Manchester

Posted on August 27, 2015 by shane harrison

Just west of the Pennines, South Lancashire seethes with cities. We’re Manchester bound, although the route I take via the circling motorways is a bit, well, circuitous. Eventually I trust to luck, or instinct, following a long straight road that falls ever so slightly downhill. Despite a brief detour through a dodgy flats complex, courtesy of ubiquitous roadworks, I stumble upon Piccadilly Station, close to where we’re staying. Mind you, the rental company has changed its address without telling anyone, but we hunt it down eventually on the roof of a multi-story.

View from the Mercur over Piccadilly Gardens

Manchester has been compared to an incredibly vast shopping centre, where you never feel more than halfway towards the centre, ever. It does have its fair share of malls, not necessarily a bad thing. The point is that Manchester, like many new cities, is an urban conurbation – you can go city to city without leaving town. I figure we stayed in the centre, or high above it anyway. The hotel overlooks Piccadilly Gardens which pass for the town square. Here is the hub of the clanking tram system, Britain’s most extensive and a boon for the visitor or commuter. The Gardens itself is as ugly a slice of modernity as you are likely to see, its designer presumably antagonistic to the concept of parks, or people, or possibly both. Enter, if you dare, through the facsimile of an underpass; works wonders for the confidence that. What better place to lie in wait, slither out and importune strangers for money or drugs. We decide to give it a go. One step in, someone steps out of the shadows and importunes me for money. Disengaging from that, another approaches stage right. We give it a miss, retiring instead to the relative safety of the surrounds, a rather sleazy strip of downmarket dens.

The name Piccadilly also denotes London’s centre, so what does it mean? The word supposedly derives from a collar of Spanish lace, a high fashion item in the sixteenth century. Perhaps an allusion to the parade of fashion common to a city centre. Manchester bustles more than it poses. There is a regular beat of footfall along with the throb of commerce. Plenty of shopping here, along straight, severe canyons and in extensive modern malls. Manchester has been referred to as being about as beautiful as the back of a fridge. That’s a bit harsh. While there’s something functional, determinedly commercial, about the city, there are shards of beauty in its Victorian civic and industrial architecture.

City Hall and Albert Square

None finer than the Gothic extravagance of the City Hall. Palatial but, with an eye to the democracy it represents, accessible. You are free to enter, more detailed exploration by guided tour. An atmospheric restaurant peeps out of the cloistered entrance hall. Function rooms are available for those with a taste for the gothic. Both interior and exterior aspects are full of the beauties of fine craftsmanship, allied with the notion that buildings can be expressions of a higher ideal, that they can occupy the imagination as well as physical space. It dominates Albert Square, a surprisingly calm space boasting almost as many statues as people. While herself plunges into the sea of shopping, I linger in the square, The Chop House on the corner providing the oasis, a quiet pavement table with a view.

St. Anne’s Church

We’ve arranged to meet at St Anne’s Square, a smaller, intimate space which also offers respite from the commuting and shopping throng. The old church that gives the square its name has been here since the eighteenth century when Manchester was still a small town. A feeling of more olden days pervades. There are market stalls, pub and restaurant marquees, and the right ambience to relax and watch the world go by.

Manchester is really a modern city. It only received that designation in 1853, by which stage it was on the crest of the tidal wave wrought by the Industrial Revolution. Cotton was king, the city even nicknamed Cottonopolis. Warehouse City was another monicker, as the city flexed its industrial muscles to conjure up a Lowryesque landscape. The artist was a local, lived, studied and is buried here. The major museum in his honour, The Lowry, is housed nearby on the Salford Quays. Manchester, lest we forget, became a major port in the late nineteenth century. Over sixty miles from the sea, it was connected by the Ship Canal in 1894.

Ryland’s Library

Along Deansgate, you can catch the flavour of power that propelled this city into the twentieth century. Handsome proportions of streets and buildings, the Victorian and Edwardian palaces an impressive statement of wealth and craft. Not only God and Mammon, Manchester nurtured culture too. The John Rylands Library is a supreme Gothic confection from the early nineteen hundreds. It houses ancient papyrus and illuminated manuscripts, a Gutenberg bible and an extensive collection of the printing of Caxton. Beyond Deansgate lies the river and the great canal system. A city for exploration in itself.

Cathedral Gate

Hunger, for now, draws us back to the commercial hub. We dine at a high end pizzeria, and very nice it is too. This precinct has grown quieter at night but the atmosphere is good. Through a vast mall we find ourselves on a raised terrace with a view of Manchester Cathedral beyond. The Cathedral dates back to the fifteenth century though, like the city that now surrounds it, has undergone much change since. Below us is a lively spot, all mock tudor beams, called the Cathedral Gates. This is the place to be, with extensive outdoor seating and a great buzz. The medieval quarter, as such, straggles around here. There are guided walks to get you in touch with the original essence of the city. Every city comes from somewhere, you do want to keep that spirit alive.

The Mancunian with the golden car

We wake to the incessant tinkle of trams. It’s all abuzz again. We take a tram to Piccadilly Station, heading for home via England’s extensive, if weirdly connected, rail system. We require three trains to get to Holyhead; a pity the ferry cannot sail from Manchester.

Cambridge

Posted on July 30, 2015 by shane harrison

Following last year’s visit to Oxford, we completed the learning curve with a visit to Cambridge. Just fifty miles north of London, it’s a morning’s drive in the hire-car from Russell Square, through ever decreasing suburbs into the low countryside beyond Epping. Past the Gog Magog Hills, Cambridge nestles in the fen lands, a sodden lowland through which snakes the River Cam. Romans, Angles, Vikings and Normans have stomped across this geographically open landscape, now it is pure middle England.

Cambridge is somewhat smaller than Oxford with a population of about 125,000. There is less of an urban ambience, less classical in its streetscape, it is more the winding country town. The university is the dominant force by far. About a fifth of the population are students. Formed by Oxford rejects at the start of the thirteenth century, it grew to become its keenest rival. The annual boat-race on the Thames is a famous manifestation of that rivalry.

View across the Paddocks at Downing College

We have a room at Downing College. It overlooks a quiet quadrangle, an arcade to one side adjoins a small theatre hosting a seminar. At quieter moments we decamp there with coffee and a book. At crowded tea-breaks it is useful to eavesdrop on the networking and hob-nobbing of the seminarians. The college is in a mellow yellow stone throughout. It is cast in the neo-classical mode. Built in the early eighteen hundreds, it has been described as the last of the old colleges, and the first of the new. Its patron, George Downing also gave his name to Downing Street. Of course, knowledge is also a corridor of power. We note, with some amusement, that certain walks are confined to the Fellows. At this time of year, we should be okay. The view across the Paddocks is, in a way, quintessentially English. Yet, the spire of the church on Lansfield Road also recalls home. It’s the uncanny valley again, so near and yet so far away.

Later, we step outside of the groves of academe for our evening meal to eat curries from the carton at an Indian deli and store across the road. There’s posh for you. It was very good indeed. Next morning, we breakfast in rather grander surrounds, at Downing’s great hall. Food to feed a horse, if a bit rushed owing to our late-coming tendencies. We resolve to be better tomorrow.

The Hopbine Pub advertises an invaluable service.

There are plenty of good restaurants here, incidentally. On our second evening we make a more serious scouting effort for our dining pleasure. The good spots fill up quickly as evening falls. We get a table at the Wildeside, another English meal with the great man, though of course he was an Oxford man. It’s quiet and stylish, with a little patio to the rear.

During the day, Cambridge, even with the tourist throngs, is eminently relaxing. Although it doesn’t quite have an aspect of dreaming spires, it is both evocative in its atmosphere and rich in visual delights. Kings Parade is probably the definitive vista. Old vernacular streetscape to one side, the impressive frontage of major colleges, notably King’s College, to the other. The winding thoroughfare retains a sense of the ancient. The oldest building in Cambridge, St. Benet’s Church, a quiet, simple structure, dates back to 1209.

Author deposits his books at Cambridge University Library

Beyond the Cam, parkland cradles the more modern campus of the University. Cambridge University Library is a startlingly modern addition to the skyline. Built in the 1930s, the huge central tower has all the pulsing power of industrial art deco. Its architect, Giles Gilbert Scott, was also responsible for the Bankside power station that houses the Tate Modern. Chamberlain is said to have referred to it as a ‘magnificent erection’! Indeed it is impressive, it is also a repository for all books published in England and Ireland; mine too, I’m sure.

King’s College Chapel viewed from the Backs.

Walking the city centre periphery illustrates Cambridge’s inevitable affinity with boating. Punting on the canal, or the corralled section of the Cam, is central to the Cambridge experience. Punters ply the serene waters, keeping up a patter of history, myth and gossip. Our host Phil hails from Northern Ireland, but is well versed in local lore with the gift of the gab thrown in. The route travels along The Backs, with views of the colleges across well-tended lawns. The Cam was rerouted for this. Henry VIII being instrumental in a scheme aimed at enhancing his and England’s prestige. The gothic grandeur of King’s College Chapel is another element of his legacy. Silence may have been preferrable at some sections. The Bridge of Sighs is evocative, indeed the entire poem of still water and ancient stone is a joy. But it really is a crowded river at times. You can hire your own punt too. Many do, floating drink parties are still drifting about at dusk.

Approaching the Anchor Pub

We put our anchor down at the terminus in Mill Pond. Appropriately enough, The Anchor pub nestles there. This was once the hangout of Syd Barrett, where, as a teenager, he used to bend an ear to the resident jazz band. He would later lead his own band, those masters of avant garde psychedelia, Pink Floyd. Barrett would ultimately be replaced by his hometown friend, Dave Gilmour. Barret is commemorated in two panoramic panels on the lower level. An open terrace looks out over the maelstrom of the pond. In a town not exactly falling down with good pubs, it quickly becomes our favourite for a few drinks. There’s keg ales and good food. The pub rises through three levels. At the top, a jazz band plays. Imagine yourself back in Floydian times, let the mellow jazz merge seamlessly with Pink sounds. Put on a gown that reaches the ground, float on a river, forever and ever…

Dublin – National War Memorial Gardens

Posted on July 3, 2015 by shane harrison

I first discovered these gardens in the 70s, heading for Phoenix Park from Drimnagh, just past the Grand Canal and Kilmainham. Discovery is the appropriate term, back then these gardens were forgotten and in a ruinous state. Hardly a soul would venture in there, other than those wanting to step outside of society. Burnt out cars and burnt out people came to be the companions of the marooned masonry and overgrown parkland.

You could just about discern within the remnants the outline of something which once must have been impressive, perhaps the whisper of faded empire. It was a place to give free rein to ghostly imaginings, conjuring a Classical past from Gothic decay. There were mood altering substances at work too. Like I said, it was a place where we could step outside of society for a while.

The decay was at last reversed. In the 1980s, the Office of Public Works (OPW) began the restoration work. Completed towards the end of the decade, The Irish National War Memorial Gardens were restored to their original state. The memory of our true past was once more cherished. It is sometimes thought that the Gardens were allowed to go to ruin as they were essentially a British Army memorial to those who fell under that command in the Great War of 1914 to 1918. This does not stand up to scrutiny. The 1970s saw widespread degradation of our urban fabric, including parks. In large part this was caused by the economic recession of that period, but there was also a disregard for our architectural heritage, a craven desire to prefer the modern over the old. It is the reversal of the latter trend that has allowed us to reclaim the treasures of our built heritage.

Mind you, the Gardens at Islandbridge are not particularly ancient. In their decade of ruin they were barely forty years old. The concept of a memorial garden came shortly after the end of the Great War, at a time when Ireland was entering the throes of its own War of Independence. The object was to commemorate the fifty thousand Irishmen who had died in the European conflict. This project was initiated in the fraught first decade of Irish independence, in a country riven by the bitterness of the Civil War. 1931 saw the development of the parkland between Islandbridge and Chapelizod on the banks of the Liffey. If the accession to power of Eamon De Valera did not seem auspicious, the project didn’t founder. Work commenced on the Memorial Gardens themselves in 1933. The project was completed in 1939, as another global conflict broke out. It’s notable that, in a spirit of shared memory, with the wars of independence so fresh in the mind, the workforce consisted in equal halves of ex-servicemen from the British and Irish armies.

Sir Edwin Lutyens, one of the finest British architects of the Modernist era, designed the Memorial Gardens. World renowned, Lutyens had worked extensively in Ireland, including Heywood Gardens in County Laois, and at Howth Castle and Lambay Island in Dublin. His work is characterised by its harmonising of Classical and Modernist styles. At Islandbridge, he set out a symmetrical plan, rich in imagery yet restrained in effect. The main lawn is centred on a War Stone, symbolising an altar, while the flanking fountains are marked by obelisks representing candles. At each end are a pair of granite Bookrooms linked by pergolas. The Bookrooms are a repository for the eight volumes of books recording the names of all those Irish who perished during the war. These were designed and illustrated by Irish artist Harry Clarke, most renowned for his stained glass.

The Bookrooms and books can be viewed by appointment. We had contacted the Gardens in advance, and received an informal, personal tour of the monument from one of the OPW onsite team. It is an informative and moving experience, to see entries for such young men, mere boys really, who drew their last breath on a foreign field, preserved here by name, forever young.

Passing through the linking pergolas of granite columns and oak beams, we enter the sunken rose gardens. Each are centred on lily ponds and surrounded by yew hedging. These are points of tranquil reflection, allowing the monument to recede into a serene mixture of flora and elements. To the south is the most imposing statement. The Great Cross presides over all, inscribed to ‘the 49,400 Irishmen who gave their lives in the Great War.’

The restoration of the park restores the dignity of those who fought in the war, but it is not, nor was it ever, a triumphal memorial. The classical elegance underpinning Lutyens design is a quiet reflection on the sacrifice of these men. It is, in effect, a monument to peace. The first visit of an English monarch to an independent Ireland, in May 2011, was marked with the laying of a wreath by Queen Elizabeth II at the Great Cross. Almost a century after that great fallout, a note of reconciliation was sounded.

That war, which we now call the First World War, did not end all wars. Sadly, such dreams are just that. We can wallow in wishful thinking, seek solace in forgetfulness, but it is, perhaps, better to remember our history and hopefully to learn by it. Ireland did gain its independence through bullets and blood, our National Anthem notes this fact. But it was the force of civil solidarity, allied with vision and idealism, that won the day and, to an extent, won the peace. Don’t forget that.

York

Posted on April 28, 2015 by shane harrison

York was once the dominant city of the north of England. Founded by the Romans as Eboracum and becoming, about a thousand years ago, seat of the Danish kings. They lorded it over the natives, if we could apply that term to the Anglo-Saxons of the age. Its influence extended as far as Ireland. The Dublin Danes were inextricably linked with York, Jorvik as it was then known. The great Sitric Silkenbeard retired here to die in the middle of the eleventh century, leaving Dublin with the legacy of Christchurch cathedral. York’s own cathedral, York Minster, would have been in an earlier, smaller incarnation then. Both Dane and Norman would conspire to destroy, and rebuild it, before the present Gothic masterpiece arose in the thirteenth century. One of the largest cathedrals in northern Europe, its majesty underlines the importance York enjoyed into the late middle ages.

York’s influence on contemporary Britain may have waned somewhat, but the city has nurtured its original grandeur. Few places that I have seen have attained such a harmony between ancient and modern. The great cathedral still crowns the hill, a hymn to the power and endurance of medieval church architecture. Meanwhile the ancient walls are virtually unbreached, enclosing a sizeable city and straddling the mighty River Ouze. Having walked the walls of the early-modern city of Derry, and very impressive they are too, it’s another treat to walk these older, more extensive walls, two and a half miles in circumference. We reach York in bright sunshine, the bricks and trees of the suburbs alive in the charged northern air. We circle about the walls to find our hotel hard by the railway station. It’s a grand, nineteenth century pile, from the halcyon days of Victorian industry, when railway hotels were the acme of wealth and elegance; this was the place to be! There are extensive formal gardens to the front, with the picture-perfect city hung above us, tantalisingly close. To complete the harmonic transition of the ages, the hotel is thronged by a science fiction convention. There’s a great buzz with eager groups huddling in frantic, and often hilarious, discussion. There is a higher than usual percentage of hirsute geeks, aging goths and, unexpectedly, lesbians. After the mayhem of reception, it’s time for a grander entrance at the most impressive of hotel staircases.

Walking along the city walls

The city walls are there to be walked, taking us an hour into the slow sunset. They encircle a large urban area of about two hundred and sixty acres. Although earlier defensive ramparts have been unearthed, it was the Normans who established the extensive fortifications. York Castle was the centre of the defenses, this complex surveying the only unwalled section, where the River Fosse forms a natural defensive moat. The walls also helped generated wealth through establishing a secure customs point on the major river, The Ouze. Everyone who was anyone passed through here. The Romans, the Danes and the Normans all left their mark. Richard III looms large; the last king of the House of York he is held in higher regard here than elsewhere. Richard, still stooped under Shakespeare’s caricature, is receiving some rehabilitation since the recent discovery of his remains in a Leicester carpark. York has a museum dedicated to him, housed in the largest of the four city gates, Monk Gate, with a functioning portcullis to boot.

York Monster from the city walls

We step off at the cathedral. The illusion of passing through a gate in time is strong here. York Minster dwarfs the surrounding medieval city. The old town tunnels further into history.The Shambles, its most famous and ancient street, becomes literally a tunnel of wood-framed leaning buildings, stooping across the narrow passageway to hinder the sky. The shambles were the shopfront counters of butchers, primarily, and other selling their wares. Back then, you stayed on the street to do your shopping, the vendor displaying their goods on the shambles, conducting transactions through the ground floor window of the shopfront. Medieval wood and stone still survives, worn smooth through centuries of use.

The Shambles

The tiny streets weave and flow, thronged with shoppers, tourists and the blooming party scene of early evening. There are plenty of old traditional bars. The Olde Starre Inn, is York’s oldest. Dating from 1664, its foundation coincided with the birth of Kronenberg, a happy coincidence indeed which must be honoured. The Judge’s Lodgings has a pleasant raised patio where we soak up the evening sun, sampling the ale while the ‘girls’ gather for the night. Wilde’s of Grape Lane is, for some reason, dedicated to our own great Oscar. An eclectic mix of Edwardian frippery, contemporary music and brown cafe ambience, it’s just right for drinking and dining pleasure. Burritos and Kronenberg, if you must ask, and very good too. On another day, more basic delights are catered for with a stop at a vernacular cafe near the markets for pie and chips washed down with a bottle of local ale. Ah yes, Black Sheep Ale, how wonderfully named. With the weekend on top of us, hens, clad in minis and sashes, teeter on stilettos over centuries old cobbles. Meanwhile, stags in their civvies are starting to rut, so we must weave our way home, as you can imagine. Betty’s Tea Shop is another Yorkshire institution. Founded in 1919 by a Swiss baker, Francis Belmont, it strives for a traditional ambience,elegant and deferential. On the last morning, as the Boss seeks out the White Stuff (it’s a shop, honestly!), I take coffee at Betty’s on Stonegate. Its upstairs tea room forms an oasis of sorts, bustling but somehow calm in its certainty of caffeine and spices. It’s a perfect pick-me-up for our morning departure. Back at the hotel the SF gig is winding down. People are getting ready to rejoin the real world. The throng meanders along the swirling corridor from some classic movie, then winds down the massive staircase to reception. A couple of starry trekkers prepares to check out, or as one says knowingly, to no-one in particular: “to boldly go.” I suppose we must. But look forward to going back, when time and space allows.

Bray – a Short History.

Posted on March 23, 2015 by shane harrison

Bray – History.

Bray is a direct translation from the Irish ‘Bré’, meaning a hill. For some time, however, the Irish version was given as Brí Chualainn whose meaning is disputed. In general it is taken to derive from Ui Bhriain Chualainn, the land of the O’Byrne’s of Cuala. The O’Byrnes, usually styled Byrne, are a significant Wicklow name, along with Cullen, O’Toole and Kavanagh. These clans disputed coastal Wicklow with the Danes and subsequently the Normans.

St Sarain’s Cross at Fairyhill

There are some remnants from the early Christian era, dating from the fifth century onwards. The ruins of Raheen a Chluig, the Little Church of the Bell, are on the lower, northern slopes of Bray Head. Two well-weathered early Christian crosses survive, at Fassaroe to the north, and Fairyhill to the south. This latter cross, situated in a hilltop stand of fir trees at the entrance to a modern estate, is attributed to Saint Saran. The saint is further commemorated in the name of nearby Killarney Road, the southwestern approach road to the town.

Bray, as a definite location was established by the Normans under Richard de Clare (Strongbow), at the fording point of the River Dargle near where the town bridge now stands. The location was of importance since it marked the southern extent of the Pale, the area of Norman influence around Dublin. As such, Bray was a frontier fortress, sporadically attacked by native clans from the south. The castle was built just west of where St Peter’s church stands. Other castles, or tower houses, were established at Castle Street north of the Dargle, and Oldcourt further south. Only the ruins of Oldcourt Castle remain.

The lands south of Bray were granted to Walter de Riddlesford, one of Strongbow’s loyal adventurers in the invasion of 1169. This led to the establishment a large demesne centred on Kilruddery, the Church of the Knight. The route between this estate and Bray Castle established the line of Main Street. Thus, Bray grew as a typical manor town of the era. Agricultural produce, milling, brewing and a freshwater fisheries maintained the economy of the town over the next few centuries.

Kilruddery House and Gardens

The Brabazon family had come into ownership of the estate in the early 16th century through William Brabazon, Lord Justice of Ireland. Brabazon gained favour through his zealous support for Henry VIII as King and head of the Irish church. The title Earl of Meath was granted to his great-grandson William in 1623. Kilruddery House had to be rebuilt following destruction in the Cromwellian wars of the mid century. The current building is largely an 1820s reconstruction in the gothic Tudor revival style. The original gardens remain, designed by the French gardener Bonet, they are a unique example in Ireland of eighteenth century design. An eerie, placid beauty attaches to them, the most notable vista is presented by the parallel canals running south of the house. Adjacent to this gothic realm, classically inspired additions were added in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

By the end of the eighteenth century, Bray’s development as a resort had begun. The Romantic movement inspired people to regard the sea as beneficial to health, of body and of spirit. Contemplation of beautiful scenery and engagement with nature was also encouraged. Bray was ideally situated, close to these benefits and also convenient to Dublin. Novara House, an early beach lodge, lying at the southern end of Novara Avenue, dates from this time, though it has been extensively modernised. Originally known as Bay View, it is sited a half mile inland from the seafront itself. The early nineteenth century saw the building of three Martello Towers to guard against the Napoleonic threat. One of these survives on the crag overlooking the harbour at the north end of the seafront. In the 1980s this became, for a time, the residence of that other wee general, Bono of U2. The harbour itself would not be constructed until the second half of the century, such sea traffic as there was unloading at a small dock at the mouth of the Dargle opposite the Harbour Bar. This popular, atmospheric pub from the 1840s is one of the few buildings on the seafront to predate the coming of the railway.

The railway transformed Bray. The Dublin-Kingstown (now Dun Laoghaire) was opened in 1834, however, twenty years passed before it was extended to Bray. Railway engineer and developer William Dargan, was instrumental both in bringing the railway to Bray and in developing the town into a major attraction for visitors and new residents. The area between Main Street and the seafront was developed with straight, tree-lined avenues lined with elegant Victorian terraces. Dargan had an exotic Turkish Baths constructed in the Moorish style on Quinsboro Road. It was a startling addition to Bray’s streetscape for over a century before its sad demise in the 1970s. Another of Dargan’s initiatives was the National Gallery of Ireland facing Merrion Square in Dublin. A statue of the indefatigable entrepreneur and patron stands in its forecourt. In Bray, he is commemorated in the name of a terrace on Quinsborro Road, and in a mural at Bray Dart station.

Bray Town Hall, completed in 1881

Major hotels were established to cater for the influx of tourists and day-trippers. Quin’s Hotel, overlooking the Dargle at the north end of Main Street was transformed from a small town inn. It is now the Royal Hotel and Leisure Centre. Other hotels sprang up on the seafront and adjacent to the railway station. The International Hotel, facing the station’s west frontage, was the largest hotel in Ireland on its completion in the 1860s. The development of the Esplanade with its seawall Promenade, and the Harbour came soon after. Bray, once the small manorial village, was transformed into a thriving resort for the quality, and dubbed the Brighton of Ireland. By the end of the century, the town’s population approached the ten thousand mark, whereas most Irish towns, in the aftermath of the Famine, showed declining populations. During the Edwardian era, Bray continued to epitomise the stylish resort.

The Cross on Bray Head

After Irish independence, it began to drift downmarket. Fashions change, and holiday resorts now catered for a more egalatarian population. Amusement arcades mushroomed, an increasingly raucous brand of fun was demanded. Big band music, cinema, donkey rides were all part of summer at the seaside. Blackpool of Ireland, might have been more appropriate as a nickname. After the hiatus of World War Two, British holidaymakers returned in the fifties. Bray Head acquired its crowning stone cross in the Holy Year of 1950. This has become an iconic image of the east coast. A chair lift brought people to the summit. It’s long gone, though the cross remains. Top Irish showbands such as the Royal and Miami played the Arcadia ballroom on Adelaide Road in the late fifties and throughout the sixties.

Ardmore Studios were opened in the early sixties, bringing a touch of silver screen glamour to Bray. The studios, on Herbert Road, hosted major American and British productions, the industry grew to provide television and advertising facilities. While Wicklow’s lovely scenery was a big draw for producers, Bray’s versatility also came into play. Over the years, the town has stood in for smalltown Vermont, a typical Irish western town or the heart of the English Home Counties on the large and small screens. Neil Jordan painted the seafront pink for The Miracle, he also used it for Dublin in the film Michael Collins, the Carlisle Grounds standing in for Croke Park during the War of Independence.

Changing fashions saw the postwar tourist boom fade too. Foreign destinations became a bigger attraction for summer holidays. Tourism was further eroded by the oil crisis and recession of the seventies. Bray experienced an unfortunate depredation of many of its attractions and landmarks. The Internatinal Hotel was destroyed by fire in 1974. The vacant lot festered for a decade or more, eventually taken by a bowling alley. The Arcadia became a cash and carry. In 1980, the Turkish Baths were demolished in the crass, shortsighted civic vandalism that prevailed.

There was light at the end of the tunnel, and it was an oncoming train. The electrification of the suburban rail system initiated the Dartline in 1982. Bray Daly station was once more a key focus of the town. In the 1990s, a project sponsored by Bray Community Arts Group, commissioned a painted mural on the eastern platform. The mural depicted the history of the town and the railway decade by decade from the 1950s to the present day. Brunel, Dargan, Oscar Wilde and James Joyce are all featured. Wilde’s father had property in Bray and the writer was to suffer an early, unfortunate trial at the Courthouse. James Joyce has a stronger association. He lived at Martello Terrace, hard by the waves pounding the Promenade. The house features in Portrait of the Artist, while the phrase, “snot-green, scrotum-tightening sea” may owe something to the location. The mural has been badly weathered by the briny air, so original artists, Triskill Design, have undertaken a replacement project using tile mosaics.

The rejuvenation of the railway brought a population boom to Bray. By the end of the century the population had doubled to over thirty thousand people. The new residents were housed, for the most part, in suburban estates south of the town. New schools and industry followed. The protection of the sylvan setting has helped soften the impact of such an extensive building development. Still it grows, and new estates and roads now crowd to the edge of the lands of the Kilruddery estate.

Hail, rain or snow, crowds gather for the annual New Year Swim

If the amusement arcades have waned, the seafront remains a magnet for all those seeking rest and recreation. Bars and restaurants now cater to the fashion of al fresco drinking and dining throughout the summer. The annual festival has hugely expanded its carnival attractions, drawing thousands over the St Patrick’s day festival and the Summer Festival throughout July and August. The Fireworks display and the Air-show have seen crowds approaching a hundred thousand throng the length of the Esplanade. Returning Olympic hero, boxing gold medallist Katie Taylor, drew a massive crowd of wellwishers to the Esplanade in 2012. For fitness fiends and boulevardiers, the amenity of the seafront Promenade and Bray Head is popular year round. The National Sealife Centre, north of the Bandstand, is one of Ireland’s most popular visitor attractions. An unimpressive pile at its inception, it has developed into a sleek modernist building, with restaurant, ice-cream parlours and cafes, augmenting the wet zoo at its core.

The Civic Centre at St Cronin’s, off Main Street, was a major project of the late century. This included the Civic Offices and the Mermaid Arts Centre, incorporating a gallery, theatre and workshop space for several arts disciplines. The Mermaid brought to fruition a long campaign to establish a designated arts centre from artists and groups including Signal Arts and the Bray Arts Group. The Centre is an important focus for the arts in Bray, however the arts scene thrives at several venues around the town, with music, theatre and literature particularly strong. The Bray Jazz Festival in early May is in its fourteenth year, bringing top national and international musicians to a dozen or so stages from Main Street to the Seafront.

Storm clouds gather over the Prom

The financial collapse of 2008 stymied commercial growth in the town centre. Proposed shopping centres, north and south of the bridge, failed to materialise. Town centre businesses in Bray, as elsewhere throughout Ireland, are on the retreat as out of town retail parks and on-line shopping erode their customer base. Bray also lost its town council, it being subsumed into Wicklow County Council. Whether this will prove unsympathetic to Bray’s future needs remains to be seen.

Rostock

Posted on December 19, 2014 by shane harrison

Rostock and Wehrnemunde

Tall Ships on the Warnow River

Sailing from Copenhagen, our first port of call is Wehrnemunde in Germany. Part seaside resort, part port, its situation at the mouth of the Warnow river makes it convenient for the main municipal centre of Rostock seven miles to the south. The more ambitious take the train to Berlin, just two hours further on. The quayside is bustling with the Tall Ships race. Thousands have come to experience the poetry of sailing ships, to see blue skies punctuated by towering masts. Ferries scurry across the estuary, trains trundle in and out, pedestrians swarm amongst the stalls and rigged ships. There is a regular parade of white sails along the channnel to and from Rostock. The estuary is a startling panorama of towering skies, modern industry and ancient maritime elegance. Somehow serenity pervades over chaos, the German devotion to form emerges ultimate victor. Yet charm is nurtured by bright sunshine, smiles break out everywhere.

We take a morning train into Rostock, while the region’s population, I reckon, is taking the opposite direction out towards the Tall Ships. Some soccer game is also drawing rowdy supporters through the transport system, their bark worse than their bight, I daresay. Rostock itself is quiet in the noonday sun. It is a small medieval jewel, large portions of the original city walls and turreted gatehouses surviving time and war, while the gothic cathedral of Saint Marian casts its extravagant shape over all. From the airy expanse of the New Market Square with its ancient Town Hall we flow along winding pedestrianised streets, the maritime theme echoed in galleon fronted houses and the occasional glimpses of blue water dotted with an endless variety of craft. Shopping and tourism are beginning to bustle and we find some respite in the thirteenth century Convent of St. Catherine, its contemplative gardens melting green in the shadow of the crumbling city walls.

Zest for Life fountain

Rostock University is one of the oldest in the world. Founded in 1419, the main buildings now quietly survey the town centre, where Kropeliner Strasse widens into a casual plaza. Here an amusing focal point is provided by a fountain called Zest for Life. Amongst the university’s alumni is Tycho Brahe, the Danish astronomer who studied and lost his nose there. It was replaced, apparently, by a prosthetic made of gold. The astronomer’s observational powers were harnessed by Kepler, helping him to the ultimate model of the solar system.

Something of this endeavour is echoed on the seafront back in Warnemunde. A scale model of the sun and planets is spread out along the seafront promenade. Not that we can find it on our return. With all the madding crowds, I can only find the sun, which is easy enough, parked obviously as it is at the Teapot centre. This modernist commercial unit is somewhat at odds with the older, more picturesque urban architecture of the town. It is thought to resemble a teapot. I doubt the Germans drink much tea. A celtic rock band plays nearby, a peculiarly appropriate blend of the Gaelic and Germanic. We feel we’re blending right in.

There’s plenty of craft and souvenir shopping along chintzy streets lined with timber cottages. There’s all the fun of the seaside, sticky confections, fizzy drinks and wasps. You can rent out curious beach furniture, giant wicker hybrids of an easy chair and a beach hut. These are scattered on the sands like some surreal visitation. Wehrnemunde is still throbbing in sunshine and festivities. Parallel with the quayside there is a picturesque canal which serves much of the pleasure cruise trade. It is lined with bars and restaurants, filling now as we slip into the Baltic evening. We take a pew, our very own cushion clad, wicker two-seater. Here we sip our frothy beer, sit and watch the world go by, for ever and ever.

San Francisco

Posted on September 24, 2014 by shane harrison

We head out of Santa Monica along the coast and I feel I’m struggling beneath forces more pervasive than the damp Pacific air. The highway is hectic past Malibu where we become snared in our first major traffic jam as we cut in from the coast. It takes a long time snaking past Pasadena and eventually we stop on the outskirts of Santa Barbara at an empty, rustic restaurant.

Leaving LA

There’s pleasant rolling countryside all the way to San Luis Obispo. The atmosphere of Steinbeck Country is suggested in sun-drenched farmland strung between the coastal hills. We leave the main road for Morro Bay to find the dingy Motel 6 just south of the town.The view is a strange combination of industrial and scenic – El Capitan, the giant rock dome in the bay is visible and we’re also in the lea of an impressive power station with its phalanx of chimneys. The route to town bisects an unpromising wilderness where we surprise a courting couple (oops), before finding ourselves at Morro Bay’s Embarcadero. This really is Californian coastal quaint, the wooden buildings on the wharf housing plenty of restaurants, cafes and bars with live music. I’m not feeling too well and I go back to collect the car while the others go for food. The walk back along the coast is not so straightforward as I had imagined but the falling sun lifts the spirits before sinking into darkness.

The night is bad and herself handles the driving chores for the run up to Monterrey. We wind along the bulky coast with the temperature skimming the low sixties. There are few cars on the road and very little by way of houses or pitstops off it. By midday we reach Monterrey and the motel looks good with a curvy Hockneyesque swimming pool. The Missus goes in search of a chemist while I bed down. She is met with sympathy as the chemist girl wonders if the holiday has been spoiled. It’s not really like that. It is unfair to be struck down on a journey I had been looking forward to but that’s the way it goes – better near the end than at the start.

After medication time (don’t ask) it’s down to Fisherman’s Wharf for a slice of Monterrey. There’s loads happening here and, if a bit touristic, it’s bright and cheerful. We spend some time with a man displaying his colourful menagerie of parrots and macaws. Most places offer the local delicacy of seafood chowder served in a bread bowl. Later we wander on towards Cannery Row although we don’t have time to investigate the Steinbeck connection further. There are pelicans aplenty in the cove, very much the pet bird of the town. At the harbour too is the site where the Americans first came ashore to claim California in the 1840s. Monterrey was the regional capital then but by 1849 all eyes turned to San Francisco.

I attempt driving but can’t get back into it so herself takes us into San Francisco. There’s a rollercoaster entry into the city from off the freeway as the centre lane goes airbound before hooking up to the grid. The grid itself never took account of the hills of the peninsula so the rollercoaster continues through the streets heading downtown. Leaving the boys and the baggage off at the Hilton, I take the Cadillac the last few blocks to the drop off. Fun, in a mildly terrifying way, as streets disappear into the sky and the skyline plunges up and down over the bonnet like a wave. I follow a cable car – a no-no, apparently – before getting blasted for sawing across two lanes in my last on-street manoeuvre. The garage hands are impressed with the car but as nonplused as we by the plastic thingies which have taken up space in the boot since Denver. We say our fond goodbyes to 300 OXT.

The cable car terminus on Market street is only a couple of blocks away and after life on the road it’s a pleasure to take public transport. The boys are on the runner board as we take the trip over to Fisherman’s Wharf. This proves to be our main centre of exploration for the duration, with boat trips and bikes for hire while shops, restaurants and panhandlers abound. Regarding the latter, it’s best to keep eyes averted or purposefully focussed to avoid parting with your cash to the many needy, and probably not-so-needy, beggars that infest the city. At the cable car terminus the couple ahead of us in the queue asked directions from a passerby and found themselves charged for the privilege. At the Wharf a beggar basks in the honesty of his pitch with a sign asking for money but admitting that he’ll probably blow it all on booze.

Oran is briefly snared by a panhandler with the line – ten bucks says I can tell you where you got your shoes. Oran knows he’s got them on his feet – “You’re the guy who got money off my Uncle Brendan last year,” he says. Your man still wants payment but we think he should invest in a new line.

We eat at a Rainforest where the waitress is keen to regale us with details of her workbreaks. “Hi, I’m Debbie, I’ll be your waitress this evening;” but then again – “Hi, this is Brenda, she’ll be standing in for me while I take my break;” and then – “Hi, I’m back from my break….” This is all very well, but any chance we might get a break, some food, even?

The lads discover a sudden yen to see Alcatraz, the mothership is, I suppose, calling them home. We get tickets for three from a laconic Hispanic in a sidewalk stall who enthuses about Frisco’s chill and fog. It’s part of the city’s charm, he says. In fact the only time we see the notorious fog is picturesquely from the comfort of our hotel room. It is spectacular, rolling in and rolling away, taking bits of the city with it, illuminating other parts against its soft backdrop. I am happy not to be caught in it – I have improved but still feel a bit foggy myself.

Next morning we hike up through Union Square, Chinatown, North Beach and on down to Fisherman’s Wharf for the boat. Chinatown is everything you would expect, bustling and bright and entirely Chinese. The financial district forms a jagged, incongruously modern backdrop to the area which was the original settlement of Yerba Buena, holding its old world soul within the ethnic brashness. As is often the way, Chinatown segues into little Italy (viz New York, Bray etc.). North Beach takes the top of the rise before falling away to the coast by way of Columbus Avenue. There’s a pleasant collection of Italian restaurants near Washington Square where we eat later.

Bad boys at Alcatraz

Meanwhile it’s time for the trip to the island. Alcatraz is the city’s big tourist attraction and tickets are at a premium in high season. It’s worth it. The bay is blustery and the fortress forebodingly dramatic, its haunting familiarity due to Hollywood’s pervasive heritage. Oran and Davin get into some serious posing here as we follow in the footsteps of the Bird Man and other badguy heroes refracted from reality through the silver screen. But this was a real place with real stories stained into its walls and fittings. It’s eerie and moving. Strange that, on this of all islands, a sense of freedom prevails.

We return to North Beech and a sleekly traditional Italian restaurant, Volare, where we eat excellent pasta by an open window. That’s not necessarily the best idea in San Francisco as Davin is manhandled by a passing tramp, albeit in a reasonably goodspirited way. The event breaks the social ice with our dining neighbours and we fall into conversation with them for the evening. Joe Donohue and his wife were here before back in the halcyon sixties and they’ve returned from their home in Farmington, New Mexico, to touch base with those good old times. They’ve been coast to coast in the US throughout their lives and he travels extensively worldwide too. He tells me he does business with David Hay of Celtic and Chelsea fame. He is ‘Irish’, you can tell, and I had seen them giving us the eye before we fell into conversation.

On the last day of our summer vacation we rent bikes and cycle across the Golden Gate bridge to Sausalito. The cycle route is well delineated and mostly flat. It passes through the Praesidio, an extensive parkland along the north of the peninsula. The place is packed as this is the 4th of July and all of Frisco, his wife and kids are out lounging, playing ball and barbecuing. There’s a sweaty climb up to the bridge and the cycle track is too hectic with that serious breed of cyclist who make car drivers seem comparatively relaxed.

San Francisco Bay

The signage disappears on the far side of the bridge causing a bit of speculative exploration through a village in the cove before a policeman points us on the rocky road to Sausalito. This is a pretty but packed seaside town and we just manage to get a table on the cramped veranda of a snack bar overlooking the water. We take the ferry back which is a welcome relief from pumping pedals. It’s pleasantly cool and blustery on the bay after the exertions of a hot afternoon. You can’t get a trolley bus back from the wharf with all the holiday crowds so we hail a cab and get another switchback tour of the streets of San Francisco. The driver senses our tourist desires and takes us to the base of Lombard Street before the breathtaking plunge back to O’Farrell Street and the Hilton.

Tonight we have decided to go out in style, dining at the Hilton’s rooftop restaurant on the fortieth floor. We’re dizzy up here in the spires of the city and the fourth of July fireworks are all set to go off by dessert. A group of Americans nearby is getting emotional. As the sun goes down and fireballs burst out over the skyline they launch into a ragged version of God Bless America.

Las Vegas

Posted on July 11, 2014 by shane harrison

It’s a long drive from the Grand Canyon to Las Vegas, from the wilderness world to the land of fabrication. We’re up early and heading south to pick up Route 66 again, then turn to head west through Seligman and Kingman. At Seligman, birthplace of the Mother Road, there’s a long and lonely train strung along the horizon, and a cowboy in a pickup turning on to the range by a gateway. We stick to the freeway while the old route bumps off to our right. There’s a camper van parked in isolation with two waifs, Thelma and Louise, in halter tops and shorts posed on the roof staring off into the shimmering distance.

Kingman is off the highway but doesn’t originally reveal the tacky charm I had anticipated. We’re lost in the fast food outskirts before finding a Burger King off what could be the Naas Road Industrial estate where we pore over the maps again. This is always a good way to attract an American. A man folds up his mobile phone mid sentence to come, unbidden, to our assistance. With his help we’re back on Route 66, cruising by the amazing pink motels of ‘historic’ Kingman before picking up the highway again towards Las Vegas.

We head north on 93 with dust devils dancing off the road to the sounds of Sheryl Crow and Michelle Shocked on the stereo. Isolated trailers and shacks pin down handkerchief plots of minor cultivation in the arid landscape. We rise and rise until we come to the cooling variety of a maze of black rock hills. The troopers welcome us to Nevada and when we come to the edge of the plateau, there’s Lake Mead in its impossible cool blue, a fake lake held in the heat by the miracle of the Hoover Dam. Constructed during the Great Depression of the 1930s, it is surely one of the engineering marvels of the world, transforming the desert beyond into an Eden, of sorts.

The car is now recording one hundred and ten degrees and outside the souvenir store the heat blasts at us as from an open oven. A wiry old-timer plays lock-hard in the narrow car park. British or Australian, he loves the heat but for us it’s life in the oven with the thermostat flipped. A meaty black family from New York must be shedding pounds passing over the dam from Arizona into Nevada, but they’re permanently happy with it all. Golden rest rooms offer brief respite from the heat before we head off into the desert.

There are glimpses of Lake Mead against the desiccated landscape, then there’s a sudden pulse in the traffic and we’re flying into the Las Vegas freeways. Oran navigates us well through some tense moments and dizzy junctions but pretty soon we’re heading in city traffic towards the strip. We do an impressive swerve in the empty forecourt of Caesar’s Palace before finding the right route to the multi story. Then we’re bound for the gilded lobby of the hotel. Our room is very impressive with jacuzzi in the bathroom and telephone in the toilet. We can see the Eiffel Tower from our window and more of the unreliable skyline of Las Vegas.

Time for a swim to take off the desert heat. I could get to like the pool at Caesar’s Palace. You lounge there and call a barely clad waitress to bring you an overpriced, but well chilled and welcome, beer. Mind you, the prat at the next lounger has decided to try out his chat-up lines on her which she attempts to fend off with chillingly white, but all too polite smiles. My beer is warming.

Out on the street it’s hotter than you expect out-on-the-street to be. The heat brings a peculiar stillness to the air and with the banks of neon it feels like walking through a vast arcade. There are fine water sprays on the street to give some humidity to the desert air, but already my Mick Jagger lips are in need of a remould. Further on up and we’re on the Rialto bridge, with gondolas waiting expectantly. We stroll up the strip in the evening to see the pirate pantomime at the Treasure Island. I thought the desert heat dissipated at night but if anything it’s hotter and heavier in the milling crowds.

Las Vegas is not a place you either love or loathe – you can do both. It is terribly fake. The sights of the world, the Eiffel Tower, Venice, New York, ring hollow as hardboard and will be gone again in a few seasons; but it’s fun. There is beauty in imitation and glitz has its own romance. The Belaggio and Cesar’s Palace provide their own version of grandeur and perfection at a reasonable price and, for a night or two, you can maybe feel like a high-roller or an elegant courtier.

We take the monorail on the second day and sit beside a Colorado couple who are regulars here. They are from Grand Junction – before I die, I gotta see that town- and they recommend the original strip but it’s a bit far for us. Historical Las Vegas! We walk back through baking sunshine with occasional detours into the various casinos. Circus is tacky and weird, and it echoes some childhood feeling of Fossett’s, or Bray in the fifties. And besides, herself can attempt to catapult rubber chickens into a pot. Another casino with a western theme, vaguely nineteen seventy-ish is getting ready to shut down. We eat at a chrome diner and try to cool down a little.

The pool beckons again, a better place to while away the hours than in the relentless ching ching of the interior. We splash out on the Caesar’s Palace buffet tonight and this really is a meal you can shake hands with in the dark. I dream of it still but to describe it is probably too close to food porn – eat your heart out Homer Simpson!

The Boss and Davin continue on down to Luxor tonight, but Oran and I double back at New York. I’ve seen as much of the world as I can possibly take in forty eight hours. Hispanic men flick cards with sexual services all along the strip, while families and couples gawp at the Belagio fountains and the neon show goes on and on into the night.

Later, I make my own way through Caesar’s Palace casino into the wee small hours. The arcade shops are all closed, more like a mall now than the surreal, almost Italian city it has been impersonating. Some still gather at the Trevi fountain but more are pulled towards the blackjack and roulette tables. If I wanted to be distracted I could take my place at a table where lingerie clad croupiers would take my chips and maybe spin a wheel or two, or I could just play it quietly from the bar, where it’s quiet and almost empty.

Oxford

Posted on February 24, 2014 by shane harrison

Oxford is honey-coloured, gothic and ancient. There are thirty eight colleges in the University, all orbiting within this city of dreaming spires. Most of the buildings are of Victorian vintage, some Georgian, many built on institutional foundations that go back to medieval times. The blueprint is time honoured: college buildings clustered around a quadrangle forming a self contained unit. Student accommodation, dining halls and library are on site, most colleges have their own church attached. It is one of those places, like New York, or Venice, or Paris, that we know without ever having to visit. It looms large in literature and learning, has become a historical constant, and, of course, a television star in its own right. We have decided to filter the city through the lens of the Inspector Morse television series, itself drawn from the books of Colin Dexter.

Oxford is just an hour’s train ride from London. The Thames has shaken off its city suit this far upstream where we enter the more bucolic side of the Home Counties. That startling skyline is revealed at a bend in the river a couple of miles out. That the place lives up to expectations is almost a surprise, Oxford being at the centre of a metropolitan are of a quarter of a million people. However, the ancient University is all-pervasive, dominating all aspects of the city.

After coffee at the Buttery on Broad Street, we make a quick reconnoitre before convening for the Morse tour. It’s a pleasant walk around the periphery of the city centre, through the busy main shopping precinct along Cornmarket Street, then past Christchurch and Merton Colleges into peaceful parkland and along the cheerfully named Deadman’s Walk.

Back at Broad Street, we assemble close by the original Oxfam shop. Directly opposite is Balliol College; dating from the thirteenth century, its frontage a picture-perfect slice of Victorian gothic. Further along, the Museum of Science History strikes a classical chord. Although its plinth mounted busts stand guard sternly at the entrance, its mission has always been to provide access. Established in the late seventeenth century to nurture the growing Enlightenment, it boasts that it is the oldest purpose built museum in the world.

The Morse tour is lead by Linda, an affable Liverpudlian who understands the guide’s mission: to inform and entertain. The city is counterpointed against the unfolding story of Endeavour Morse and longtime sidekick, Robbie Lewis. We learn the truth and truth-tweaking of some fictional episodes, of actor John Thaw’s preference for brandy, and, should real ale be your preference, where to drink the Morse way. We barrel through back lanes in the shadow of the city wall, with only enough time to sniff and take note of a few rambling, olde pubs.

Facts and foibles of the city are teased out. We learn about the examination undergraduates and the connotations of their dress, down to the significance of their carnations. It sounds formal and traditional but somehow seems such fun. There’s the constant whirr of spokes as students cycle by. There are end of exam celebrations, with much throwing of confetti, amongst other debris. Typically Oxford, such things are both picturesque and real. Looked at rationally, what better way for a self contained city of learning to conduct itself.

Oxford has been the fulcrum of England’s intellectual life for centuries, but it is also metropolitan, political, a microcosm of elite society. Prime ministers and poets, sportsmen and soldiers have all passed through these hallowed halls, haunt them still as ghosts, no doubt. The art and science launched from here still endures, weathering each and every stone with significance.

Tolkein and Lewis – that’s CS – also intrude, their elves and fabulous kingdoms spun from homely surrounds – the clink of glasses in a pub, the swirls of tobacco smoke. There’s more than a hint of Hobbiton about. Wonderland too, as episodes of Alice peek out from the masonry. It was here that Charles Dodgson first conjured the story of Wonderland, as he entertained his three child friends on the river. Punting and rowing can be arranged, with river cruises on the Thames just south of Christ Church Meadow. Perhaps another day.

The most iconic collection of buildings are grouped around Radcliffe Square. The Bodleian Library, a repository for all books published in Britain and Ireland, has expanded beyond its original buildings. It now includes the distinctive classical confection of the Radcliffe Camera, dominating the square. To the south is the place where it all began, the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin, its elegant tower accessible for views of the city centre. Emphasising the theme of our tour, we have to wait while a film crew gets its shot, but that’s to be expected here.

We finish with a visit to the more day-to-day environment of the Covered Market. This is a fine example of the traditional markets that flowered in the eighteenth century and survive today. A colourful mixture of small businesses, whether food, fruit or fashion, forming a commercial counterpoint to the academic atmosphere all around.

In order to complete our quest, with an al fresco drink a la Morse, Linda advises us to go to the Trout Pub in Wolvercote for a sup by the river. It is a short excursion on the bus to Woodstock – but not the last one. Then we walk through a village hewn from times past, a rambling slice of Old England. We pass twin pubs set either side of the green, inevitably named: The White Hart and the Red Lion, then across the Common where the English typically protest their right of way. At last the Trout leaps into view. Time to take a bench on the terrace and sample the local cask ales. This is a drink that northerner Lewis – Robbie, that is – dismisses as ‘warm beer’. So does my companion, I’m afraid. For me it provides something of a perfect moment; to sit by a river between bridge and weir, in good company, far from the madding crowds, with a pint of traditional ale further reddened by the setting sun.

Copenhagen

Posted on February 23, 2013 by shane harrison

I may as well write it: wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen, it really is. It’s way out east on the Danish archipelago, at the eastern tip of Zealand, glowering across the Oresund strait at Malmo. Sweden and Denmark have their issues, always have. So close to identity in race and language, in history and culture that surely they should be one. It is not so, that narrow stretch of Baltic is an uncanny valley dividing the twain. You can take a trip to Sweden by train, twenty minutes or so, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Copenhagen is formed by the sea, its lifeblood the water that flows through it. The Inderhavn snakes through the centre. At the northern end, the tiny figure of the Little Mermaid watches over the harbour. Hans Christian Anderson’s character seems oblivious to the sea, looking slightly stranded on a rock close to the shore. She is a most modest icon for a large city. Yet it encapsulates a larger story in its tiny form. She was a mermaid who rescued a drowning man, aren’t we all, but her pursuit of love was her tragic demise. The statue, erected by Carl Jacobsen of Carlsberg fame, has been decapitated and defaced many times, but survives. The smallest landmark of a major city, and the toughest, probably.

Copenhagen excites the fairy tale within. Slender spires touch the eggshell sky, gargoyles gambol on parapets, turrets host damsels awaiting deliverance. To walk through its streets is to court heroics, to become part of storyville. But it’s no Disneyland, wide streets turn to traffic canyons, commerce blares in all its seedy attractions. The city in parts can grow shabby with age and overuse. The ambition of an enhanced metro line is also disruptive. At times you get the feeling of a city with a glorious ruined past, hosting a modern, bustling parasite. It will be fine when it’s finished, if ever.

Olden oases persist. Age and beauty are respected. Stepping off the treadmill we take a boat tour from Nyhavn. This canal was built in the 17th century to enable ships sail into the centre of Copenhagen. Once a notorious red light district now it’s more up-market, but Nyhavn is still a sprinkling of the old salt. Gable fronted houses teeter on the pier, drinkers and diners carousing with gusto at quayside bars and stalls. There are different strata in the society of drinkers but they gel very well. Prices are prohibitively expensive so follow the local habit of buying cheap take aways and socialising around a fountain or on the banks of a canal.

There are hints of old Amsterdam. Across the Inderhavn, Christianshavn is formed around quiet canals, treelined streets carry cyclists and pedestrians, many commute by water. Bars cling to barges where punters watch the world float by. At times I am reminded of the Grand Canal back home, or what it could be.

The area merges with Christiania. The old disused army barracks was garrisoned by hippies in the late sixties and the culture persists. Dire warnings of drug crazed weirdos and overflowing garbage are wide of the mark. If anything, Christiania is cleaner than the city that surrounds it. You’ll see the stoner, early morning drinker and layabout, but enough about me, this is a quirky and fun exemplar of alternative living. The sun beams down on individualistic housing, creativity peeks through everywhere, smiling people crowd the cafes, the smell of new mown grass wafts through. On the main drag, the green light district, the mission statement is proclaimed in posters. No hard drugs or weapons, no cars or photos (oops, no-one told me). Meanwhile residents and visitors mingle, happy as hash and tobacco.

Back in the EU the world cycles on. We return across the Inderhavn to the city centre. The Stroget is a serpentine walkway through Copenhagen’s medieval heart. Thronged with strollers, lined with hostelries and shops, it seems all Copenhagen is here for the evening, anticipating the nighttime revelry. At the southern end is Radhuspladzen, dominated by the City Hall, This early twentieth century structure echoes Nordic medieval architecture, topped off by a 100 metre clock tower. The square itself is, typically I’m afraid, a cordoned off building site. Those Danes keep digging.

Night falls and the rare Baltic heat persists. The Tivoli Gardens are a step back in time and a step off the urban treadmill. Fun park, theme park, palace of recreation, it was opened in 1843 and its popularity continues to grow. The sculpted parkland is woven into an amusement park with a plethora of death defying, fantastical rides. There are restaurants, bars, concert halls and theatres, conceived in architectural styles from around the globe. As the illuminations come on it is transformed into a true wonderland.

Fortified on Danish courage, we seek the most spectacular ride. The chair-o-plane ascends to ridiculous heights. In the cooling night air we are side by side, flying above the fairytale towers, lit by magic lanterns. The stars swirl in harmony, the two of us turn to angel dust.

xxharrison

Just another WordPress.com site

Category Archives: Travel