulated over the years. The members exhibition is also going up, a continuation of such predecessors as John Lavery, George Pirie and James Paterson. These artists would feature prominently on our trip.

The next morning we breakfast at Wetherspoon’s. This becomes a habit, as it had on a previous trip. What’s not to like? Full Scottish with Haggis and copious cups of coffee. My friend’s magic phone isn’t accepted here so my cash is king. This branch on Sauchiehall Street is called Hengler’s Circus after the circus which perfpormed nearby in the early twentieth century. Iillustrations on the walls tell the history of Hengler’s, the Empire Theatre and other aspects of Glasgow history, including the Glasgow Boys. And you can drink till the wee small hours.

We aim for the open top bus tour and a stroll down Suachiehall Street. The street makes for a good point of orientation. It cuts east west through almost the entre city. Towards the city centre it’s pedestrianised and a bustling shopping precinct. The name comes from the Scots for Willow Meadow, as the area once was before the city expanded in the boomtimes of the nineteenth century. It was first the haunt of the well to do in fine Victorian townhouses. The Art Deco Beresford Hotel was built in 1938 for the Empire Exhibition. Rising to eight stories it was referred to as Glasgow’s first skyscraper. A student residence and briefly a casino, it is now an apartment block, while newer, higher skyscrapers abound. A browsing highlight was poster shop On a Wall Near You. A world of iconic images, stone age, rock age space age, you name it.  Picture heaven, and paraphernalia besides, with teeshirts, tote bags and, my addiction, fridge magnets. Smiles all round.

I lead a short detour to the School of Art on Renfrew Street, Mackintosh’s most famous architectural work. Seriously damaged by fire in 2014, it was undergoing extensive reconstruction when last I visited. It burned down again in 2018, The School was founded in 1845 and gives degrees in Architecture, Fine Art and Design. In 1909 Mackintosh’s building was completed and became a testament to the genius of its creator. Hopes are to have it reinstated by 2030. In consolation, back on Sauchiehall we made for the Mackintosh Tearooms. Miss Cranston’s project for sober sipping saw her open four tearooms in the city. Tea Rooms were an intrinsic part of Glasgow life in the late Victorian age. Miss Cranston commissioned Mackintosh to design her Willow Tearooms on Sauchihall Street in 1903.  He created an elegant Art Nouveau merger of modern glass and steel craft with the exotic aesthetic of the Orient.

The open top bus eludes us. It should be based on George Square but that whole area was suffering from excessive repair and the bus was diverted elsewhere. Instead we spent the evening recuperating with food and drink in a variety of downtown bars including Malone’s Irish Bar. We saw Scotland suer a one goal deeat to Japan in a friendly at nearby Hamden Park. Indeed, Glasgow does boast that its the friendliest city in the world. For us it held true. It can be a bit like a thistle curry at times; spiky to begin with, but guaranteed enduring warmth.

Tomorrow is another day and we find the bus actually departs from Cathedral Street. The audio guide gives a good chronological account of the city. Glasgow Cathedral is dedicated to St Mungo who founded the city in the 6th century. His four miracles of Glasgow are formed into a rhyme: Here is the bird that never flew, here is the tree that never grew, here is the bell that never rang and here is the fish that never swam. The bird he saved is illustrated by a startling mural on a gable nearby The Cathedral was begun in 1136 and the city grew around it. High Street and Trongate are a couple of the medieval streets remaining on the East side. 

This town was built on muscle and blood. Tobacco, cotton and slavery saw its port prosper in the eighteenth century. It became a gateway to the new world. With the Industrial Revolution, Glasgow became a European leader in industry and engineering, particularly as a centre of shipbuilding. The Clyde made Glasgow and Glasgow made the Clyde. Our tour takes us along the north bank of the river passing through scattered parkland and ambitious modern developments including the SEC Armadillo Arena and the Riverside Museum with the tall ship Glenlee.

Beyond the ring road motorway we enter the West End with its grand terraces and parkland. The area is famed for its restaurants and bars and home to some of Glasgow’s top sights. The scenic Kelvingrove Park is a central feature. Sylvan and sublime it is bisected by the River Kelvin The river’s name was appropriated for Baron Kelvin. The famous Irish physicist William Thomson was born in Belast in 1824 and for fifty years was professor of Natural Philosophy at the University of Glasgow. Here he figured that the coldest temperature possible, absolute zero, was -273 degrees Celcius. Even in Glasow.

The University of Glasgow sits atop Gilmore Hill. Its majestic spire dominates the city. Across the road the Hunterian Museum has a large exhibition on Charles Rennie Mackintosh and his group, The Four. He and friend Herbert McNair and the sisters, Margaret and Frances MacDonald met at the Glasgow School of Art and later married; Charles to Margaret. She was a renowned decorative artist and worked in collaboration with her husband on many projects. The sisters flowing art style was influenced by Aubrey Beardsley, leading to the group being dubbed the Spook School. 

The Mackintosh’s lived right here. The modern museum was built on top of their terrace. The interior has been skillully recreated within the modernist building, preserving its aspect and most importantly the wonderful interior design Mackintosh imposed on the Victorian house. The Hunterian boasts a huge collection of Scottish and internastional paintings. The Glasgow Boys feature strongly with work by Patterson and Lavery amongst others. American artist James MacNeill Whistler is well represented, the University receiving a large body of his work by bequest. Whistler’s Scottish ancestry, the actual Whistler’s Mother, and the admiration of the Glasgow Boys helped bring this about.

Rain falls as we cross the road to the University. We ghost through the quads and cloisters, evoking magical worlds, including Hogwarths it seems. The University was ounded in 1451 and moved here in 1870. The Gothic Revival spectacle was designed by George Gilbert Scott, crowned with the eighty five metre bell tower in 1887. 

Downhill through parkland and over the Kelvin River brings us to the Kelvingrove Museum. Completed at the start of the twentieth century, the red sandstone Baroque temple houses a richly varied collection of art and artefact. The main concourse is dominated by the classical pipe organ which booms into life at lunchtime when there is a regular recital. It is blasting out music to a lively throng of all ages as we arrive. The ground floor houses an eclectic and dynamic exhibition, including an Elephant and a Spitfire, a vernacular history of Glasgow and an Egyptian collection. The art again features the Glasgow Boys, Mackintosh, Scottish Colourists and French Impressionists. Floating above all is Salvador Dali’s most coherent masterpiece, Christ of Saint John of the Cross. This famous work places us, the viewers, at a vertiginous angle. Along with the painting we find ourselves being borne heavenwards. But heaven must wait and we take the bus back to the hotel. Time for rest and recreation, and another night tossed about on the waves of Glasgow’s undulating streetscape. Pure magic.

When I look out my window many sights to see

When i look in my window so many different people to be

That it’s strange, so strange

You’ve got to pick up every stitch

You’ve got to pick up every stitch

Must be the season of the witch

Donovan Leitch is a local boy, as is apparent on his song Season of the Witch from his third album Sunshine Superman (1966). The song is soaked in urban paranoia and possibility. Its timeless span reaches from Celticism to modern gothic. It is almost an obligitory soundtrack; in the last month I’ve heard it on three or more tv series, including Australia’s The Twelve and Norway’s Harry Hole series. Strange indeed.

A Bar in Bayswater

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I stayed in Bayswater, London, last year. This acrylic is the view from a local bar looking towards Main Sreet, Queensway that is. I have returned from exploring the area of white Victorian terraces and dinky squares. Farther on, I spent much of the evening on Portobello Road known for its street market. I had never walked it before, though it had long fascinated me. It was a central feature of Martin Amis’s 1989 novel London Fields, in particular a pub called the Black Cross. There, Nicola Six, Keith Talent and Guy Clinch would meet and Nicola, the Murderee, set the macabre menage a trois (a quatre?) in train. Narrated by doomed author Sam Young and set in late 1999, it is a comedy tinged with foreboding. The end of the world, the end of love.

The Black Cross is a fictional bar, of course, so I made do with convivial reality. Portobello Road is at the pleasant end of culture clash. Cosy, quaint, common and sophisticated, like much of London’s inner patchwork, it is village and urban combined. Back in Bayswater, I find a bar invitingly empty. It is that dread hour: closing time. There are, as always, plenty of stories set to continue into the night. Not quite the Folies Bergere, more Edward Hopper meets Rock Dreams.

The Stranger Song is appropriate, given that the bar advertises poker nights on Monday and Wednesday. The 1955 film noir The Man with the Golden Arm starring Frank Sinatra was an inspiration. The song is one of the Songs of Leonard Cohen, his debut album from 1967. Cohen’s Golden Voice seduces the listener. No better man than Leonard for the chat up line, but here it is developed into an invitation. We are all strangers, our paths intersecting in those almost arbitrary places, hotels, bars and train stations.

You hate to watch another tired man lay down his hand

Like he was giving  up the holy game of poker

And while he talks his dreams to sleep, you notice there’s a highway

That is curling up like smoke above his shoulder

London Waterways

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Chelsea, Battersea and Paddington

The Thames is broad and sinuous on its passage through London and into the sea. There’s a boat service from Putney in the west to Greenwich in the far east. For the more athletic a walk along the river bank is a necessary pleasure in getting to know the city. Staying recently in Fulham, we took an afternoon stroll down to Chelsea Harbour and continued on downriver to Battersea. 

The sleek new highrise development around the Harbour blends attractively with Lots Road Power Station, an incongruous landmark and a reminder of industrial times past. The name Chelsea derives from chalk wharf, signifying the nature of its river trade. Chelsea itself is a well to do city residential area. Rather grand, mostly pretty, it is often quirky too. 

We are fans of the Chelsea Detective, the tv series starring Adrian Scarborough as DI Max Arnold, with Irish actress  Vanessa Emme as DS Layla Walsh. Arnold lives in a Thames houseboat around here, The moorings stretch along Cheyne Walk and we almost felt we should call in for a drop of wine and some piano accompaniement. The riverside idyll is overshadowed by the redbrick towers of Worlds End, a residential borough development from the 1970s. The name derives from a local pub built in the 1890s. An earlier inn of that name dates to Restoration times, when it stood at the end of London, or civilisation. The King’s Road leads back to the city centre. The King in question is Charles II and has become, perhaps inevitably, a byword for trendiness.

Along the river Cheyne Walk is lined with eighteenth century Georgian townhouses and long home to the rich and famous including artists Dante Gabriel Rosetti, JM Turner and James McNeill Whistler. Whistler’s painting of the Old Battersby Bridge is one of his famed blue nocturnes. A modern bridge now spans the river.

The Old Chelsea Church is a much older resident. Dating back to Norman times, it has become a fascinating patchwork over the years, with much reconstruction after the Blitz. Thomas More’s statue by Leslie Cubitt Beavis sits to the side. More wrote Utopia, a fictional acme for an idyllic society. The book was published by Erasmus in 1516, in Latin. The English translation appeared in 1551 sixteen years after the author’s death. More had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy that recognised Henry VIII as head of the Church.

Albert Bridge was built in the 1870s as a suspension bridge to link Chelsea with Battersea. Structurally plagued by problems, it is sometimes called the Trembling Lady as it can vibrate under certain traffic conditions. Calls for its demolition have gone unheeded, and the bridge is spectacularly illuminated at night.

By Albert Bridge, the intimacy of Cheyne Walk gives way to the bustling thoroughfare of the Chelsea Embankment. This leads on to Chelsea Royal Hospital. Established by Charles II, at the prompting of Nell Gwyne, allegedly. Gwyn was the King’s mistress, not a fact that was hidden away. She would have wielded influence over the King, Nell was one of the first leading ladies of English theatre. Charles himself had abolished the ban on women taking to the stage. She was something of a pin up of her day, and the king commissioned a nude portrait, with Nell cast as Venus, to be shown, furtively, to special guests. 

The Hospital was designed by Christopher Wren and completed in 1682. It is used as a nursing home for army veterans. Their resident uniform is blue, but their scarlet dress uniorm is better known.The red uniformed pensioners are regular pitchside guests at Chelsea Football club who were once nicknamed the Pensioners. They discarded the monicker in 1955 the year they first won the league title, ironically with the oldest average age team to win. The Hospital grounds have hosted the Chelsea Flower Show held annually since 1913

Chelsea Bridge is framed by the massive Battersea Power Station across the river. The current structure is a suspension bridge built in 1937 replacing a previous structure from1694. It is also illuminated at night. Battersea Power Station has been extensively renovated in the last decade to return the building to its former glory. And glorious it is; the four cream chimneys towering above its redbrick bulk make for one of London’s most loved icons. Giles Gilbert Scott and Theo Halliday were the project architects. Construction started in 1930 and with the interruption of the war was only completed twenty five years later.

The recent redevelopment masks some of the spectacle with highrises, so I was fortunate to get the full view on a previous visit. Chelsea Football Club were amongst the proposals with plans for a new stadium, but the council, and indeed many of the Stamford Bridge faithful, opposed this. The resultant development transforms the old building into a modern shopping centre. The surrounding apartments are augmented by shops, restaurants and bars. At night, the illuminated chimneys are truly a spectacular sight, if also a little bit Orwellian. Pink Floyd’s Animals is probably responsible for that. Roger Waters’s opus drew freely from George Orwell’s Animal Farm, with a cast of sheep and pigs, and dogs. The 1977 album cover featured a giant inflatable pig flying between the front towers. This Hipgnosis graphic is amongst the memorobilia you can buy at the souvenir shop inside. 

There’s a full shopping centre inside the old structure, and a museum with lift to the top of a chimney. Good eateries too, though we opt to eat outside and catch the fading light. Megans Restaurant is a pleasant informal eaterie with Mediterranean fare and panoramic views of the river. It’s the perfect spot for a famished sunset meal. Here the Thames turns sharply north towards the city where the glass highrises bounce the sun back at us before their own illuminations fade in. The Tube Station south of the complex connects with Leicester Square, the epicentre of London’s nightlife. Picadilly Circus is adjacent with Shaftesbury Avenue winding between Soho and Chinatown where we can go walking in the wild West End. 

We are staying at the Hotel in Stamford Bridge. The evening game is Chelsea v Leeds. Echoes of the 1970 FA Cup Final. That was a 2 all draw, with Chelsea winning the replay. An hour in on a rainy Tuesday night and Chelsea are two up, but when the orphaned referee lost his white stick Leeds pulled level. Normal service resumed but the score remained the same. Cole Palmer, maker and taker respectively of both Chelsea scores, had an open goal at the final whistle but his shot, if taken at Battersea, would have creased Pink Floyd’s flying pig. Two all again. But it’s always good to be back at the Bridge singing Blue is the Colour and marching down to the Fox and Pheasant for a few well earned pints.

A more modest waterway meanders along London’s northern perimeter. We have walked the Regent Canal from King’s Cross to Camden Lock, after which it arcs around Regent’s Park and London Zoo. This time we aim to explore the intriguingly named oasis of Little Venice. We take the District Line from Fulham to Paddington, where a helpful Station Man gives us detailed instructions. Little Venice forms where the Regent’s Canal joins with the Grand Union Canal and the Paddington Basin. The naming is variously attributed to Lord Byron and Robert Browning, who each noted the place as an oasis from the bustling city, and helped popularise the area for artists and other creative wanderers. The junction forms a triangular basin, wide enough for long boats to turn. The surrounding area is characterised by white stucco houses of the Regency era. The salubrious suburbs of Maida Vale and St John’s Wood spread to the North. Abbey Road, another famous album cover, is not far off. 

Water is all around, including regular dousings from above. We shelter under Westbourne Terrace Bridge and watch a longboat turn. Then, passing beneath the Westway, we’re back in the crowds with Paddington Station the focal point. There are table tennis tables laid out if you fancy a set or two of ping pong. Cafes in barges line the basin if you fancy refreshment. We did both, the tennis first, then the coffee.

Watching us politely is a small blue bear. Paddington Bear was created by Michael Bond in the fifties. It all started when he bought the one remaining teddy bear, sitting alone on a shop shelf, as a Christmas gift for his wife. After he had time to think on that, expensive jewellery and the like, he wrote the first Paddington book, A Bear Called Paddington, and the rest is history. Not exactly history, the bear is a fictional character after all (real bears don’t wear duffel coats, usually). The station returns the honour with a bronze statue and themed bench inside.

Paddington Station was built in 1854 and designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The huge glazed roof was inspired by the Crystal Palace of the Great Exhibition in Hyde Park. Brunel is familiar to us from our own home station of Bray, also built in 1854. Paddington itself brings back memories too. I spent part of the summer of 1976 here in a squat, dividing time between Elephant and Caste and Paddington, flitting along the Bakerloo Line, or upstairs on the busses. Dickens Tavern and The Sawyers Arms on London Street are familiar names. One, I recall, had a sunken central area with booths on a surrounding mezzanine. It’s all something of a dream to me now, was then even.

South of Paddington is Hyde Park. with Kensington Gardens to the west. The Serpentine divides them, a long curved pond, wide and calm. Rain shrouds the surrounding city and we shelter at the tearooms past the bridge across the Serpentine. There’s a homely friendliness amongst the small crowd sheltering and the customers entering and leaving the cafe. Rain restricts the view to a misty parkland. It is hard to believe we are at the centre of a great Metropolis.

Millions of people swarming like flies ‘round Waterloo Underground

But Terry and Julie cross over the river where they feel safe and sound

And they don’t need no friends

Long as they gaze on Waterloo Sunset 

They are in Paradise

Released by the Kinks in 1967, and written by Ray Davies, Waterloo Sunset is an evocative imagining of a pair of lovers filled with hope set against the glowing backdrop of the Thames at Sunset. Alternating between first and third person lends the song a sense of melancholy, offsets the glow of a loving couple with the bittersweet consolations of the solo traveller. 

London’s Piccadilly Line and the 14 Bus

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If you are flying into London Heathrow, the most convenient connection to the city centre is to take the Piccadilly Line on the London Underground, aka The Tube. It’s just over half an hour to reach the central zone while the line continues on out to the suburb of Cockfosters. From Earl’s Court in the west, the line passes through ten Tube stations in the city centre before reaching King’s Cross St Pancras in the north east, all convenient for most top London sights, accommodation and your wining and dining pleasure. If the Piccadilly line doesn’t go by your front door, there are numerous connections with London’s spaghetti bowl of underground lines, eleven in all.

While the Tube is a boon, fast and comprehensive, it’s a good idea to use the above ground bus service too. London’s red double deckers are a famous attraction in themselves, and they are cheaper than the Tube. A favourite route is the 14 which starts in Putney on the River Thames, the starting point for the annual University Boat Race between Oxord and Cambridge. The 14 passes through Fulham before following much the same route as the Picadilly Line, terminating at Russell Square not far from Kings Cross.

Here’s just some of the fun you can have along these routes. On our recent trip we took the Tube from Heathrow to Earl’s Court and could have taken the District Line to Fulham Broadway, but walked instead through Brompton Cemetary. Opened in 1840 this is the resting place for two hundred thousand departed. Amongst these are Luisa Casati flamboyant Italian fashion and art icon, whose Venetian residence is now the Guggenheim, Henry Cole, inventor of the Christmas Card and moving force behind the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Hyde Park’s Crystal Palace, Emmeline Pankhurst, radical Suffragette leader and Kit Lambert manager of The Who. Beatrix Potter, who lived nearby, browsed the tombstones in naming her characters, including a certain Peter Rabbett. An impressive feature at the southern end centres on a domed chapel flanked by symmetrical collonades, the development modelled on St Peter’s Square in Rome.

We were staying at the Stamford Bridge Hotel at Chelsea FC on the Fulham Road. The 14 goes past the door, heading along the Fulham Road before turning into South Kensington. It is a lively spot at the nexus of several major thoroughfares. The tube station lies below a shopping arcade facing onto Onslow Square. The natty boulavardier cast in bronze is Bela Bartok, the Hungarian composer who lived hereabouts between the wars. He stands on stainless steel leaves serenaded by a songbird.

Turning onto Cromwell Road, the street is dotted with elegant landmarks of the Victorian Age. The  Natural History Museums is an ornate gothic cathedral guarded by dinosaurs The Victoria and Albert Museum is next door. Founded in 1852 by the V and A mentioned it is another majestic landmark and the largest museum of applied art and design in the world, Joining Brompton Road we head into Knightsbridge ,London’s shopping mecca. Flagship of fashionable retail is Harrods Luxury Department Store opened in 1905. Its vast redbrick facade fronts the largest department store in Europe. 

Hyde Park Corner marks the southeastern edge of the park at its junction with Green Park. The entrance pays much homage to Dubliner Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington. He had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, though on which platform we can’t say (as Myles na gCopaleen might have said). Speakers Corner, by the way, is at the northeastern end, the place where you can spif publicly on any topic, a hobby more often endured in public bars.

The thoroughfare of Piccadilly is wide and straight, leading into the heart of central London. The name comes from piccadill, the white lace collars popular in Shakespearean times, and made and sold here in the early 1600s. Getting off before Piccadilly Circus, we turn into the Burlington Arcade. Lit by giant chandeliers it is  the oldest and swankiest of London’s covered shopping arcades. Built in 1819, there are forty high end shops, many famed jewellers and watchmakers, pampering cafes or even a shoeshiner where you can relax to take it all in. The Burlington is patrolled by Beadles kitted out in traditional attire.

At the end of the arcade we turn right towards Regent Street and strike for Liberty’s, a Tudor Revival building from 1920. Like its architecture, it is an intriguing blend of traditional and cutting edge, offering fashion, beauty, homeware and textiles over five floors around a central atrium. The building picturesquely spans the entrance to Carnaby Street. The famed indigenous fashion shops of sixties London are now mostly swamped by international brands. The vibe of Soho persists and there are plenty of quirky shops and no shortage of choices for refreshment. We get a coffee in Cafe Concerto, a large Italian cafe on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue, with huge picture windows, sidewalk seating and  tempting cakes and snacks. Leicester Square is around the corner, the centre for theatre tickets and cinema.

The visual arts are also world class around here. A visit to the National Gallery of Art on Trafalgar Square is a must. Or the Portrait Gallery nearby, both if you can. Turner’s part in the collection is a central feature. Most recently we concentrated on late eighteenth and nineteenth century art. The viewer is led from Constable and Turner on to Monet’s reflective pools and Seurat’s giant bathers. But there’s much more than that. It’s free in, so make a few visits. Don’t eat it all at once.

A stroll up the Strand takes us through the heart of old London. The street divides in two at the churches of Mary le  Strand, and St Clement Danes. These churches were once traffic islands, but pedestrianisation has returned to them a more antique and relaxed vibe. Volunteers and vicars are happy to greet, and impart interesting information. St Mary’s, smaller of the two, was associated with the Wrens during WW2, Clement Danes with the RAF. Here, I am told, it was designed by a Scottish Catholic, an unusual combination you would think but to which I can attest, being the son of one.

Safely on the kerbside, the Law Courts is a sprawling masterpiece of Gothic Revival, familiar to watchers of the BBC News. It was designed by George Street and opened by Queen Victoria in 1882. Opposite the Law Courts is Temple Bar, once an ancient gate on the western edge of the City. Ducking into a laneway we head down towards the river. A detour through the Temple is worth it, entering the quiet and traditional world of England’s ancient court procedures. The Inns of Court, professional associations for barristers, have their own dining halls, administrastion offices and the various Chambers for practicing lawyers include appartments for senor barrisers and judges. Temple Church is nestled here. It was built by the Knights Templar in the late twelfth century. Extensively damaged during the Blitz, renovation work was not completed until 1958. The church is famed for its appearance in the Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown.

St Paul’s sits at the top of the hill. The entrance fee is prohibitive, but prayer is free. There’s a calm square to the side of the cathedral where we rest and watch stormclouds brewing. A steep pathway leads us down to the river where the Millennium Bridge leads over to the South Bank. You can see downriver to Tower Bridge while the Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern bracket four centuries of creativity on the quayside. This time we walked the north bank upriver, cut  in through Temple Bar, and had a few nice pints of Guinness at Daly’s back on the Strand.

The monumental postwar buildings of Aldwych curve back towards the West End. Covent Garden is a little farther on. An oasis from its merry mayhem is found in the grounds of another St Paul’s. The church was built the 1630s and designed by Inigo Jones an early trailblazer of Neo-classicism in England. Entrance is from the graveyard garden.The portico facing the public square is technically to the rear. This has been noted for the first recorded performance of a Punch and Judy Show and remains a regular haunt for street performers. The portico also featured in George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion and the later film My Fair Lady. The area around became a noted theatre district soon after St Paul’s completion. Known as the Actors Church, inside there are plaques dedicated to many notable figures of stage and screen, including Charlie Chaplin, Noel Coward and Vivien Leigh. Across the square Covent Garden’s nineteenth century market building is busy and pleasant, with musicians playing on the lower level. The old market area also hosts the Royal Opera House and the London Transport Museum.

We are on a contemporary London transport project however. A short walk to Holborn by way of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, we stop at an Indian restaurant before heading on to Russell Square to catch our bus. Although London’s alleged rainforest climate is often touted in film, on my sixteen or so visits in the last fifty years I can’t actually recall being rained on. Now the rain pours down as we reach the 14 terminus at Russell Square. First we pass the British Museum, then through the full length of Shaftesbury Avenue. The theatre district glimmers in its floodlights and neon, the madding crowds unfazed by the downpour. A sign proclaims Les Miserables. Not us.

I saw you walking down Shaftesbury Avenue

Excuse me for talking I wanna marry you

This is seventh heaven street to me

Don’t you seem so proud

You’re just another angel

In the crowd and I’m…

Walking in the wild west end

Walking with your wild best friend

Wild West End is a song from Dire Straits’ eponymous debut album in 1978.

London Memories – 4.

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River and Time

The River Thames is a highway, and has been since Roman times. Emperor Claudius led the invasion in the fifth decade of the first millennium, establishing Londinium as a fording point where the City of London now lies. The City itself became London’s financial district, marked by the Tower of London to the east with St Paul’s Cathedral towering above its western end. Enclosed by walls it had a population of over fifty thousand people at its height in the second century AD.

London was abandoned after the last leaving of the Romans in the early fifth century. The Anglo Saxons established a small settlement outside the ruined city, known as Lundenwick. Located just west of the ancient walls, the Strand now bisects this zone. Alfred the Great reoccupied the ruined walled city during the Viking invasions of the ninth century. By the time of Edward the Confessor, London had reestablished itself as England’s capital. Edward built WestminsterAbbey and after his death in 1066, William Duke of Normandy was crowned king there on Christmas Day, fresh from his victory at the Battle of Hastings. William would build the Tower of London, the imposing Norman fortress and notorious prison, showing who’s boss. London was back.

The ancient city’s inheritor, the financial district, is highrise and cold. This is where true power now lies. Soaring above it all, some of the more fanciful modern cathedrals of commerce have been given such playful names as The Gerkin and the Cheese Grater. Across the river the tallest of them all, the Shard, scrapes a sharp nail along the underbelly of the sky.

The true signature of the London skyline is best appreciated from the pedestrian bridge connecting the City with the Globe theatre on the South Bank. St Paul’s Cathedral boasts a heritage stretching back almost a thousand years. The medieval cathedral stood here for six centuries from 1066 until the Great Fire when it was destroyed. It was rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren, completed fifty years later in an exuberant Baroque style. Loved by most, some stern Protestants have decried a whiff of Popery about its ornament and grandeur, noting its similarity to St Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

Some vestiges of the Roman Walls persist nearby, their perimeter topping Ludgate Hill. Walking down Ludgate Hill takes us to Fleet Street, once the centre of the newspaper trade. Hidden up a nearby lane, you might find St Bride’s Church. Another Christopher Wren building, St Bride’s is also known as the Printers Church. It was originally founded by Irish monks converting the West Saxons in the seventh century, and named to honour St Bridget of Kildare.

Bridget lived between 450 – 525 AD. The name Brigid, original Gaelic form of Bridget, is associated with a Celtic Goddess, a name we recognise from the Brigantes of Boadicea fame in Roman Britannia. Little is known of Saint Bridget’s early life but she established a community of nuns and came to be an important Abbess in the early Gaelic church, taking precedence over the Bishop of the Diocese of Kildare. Kildare, Gaelic for the church of the oak, has a cathedral dedicated to her.

Saint Brigid’s feast day falls on the first of February, and is associated with early spring rites. A ritual associated with her is the fashioning of a small cross from rushes. The distinctive cross, its prongs radiating from a central square swirl, has also been adopted as the logo for the Irish national broadcasting service, RTE. Brigid was patron of poetry and the arts, livestock and dairying, and was symbolically associated with fire. Amongst her more regular miracles was the ability to turn water into beer. She was exceptionally popular amongst both Irish and Danes for some reason

St Bride’s has an even more global association. Here, in 1587, Elenora White married Ananias Dare. The couple promptly set sail for America with a group that founded the first English speaking colony there, at Roanoke, Virginia. Their daughter Virginia, born later in 1587, was the first child born in America to the colonists but disappeared along with her parents and other colonists. Desperate attempts by Elenora’s father John White, the colony’s governor, from 1580 failed to resolve the mystery of the disappearance. The Lost Colony may have been wiped out by natives, or perhaps some, maybe Virginia, were sheltered by a local tribe, and intermarried with them.

There are plenty other churches of interest in the immense shadow of St Paul’s. Continue down the Strand, which flows either side of two landmark churches, St Clement Danes and St Mary le Strand. There’s also Temple Church made famous by Dan Brown. The Strand, as the name implies, is not far from the river. The Thames bustles with pleasure boats, service and commercial craft. M and I once took a trip from Embankment to Greenwich by boat. Operated by Thames Clippers, the service runs from Putney way out west, passing Chelsea, Battersea Power Station and the Houses of Parliament to the Embankment where we got aboard. Heading east the City rises to our left, with Shakespeare’s Globe on our right. We pass through Tower Bridge, another emblem of London with its fortress-like architecture and bascule. Horace Jones was the architect and John Barry the engineer. The project completed in 1894

Into the exotic east, Canary Wharf is a couple of stops before Greenwich, while Woolwich Arsenal lies further to the east. Greenwich awaits on the south bank. The Royal Navy College is a neo-classical masterpiece of Christopher Wren. Begun in the late 16th century, it was originally the Royal Hospital for Seamen. Beyond the splendour of its colonnades and domes, Greenwich Park slopes up to the Royal Observatory. Highrise London stretches along the western horizon. From 1884 Greenwich was recognised as the line 0 of longitude. The accurate measurement of longitude had been a problem in previous centuries. With the Longitude act of 1714, the British Parliament offered £20,000, almost four million quid in today’s money, to anyone who could devise a reliable system for the reckoning of longitude.

At that time, John Harrison, a carpenter from Lincoln in his early twenties, was making almost frictionless clocks..He took on the challenge and In 1759 Harrison’s H4, similar to a pocket watch, seemed to fulfil the criteria. However, the board demurred, putting Harrison’s success down to beginner’s luck. His H5 passed the test, though Harrison still had difficulty extricating the prize. Only the support of George III gained him some compensation, to the tune of £8,500. Harrison was eighty years old and died shortly afterwards in 1776. His timepiece was used by Cook on his second and third voyages. William Blythe also carried one, although it was nicked by Fletcher Christian, to be returned to the Maritime Museum much later. The Museum has an exhibition devoted to the Harrison clocks. On our visit a museum guide gave a detailed and entertaining account of Harrison’s travails. Spellbound, I lost all track of time. We nearly missed our boat.

Beyond Greenwich and you are flowing onto the world’s highway, with all the oceans and seas connecting with all the freeflowing rivers and placid canals. Our return trip took us to Southwark Cathedral. The bells were ringing out as we found an outdoor table at a local hostelry. Glorious sound, no doubt, unless you are tying to enjoy a quiet pint in a beer garden. London certainly swings like a pendulum do. And London is always calling the curious traveller.

London calling to the faraway towns …

The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in

Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin

Engines stopped running, but I have no fear

London is drowning-and I live by the river

London Calling is by The Clash, written by Joe Strummer and Mick Jones. It is the title track of their 1979 album, and echoes the opening call of BBC World Service during WWII. The febrile apocalyptic tone is very seventyish, or maybe still persistent. I somehow heard the song’s hookline as “London’s burning, and I live by the river.” Which might be more consoling. Not to worry, though; the Thames Barrier was completed in 1982 near Woolwich protecting London’s flood plain.

Winding Down in Douglas

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This painting is taken from our Isle of Man trip. The restaurant, Wine Down, is in Douglas. We sat on the front terrace. I took this shot looking into the crowded restaurant. The window catches interior and exterior, myself and M, and others, observing and being observed. It is a bit like a jigsaw puzzle of life. There are too many pieces and not enough time to fit them all together. And we only imagine the picture on the cover of the box to guide us.

Maybe I am overinclined to sit in cafe windows watching the world going by, while  the world watches me. But there’s belonging too, and the thrill of it all. There are consolations in being a part of the crowd. Imagine the stories of the people here, some connecting with the observer, some lost in their own world. You’ll catch whispered narratives in the buzz, a song rising from the din.

I am listening to Bruce Springsteen’s 2020 album, Letter to You. House of a Thousand Guitars is specifically a hymn to live music venues. Broader than that, it celebrates the human urge to meet socially, and the togetherness of places where the music and the people play

So wake and shake off your troubles my friend

We’ll go to where the music never ends

From the stadiums to the small town bars

We’ll light up the house of a thousand guitars

Munich – Beer and Roaming in Bavaria

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The curtain of cloud lifts as I leave Salzburg. At last I get to see the sublime world of Alpine life and scenery. I could certainly skip through that swinging my guitar case and singing in a high voice. But, probably better not. The train journey is a magical collage of jagged blue peaks and melting green fields. There is sunshine too. At Munich Hauptbanhof I navigate the crowds and make my connection to Arabellapark.

Arabellapark is seven stops and under half an hour by Ubahn. The area is mostly a businesspark with a few hotels. It is modern, quiet, and convenient for the city with regular public transport. My station is on Richard Strauss Strasse. I’m booked into the Best Western Hotel nearby.

Strauss was born in Munich in1864 and became a famed composer of the late Romantic and early Modernist period. His compositions include Don Juan, Also Sprach Zarathustra and the opera Salome, from Oscar  Wilde’s play. Zarathustra provides the dramatic element in the soundtrack for Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 A Space Odyssey, with its opening fanfare, known as Sunrise. Strauss based his sound poem on Friedrich Nietzche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Kubrick’s 1968 film helped reestablish Strauss’s music in the world. In 1933 he had been appointed head of the Reich Music Chamber, the regulating body for music in Germany. This led to accusations of his being a Nazi collaborator, He was cleared post war. It was noted that his insistence to work with librettist Stefan Zweig, a Jew, got him sacked.  Strauss died in 1949.

There is something of a town centre in a hdden enclave near the Ubahn terminus at Rosenkavalier Platz. Der Rosenkavalier was an opera written by Strauss in 1910. Arabellapark itself refers to another Strauss opera Arabella. The Platz is a modern pedestrian zone with an interesting Art Deco cinema. There’s a cluster of good eateries and shops. Hans um Gluck is a grill bar. The interior is a startling birch forest making an ambience popular with parents and their kids. Hans um Gluck is a folk tale of the Brothers Grimm. It translates as Hans in Luck, wherein the hapless hero manages through a series of rash transactions to convert a gold nugget the size of his head into a whetstone. There’s an Italian Restaurant nearby, Bistro Fohn, another comfy and friendly spot for good fare.

Morning, and back Into the maw of the Hauptbanhof I go, the Ubahn journey lengthened by a forced connection. It’s heavy rain this morning and I can’t get my bearings in the vicinity of the station which has no discernible front door. I find my way, unintentionally, to Theresienwiesse, the park used for the annual Oktoberfest. This festival takes place in late September, not quite what it says on the tin. I arrived the following week, Hangover Week as it isn’t known. The Oktoberest was certainly tempting, though might be best handled in a group rather than flying solo. The festival began in 1810, to celebrate Prince Ludwig’s marriage to Princess Therese of Saxony. The Festival draws seven million visitors consuming seven million litres of beer. So, they only drink a litre each? I reckon there must be big queues at the bar.

At last I align myself and walk back to the city centre. Marienplatz is that centre, a rectangular plaza dating back to 1158. It centres on the Marian Column, in honour of Our Lady, and erected in 1638 to commemorate the end of the Swedish occupation. The New Town Hall, a fabulous Neo-Gothic palace, forms the northern side of the plaza. Built in the mid nineteenth century and based on Brussels City Hall, it was extended in the early twentieth century with a soaring tower of 85 metres. The Old Town Hall marks the eastern end of Marienplatz, while to the west the towers of Fraunkirch loom. Frauenkirche, also dedicated to Our Lady, is the city cathedral. Its distinctive frontal round towers are the highest structures on the inner city skyline, almost a hundred metres tall and topped with onion domes. The church was built in the late fifteenth century, redbrick and sparse in style.

Off Marienplaz is the Viktualienmarket. This vibrant square is packed with stalls selling food, flowers and artefacts, gathered around a sprawling beer garden. It is open every day but Sunday and all human life is here. I queue for bratwurst and chips, with a foaming beer, and find a seat under the trees. The bratwurst is huge and sublime. You could sit here all day and watch the world go by. There’s waiter service, though the self service is best. The beer stall simply sets up the foaming beer by litre or half litre measure and you grab one and pay your €5 at the adjacent register. No queue, just conveyor belt booze. Happy daze.

Munich is a mecca for the dedicated beer hound. In the public interest I thought it best to investigate this phenomenon. Having at last freed myself from the embrace of the Viktualienmarket, I careened through the old town towards the Hofbrauhaus on Platzl, most famous of the city’s beer halls. Ludwig I opened it to the public in 1828 and the current building dates from 1897. The cavernous central hall hums with conversation and cheer. High above, the vaulted ceiling is adorned with baroque frescoes. Light flows in through the high arched windows. The effect is practically religious. I almost feel like genuflecting, though that would be hazardous.

I find a bench in the courtyard beergarden which is quiet. I wrap my hand around a one litre stein, or masskrug. Steins were originally a stoneware mug, though now refer to the heavy glass with a handle synonymous with German beer drinking. There’s a technique to drinking such a volume for a lightweight like me. Slide your hand inside the handle and hold the glass body between palm and thumb. Lift and quaff. Repeat as necessary.

Ein zwei drei vier

Lift your stein and drink your beer

Ein zwei drei vier

Lift your stein and drink your beer

Drink! Drink! Drink!

Platzl is a small pedestrian square lined with drinking and dining terraces. The Dubliner Irish Pub across the road provides a cozier port to put into. I can admire the Hofbrauhaus building from the outdoor terrace.

North of the city centre is the extensive Museum quarter, the Kunstreal, Along the wide treelined avenues are a cluster of major art galeries and museums. The Pinakotheks are the three main galleries: Alte Pinakothek for old masters, the Neue for 19th century art from the Romantics to the Impressionists, and Moderne for twentieth century and contemporary art. The word Pinakothek is taken from the ancient Greek.

The Alte Pinakothek was begun in 1826 on the orders of King Ludwig (him again) and was the largest art gallery in the world on its completion. It houses a vast collection of European art from the 14th to the 18th century. Amongst 700 paintings there are works by Durer, Rubens, Memling, Raphael, Titian, Breughel, Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Murillo and El Greco. That starting eleven should win the European Champions League for sure. Others that grabbed attantion included Arcimboldo’s ingenious vegetarian heads, the Debauched Student by Van Honthorst, while Bouchier’s elegant portrait of Mme Pompadour is a centrepiece, and also adorns the entrance ticket.

The Neue Pinakothek followed in 1859, the first European museum of contemporary art. Both buildings were badly damaged during World War II but while the Alte was renovated, preserving the stress suffered by the original, the Neue was demolished. It was replaced with a postmodernist building opening in 1981. We didn’t get forty years out of it. 

On my visit the Neue Pinakothek was, of course, closed. It is the same throughout Europe I’m afraid, where art museums of 18th and 19th century art are shut. This building was closed in 2019 and will not reopen before the end of the decade. A section of the Alte has been used to display a selection of work from the Neue under the title rom Turner to Van Gogh. Standouts include Manet on his boat, Sunflowers and a view of Arles from Van Gogh, waterlillies from Monet and Max Lieberman’s sundrenched beergardens. New to me was Giovanni Sagatini with a large panoramic landscape title Ploughing from the 1890s. Snow capped mountains at last! It made my trip.

Pinakothek Der Moderne is devoted to art from the twentieth century and onwards. Built in 2002, the building has an impressive glass facade with high columns supporting the canopy roof. Inside it is divided into quarters devoted to art, architecture, design and graphics around a central rotunda. The art focusses first on important works by Braque and Picasso in the development of Cubism. Woman with Violin by Picasso and Braque’s Woman with Mandoline feature as a duet. Something of an all girl band forms farther on with a lifesize vernacular photograph of Patti Smith prowling with her guitar. Magritte, Ernst, Leger and Warhol are also on show. Down towards the basement, there’s a motor car theme, merging with sixtiesish, or seventies graphics.

Finally I return to the Best Western for a relaxing drink in the hotel bar. Cillian, or Kilian, the barman keeps ‘em coming. It’s a good Irish name after all. A school in my hometown Bray being dedicated to the saint. He’s also venerated hereabouts in Bavaria. Meanwhile, a virtual band shimmers on the video wall. It’s smooth jazz rock, shades of Supply, Demand and (very attractive) Curves. I slip into the ambience.

The Drinking Song is the appropriate soundbite. It was written by Sigmund Stromberg with lyrics by Dorothy Donnelly for the 1924 Operetta the Student Prince. Sung by Mario Lanza for the 1954 film soundtrack, though in the film Lanza’s voice was lip synched by Edmond Purdom. The story tells of a Prince’s student days at Heidelberg University. Prince Karl is heir to the throne of the fictitious kingdom of Karlsberg. Hmmm, it would be called that. In the course of his studies, or daily drinking sessions as they are more accurately described, Karl falls in love with the innkeeper’s daughter. Who wouldn’t drink to that?

May those lips that are red and sweet

Tonight with joy my own lips meet!

Drink! Drink! Drink! Let the toast start!

May young hearts never part!

Drink! Drink! Drink! Let every true lover salute his sweetheart!

Salzburg – Sights and Sounds

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Salzburg is not directly accessible from Dublin outside the Christmas season, so I took an Aer Lingus flight to Munich and a train on to Austria. Salzburg nestles just across the border, ringed by jagged Alpine peaks. Low cloud obscures the Alps on my October visit, which is a pity. The rail route is spectacular, and I did get glimpses on my return. While the Hautbanhof in Munich, efficient hub that it is, visually equates to Hell’s anteroom, Salzburg’s station is sleek, modern and airy, with good refreshment oases. It opens onto a modern square which is a terminus for the city’s tram and bus services. Without sun or shadow to guide me I find myself a bit disorientated but eventually manage to pinball my way to the hotel. 

Hotel Scherer is less than a ten minute walk from the station, a bit more when winging it like me. I find it set in a quiet residential quarter that emerges from the edgy periphery of the railway overpass. Such structures are inevitably ugly, though this one serves to make Dublin’s unloved Loopline positively handsome by comparison. It also demarcates the city centre from the inner suburbs. I arrived at four o’clock for check in and then take a short walk down to the river. 

The River Salzach powers through the city, its swift flow channelled between attractive quaysides on both banks. Elizabeth Kai leads all the way into the city centre, a fifteen minute walk or so. Nearby, just past the railway, the Mirabellgarten is laid out on the north bank. This is an attractive rectangular park flowing around the Mirabell Palace, well sprinkled with statues and fountains. Beyond the buildings, I catch fleeting hints of mountain peeping through the clowd. Night is falling with the rain as I sail into Franz Josef Strasse

I have my evening meal at Lazart im Cafe Wernbacher. Its modern, slightly Deco facade wraps a warm inner ambience. It looks European, but it is in part a Peruvian Restaurant, mixing Alpine and Andean fare. Two American couples at nearby tables talk and enthuse; one couple obviously regulars. Good food in a comfortable, colourful setting. 

Across the road is the Academy Cafe Bar, with a haphazard, vaguely Bohemian ambience and featuring the Best Barman in the World! I kid you not. One man serving maybe fifty customers scattered through several rooms with panache, unflapable good humour, and speed. How does he do it? He even keeps tabs on my cavalier attitude to beermats, frisbeeing them across the lounge whenever I neglect my duty. But most pleasantly done. I returned the next night but he wasn’t there. The staff, all two of them, were excellent.

That night, I talk to a French Canadian lady on the hotel terrace. She is guiding a group of tourists who have put into port here. Salzburg does seem particularly popular with North Americans. Talk is travel too, and soon we are amongst red maple leaves in the Fall. There’s a good friendly vibe around the hotel lobby and bar which should hasten the approach of sleep. But doesn’t. Later I watch Midsommer Murders in German. Subtitles seem to have disappeared from hotel tvs since covid though the cosiness of the friendly English murder pervades.

Tuesday is even greyer on my way to the city centre. First a stop for a caffeine spark at Cup & Cino, calmly presiding over a busy intersection within the loopline. I return to Mirabell Park in daylight. The compact park skillfully blends centuries of building, ornament and greenery. Mozarteum Univercity was founded in 1841 and is a college of the dramatic arts with two concert halls. Mirabell Palace along one side was originally home to the reigning archbishop in the late sixteenth century, Wolf Dietrich Raitenau and his mistress Salome Alt. It was an open affair, celibacy then being regarded as a temporary abberration. The loving duo were later expelled. The palace name was coined by conjoining wonderful and amazing; adjectives you’ll use a lot in Salzburg.

Makartplatz at the base of the gardens has the Mozart Museum at the composer’s residence. Across the bridge the Altstadt, Old Town, clings to the far bank, as scenic as you could hope for with the lofty fortifications of Hohensalzburg Castle forming the icing on the cake. The view affirms the guide book witticism regarding Salzburg: if it’s Baroque, don’t fix it. 

Salzburg ranks fourth in size of Austrian cities. It is not a particularly large city with a population just over 150,000 people. It sits about 1,400 feet above sea level with the Alps touching the sky all around. The peak of Untersberg climbs to 6,470 feet and is only ten miles from the city centre. It makes a popular day trip for visitors, with a cable car taking one to within five hundred feet of the summit. The mountain featured in the 1965 musical The Sound of Music. The hills are indeed alive to that.

Of even more note musically is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born here in 1756. At seventeen (going on eighteen) he was a court musician in the city but sought fame further afield and settled in Vienna in 1781. His writing across a wide range of musical genres is seen as a pinnacle of classical composition. Operas such as Don Giovani, The Magic Flute, Eine Kleine Nacht Musik and the Marriage of Figaro remain at the top of the Classical repertoire.

He died at thirty five in Vienna, leaving his wife and two sons, and a body of work to console the whole world through the centuries. And beyond. He is well remembered in Salzburg. His birthplace and later residence are preserved in museum and concert hall, by way of fridge magnets and chocolate treats.

Across the river I stop at Cafe Glockenspiel on Mozartplatz (of course) for their Happy Eggs breakfast. I drape myself on a seat on the heated terrace looking out at a statue of the man himself. Happy indeed. The Dom Cathedral backs on to this square and is a powerful and distinctive landmark of the city. It was designed in the late 16th century in the reign of Raitenau. He was a fan of Italian Baroque, and also responsible for the Old Residence building attached. It was not until 1614 that the foundation stone was laid, the final design by Swiss architect Santino Solaridom 

The entrance fee costs me €5 although I thought the sign read €9, and that with a Salzburg card. Cheap at half the price and rewarding with an interior that is peaceful and inspiring. I stop for prayer at the first available altar, lighting the essential votive candle. I had to repeat the process at the final altar too. Its icon to Mary, in the Orthodix style, was the same as one we had in our childhood home where my mother and my sister dressed a daily altar on the landing. That’s worth a candle at least. Mind, by the time I had lit two candles I was nearing €7 and then …

I exit with a calm energy. The front of the cathedral faces on to Domplatz, an enclosed square centred on an impressive Marian column. The square is accessed through three arches. I am leaving the square through the western arch when a duo pop out of an alcove to serenade us. The couple, who I think are English, give voice to the magical music of Salzburg. I am caught in their web for three or four numbers. Culminating in the Magic Flute, where heroine Pamina and comic everyman Papageno sing:

Bie mannern welche liebe fuhlen

fehlt auch ein gutes herze nicht

(men who hear the call of love 

do not lack a gentle heart)

The duet is in praise of love and the marriage of man and woman. It links love with the divine, expressed in music that is spiritual and sensual. Hearing such music live, red and raw, is elevating. Soul swooning upwards left me dizzy. Lighter financially, of course; they are buskers after all. The coexistence of spirit and senses inside and outside the Dom had set me back a tenner, but was truly priceless. I walk on air, feeling like a character in a painting by Marc Chagall. Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

To get truly high in Salzburg take the funicular to the castle. A true ice cream castle in the air, for centuries it was the bastion or the ruling archbishop. The fort was first established around 1077 and has been embellished over the centuries. The funicular was built in 1892 as tourism grew. It beams us up through building, forest and cloud to deliver us to giddy heights. Whether the clouds cushioned or contributed to the sense of vertigo is hard to say.  A biergarten balanced on the cliff edge is not open, while the battlements offered leeting apertures of the city far, far below. There’s much to see within the walls. A museum of puppets includes an animation of the peasant’s siege of the sixteenth century. And the Von Trapp family in miniature. The castle museum has models of the fortress through the centuries. There’s much of miltary and political interest. History never rests, but persists.

i’m walking on air again as I make my way back via the funicular. Touching ground, I consider this the perfect time to fortify myself with a pint. Stiegkeller is a large building beside the funicular, with cavernous old style bars, restaurants and a rooftop garden. From the garden terrace there’s an excellent view over the city, dominated by the Dom. Service is straightforward scoop and go, a lady pulls your pint and you carry it off. This is music to my heart, dispensing with the middleman, the waiter so beloved, mysteriously, of continentals. Still, such delaying tactics, and indeed food, are available here. But bah! I decide on another self service pint.

Art at Limerick’s Hunt Museum

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The Hunt Museum Limerick hold their first Open Submissions Exhibition between Friday 5th December 2025 and Saturday 28th February 2026. I am delighted to have been chosen for the exhibition. My painting, Lovers on a Train, is taken from a train trip between Dublin, Cork and Limerick. I noticed the couple sitting across from me were an island unto themselves. Touring Ireland, their purchases spread between them on the table, while they were absorbed in their screens. So, the tableau involves a still life, a classical composition– like Venus and Mars, and a landscape whizzing by beyond the window. The perfect composition for me. I like to capture the moment to make a visual short story in a particular time and space. People together and all alone; in trains, bars, cafes and cars. I enjoy doing it and hope that others enjoy looking at it. I’m looking forward to heading back down to Limerick. By train, of course.

Back to Andalusia – Almunecar by Bus

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The bus from Grenada to Almunecar heads due south through the Sierra Nevada. We get an eyeful of high mountain scenery. As a designated driver, it is such a pleasure to sit back on the bus and soak in the beautiful views. Almunecar is on the Grenada region’s short coast. The bus station is at the high end of town. Disembarking, we cross the busy thoroughfare and take a sidewalk seat at the first available cafe bar, Casablanca by name. Though it doesn’t resemble Rick’s Bar; I am sure a lot of people come here, with welcome refreshments and a terrace panorama of busy town life. When we orient ourselves, we take a fifteen minute walk seawards along Avenida Europa to our hotel. Hotel Goya is a small family run affair, between the main lower town and the seafront. Above all, is the castle; Castillo de San Miguel.

Near our hotel, the Botanical Gardens contain the ruins of the ancient Phoenician fish salting factory. The Phoenicians were settled on this coast from 800BC and their name for the town was Sexi. The natives might still refer to themselves as Sexitanos. Just so you know. The tourist office is right across the road. Housed in the La Najarra Palace, a nineteenth century building in the Mudejar style. Set amidst a wonderful garden, with towering palms, chequerred walkways and a central pool, it is an Eden of relaxation on a hot day. There’s a child sized house at one end. We spent a late afternoon sketching there, with no end product but pleasure.

The town name is derived from the Arabic, meaning surrounded by mountains. Indeed it is. The Costa Tropical collides with steep mountains to spectacular effect. Almunecar has a population of just over twenty five thousand. It is more a Spanish than a foreign tourist resort. Less busy than Nerja just a few miles west along the coast, it is intimate and relaxed. 

Almunecar may ring a bell for literature fans, featuring in Laurie Lee’s book, As I walked Out One Midsummer Morning, 1969. This formed the second installment of his memoirs, a few years after Cider with Rosie. From 1934, Lee travelled the length of Spain. He made his way taking casual jobs and busking; he played violin. He arrived in Almunecar, which turned out to be his last stop in Spain. Here, he worked in a hotel, and as a tourist guide. The Spanish Civil war broke out in 1936 and Lee was evacuated by a British warship sent from Gibraltar. He would return to Spain the following year to fight for the Republicans. In Lee’s account, the town is referred to as Castillo.

The Castillo de San Miguel certainly defines the town. It was first established by the Romans in the times of the Punic Wars, two centuries BC.  Subsequent alterations now prevail. The fortress prosperred in Moorish times, ultimately surrendered in 1488. During the Napoleonic Wars, the Castle last operated under control of the French. The English, with Spanish support, seriously damaged the complex, although the outer defenses were reletavily unscathed. For a while it was used as the town cemetery, until the rise of tourism prompted restoration work to begin in the 1980s

Visiting the castle is a must. The old town is a serpentine maze, constantly rising. Just off the main drag, Plaza Higuitos provides an oasis. While the eponymous establishment is beseiged by growing queues, across the tiny square there’s room at Bodegas Manuel Callejas The tapas here are good too, not just the automatic default; as we have eaten enough olives throughout Grenada to turn green and start a pip factory

Higher up, the narrow street widens into Plaza de la Constitucion, with the Ayuntamiento (Town Hall). along one side. There are two good restaurants at each end; and we fortify ourselves with drinks and tapas. The Church of the Incarnation is on a hill behind the town hall. It dates from the 16th century and has a stern imposing facade. This is the centre for the Semana Santa processions, and the street is tellingly named Calle Jesus Nazareno. Behind the church is Casa de la Cultura with a museum and theatre.

The orienteer within eventually guides us to the high esplanade of San Miguel. The saint’s festival is getting underway and everyone is gearing up for the nights festivities, setting up stalls and quaffing a few aperitifs. So, it’s getting into evening by the time we reach the castle. The lady at the door obligingly gives us a pass for the next day as we stop our visit abruptly owing to a sudden onset of starvation. Returning early the next day we are rewarded with a relaxed time amongst the ruins, and breathtaking views from the ramparts. There’s a good exhibition at the on site museum showing the castle’s evolution through the ages.. From the southern ramparts, the view downwards to the coast overlooks the cross at Penon del Santo. This was once connected to the castle by viaduct.

We take the rapid descent route back down. This winds down beneath towering castle wallls, touching earth beside our Botanical Gardens. Heading on to the searfront, Penones de San Cristobal are three rocky crags, dividing the searont at Almunecar. The highest crag, Penon Del Santo, is marked by a tall cross, a modernist structure from 1900. Guarding the base of this rock, there’s a monument to Abdalrahman I, the founder of the Emirate of Cordoba in 756. 

Puerta Del Mar to the east is the main bay of the old town while Playa Del Cristobal is a long straight esplanade heading into the west. Chirinquito El Pilici and Bar La Cana are amongst the many beach bars lining the seafront, offering a large selection of food, many with charcoal grills. We stop streetside at Restaurant Sabina. Sabina Schumacker herself greets us. A German lady, she makes a superb menu guide. Though I am not always a fish fiend, other than my chipper favourite of battered cod and chips, Sabina guides us towards the Monkfish and it is as superb as promised. Next door is the Helios Costa Tropical, the largest hotel on the seafront. This boasts a rooftop bar with great sea views, the prime place to bask in the setting sun.

Another night we eat at Elysium Restaurant farther on. It radiates a relaxed Bohemian air. The manager, laid back and friendly, tells us about the cuisine prepared by her husband from Aghanistan. The couple moved here last year from Austria and are enjoying the sun and sea air. We enjoy the food immensely. Ad hoc entertainment is provided by an English woman shellacing her errant husband, first on mobile phone (aren’t mobile phones wonderful!) and then in person. As we sneak out she comments loudly on our Irishness. We fade to black.

From here, the long seafront winds away to a beautiful emtiness, darkness on the edge of town, lights at the edge of the next twinkling with distance. The sun has set, but will rise again tomorrow. For many, in fact, the night never really ended. The Spanish know how to do festivals, and with the festival of San Miguel in full swing, the hilltop revelry goes on long into the night. Its a pleasant distant soundtrack, cushioning the fall into sleep.

After check out we head out for breakfast and towards the bus station. Churreria Picasso opens early, and is a popular start to the day for locals. Churros are made with choux pastry dough, fried till crispy on the outside and cut in long lengths. Taken with coffee for breakfast, or dipped in hot chocolate, they are popular throughout the Spanish speaking world. 

We have time for one last coffee at Casablanca and watch the time go by, again. There’s a crush of coaches at 11 o’clock, but a friendly German expat puts shows us to the right one. It’s just over an hour along the coast to Malaga and we close the circle of our magical bus tour. 

I know I’ve played this before, but I…. I’m not going to say it; and neither did Humphrey Bogarde. As Time Goes By was written by Herman Hupfield in 1931 and rose to fame when sung by Dooly Wilson (playing Sam) in the film Casablanca in 1942.

You must remember this

A kiss is still a kiss

A sigh is just a sigh

The fundamental things apply

As time goes by