Leaving Liverpool

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Back in the seventies, on our daytrip to Liverpool we visited the modernist Roman Catholic Cathedral. Known as the Metropolitan Cathedral, or Paddy’s Wigwam to some, it is at the North end of Hope Street. The Anglican Cathedral lies near the street’s southern end forming something of a heavenly bracket. However, the naming of the street isn’t a reflection of this ecclesiastical nature. Neither faith, hope nor charity are invoked; Hope Street is named after William Hope, a merchant who once lived here in the late eighteenth century.

Hope Street also hosts the Liverpool School of Art building from 1883. John Lennon and Stuart Sutcliffe studied here in the early sixties. In 2008 the Art School moved, though the memory of Lennon remained. The new school is housed in the John Lennon Art and Design Building nearby. Meanwhile, the Liverpool Institute for the Performing Arts is now based in the old building.

The Metropolitan Cathedral was completed in 1967. It was a long time coming. During the Great Famine in the 1840s, Liverpool saw a huge influx of Irish Catholics. Many passed through the port, heading for America or elsewhere in Britain and Empire. Many stayed. By the 1850s a Cathedral was planned. Edward Pugin was the first commissioned for this, but only a local parish church resulted. In 1930 Edwin Lutyens was chosen, producing designs for a massive cathedral on Hope Street, to rival the also massive Anglican Cathedral. It would have been one of the largest churches in the world, with the largest dome. But it wasn’t to be. The strictures of World War Two put a halt to such grandiose plans. Only the crypt was completed in the late fifties. This, strangely, plays host annually to the Liverpool Beer Festival. Or perhaps that’s not so strange.

And if life is a bar room in which we must wait

‘Round the man with his fingers on the ivory gates

Where we sing until dawn of our fears and our fates

And we stack all the deadmen in self addressed crates

Heaven knows no frontiers

And I’ve seen heaven in your eyes

No Frontiersthe is a song written by Jimmy MacCarthy, becoming the title track of Mary Black’s 1989 album.

At last, sometime between Lady Chatterly and the Beatles first LP, Frederick Gibbert’s radical modern design went ahead. Built on top of the crypt, it forms a flared conical structure above a circular plan with the altar central. Sixteen curved concrete trusses frame the building, forming flying buttresses at the lower level and rising into a pinnacled crown at its height. The rushed and economical construction practices of the time resulted in flaws appearing early, and extensive rapairs and alterations were required in the 90s.

The Protestant Cathedral is more traditionalist, though it is also a twentieth century building. Begun at the start of the century, it is the largest cathedral in Britain. Giles Gilbert Scott was a student in his early twenties when he won the design competition. More contentious still, he was a Catholic. But, maybe that brought a certain flourish to the interior, particularly the Lady Chapel. Scott was a versatile architect and designer, his notabe works including Battersea Power Station, and the iconic red telephone box.

Overall, his design for the Cathedral draws on gothic tradition with a more pared down modernist finish. It was greatly modified early on towards a simpler, bolder statement. The central tower rises to over a hundred metres, immediately establishing the church as a city landmark, already in a strong position occupying the high ground south of the centre. 

The vast interior is a perfect place to top up on spiritual awe. We’re hungry too, having skipped breakast, and that physical yearning was also catered for. On the terrace there’s a licensed bistro, good for breakfast, lunch, a coffee and a snack. You can even relax with a beer. Hitherto, my only experience of drinking alcohol in a concecrated building has been the odd communion with two substances. Liverpool is more liberal, whichever foot you kick with. Whether down at the Crypt or up on the High Church. So it’s something of an Ecumenical matter to go boozing with the Anglicans. I’ll drink to that! Later we ell in with a friendly vicar and talked about this and other things, including the various works off art the cathedral has accumulatied in its time. 

Heading downhill towards the Port, we pass through the gate of Chinatown. The spectacular arch was transported from Shanghai at the Millennium and reassembled here. It is one of the largest such arches outside of China itself. Liverpool’s Chinatown is the oldest established in Europe, develpoing back as far as the mid nineteenth century.

A familiar focus of travellers to Liverpool is Lime Street. When laid out in the eighteenth century it was on the city’s periphery, but the coming of the railway in 1836 brought it to the centre.The Rail Station is famous, fronted by the Great Northwestern Hotel built in 1871in spectacular Renaissance style. This was originally the Railway Hotel, and closed in the 1930s. Subsequently it was used for office and accommodation returning recently to the hotel business, operating as the Radisson Red.

Lime Street gushes with colonial and mercantile pride. Statues stand guard; of Prince Albert, Disraeli and of course Nelson atop his column. St George’s Hall dominates the plaza opposite the station. It was opened in 1854 and contains a Concert Hall and law courts  Behind the Hall are St John’s Gardens, a welcome green space on a scorching day. Then its back into the throng heading downhill through Liverpool’s main shopping precinct, completing our circle on the Waterfront.

Our hotel, the Ibis, is beside Albert Dock, so the city centre and major sights are nearby. Albert Dock was built in 1846 of cast iron, redbrick and stone, a state of the art facility in its day, machinelike in its eficiency and fireproof too. The changing patterns of world trade and technology made it derelict just over a century later. In the early seventies, redevelopment could have meant removal, however sympathetic redevelopment won out preserving the majority of the buildings in a waterways setting. Apartments, shops, bars, restaurants and visitor centres line the waterfront, and this is the go to part of Liverpool, where it was once the place for leaving.

The Tate Liverpool opened in 1986 adding to the city’s prestige. Unfortunatey, the Tate was closed during our visit due to major renovations. My love of art galleries has been thwarted by such closures in recent years, so this is just another in a long list. The RIBA, Royal Institute of British Archotects, hosts a selection of the Tate collection in the meantime. The Liverpool Maritime Museum, the modern Museum of Liverpool, and the Beatles Story are other major attractions. There’s a funfair into the night, and everywhere the madding crowds strolling and going out to the many hostelries onstreet and off, and floating in the dock for that matter.

We frequented the Pump House for a few drinks. It’s set in a converted redbrick beneath a soaring chimney. There’s seating outside looking over Canning Dock and Mann Island, with the Tate Liverpool making a sharp modernist statement beyond. Later, we head through the Colonnades around Albert Dock browsing its shops and restaurants. We dine at the Panam Restaurant and Bar, its glass frontage giving a fabulous view over the dock as night falls. It’s an early rise in the morning and we catch a bus to the airport from the station next door. The airport is another major building named for the Beatles John Lennon. Originally Speke airport, it was renamed in 2001. It now sings.

Oh Liverpool Lou, lovely Liverpool Lou

Why don’t you behave just like other girls do?

Why must my poor heart keep following you?

Oh, stay home and love me my Liverpool Lou

Liverpool Lou was written by Dominic Behan in 1964. Ten years later the Scaffold did a cover, attributing it to Paul McCartney. McCartney later apologised and correced the attribution. On Desert Island Discs in 2007, Yoko Ono picked Behan’s song, saying that Lennon had sung it as a lullaby to their son, Sean.

Ferry to Liverpool

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There are daily ferries from Douglas to Liverpool, the crossing taking three hours. The boat, the Mannanin again, is packed. Mostly bikers returning from their Isle of Man TT pilgrimage. We breakast on the boat. It’s a full English, or Irish, or Manx; you know what I mean. I was once in Liverpool, back in the early seventies on a daytrip by boat. I bought myself a portable typewriter and an airbrush, fuelling my twin ambitions to be a writer and an illustrator. It’s a long story. Or, several short stories and a novel, some slick illustration too, though I’ve abandoned that technique for the paintbrush. 

Our day in 70s Liverpool was shrouded in drizzle, the city providing a gothic silhouette to our shopping adventure. This time, it’s baking in blue heat. The ferry berths on the northern end of the waterfront. The majestic dockside running south has been beautifully developed into a vibrant showpiece for the city, dotted by landmarks with a host of visitor attractions. It absolutely throbs with life under the hot sun.

We walk the mile or so to our hotel, the Ibis, at Albert Dock. This stretch of dockland along the Mersey River is very much the heart and soul of the city. Pier Head provides a stunning architectural panorama. This area was called George’s Dock until the end of the nineteenth century. Liverpool Corporation bought the site with the Mersey Port and Docks Board retaining a portion for its new headquarters. The Port of Liverpool Building was completed in 1907. A typically Edwardian building in a Neo Baroque style, its central tower and dome was the tallest in Liverpool when built, very much the city landmark. This was surpassed in 1911 by the Royal Liver Building, the true Liverpool icon. In 1916 the Cunard Building came in between. Built to a modernist version of an Italaian Renaissance palace it completes the trio known as the Three Graces. Behind this trio is a fourth grace, perhaps, the George’s Dock building from the 1930s. This is an Art Deco building with a high central tower used as a ventilation shaft for the Mersey Tunnel. The reliefs on the top half of the tower resemble a sleeping face.

The Liver Building was designed by local architect Walter Aubrey Thomas for the Royal Liver Friendly Society. It’s one of the first major buildings I knew. My mother was a customer and her insurance book featured a line drawing on the cover The Liver Man came every month in his fancy Austin Cambridge to do the account thing. Exotic times. England’s first skyscraper is built of white reinforced concrete. Its twin towers climb to almost a hundred metres. The Liver Birds perch atop, eighteen feet tall. The mythical birds have been named Bella and Bertie. Taken from the ancient city’s coat of arms they are, officially, cormorants. Since Liverpool received its charter from King John in 1207, it’s likely that the bird first featured in the city arms, in homage to the king, was meant to be an eagle. Just badly drawn. It became a cormorant by the late eighteenth century, on the blazon for the coat of arms granted by Norroy King of Arms,the authority for northern England and Ireland, a certain George Harrison. The bird, whatever it is, has become the emblem of Liverpool itself and the football club Liverpool FC, though local rivals Everton, the older club, originally used it. Anyhow, a hundred metres up, Bertie looks inland, Bella to sea. It is said she keeps an eye out for the sailors, while he checks to see if there’s a pub open.

The Liver Birds was also the name of a BBC tv series from the early seventies, written by Carla Lane and Myra Taylor, two local housewives. It featured Polly James and Pauline Collins, and later Nerys Hughes, as the girls, or birds, in question. Something of a female equivalent of another north of England comedy the Likely Lads. The theme song was sung by the Scaffold, a comedy folk group including John Gorman, Roger McGough and Mike McGear, nee McCartney, brother of Paul. It is now possible to take a trip to the top of the Liver Building and with the birds to share this lovely view.

Even more famous than the two birds are the four lads, the Fab Four. Their statue at Pier Head provides the perfect photo opportunity. You can insert yourself amongst the foursome as they, slightly larger than life, stride out towards the Mersey. John, Paul, George, Ringo and yourself. Become your own fifth Beatle.

The Beatles form a good proportion of our mission. or pilgrimage, to Liverpool with a visit to the Beatles Story on Albert Dock. The Beatles Story opened in 1990 and has been a flagship of the growing Beatles tourist industry. Housed in a 19th century warehouse, the exhibition takes visitors through a chronological tour of the Beatles phenomenon. The group were one of many beat groups who flourished at that time, inspired by the first lowering of rock and roll across the Atlantic. Beatles was a clever pun, with a nod to Buddy Holly’s Crickets. The original trio of Paul McCartney, John Lennon and George Harrison, were augmented by drummer Pete Best and bassist Stuart Sutcliffe. The band played locally and for a few seasons in Hamburg, Germany. Sutcliffe stayed in Germany to pursue a career in art but less than a year later in April 1962, he tragically died of a brain haemorrhage. Pete Best was dismissed during their first London recording sessions with George Martin and Ringo Starr was drafted in. Then they had a hit with Love Me Do and the rest is history, with a fair bit of hysteria thrown in.

The Beatles Story constructs a sequence of imaginative tableaux and actual paraphernalia by way illustration. Brian Epstein’s crowded office, George Harrison’s first guitar, John Lennon’s specs and a room devoted to Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Each of the four have their own room and there’s a touching note at the end with John Lennon’s piano room from Imagine. 

There’s also a recreation of the Cavern Club. The Cavern Club itself is a focal point of the Cavern Quarter up on Mathew Street. It opened as a jazz club in 1957. By the early sixties, beat groups were knocking on the door. The Beatles most persistently. Between February 61 and August 63 the group made almost 300 appearances there, but by then they had outgrown such a small venue. Ten years after, the Cavern shut up shop. Then the zeitgeist moved towards restoration. Developers originally hoped to excavate the original cellar but instead had to make a reconstruction with a lot of the original material

M and I make our way up there on friday night when the quarter is at its most raucous and exuberant. Weaving through the crowds in a mixed musical din has a certain spice to it. Sometimes weaving won’t quite work. A sequined lady from a time machine lurches to grab me. She is a doppelganger for the Cilla Black statue nearby on Mathew Street, if rather more aggressive. M and I decided to return on Saturday afternoon. Still loud and fun, but more relaxed. A fiver will get you in, card only, to walk a few flights down into the actual Cavern Club. Okay a reconstruction but it’s as real as it gets, and that’s fine by me. An amiable troubadour, somewhere west of Bill Bailey, takes us through a field of memories. The repertoire was a mixture of Beatles and Monkees, with some Oasis thrown in too, their comeback tour looming large in late July;

The Monkees were the American TV Beatles, and the band for my age group. Daydream Believer was amongst their best, and enjoyed a second coming with a later generation of Macams. Alternative lyrics came from a lively party of Sunderland lassies in the Cavern that day. Cheer up Peter Reid! Who, by way of connection, is a Scouser dressed in blue. Everton, in other words. As regards alternatives, it wouldn’t have been appropriate to shout for my Monkees favourite: Randy Scouse Git.

The Cavern has branched out, with a theatre hall set up and a dining area part of the labyrinth we explored. We stuck with the original, enjoying a couple of drinks before finishing with the Searchers, or five rocking old geezers in suits playing their stuff. Then we walk, tired and emotional, happy really, up many flights of steps and into the sun. We’re in the home the Merseyside sound; Gerry and the Pacemakers, the Merseybeats, Cilla Black and the Searchers. The Beatles, of course. The people who made teenage living fun, made us what we are today, and made too many damn fine records to mention.

There can be only one choice to play us out. On first setting foot in the Cavern, the opening song our troubadour played was Here Comes the Sun. It appeared on 1969s Abbey Road, the last album recorded by the Beatles. It was written by George Harrison in the April of that year. Harrison was oft referred to as the Quiet Beatle. Though he wasn’t quiet. He was, however, the most Irish of the Beatles, as you can tell from the lyrics of this song; ha ha. In fact his mother Louise, nee Ffrench, would often take him home to visit her ancestral family in Drumcondra, Dublin. In the early fifties, George with mother and brother was photographed on O”Connell Street, Dublin, by Arthur Fields, the famous Man on the Bridge. Curiously, my own mother, Veronica, was from Drumcondra. An O’Flanagan she would go on to marry a Harrison, from Blantyre, Scotland. She loved the Beatles too. Get Back was her favourite.

Little darlin’

It’s been a long, cold, lonely winter

Little darlin’

It feels like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun, doo-doo-do

Here comes the sun

And I say, “It’s all right”

Isle of Man by Rail

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The morning is warm and hazy, sea, sky and promenade merge in the glaring whiteness. Out in the bay, the Tower of Refuge makes a magical sandcastle apparition; at once real, but not real. The Tower occupies the small St Mary’s Island just offshore. It was built as a refuge, and guide, for sailors suffering shipwreck on the notorious reef. Sir William Hillary, founder of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution initiated the project in 1830, following the sinking of the St George. The ship of the St George Steam Packet Company was landing its cargo from Liverpool when it ran aground on a stormy November night. Hillary himself commanded the rescue and was injured when swept overboard. There is a memorial to the rescue on the Loch Promenade. A bronze relief vividly depicts the danger and daring of this heroic episode. The Tower was completed in 1832, William Wordsworth wrote a poem in its honour during a visit the next year. A statue was erected to Hillary on the headland beyond the port and he is buried here in Douglas at St George’s Churchyard

The perfect way to see the beautiful island of Mannin is to use its excellent public trasport system. £21 will get you an all day ticket usable on all trains, trams and busses. We got full value from it on a hectic day whizzing about the island’s sights. From Villa Marina, towards the southern end of the Douglas Promenade, we took a horse drawn tram to the Electric Railway terminal at the far end of the seafront. The service was built and run by Thomas Lightfoot from 1876, who sold it on in 1882. It operates during the summer months.

The Electric Railway was established in 1893. The terminus is called Derby Castle which was also the name of the large amusement park that once stood nearby until the end of the 1960s. The original tiny picturesque rustic ticket office survives while the Terminus Tavern adjacent also dates back to the 1890s.

The Electric Railway travels north to Ramsay. It makes its discreet way through the suburbs of north Douglas into open green countryside and woodland. At Laxey there’s a connection with the line leading to the top of Snaefell, the island’s highest point. Laxey itself is a pleasant winding village tumbling down a valley from the highlands to the sea. Its fame rests on the Laxey Wheel, a short uphill stroll from the tramstop. The Laxey wheel is the largest working waterwheel in the world with a diameter of over 72 feet. It was built in the 1850s for the local lead and zinc mines. 

Snaefell Mountain railway climbs to the top of Snaefell, near enough, at just over two thousand feet. The five mile journey takes about half an hour. There’s a pelasant cafe for refreshments and snacks with seating outside to take advantage of the spectacular panorama. The view boasts that it takes in seven kingdoms: the Isle of Man, England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. The other two kingdoms being the Kingdoms of Heaven and of the sea. This last being ruled by Mannanin Mac Lir, so closely associated with the island. We summit in complete calm under hot sunshine, even at this altitude.

Back at Laxey we have coffee at the tramstop and explore downstream towards the sea. We catch a bus from Laxey back to Douglas. The main bus station in Douglas is at the southern end of town and it is only a short walk from here to the Railway Station for steam trains. The Steam Railway goes south to Castletown and Port Erin. Also passing near the airport at Ronaldsway.

The Steam Railway is a most colourful way to see the island. It was set up in 1873. The traditional rolling stock is quaint and dinky, the timber clad compartments with facing banquettes seating six people. It’s about an hour to the terminus at Port Erin, with Castletown a little over halway along. 

Castletown was the island’s original capital until 1869, the Tynwald meeting here until moving up the road to Douglas. It lies on the river estuary of the Silver Burn south of a small harbour. A majestic medieval castle rises in the town centre. Castle Rushen is a well preserved fortresss dating from the thirteenth century when the Kings of Mann and the Isles reigned. It was later the scene of the century long tug of war between the English and Scots for control of Mann. Robert the Bruce capturing the castle three times, though ultimately the English would prevail.

It’s a short walk along the river into town. A giant heron sculpture guards the bridge. Above the quayside is the castle entrance. The Arts and Crafts Police Station blends well with the Gothic feel of the place. The main town square, Market Square, has become an occupied fan zone for bikers, gathered about a giant screen with food and drink from local hostelries and mobile outlets. Our visit is a fortnight after the TT Races, but another major event, The Southern 100 is on nearby, with such biker heroes as  Dean Harrison. Five times TT, Dean is English but lives in Laxey. Then there’s local lad Nathan Harrison. You can’t keep up with the Harrisons! Whatever about the Castle, and the hectic world of motorbikes, we’re not rushing (pun intended) and we have plenty of time for a snack and a pint of beer in the glorious sunshine we’ve enjoyed throughout our stay on Mannin.

The steam train service tails off around half four, although busses still go into the night. We return to Castletown station which has a model railway display and the same cheerful traditional ambience as elsewhere on the isle. The train is quite packed and some compartments are fully booked but we get seats and head off in smoke and sunshine.

Back in Douglas we enjoy an evening stroll along Loch Promenade shrouded in an eerie and intermittent mist. The Tower of Refuge is a magical mirage in the bay. We dine in Duke Street, on the front outdoor patio of Wine Down. The interior is crowded, perhaps because the restaurant is very good. Heaters on the patio dilute the misty evening chill, and the wine and good food help too. 

Tomorrow we’re leaving Man and taking the ferry across to Liverpool. For a farewell song I’ll take one that evokes our stop in Laxey, sort of. Apt too for our ongoing ferry odyssey. Proud Mary was written by John Fogerty for his band Creedence Clearwater Revival. One of my favourites. It was a big hit single and appeared on their second album, Bayou Country in 1969.

Left a good job in the city

working for the man every night and day

and I never lost one minute of sleeping

worrying about the way things might have been

Big wheel keep on turning

Proud Mary keep on burning

Rolling, rolling, rolling on a river.

Isle of Man by Ferry.

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Downtown Douglas

I have never been to the Isle of Man before. It seems a strange omission, as there’s no foreign soil closer to my home than this island cooling in the Irish Sea. It was once a popular holiday destination for people from Britain and Ireland back in the 1960s and beyond. M visited regularly in the late sixties and early seventies so something of a stroll down memory lane for her then. In keeping with the zeitgeist so, we opted to take the ferry from Dublin as most did back in the day. The Isle of Man Steam Packet Company makes weekly sailings between Dublin and Douglas during the summer months. As we were planning a two day stopover, we decided on taking a ferry onward to Liverpool. A voyage of sorts, in the old fashioned way.

The IoM Steam Packet Company was founded almost two hundred years ago (1830) making it the oldest passenger ship company in the world. We booked Manannan, the high speed catamaran which is named for Manannan Mac Lir, sea god of the Gaels. From Connolly Station we took a taxi at the adjacent rank to the ferry port at the end of the East Wall. The Steam Packet shares the terminal with Irish Ferries who operate to Holyhead. There’s a pleasant coffee bar at the top with glorious views over Dublin port on a clear sunny morning. The good vibes have spread to the terminal staff who are friendly and jocular.

Manannan set sail at half ten. The crossing takes just three hours, with Ireland barely dipping below the horizon as Mannin rises from the blue ocean. The Isle of Man is a British Crown Dependency. Charles III is head of state and the UK looks after defence and foreign affairs, but it is otherwise a self governing independent state. The parliament, the Tynwald, was founded by the Norse in 979 and claims to be the oldest continuously operating parliament in the world. It is bicameral; the House of Keys being the Lower House.

The name Man is thought to be derived from mountainous island in Welsh, or else refers to Manannin Mac Lir. In Manx it is phrased Ellan Vannin (as Oilean Mhannin in Irish Gaelic). The Manx language is Celtic, related to the Gaelic languages of Scotland and Ireland. It is being enthusiastically revived and features prominently on street signs and many businesses. The Manx themselves are longtime English speakers, their speech rhythms and demeanour more closely resembling the North of England. There’s a hint of the Welsh or Cornish about their heritage, Mannin was a haven for pirates and splendid castles, but they are actually Gaelic rather than Britonic.

Manx was spoken until the early twentieth century. The island was Celtic up until the tenth century when Norse invaders took over. The Scottish followed in the thirteenth century when Man was grouped with the Western Isles. Control passed between the English and Scottish for the century up until 1346 when English lordship won out.

The island is thirty three miles long and about thirteen wide and has a population of eighty five thousand. Douglas, where we land, is the capital. From the terminal, the seafront formas a shallow arc of two miles around much of the bay. It is fronted by an impressive array of tall Victorian terraces and a Promenade. Our hotel, the Sefton was a ten minute walk by way of an attractive sunken park. We come across the Bee Gees walking in the same direction. Set in bronze, the trio are slightly larger than life. The brothers Gibb; Barry, Robin and Maurice, were born here in the 1940s before moving to Manchester and in 1958 to Australia. Ten years later they had a string of hits including Massachussets featuring their plaintive vocal harmonies. While that success soon faded, they reemerged in the late seventies with the soundtrack for Saturday Nite Fever, one of the biggest selling albums ever.

Man’s seafront heyday began in the 1950s. The seafront was the ultimate experience for families and strutting youth. That attraction has gone. The Manx Museum on higher ground above the old town, is the only place you can revisit it. It’s an interesting and eclectic display. Exhibits lead us through ancient history, into the world of Viking and Celt, through the complex political weave of the early modern and on to the often brash commercialism of the twentieth century. One picture shows a thronged seafront evoking those great seaside days of youth, the boardwalks and amusement arcades, candyfloss, rock n roll and Mods and Rockers.

George Formby is included in the mix. Formby’s comedy No Limit from 1935 was his breakthrough hit, based on the TT races. Formby, once a jockey, played a star motorbiker. The film ignited his career as the cheeky chappie, provoking laughter with inuendo laden ditties accompanied on ukelele. His heyday was in the thirties and forties. though a decade later George Harrison noted him as an early influence. There’s a state to Formby near the railway station, at the southern end of Douglas.

The Tourist Trophy was first staged in 1907, the Isle of Man being chosen as Britain’s restrictive speed limit disallowed road racing. It has become an iconic race meet for motorbikers. A high proportion of visitors to Man are from the biking fraternity. The island is a point of pigrimage, or the scene for a last sunset drive. There’s a large section in the Museum devoted to the race, with some fun interactive displays.

Walking along Dougas’s seafront in a summer heatwave, it was a surprise to find only one bar and a cafe with outdoor seating. The beach was as deserted as a surrealist painting. The tide had gone out in more ways than one. Matcham’s Bar and the cafe next door supplied the only refreshment terrace I could see, against an urban backdrop that was impressively Mediterranean. These hostelries front the Villa Marina, a seafront complex with old world theatre and arcade framing a pleasant public park with a few food outlets. The Sefton supplied chairs and tables outside Sir Norman’s bar which I also enjoyed later in the day. Norman Wisdom is the Norm in question, the comedian’s grinning statue occupying a bench at the door.

Douglas’s main shopping area meanders behind the seafront in the old fashioned way. Pedestrianised Strand Street leads on to Duke Sreet and farther on is the Quay, a picturesque inlet crammed with sailing craft. The south headland rises sharply behind and the quaysides are lined with period buildings housing bars and restaurants. The British Hotel and the Barbary Coast give something of a snapshot of Manx identity conflict. Pirates or patriots? There’s a pizzeria and a Chinese besides, with a selection of places to sit outside and enjoy the view. At last, our place in the setting sun, to raise a glass or two in memory of broken hearted pirates, motorbike heroes and our Celtic islands in the sun.

On an island in the sun

We’ll be playing and having fun

And it makes me feel so fine

I can’t control my brain

Thought I’d share that one. Its memory came back to me recently when it popped up in one week on a travelogue tv soundtrack, on the car radio, as a highlight at Glastonbury. Then, while walking along Nassau Street, I spied Weezer themselves playing live to a sunkissed throng on the TCD campus. Happy days indeed. Appropriate words, too. Island in the Sun was written by Weezer’s singer guitarist Rivers Cuomo and first appeared on their 2001 album, Weezer, aka The Green Album.

We’ll run away together

We’ll spend some time forever

We’ll never feel bad anymore

Hip-hip

Hip-hip

Hip-hip

Dunes at Brittas Bay

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Summer is here, and amongst my favourite activities is doing nothing on a beach. Not exactly an activity so. Brittas Bay is a regular haunt. Thanks to good friends, we can spend  a few weeks in a mobile on Wicklow’s wonderful coast. The mobile park is separated from the rising coast by a small river, and from the bay itself by a range of high sand dunes. 

In this painting, we are approaching the beach through the dunes along one of several stepped ways. It’s something of an oasis of isolation and quiet, between the domestic suburbia of the mobile park and the windswept leisure activity of the beach. 

This time I am using oils, which I have not done in a long long time. Since I went to art college in the summer of 77 I have tended towards faster graphic media such as watercolour, gouache and acrylics. One Dublin cityscape and a mountain landscape is all I can recall. So it was a bit of a struggle to begin with, and I was as much absorbed in the physicality of the whole thing, the texture and smell of the materials as I would normally be in the detail and composition of the finished work. There’s something of the wild and unkempt in this and the process. A sensual saturation that takes its own form.

And so the song that suggests itself is rough and ready too. It’s from the summer of 77 which I remember for sandy days with M in Llandudno, Wales and a holiday hut on the beach in Skerries, North Dublin. It kicks off with a to-die-for bass riff. What follows is a young ruffian gorging himself on the visual pleasures of the beach. It’s called Peaches and was the first hit for the Stranglers from their debut album Rattus Norvegicus. You might also know it from the opening credits of the 2000 geezer flick Sexy Beast, where reformed lout, Ray Winstone, soaks up the sun in a villa in Spain. Oh, I can relate to it in all sorts of ways.

Well there goes another one just lying down on the sand dunes

I’d better go take a swim and see if I can cool down a little bit

Coz you and me woman, we got a lotta things on our minds 

Walking on the beaches looking at the peaches!

Nerja by Bus

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While inland Andalusia is well served by rail, the coastal region is not. Malaga connects to Fuengirola, but for other destinations you take a bus. Alsa bus service is pretty good. We returned to Malaga from Cordoba by train and walked across the road to the Bus Station to buy tickets from there to Nerja. There’s a regular service, and the fifty mile journey takes an hour and a quarter. The bus passes along Malaga’s seafront, before heading into the rugged rural countryside towards Motril.

Nerja, lies at the eastern extremity of the Costa Del Sol. It has a population of twenty thousand, though that swells considerably in the summer months. We are deposited on High Street, the main thoroughfare north of the town and take a taxi to our hotel. The Marisol is an online hotel, trading tradition hotel service for tempting low price. But there is a receptionist available until four pm when we arrive. It couldn’t be more central. It faces onto a square with the sea to one side and the narrow pedestrianised streets leading back uphill. There is a picturesque church to one side of the square and sheltering trees dappling the sunshine. The Balcon de Europe, Nerja’s nickname and lure, lies along the southern edge, presiding over an awesome sea view.

The phrase is attributed to Alfonso XII, King of Spain who visited the village in 1884 after an earthquake had struck the region. Admiring the view, he said “this is the balcony of Europe”. Alonso himself died just a year later, at the age of twenty seven. The area around the Balcon once held an artillery battery and a fort which was destroyed during the Peninsular War in1812. A few guns survive on the Balcony, and remnants of the fort litter the sea below. It is an impressive view. There are beaches to each side of the promintory.

The square is thronged when we arrive. The Marisol’s gelateria is giving out free ice cream, adding to the happy hubbub. I get a long awaited beer at the attached bar, so we are both happy. Evening falls and the square and surrounding narrow streets fill up some more. Towards the west of town, the neighbourhood is known as El Barrio, which has a pleasantly homey feel as the name suggests. We get a good meal there in an unscenic restaurant that is friendly, with affordable and excellent main plates. Lasagne for me. The bars are filling up and we grab stools at the counter to catch the Champions League quarter final where Arsenal stuff Real with two glorious strikes from Declan Rice. M is most impressed, though I’m in two minds myself.

Nerja was settled by the Romans, and the Moors after that; but they were modernist blow ins. The Nerja Caves, a couple of miles east of town, were host to human settlement as far back as thirty thousand years ago. A visit to the caves is a must. A ticket to the caves includes a street train to the site, with admission and virtual visual tour too, plus admission to Nerja’s excellent town centre museum.

We took an early train and the crowds were sparse, giving more time and space to enjoy the experience. We took about two hours exploring, by which time lunchtime crowds were beginning to swell. It’s probably a better idea to do the virtual tour first, but we found ourselves inside the caves and decided to continue. As guidance, we had to download the ap, which worked well for M’s phone, but mine lost it as we descended.

Such idea I have of prehistoric cave dwelling is of a small group of people living in an alcove on a cliff face. They may paint matchstick men, cats and dogs, on the back wall, or huddle back there any time a leopard passes. The Nerja caves paint a different picture. These are vast linked caverns, resembling cathedrals in both space and glorious formations. Stalactites, stalagmites and columns soaring into the inner space.

The different areas are given evocative titles: Hall of the the Nativity, Hall of Phanthoms, Hall of Cataclysm, the Hall of the Waterall, also known as the Hall of the Ballet. Cataclysm is named for a major rock fall, wonderfully illustrating the forces of narture at work to build this natural phenomenon. The largest column is nearby, soaring more than thirty metres from floor to ceiling.

The modern discovery of the caves happened in 1959. A group of five local boys, Jose Barbero, Francisco Navas, Jose Torres and brothers Manuel and Migual Munoz, had noticed bats escaping through a gap in the hillside and found their way inside. There they chanced upon a skeleton and believing it to be, like them, a casual explorer who had been trapped, they beat a hasty retreat to avoid his fate. The following day, however, they informed their teacher, whom they took back to the caves. Word spread, photographs in the Malaga Press stirred public interest. and within eighteen months the caves were opened as a visitor attraction, and crucially a centre for archeological research

In June 1960 the gala opening featured. a ballet accompanied by the Malaga Symphony Orchestra within the natural theatre underground since dubbed the Hall of Ballet. This started the annual performances of the Nerja Music and Dance Festival. After almost sixty years the caves ceased to be used as a venue and performances have been moved to an outdoor auditorium nearby.

On exit, we discovered the theatre for the virtual tour. We had to queue for half an hour as a bus tour had beaten us to it. Worth the wait. We gathered in an interior room with a few dozen others, put on the headgear and set off for a tour inside our heads. This barrels through the millennia, good on the necessary detail, witty in its use of a Woodyesque guide. Along with the cave itself, and the visit to the Museum next day, we got quite a detailed picture of a fascinating part of European human history; pre-history to be correct.

Neanderthals lived in the region until the race died out over thirty thousand years ago, just before the last Ice Age. There is evidence that they lived here, and made cave art dating back forty thousand years. Passing humans and hyenas occupied the caves for five thousand years from about 25,000BC. Though not at the same time, and if so, not for long. After 20,000 BC humans took up permanent residency. As the Ice Age waned, the hunter gatherer culture expanding to animal husbandry and agriculture. Textiles and pottery were developed by the dawn of the Bronze Age. Wandering through the caves you can see how several large groups could be housed. This culture were some of Europe’s earliest artists. Cave paintings were discovered here, which can be understood with representations and explanations in Nerja’s museum. The actual paintings are inaccessible to civilian explorers.

The Museum is located in a modern, quiet square in Nerja, the Plaza de Espana. This gives an excellent account of the town and the region, as well as the Caves. Outside the door, Nerja itself offers much to enjoy. The beaches are small and scenic, and the sea is a vibrant, often spectacular presence. The town is lively with shoppers and strollers all day and continuing into a busy nightlife with a great choice of bars and restaurants. You can eat well and very reasonably here. We had a glorious Thai curry at Asian Ben near the Balcon and there’s a lively Little Italy Restaurant along Calle Carabeo for pizza, pasta, birra; for almost nothing at all. Nerja’s noisy for sure, but good fun, good looking and, of course, the best caves ever. Yabba dabba do!

In the morning we took a bus direct to the airport. There are good breakfast spots near the ‘station’ ( a kiosk in fact). La Nube was our go-to venue. The bus leaves at eleven and takes about ninety minutes.

I recall when I was small

How I spent my days alone

The busy world was not for me

So I went and found my own

I would climb the garden wall

With a candle in my hand

I’d hide inside a hall of rock and sand

The Caves of Altamira is an appropriate song to finish on. Altamira is in northern Spain, the first and formative example of prehistoric cave art discovered. The Nerja caves provide another piece of the jigsaw. The song was written by Steely Dan’s dynamic duo, Walter Becker and Donald Fagen. It is on their 1976 album, The Royal Scam. I relate very strongly to the lyrics here. A hymn to the power of Art. A silent power, free of needless noise. These artists, these Painters, were not being intellectual, they were painting what they saw. Very good they were too. The first masters of realist painting, which is the best type of painting there is. So there.

Cordoba by Train

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Cordoba lies just over a hundred miles miles north of Malaga. We took the high speed train from Maria Zambrano station. The station connects with the Malaga metro system from Fuengirola to Almeria in the east, and just fifteen minutes from the airport every twenty minutes or so. The station includes a large shopping centre and there are plenty of places for a drink and snack. The bus station is right next door. We had snacks and coffee at an outdoor kiosk, the sort of atmospheric and affordable feature that’s such a loveable part of Continental cities.

Maria Zambrano gave her name to Malaga’s main station in 2007 when the Malaga to Madrid high speed rail line opened. She was an essayist and philosopher who was born in Velez a couple of miles east of Malaga in 1904. She went into exile after the fall of the Republic at the end of the Spanish Civil War, only returning when Franco died in 1984. She died six years later and is buried in Velez.

The train journey to Cordoba takes just an hour and runs about every hour. It’s a rocket into Spain’s inner space. We climb beyond Malaga city limits, heading ever upward into the coastal mountains. The Montes de Malaga rise to over a thousand metres and are surrounded by a large Natural Park. Jagged peaks form a scenic backdrop to the well cultivated hills and valleys of olive farms.

We finally descend into the valley of the Guadalquivir, leaving the train at Cordoba before it heads on to Madrid. Cordoba’s modern station is bright and efficient. We take a taxi into the labyrinthine Old Town. This area is largely pedestrianised, but our driver takes us with dizzying pinball eccentricity through narrow laneways to our destination. Our hotel, Palacio del Corregidor, has a wonderful tiled courtyard echoing the Moorish style knitted into the fabric of the city. 

Nearby is Plaza Corredera, a colourful square built in the 17th century. There is a daily market, and bars and cafes flow from its arcades into the open air. The atmosphere is pleasantly informal and cocooned from the brash modernity of city life. We dine and drink there regularly, afternoons and evening. It’s convenient and inexpensive. The street performers are a varied bunch. One dire performer is clad in cheap tigerskin and you’d pay him to go away. Good juggler though. On another night, with stars and streetlights merging, the glow is enhanced by a guitarist with a modern reportoire including Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here; which, of course, read my thoughts.

A maze of lanes ambles south towards the river. Plaza del Potro is a hidden treasure, and just beyond a short avenue is shaded under trees. There are a number of bars and restaurants along here, so relaxed that time stops still, as it often does in the best of Spain. Along the river into the ancient city centre streetlife resumes. The Guadalquivir marks the southern edge of town. Andalusia’s mighty river rises in the Sierra de Cazorla, about two hundred miles to the east. Already mighty by the time it reaches Cordoba, it meanders west towards Seville and then south to meet the Atlantic at Cadiz. It is over four hundred miles long. In Roman times the Guadalquivir was navigable as far upstream as Cordoba and remained so into the Middle Ages. Today, only as far as Seville 

The Romans established Cordoba around 200BC. By the turn of the Millennium it was a major city of Roman Hispania. A few of its remnants survive. The remains of the Roman Temple were unearthed in the 1950s with the expansion of the City Hall on Calle Claudio Marcello, a busy commercial thoroughfare dividing ancient and modern Cordoba. The Temple was built in the reign of Claudius in the first century AD. A magnificent marble structure in its day it stood proud on a high plinth. Its platform and a few columns are preserved; development of the site is ongoing

The Roman Bridge crosses the river at the entrance to the city. Initially built in the 1st Century BC, this was the only city bridge spanning the river until the mid twentieth century. The Moors undertook a major reconstruction in the 8th Century AD. There are sixteen arches spanning the 250 metres to the far bank. The Puerta del Puente on the city side and the Tower of Calahorra on the far side were added in Medieval times as fortified city gates.

The river banks are lined with ruins of ancient watermills dating back to Moorish times. These were used variously for irrigation, to ground flour and as cotton mills. They persisted into medieval and modern times where some saw use in electricity generation. The last were extinguished in the 1940s. The Albolafia Mill is the nearest to the bridge, and there are eleven mills in all.

With Cordoba it is best to let the lanes lead you where they want to go. A vague detour leads us to a courtyard fronting the Church of San Francisco. People are gravitating towards it by some strange magnetism. Groups congregate in the little square, chat and smoke before disappearing within. Inside, excitement mounts. A large group of musicians fills the chancel, facing the body of the church now packed. Then the music begins. It is the week before Semana Santa and the Brotherhood rehearse the music they will play to accompany the Thronos they will carry through the city on the big day. Two thronos are installed along the Nave. The massed brass instruments strike a tone that is sombre but uplifting. I feel united with all here, rising with the intense emotion of the music. When it finishes there is a breath, applause filling its emptiness like thunder. 

We are struck by how lucky we were to chance upon this. Yet it is unremarkable in a way. Throughout Spain local communities have been persistent in their unique commemmoration of Holy Week and Catholic feasts for eight centuries

Cordoba is now a city of 350,000 people. It was once one of the largest cities in Europe, under the Moorish rulers of the Ummayad dynasty. The Caliphate of Cordoba controlled almost all of Iberia from 750 until 1031when it split into several kingdoms. The Reconquista of 1236 brought the city under the crown of Castille. Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos lies just past the Bridge and served as residence of Ferdinand and Isabell as they pushed towards the final expulsion of the Moor at Granada in 1492. It was built in 1358, by King Alfonso, and though a military fortress initially, it also embraces a more flamboyant Mudejar style in its magnificent gardens, ponds and courtyards. 

Mudejar refers to the art and design of Islamic craftsmen who remained following the Reconquista. It is a distinctive feature of much that is wonderful in Spanish architecture of the era. The Mezquita Catedral is a shining jewel forged in the collision of two cultures. The Great Mosque was begun in 784 and was for long the largest mosque in the world. After 1236 it was appropriated for Christian use. It is remarkable that so much of the fabric of the ancient building remains. The three hundred foot tall bell tower was developed from the old Minaret with an entrance gate beneath in the Mudejar style. An open square runs the length of the complex, shaded by orange trees with pools and fountains where the Moslem faithful washed before prayer. The single story interior is supported by a forest of ornate columns, eight hundred in all, creating an effect close to infinity; or heaven, I suppose. Around the outer walls many chapels have been added over the centuries, the first in 1371. The Cathedral itself was begun in the early sixteenth century, rising as if organically from the low lying mosque. It is topped by an Italianate dome. 

Asides from being a place of prayer, the Mezquita Catedral is a huge draw for tourists. The crowds gather early, though the space is so large that it was not too hectic during our visit. We got tickets online the day before. Be warned though. Numbers pick up in high season, and even a few days later we noticed the crowds grown bigger.

Another major attraction in Cordoba is the Festival de los Patios held during the first fortnight in May. Private patios are opened for view, and the city is particularly packed. But there are always spaces in Cordoba to allow one step into a different time. The Jewish Quarter is a wonderful maze of white streets west of the Mezquita. There’s a museum and the old synagogue from the fourteenth century survives. Another culture woven into the rich fabric of Andalusia. Muslim, Christian, Jew and Gitano leave their mark not just in the stone and style, but in the music and the mind, and deep in the heart of us all.

Rocking to Gibraltar

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Gibraltar is one of those quaint appendages that persist, jutting out from a murky past into the modern age. The UnionJack flies over it, denoting British ownership. Travel squibs proclaim red phone boxes, fish and chips and Bobbys on the beat as an abiding signature of the place. Only partly true. It is a British Overseas Territory. British, but weirdly so. Red, white and blue, but bathed in sunshine, a babel of Spanish and foreign patois, with monkees thrown in.

The Rock of Gibraltar is one of the Pillars of Hercules, the mythological portal to the Mediterranean Ocean, an implied northern tower anchoring an imagined bridge between Europe and Africa. It rises sheer from the sea to an impressive fourteen hundred feet with a land area of under three square miles and a twelve km coast. The population of thirty four thousand, the same as my hometown, Bray, is a mixture of British, Spanish, Portoguese, Maltese Italian and Jewish. English and Spanish are spoken, the local dialect Llanito being similar to Andalusian.

In the early eight century, Tariq Ibn Zayid began the Muslim conquest of Iberia by landing here, bestowing his name on the peninsula, Jabal Tariq. His army of Berbers and Arabs advanced over two thirds of Iberia, defeating the Visigoths and delivering Iberia to Islamic Rule for five hundred years. Juan Alonso de Guzman regained Spannish control in 1462 towards the end of the Reconquista. An Anglo Dutch fleet captured Gibraltar during the War of the Spanish Succession, and at the Treaty of Utrecht, 1713, it was granted to the British crown. The Spanish have tried to reclaim it, most determinedly in the Great Siege during the American War of Independence, but the British held on. Well, they lost America, but you win some … It has been of considerable strategic value especially during the Napoleonic Wars and the Second World War.

La Linea de la Concepcion is on the Spanish frontier. A somewhat neglected sprawl. The bockety approach roads give some hint of the absence of territorial certainty hereabouts. We park here on the seafront, a short walk to the isthmus leading out to Gibraltar. Passing through Spanish and British border control with little ado, the visitor must first cross the airport runway at right angles to the isthmus. A photo opportunity straddling the runway’s central line is thought to verify the line between two jurisdictions; though of course both feet are on British ground. The modern outskirts are highrise and busy with traffic. Entrance to the Old City is discrete, through a narrow laneway and unimposing gateway.

We come into a lively square, the Lord Nelson pub at one end. Premises on Casemate’s Square proclaim an archetypal Britishness, beer and fish n chips abound. We stop for this, of course, and the battered cod and chips are very good indeed. The Main Street unrolls from the far corner though we miss it the first time and end up on Line Wall Road, a blank thoroughfare which as the name suggests runs atop the defensive walls. Irishtown runs parallel to the Main Street. The narrow pedestrianised street was once an area of disrepute, and it now houses the Central Police Station. Its Irishness probably derives from an Irish Regiment stationed here in the nineteenth century.

The old town of Gibraltar was largely constructed following the Great Siege. Givanni Boschetti, an Italian architect, arrived in 1783 and is responsible for much of the reconstructed city’s style, combining British and Mediterranean aspects. Visually it looks typically Mediterranean, a collage of souvenir and craftshops, high street outlets, with plenty of gelaterias , cafes and bars crowding the pavements.

We stop for ice cream in the shadow of the Catholic Cathedral of Santa Maria La Coronada. This was originally built in 1462. Also predating the British takeover, the Southport Gates, formerly the Africa Gate, is a three arched gateway built into the Charles V Wall, defending the southern end of the old town. John Mackintosh Square nearby has the Parliament House and City Hall. King’s Chapel and the Convent is now the Governor’s Residence. It was originally home to Franciscan Friars. The British Governor set up house in 1728, the building remodelled a century later.

We continue past the Courthouse, an old Spanish villa set back and fronted by an exuberant garden. It’s not far to the Cable Car that takes you to the top of the Rock. Admission can be either return journey or include a pass to the nature reserve occupying much of the uplands and a number of tourist attractions up there. We opt for the return as we don’t have enough time to devote to an extensive exploration. Ticket queue and wait occupies a half hour or so and the trip takes five minutes. At the top is a modernist cafe with stunning views from its terraces. Africa floats beyond, the other Pillar of Hercules almost within touching distance across the strait. A stunning panorama includes the city below, Gibraltar’s peak nearby and mainland Spain stretching off to Algeciras in the distance. Gulls and cormorants swirl above, and then there are the monkeys. 

The Rock’s colony of two hundred and fifty Barbary Macaques, are the only wild monkeys in Europe. Brought over from Africa by the Moors, they abide five centuries on. Well used to gawking tourists, they pose helpfully for shots, and the chance of food. They may not just wait for it either. As I posed for a photo before a seemingly disinterested simian, the chancer snuck up and grabbed at my backpack to the great consternation, or amusement more like, of onlookers. I won the tussle, persuading the rogue to desist. Note, visitors are supposed to wear their backpacks to the front. Note too, these are wild animals, though used to tourists they may become agitated where too many get too close. Stretching and yawning, impressive yawns by the way, are a caution. In case of confrontation, try speaking Simian. The phrase Aieeeee!, which means just about everything in their language, usually works, and comes naturally in such situations I can assure you.

Hey, hey, we’re the Monkees and people say we monkey around

But we’re too busy singing to put anybody down

… We’re just tryin’ to be friendly, come and watch us sing and play

We’re the young generation, and we’ve got something to say

Written by Bobby Hart and Tommy Boyce, this was the theme to the mid sixties tv series featuring what was originally a fictional band the Monkees. It featured on their eponymous debut album. Micky Dolenz sang vocals, but the other Monkees, Davy Jones, Mike Nesmth and Peter Tork didn’t feature. The foursome eventually wrestled control of their own material but when the series was cancelled ater two seasons their star began to wane. Perhaps. For people of my vintage they too abide. Our introduction to rock and roll, an original garage band in fact. Here’s to Monkeeing around!

London Memories -3

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City in Blue

There are a number of arbitrary hooks which snared me as regards London. I loved pictorial history books as a kid and these being Anglocentric featured much on the development of English culture and society, with London at its centre. The Tower of London, St Paul’s and the Thames were familiar to me, as illustrations of their place through history.

Pop music too, of course. In 1968 my soul spun upon hearing Last Night in Soho by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich. Dave Dee was sometimes known, ominously, as the singing policeman having once been a cadet in the Wiltshire Police; one of those boys in blue. Here, he’s one of the bad boys we love. It was my first single, and also, I’ve just read, Waterboy Mike Scott’s. Great minds, Mike, great minds.

You came into my life like rain upon a barren desert

Just one smile and I was born again

I felt sure it wasn’t too late

I’d find strength to make me go straight

I had love and threw it away

Why did they lead me astray

For last night in Soho

I let my life go

Last Night in Soho was written by Ken Howard and Alan Blaikely and released on the Fontana label, which used attractive deep blue graphics. The song is a cautionary tale, melodramatic but seductive. London is cinematically rendered, in a collage of crime and romance. How dangerous and attractive this place Soho sounded! I had a fondness for maps, and a London street guide was thumbed close to invisibility, as I traced my path through Soho and the wild West End.

As a football fan, the towers of Wembley loomed large in my youth. FA cup finals provided a rare chance to see a full televised match. My first featured West Ham and Preston North End. But I lost my heart to the boys in blue, Chelsea, although losing the final to Spurs in 1967. I had built many memories of London by the end of the twentieth century, physically stepping onto the streets of London, seeing the sights, the galleries, eating, drinking, going to the movies, music gigs and theatre shows. But it would be 2005 before I actually went to a Chelsea game. As a treat for my fiftieth birthday, M and Sons brought me to the Hotel Chelsea right in their home ground. Chelsea were turned a hundred years old then having been founded in 1905 to occupy Stamford Bridge, an athletics stadium in Fulham. That’s a different Stamford Bridge to the one up near York that hosted King Harold’s semi final victory over the Norwegians in 1066. Harold lost the final to the Normans at Hastings, led by William, since known as the Conqueror.

Chelsea FC were admitted immediately to the Football League, though it would take another fifty years to win it, which they did in the year of my birth, 1955. Another fifty years later at the end of November I saw them play at the Bridge, as defending League Champions, having triumphed again the season before. They played Wigan Athletic, John Terry scoring the only goal of the game. They would go on to win the Premiership that season.

Earlier, with M and the boys, I met star players Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling. Tambling was the Blues star striker of the sixties scoring over two hundred goals. Bonetti was their goalkeeper, known as The Cat. I fancied myself as a goalie in my youth, but was known as the Vampire, as I couldn’t deal with crosses. Bonetti had played in Chelsea’s first FA Cup winning team, in 1970, beating Leeds Utd in a glorious mudbath at Wembley. Kicking and a gouging in the mud the blood and the beer, as Johnny Cash ‘sang’.

The Fox and Pheasant is the oasis of choice, out in the beer garden oiling the tonsils for the afternoon ahead. I sank a few with my boys here on an Easter weekend before seeing Chelsea beating Arsenal two nothing with a brace by Didier Drogba, later marching down the Fulham Road singing Didier Drogba, la le la le la. The day after seeing Henry IV at the Globe, Davin and I attended the first game of the season to enjoy Chelsea beating West Brom 6 – 0. Drogba scored a hat trick. Visiting the Chelsea Museum, we got to lift the Premier League trophy and the FA Cup, the benefit of a double winning year. Been there, done that, even bought a souvenir teeshirt.

Woke up, it was a Chelsea Morning 

And the first thing that I heard

Was a song outside my window

And the traffic wrote the words

It came ringing up like Christmas Bells

Rapping up like pipes and drums

Chelsea!

Joni Mitchell’s song from 1969 is a song of joy. Oh, to feel like that of a morning! It appeared on her album Clouds.

You can head back east to the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea by Fulham Road or King’s Road nearer the River Thames. The crossing is bracketed by World’s End and Brompton Cemetery, which sound more cheerful on a matchday. Along the river I can stroll along Cheyne Walk and think at least something sounds like it’s named after me. Chelsea Bridge is further on. The current structure dates from 1937, replacing an earlier one originally known as Victoria Bridge. Like its predecessor it is a suspension bridge, though much wider, and while plain enough, pleasantly illuminated at night.

A landmark across Chelsea Bridge is the Battersea Power Station. This massive coal fired power station was designed by engineer Leonard Pearce with architects Giles Gilbert Scott and Theo Halliday. Construction began in 1929. It was paused during the Second World War; the complex ultimately completed in 1955. In the late seventies decommissioning began and the building became derelict for thirty years until redevelopment in 2012. Numerous bids included Chelsea’s plan to convert the station into a football stadium. But that didn’t fly. Frank Gehry and Norman Foster were amongst the leading architects redesigning the forty acre site along with restoring the original buiding on a project incorporating residential, retail, leisure and entertainment. The complex was opened in 2022.

Battersea Power Station is a combination of awe inspiring scale and art deco elegance. One of London’s most iconic buildings, it is also a cultural landmark in its evocation of both utopian and dystopian themes. Pink Floyd fans will know this from the cover of their 1977 album, Animals. The cover photo, by Hipgnosis, was not collaged or manipulated, no Photoshop back then. A giant inflatable pig was hoisted into place for the shoot. Unfortunately, the monster broke free, terrorising the population of West London and Heathrow Airport before landing in Kent. You can’t get more Orwellian than that.

London Memories -2

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City of Drama

Leaving London back in ’73, we made our winding way back to Holyhead via Stratford on Avon, hometown of the Bard, William Shakespeare. He was born there in 1564 and the town has become a mecca for Bardolators. Stratford is suitably picturesque, packed with tourists and Tudor style buildings. From our ad hoc camp by the river our trio wondered if we could swim across the Avon and bunk into the rere of the theatre for a show. A Midsummer’s Nights Dream, most likely. We visited Anne Hathaway’s Cottage, a sizeable thatched timber-framed building with a museum. Anne Hathaway was twenty six and with child when she married eighteen year old Will. Daughter Susanna was born six months later, and another year on Anne gave birth to twins Judith and Hamnet.

In his early twenties, Shakespeare moved to London and became part of the theatre scene. He acted and wrote with a group called the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and in 1599 they established their hq at the Globe Theatre in Southwark. The first Globe burned down in 1613 during a performance of Shakespeare’s Henry VIII. A pyrotechnic flourish misfired, and sparks ignited the thatched roof. There were no injuries, other than a man whose breeches caught fire which helpful spectators extinguished with their tankards of ale. A rare occasion of a punter being obliged to buy a round for the people who had just drenched his crotch with beer. The theatre was rebuilt but the flame of drama was extinguished during the Civil War period from 1642. The Commonwealth under Oliver Cromwell. were against the brazen licentiousness of the world of theatre. The Globe was ultimately demolished. Although the Restoration saw the return of theatre, staging had changed to a more refined, and subdued form, indoors and viewed through the Proscenium Arch. Actresses, forbidden in Tudor and Jacobean days, were now allowed. Shaskespeare’s popularity was reignited and his plays revived. 

The modern version, Shakespeare’s Globe, was built in 1997, the culmination of a long campaign by Sam Wanamaker, American born actor and director for film and stage. It is located just over two hundred metres from where the original stood, and is a very realistic rendition of how the outdoor Elizabethan theatre would have looked. Daily tours explain its setting and heritage, and what you might have experienced back in the day; theatre in the round, outdoors with a rumbuxtious audience drawn from the broad social spectrum of city life. More rock gig or football crowd than the genteel theatre of today, with plenty of two way rapport; but there was poetry and message in the medium too. Drinking, smoking and heckling were not so much tolerated as encouraged. It was a daytime thing, and not well thought of by the great and the good. Though, of course, many from that sector did attend, and indeed sponsor the enterprise.

Best of all, book seats for a performance. On a family trip in 2010, we booked seats for Henry IV, Part 1. This features the notorious Falstaff, chief amongst the company of the young dissolute Hal, future king, here depicted as dedicated to life on the raz. Young Will perhaps drawing on  memories of his own misspent twentysomething back in the eighties. My son, Davin, was dubious of the joys of an afternoon of Shakespearean theatre. I impressed upon him that the following day, Saturday, we would go to Stamord Bridge to watch Chelsea trounce West Brom by six goals with Didier Drogba scoring a hat-trick; an astonishingly accurate prediction as it turned out. He got fully immersed in the experience. Most cheerful he was relaxing in the bar. afterwards, as he thought, less so on being informed that was merely the intermisssion.

London’s modern theatre district flourishes on the other side of the river. The West End denotes the main commercial centre of London. It stretches north of the river up to Regent Street to the west of the ancient walled city. The areas of Soho and Covent Garden are central to London nightlife, with Leicester Square and Picadilly Circus its focal points.

Leicester Square is the place to go for tickets for silver screen or show. Myself and M got tickets here for the fun dance show Top Hat ten years ago, front row seats which were quite startling. Cinema remains a a draw for us even though films are not so frequently banned in Ireland as before. Myself and M visited back in the mid seventies on our way to Greece, and took in an afternoon showing of the Life of Brian. Monty Python’s satire on zealotry and mass hysteria was set at the time of Christ and caused a muttering of modern zealots to chant: Down with that sort of thing! Still, we emerged into the afternoon sunlight happily singing always look on the bright side of life.

West End, of course, is synonymous with theatre. Alongside New York’s Broadway it is the main theatre zone of the English speaking world. There are about forty venues showing musicals, classic and modern theatre. Other, non commercial theatres, including the Globe, Covent Garden Opera House and the Old Vic feature classic repertoire and the work of contemporary and acclaimed modern playwrights.

The longest running show in West End history is The Mousetrap. Written by Agatha Christie it was first performed in 1952 and is now approaching thirty thousand performances. A whodonit with a twist, it’s a typical scenario for the author. Born Agatha Miller in 1890, by her death in 1976 she had published sixty six novels and over a dozen collections of short stories. Her most famous creation is the fastidious Belgian sleuth Hercule Poirot. The Mousetrap was originally a radio play called Three Blind Mice, and then a short story. The title had to be changed for the stage as another play called Three Blind Mice had been produced in the thirties by Emile Littler. The name the Mousetrap was taken from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, it being Prince Hamlet’s smartarse reply to Polonius concerning the title of the play at court. Hamlet had hijacked the play to let off his own grenade. “The play’s the thing wherein to catch the conscience of the King,” he mused.

On a family visit in the Noughties we took in a performance at St Martin’s Theatre which has hosted the play since 1974. We four at home often enjoyed an elaborate murder mystery on the telly. Theatre, by its nature, brings you into the box itself. You are sharing atoms with these people. The famous twist is a major subversion of the mystery genre. I have often wondered since if anyone has ever thought of suspecting Poirot for causing the puzzles he so brilliantly solves. After all, he is a common thread throughout so many killings. The play was just the thing, so, to be followed by convivial food and drink.

St. Martin’s is on West Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue and close to the Seven Dials. This is an intersection of seven straight streets, giving the small plaza an incongruous centrality in the great scheme of things. From here, you can go anywhere. Eateries abound, though we took the quaint decision to go for a fish and chips nearby. Well, it was my fiftieth birthday, and the One and One is my favourite food. Why not have it here at the centre of Chipperdom? There was a bench outside and we watched the world go by. Nearby, Shaftesbury Avenue seethes with life. Across the street Soho embraces the divine vices. Musicians strum and dancers strut, and wining, dining and dancing pleasures galore stretch into the wee small hours. In all the darkness and joy, what better time to join the vamps and werewolves of London.

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand

Walking through the streets of SoHo in the rain

He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fook’s

Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein

Ah-hoo, werewolves of London

Ah-hoo

Ah-hoo, werewolves of London

Ah-hoo

Werewolves of London was written by Warren Zevon, Waddy Wachtel and Leroy Marinell. It is included on Zevon’s third album, Excitable Boy, from 1978 and was its lead single. Fleetwood Mac provide the rhythm section, in case you wonder why it’s so good. Phil Everly suggested the idea to Zevon having seen the 1930s film Werewolf of London. Lee Ho Fook’s was London’s best known Chinese Restaurant, located on Gerrard Street in Chinatown, at the south end of Soho. The name itself suggests the sort of ribaldry that chimes with the suggestive comedy of the song’s lyrics. The restaurant closed in 2008. Zevon died in 2003, but the music lives on.