Oxford

Posted on by
Reply

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.

Helsinki

Posted on by
Reply

Finland’s shape on the map is cut like a dancing woman. The snows of the Arctic are in her hair, her dress swirls with forest and lakeland. On her ankle is fashioned the elegant bracelet of Helsinki. The Finnish capital is relatively new, planned in straight lines yet fitting naturally into its marine setting. Religious temples form an exotic skyline. None more so than Helsinki Cathedral, the white neo-classical confection that is the most usual postcard image of the city. This is where we begin, climbing the dauntingly steep steps of its plinth. The day is appropriately blue and white, up at these latitudes we can almost touch the dome of the sky, see pale stars glimmer behind its glass.

   Helsinki excites the designer’s muse. No surprise that it’s designated the World Design Capital for 2012. That subtly cool skill of the Scandinavian, twisting artistic impulse into  the fashion and fabric of the city itself, is given an added exuberance by the Finns. They are noticeably a different crew than their neighbours, the Russian and the Swedes. They speak a different language, unrelated to the Indo-European of most of us; Hungarian and Estonian its only kin. 

  Like us, the Finns have suffered the overbearing attention of powerful neighbours. The Swedes founded the city as Helsingfors, running the show here until the early nineteenth century. The Swedish Theatre still stands proud on the Esplanadi, catering to the Swedish speaking remnant. It is only a century since Finns first outnumbered Swedes here, now Swedes comprise under ten per cent of the population. 

   The Russians established Helsinki as capital of their Finnish province and initiated its transformation into a city. Styled somewhat along the same neo-classical lines as St Petersburg, architect Carl Engel established the central focus of the city at Senate Square on a hill overlooking the South Harbour. The Cathedral dominates the skyline and provides a superb platform from which to admire the expansive city floating on the blue Baltic. 

   The parallel thoroughfares of the Esplanadi, each side of a slim green park, make for an elegant main street. Bronze dames dance naked in the park but whatever controversy they once aroused has now subsided. It is the place for summer strollers, bandstand music and cafe society. Sidewalk drinkers perch outside elegant establishments, devoting their full attention to people watching. Cafe Kappelli is the popular place, an ornate conservatory blending with the greenery. It is crowded on this hot summer day, but we grab a beer at a nearby kiosk and sit and watch the world go by. Some of it anyway. We are amused at the sight of the worst display of human statuary in the world. A man with a beer crate and a spiderman suit, and a brass neck.  

   The Esplanadi merges into Market Square along the seafront. Small pleasure boats and taxis bring a pleasant maritime flavour into the city’s heart. A lively market is laid out along the quays. Above, standing proud on a crag is a reminder of Russian days. Uspenski Orthodox Cathedral is full of eastern exuberance, sounding a strange, but pleasant note against the more rational symphony of architecture. 

  Nationalist confidence brought creative fervour. The zeitgeist manifested itself in Art Nouveau, Jugendstil in Finnish. The city boasts many fine examples of the style. The Central Railway Station, designed by Eliel Saarinen, is the most striking. The soaring clock tower is its distinctive landmark feature. Up close, we find the entrance guarded by four stone giants, each holding a spherical lamp. The interior doesn’t disappoint either. Coolly elegant, the design lends serenity to what is usually a hectic environment. It must be a pleasure to travel by rail here.

   Helsinki is very modern. A hundred years ago under one hundred thousand people lived here, today it is home to more than a million. Trams speed busily above ground, the metro beavers away below. To the north the extensive Olympic centre hosted the 1952 games. Finns set great store by athletic achievement. Their great Olympian, Paavo Nurmi, merits a statue, though he was hardly a person to encompass stasis. Set amongst the parkland that is such a feature of the city, the stadia and village are a monument to the greatness possible when a small nation believes.

 Alvar Alto, designer and architect, came to define the modern era. A leading figure of functionalist design, Finlandia Hall typifies the inherent style and musicality of the city. Sound and vision combine again at Tempeliaukio, The Church of the Rock is built underground; a hollow of bare rock with light streaming in from above. The design happily encompasses superb acoustics. Infested with tourists, including ourselves, there is still a pervasive hush as a pianist serenades us to the music of Sibelius. 

  We buy a strange, yet appropriate ornament. An old antique shop on an undulating, San Francisco-esque street, provides a magical interlude hinting at olden days. In the palm of your hand, four dancing ladies sashay, white with blue trim. They could be Finnish, or oriental, it is hard to tell. Perhaps they’re Lapp dancers. 

   It is hard to tell, in this imaginative city, which of the orient or the occident prevail. At sixty degrees north, lines of longitude converge and the human experience grows ever more unique and rare. Helsinki, tenuously connected to the past, embraces the present and the future. Confident, creative, individually and collectively; where such virtues pervade, dreams can be made.

 

Stockholm

Posted on by
Reply

Stockholm sleeps in its shallow lagoon. Thousands of tiny, verdant islands guard its entrance. It would be a hard job sneaking up on the canny Swedes. On the other hand, over the centuries they have ambushed a few themselves, being something of a warlike tribe that carved empires out of the ice, the oceans and the steppe. East and west, Protestant and Orthodox, can put a tick beside Swedish influence on their cv. 

  They’re a more sober bunch now, good Europeans though not Eurozoners. Still, we found that the citizens of the capital maintain a certain hostility towards the foreigner. Sverige might be almost an anagram of service, but the concept is not enthusiastically embraced in Stockholm. At our first coffee stop in Djurgarden, a large island designated as the city’s park, I pay at the counter and, after an uncomfortable silent interlude, ask for the goods. The girl serving jerks a thumb over her shoulder: get it yourself, she snaps. Charming. 

  Early on a balmy Saturday morning, the streets are yet deserted and a wonderful sense of peace envelops the massive stone palaces and well scrubbed streets of this floating world. The city is built on fourteen islands so you’re never far from the waterfront. Elegant architecture proclaims centuries of success, the hint of empire with a pervasive sense of royal power. 

  These days, of course,the Swedes are the epitome of democracy. Its system is often envied, or at least name checked in relation to public service, generous welfare and all round good and healthy living. Grumpy denigrators point to dullness and expense. Certainly Stockholm doesn’t exhibit much in the way of drunken mayhem. The citizens are well to do, but perhaps not so well to do as to splurge on a few litres of expensive brew. There is something of an inbuilt reserve too. Garish modernism, noise pollution, general rowdiness are alien to this environment.

  The Old Town, Gamla Stan, retains an ancient feel, its cobbled streets winding between huddled buildings. An outer ring of Parliament buildings, Royal palaces and museums is impressive, the soft centre of ancient lanes and tottering buildings beguiling. Vasterlanggatan is the main drag, lined with shops, atmospheric bars and eateries.

There’s even the odd Irish bar, one promising the joys of League of Ireland soccer.   

  Crowds seep in from noon and quickly the area is thronged with tourists, street performers and three card trick men. In Jarntorget, a crowded pedestrian square, a woman sings Irish songs playing an instrument that could be described as a cross between a harp and a wok. I relax over a black coffee. Having already paid, the staff refuse to give me milk and I’m a bit dubious about asking the other customers.

  Gamla Stan is where the city began almost eight hundred years ago. Birger Jarl established his base here, fortifying the harbour against invasion with wooden piles. The clearing of the woodland for this purpose is what gives the city its name. It translates as island of logs, which is unfairly prosaic. Meanwhile, Stockholm would grow from humble beginnings to become northern Europe’s dominant city in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

  Since then it has continued to expand. To the west Kungsholmen island is the main centre for administration and law. Most notable is the City Hall, one of Stockholm’s best known landmarks. Completed in1927, this massive stack of redbrick, plain and modern, resounds with Nordic Gothic power. Its interior is more ornate, proving the Swedes have a certain exotic, well cached. Every year, the Nobel Prize ceremonies are hosted here.

  The north central area is simply known as City, the commercial hub of Stockholm.

Kungsgatan is a long street, specifically designed as a modernist main street in the nineteen twenties. It is guarded by two massive neoclassical towers, amongst the few high buildings in the capital. The King’s Towers also resemble a fortress, connected by a bridge which carries another busy street across Kungsgatan. This is an area of impressive stores and bustling shoppers. At Hotorget (Haymarket) Square we ask directions of a hostess outside a restaurant, but she is indignant and stalks off swearing, telling us to, more or less, get lost. Fortunately we don’t, and return to the waterfront through the bustling shops and markets along Drottninggatan, leading across a bridge that takes us back to Gamla Stan.

  We wave goodbye to Stockholm, wending our way south through its archipelago. You wouldn’t sneak up on these folk in the dead of night, hell, even in the glare of midday they don’t like it too much. But that’s okay, gaze on the natural and architectural beauty, and enjoy. In a couple of days we will get to Malmo in Sweden’s exotic south. It may not be so impressive as the capital, but it turns out to be a bit warmer in more ways than one. Perhaps the good folk of Stockholm might shed their icy reputation, if only they chilled out  some.

  

  

Copenhagen

Posted on by
Reply

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.

Tallinn

Posted on by
1

Tallinn guards the southern entrance of the gulf of Finland. Built atop a steep hill it nurtures the centuries it as known. Ancient walls and turrets survive, bell towers and onion domes shape the skyline, a labyrinth of streets entwine within its walls, like some mad, medievalist fantasy. Not just that, mind you; this is no theme park, no historic splinter suspended in amber. The modern city has grown around it, recording both the dour order of Soviet days and the sometimes crass exuberance of a westward looking independence.

  Climbing to the highest point in Tallinn is the sort of journey through time that medieval cities provide. The streets wind upwards between close grouped tall buildings. Archways lead off into beckoning squares and courtyards, flights of steps lead to flights of fancy. Rising higher than the high pitched roofs are a host of towers. The sleek spire of St Olaf’s church was once the highest building in the world, surpassed in the 17th century. The onion domes of the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral strike an eastern chord, signaling the long dominance of Russia over Estonia. 

  More than forty per cent of the population still speak Russian and the cathedral’s size and prominence is a mark of that culture’s persistence. Russian rule began in the early 18th century when the Swedes ceded their authority. After the First World War the Estonians gained brief independence, but the recommencement of hostilities in the 1940s saw Russia annex the land once more.  

  Age drips from Tallinn, but most becomingly. At the summit, land and city fall away and the eras through which the city has journeyed become visible. The regimented streets of the communist age form one zone, the brash spires of consumer capitalism another. Beyond the city the flat lands merge in an infinity of Baltic blue. The air itself seems scarcer here, the buildings white and calm above the bustling city.

  Tallinn retains much of its impressive walls and guard towers. These sport colourful names, there is Fat Margaret and, intriguingly, Kik in de Kok. Sounds painful, but it’s old Low German meaning ‘peep into the kitchen’, the vantage point allowing such snooping, apparently. The city grew in the heyday of the Hanseatic league and many original merchant houses survive. Some have been converted into restaurants and bars, and occasional street theatre breaks out as players attempt to lure custom with costumed displays of local legend. Typical Paddy abroad, I suppose, but I wind up parked before some seriously frothy beer at Mad Murphy’s in the Town Hall Square. Irish tricolours flutter in the brisk breeze; they’re fond of flags here, the flapping colours and emblazoned pennants underlining the medieval atmosphere. 

  It’s not all gaiety. St Catherine’s lane is lined with ancient tombstones, the pressing walls on each side kept apart by buttresses. Outside the city walls the atmosphere changes markedly. Trams skate along straight boulevards, Soviet era apartments and powerful public buildings assert themselves. In the New Town glass towers take the eye upwards, street signs, neon and tacky commercial joints vie for attention. Still the ancient peeps through like a palimpsest. Old wooden churches are left marooned in the concrete and neon. 

  At one redevelopment site the foundations of an old building remain. Along the ground, beneath glass, a timeline of Tallinn’s history is laid out. From Danish invaders to Teutonic knights, the Swedes were followed by the Russians, then a brief flicker of independence before the dark Soviet days. As the Iron Curtain evaporated, Tallinn became independent again. It is now in the Eurozone and prices are cheaper than its Baltic neighbours.

  Amongst Europe’s oldest capitals it was Europe’s Capital of Culture last year. We can be sure the blossom of Tallinn will not fade away. Its citizens provide a streetlife that’s lively and bright, with a keen sense of style and modernity too. But they are wise enough to hold onto their past, building on its firm foundations for a promising future. 

 

St Petersburg …

Posted on by
Reply

St Petersburg

St Petersburg is the epitome of the early modern idea of what a city should be. It grew out of the mind of that harbinger of enlightened despotism,Tsar Peter the Great, becoming a focal point of an empire straddling Europe and Asia. East may be east, west may be west, but there is a meeting of sorts here.

Peter was looking west when he founded St Petersburg. Paris provided something of a template, its triumphal arches and long wide boulevards harking back to ancient Rome. The city is built on the marshy delta of the Neva River where it meets the gulf of Finland. This watery environment allowed St Petersburg to be fashioned as something of a northern Venice, it was envisioned its citizens would commute by an extensive grid of canals. This plan didn’t come to fruition, freezing winters making canal travel impossible for half the year. But the city established itself as a trading port, its merchants ensconced in fabulous palaces, retaining enough rivers and canals to make the comparison valid.

Approaching St Petersburg by sea seems appropriate and alluring, but is rather more banal these days. Communist ideals established rudimentary living conditions with rows of shabby tower blocks ringing the city. Soviet Russia may be gone but it is not yet buried. Commerce is something of a delicate flower, restaurants, bars and stores are beginning to pop up amongst the crumbling fabric of its streets. There should certainly be call for it, main street Nevsky Prospect throbs with streetlife, cars and pedestrians hurrying along in a constant torrent.

Citizens pour in from the suburbs through the impressive metro system. Stalin saw the stations as palaces for the workers, kitting them out with chandeliers and artistic mosaics. Though multitudes descend into the bowels of the earth, an eerie sense of calm prevails. Brash consumerism or panhandling do not intrude here, nor are we advised to take photographs. Petersburghers do not take fondly to strangers, and westerners setting off cameras in their faces is too invasive by far.

There is something futuristic in all this, in an old-fashioned way, as in Fritz Laing’s Metropolis or Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty Four. Nevertheless the fabric is real enough, some facades decay where others are gilded, golden spires punctuate the skyline speaking of great wealth in bygone days. St Petersburg is a peculiarity in Europe, it is new, rather like an American city in that respect, yet there are ancient echos in its churches with their Byzantine faith, while arcane elements of empire and sovietism still persist.

By the mid 18th century St Petersburg was achieving its golden age under the guidance of Catherine the Great. German by birth she came to embody her adoptive city. Enlightened at first, she believed rulers were called to serve, founding hospitals and schools for the betterment of her people.

Such high idealism would fade, but her most enduring legacy is housed in the sprawling Hermitage, an array of four palaces on the Neva River. Catherine occupied the Winter Palace in person, also in mind and spirit. She initiated the acquisitions that would see the Hermitage Museum become one of the world’s greatest art museums. The range of work is astonishing, spanning the history of visual art from ancient Egypt to the twentieth century. A roll call of old masters is on show, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Botticelli, El Greco, Durer and Renoir to name a very few. Most captivating is a fine selection of Rembrandt’s, exhibiting a majestic range of skill and emotion from the erotic Danae to the deeply moving Return of the Prodigal Son.

Awe inspiring as the collections are, they are almost upstaged by the opulence of the interiors. The baroque Jordan Staircase at the entrance is a hard act to follow, yet still to come are the State Rooms, the Malachite Hall and the Hall of Twenty Columns, amongst other delights.

The Hermitage hosts three million visitors a year, it is as busy as the Metro stations at rush hour. Our guide, Irina, marshals us well. Holding a delphinium aloft, we acquire a sense of identity with her. We can even take turns at the delphinium. She exhorts us not to be shy. Later, on a tour of the Cathedral on Spilled Blood, she makes us push through other groups to ensure we see everything – it’s a jungle out there in tourist land.

What a name that is, the Cathedral on Spilled Blood. One of the few quintessentially eastern buildings in a neoclassical city, it was built as a shrine to the reforming Tsar, Alexander II, assassinated on this spot by a terrorist bomb. Alexander III, was, not surprisingly, less keen on reform. If anything, the old Russian style of the church was a reassertion of traditional values, its swirling golden domes rising above an exuberant confection clad in mosaics. The interior is no less impressive, covered in mosaics on religious and historic themes, pervasively blue, almost a calming influence on the constant throng of visitors.

Spilled blood has been a constant theme in this city. Pushkin, who died following a duel to uphold the honour of his wife, died in a house nearby that is now a museum. There is also a monument to the ‘Russian Shakespeare’ in the Square of the Arts.

Rasputin’s  baleful influence on the doomed Romanovs caused Royalists to plot his demise. The monk was plied with poison, enough to kill a horse it is said, yet remained unaffected. A bullet to the head was no more lethal and several shots and stabbings later the assassins dumped a trussed Rasputin in the icebound river. That did it, although he still managed to undo his bonds before drowning.

The Great War was exacting untold misery as the country lurched towards revolution. Trotsky’s plot was to occupy strategic buildings in the capital, now called Petrograd, effecting a coup d’etat with minimal fuss. With the empire disintegrating he was pushing an open door and the, misnamed, Bolsheviks came to power. Civil war followed as the capital shifted back to Moscow. Renamed Leningrad the city once more rose from the ashes. World War Two would visit more horror and Leningrad would withstand an epic nine hundred day siege where over half a million died.

So good they named it thrice, it finally reverted to its original name following the fall of the communist regime. These days it struggles to again wear the mantel of sophisticated European city. New shoots of culture are blooming, yet those shabby clothes of paranoia and conservatism are hard to shake off. Buskers, street artists, even some graffiti are invading the streets and alleys. Canal boats ferry tourists about the city’s waterways and sidewalk cafes are sprouting, Europe is coming back.

The floating world, the dreaming spires, are infected by a riotous gothic. A dangerous energy seeps through the streets and canals. Sordid and sacred history is never far from the surface. The spilling of blood, the swelling of symphonies, poetry and polemic are in the spit of the citizens. This city has always been central to the conveyance of ideas, the creation of art, music and literature. They flowed as ink on a page or flame from a torch, ultimately engulfing the globe for good and ill. Dostoevsky called St Petersburg “the most abstract and imaginary city.” So it was in Peter’s conception that raised it from a swamp, so it remained through its achievements and intrigues. After leaving, long after passing through the jaws of the sea locks at Kotlin Island, it lingers in that special place in the mind where cities form, attaching themselves to endless convoluted dreams. St Petersburg floats on, within your presence or beyond.

Vancouver

Posted on by
Reply

Vancouver.

Vancouver is on the same latitude as Ireland and suffers nominally the same marine temperate climate. It rains, man, it pours. The city is set on a peninsula against a dramatic backdrop of snow capped peaks. Not that we can see them on the first day as it lives up to its sodden image with a welcoming downpour. By the next day however the clouds have lifted to reveal the highrise city and the Coastal Range across the bay.

Vancouver’s population density is said to be second only to Hong Kong and has all the rich and varied hum of city life which that implies. It is very modern and preserves only isolated scraps of its heritage. Even the landmark monoliths of the early twentieth century are dwarfed amongst the skyscrapers, they’re still impressive though. The Fairmont Hotel is in the signature Canadian style with a steep bronze roof like a French chateau. The Marine Building is an exuberant art deco building from 1929, designed to appear like a ‘great crag rising from the sea.’

Something of a coherent urban heritage survives in Gastown. The area takes its name from English adventurer Jack Deighton who established the first saloon here in 1867. Deighton earned the nickname Gassy Jack for his voluble espousal of any worthy cause in the growing city. He died in 1875 and his body lies in an unmarked grave but there’s a statue to him on Water Street standing atop a beer barrel.

Gastown remains a picturesque enclave of late nineteenth century buildings with a good concentration of bars, restaurants and clubs.

Chinatown is nearby. The second largest Chinatown in North America after San Francisco, Vancouver’s is more downbeat and edgy. Tens of thousands of Chinese arrived in the eighteen eighties to build the Trans-Canada railway and formed a shantytown here. The Chinese community was ghettoised for decades but, as builders of Vancouver, they cleverly constructed a network of tunnels allowing them quick access to the city from which they were forbidden. An ornamental, traditional gate now marks the entrance to Chinatown but it is the streets between here and Downtown that have developed into a modern ghetto. The area is reminiscent of Dawn of the Dead, with crowds of those who have fallen through the bottom of society congregating, zombie-like, in the streets and squares.

While much of Downtown gleams new, Granville Street remains a shabby but seductive slice of fifties Americana. Glorious old film theatres jut into the street which is low-end shopping by day and thronged with rough edged nightlife after dark. Where the street crosses False Creek Granville Island is an oasis off the city grid, a maze of markets, restaurants and cafes. There are art galleries and buskers and along by the Creek is a great place to admire the city skyline.

Modern Vancouver is more than highrise Condo heaven. The library at Robson Street resembles Rome’s Coliseum, but its nine floors are devoted to more intellectual pursuits. Entrance through an outer spiral arm leads into an impressive concourse with several cafes. Light pours in through an atrium six stories overhead. The library itself is airy and spacious, creating an overall effect of calm within a busy maelstrom of human traffic.

After feeding your head you won’t need to go far in Vancouver to feed the body. The rich ethnic mix means there’s no shortage of variety and, not surprisingly given that it is the Pacific out there, there’s plenty of Chinese and Japanese cuisine. Davie Street is Vancouver’s Castro and lined with restaurants and clubs. It is friendly and unapologetic, self-contained to an almost parochial degree.

Granville Street at night is more hetro and there’s an even more butch option at GM place which is home to the Canucks ice hockey team. Canada’s national sport is incredibly fast and skillful, but there’s more than that, you’re guaranteed a night of beer, loud music and regular punch ups. What more could you ask for? Well, the Stanley Cup, hockey’s premier prize, would be nice, but as yet it has eluded the grasp of the boys in blue.

More natural and timeless pleasures can be found in Stanley Park on the northern tip of the city. The thousand acre expanse of parkland is in sharp contrast to the metropolis looming over it. Vancouverites and visitors flock here for sport and recreation and its many attractions include a vivid reminder of the areas origins. The Totem Park is a startling collection of totem poles by local ‘Indian’ tribes. The Canadian term is First Nation, after all, they were here first. They’re still here, and the timeless visual narratives of the totem poles is a fascinating counterpoint to the exclamation mark of modern humanity, the two facing each other across a short stretch of grass and water.

Reykjavik

Posted on by
Reply

Iceland loomed large last year, not so much as a destination – more a roadblock. Eyjafjallajokull sent a pall of ash over the North Atlantic disrupting flight services all over Europe. It’s not the first time Icelandic volcanoes have had a baleful effect on Europe. Three thousand years ago the explosion of mighty Hekla contributed to the eclipse of the early Mediterranean civilisations of Minoa and Mycenae. It won’t be the last.

Iceland straddles the continental divide between Europe and America. The faultline is visible in the region of Thingvellir where the continental plates rear in sheer walls above a steaming plain. It is the site of the world’s oldest parliament, the Althing. Here, in 930 AD, ancient Icelanders gathered to hold court and elect their parliament. Irish monks were the first people to reach Iceland but the Vikings would supplant them and become the were the first Europeans to colonise the North Atlantic and ultimately reach America.

Four hundred years before Columbus, Leif Eriksson founded Vinland (Greenland) and the colony lasted a couple of centuries before fading from sight and memory. In the 1930s the Americans commemorated the explorer with the donation of a dramatically heroic statue which guards the plaza before Reykjavik’s landmark Hallgrimskirkja. The church is named for Hallgrim, a 17th century devotional poet. He married Goethron, a Westland Islander captured by Algerian pirates in 1620. She was amongst a fortunate few to be ransomed by the Danish king and Hallgrim was dispatched to reacquaint the freed captives with Christianity – thus do love stories begin.

At the top of Hallgrimskirkja’s immense spire you can see all of Reykjavik neatly laid out below. There’s a palpable sense of drama and contrast on this fulcrum between the old world and the new, where Europe meets America. Powerful organ music pushes up from the stark church full of gothic power, while the modernist spire feels like a spaceship to heaven. Meanwhile, the city far below has a feeling of toy town. The buildings are clad in corrugated iron, painted in primary colours tumbling down to the harbour, beyond which jagged snow-capped  mountains pin down the deep blue horizon.

Iceland’s modern parliament building dates from 1880 and is set in a pleasant square in the city centre with the small Cathedral, Domkirkjan, nearby. I shelter from the cold in a pleasant bar opposite the park and enjoy a pint of the local brew, Gull, the rim of the glass frosted with ice. There are large photos on the walls of the recent disturbances after the financial crash. The black and white prints give a feel of ancient history, the scenes themselves, featuring police in riot gear, look improbable in such a placid square amongst an amiable people. The crash and the anger were real enough though.

There is political fire too in the work of Erro at the City Arts Museum. Iceland’s most significant visual artist was a prolific exponent of the collage, depicting a strange synthesis of propaganda, sex and consumerism. His most appealing series shows Mao and the Red Army leading a communist invasion of Europe and the USA. There is much reference to classical painting and iconic advertising such as the Rothman’s ad. Perhaps the east will rise, as Erro hints, or perhaps the twain should never meet. Iceland itself is finely poised, ever growing, ever changing.

Madrid

Posted on by
Reply

The Irish Celts are supposed to have come from Spain, the Milesians setting out from that land of the dead to the fabled isle of destiny in the western ocean. It would not be the last time a great voyage of discovery initiated in Iberia. It is in a state of constant change, sending voyagers outwards, receiving the insanely talented too. Columbus, the Italian, sought out Spain to back his ambitions. El Greco found acceptance for his otherworldly paintings here. There were the Conquistadors, the doomed Armada of  King Philip, poets, artists, and the ubiquitous Spanish student.

Madrid is central to this country, this fulcrum between Europe and Africa, stepping stone to the new world. The joining of the thrones of Aragon and Castille under Isabella and Philip brought Spain into being and the King chose Madrid as the capital for its central location. What had been little more than a small town on a bleak plateau became the capital city of the greatest empire of the early modern world. The city is built in overlaid layers, medieval lanes merge into grand boulevards, spacious squares are hidden amongst warrens of tiny streets, there are regular, elegant streetscapes in the European mode and sudden eruptions of art deco highrises in the American style. The stroller is rewarded with interesting shops and intimate taverns and the city plan is sufficiently confusing to make walking a pleasant adventure.

In terms of fine art Madrid ranks with the best. The Museo del Prado at the edge of is the most famous with an enormous collection of art from Spain and its colonies. The exuberance and hot colours of Spanish art are immediately addictive as is the passionate, baroque take on faith. The Cretan immigrant, El Greco, most captures the heart. Sinuous figures wave upwards like flames flickering in adoration. A more cautionary take on life is embodied in the work of Hieronymous Bosch, it is also more fantastical than one would think possible. My fevered teenage brain had been captured in a pocket-sized book on El Bosco, how great it is to stand before the original triptych of the Garden of Earthly Delights.  Goya also spanned the worlds of horror and sumptuous wealth, his truth and disturbing vision reaching deep into the soul. To simply enumerate the other artists would fill this article and the Prado could sustain a whole week’s visit, but there is more too see.

The Centro de Arte Reina Sofia is the place to see modern art. The collection includes Dali, Juan Gris and Miro. Picasso’s Guernica is understandably a powerful magnet; passionate, rough hewn, it appears incomplete, as if it were an emergent apparition about to engulf us. He is otherwise not my favourite, I must say, but this is the real thing. That other Catalan, Salvador Dali, moves us in a different way, the landscape of madness that he depicts is within us, his stunning technique inspiring awe and making the impossible certain.

The Museo Thyssen Bornemisza is a private collection bringing both strands together. Eclectic and extensive it spans five hundred years of Western art, ricochets amongst cubism and surrealism, explores Russian graphics and dazzles with the American Hyperrealists. So, here I stand in a gallery in Spain looking in through the reflections in the window of a New York diner conjured up by Richard Estes.

There are other theatres of art. At the Santiago Bernabeu stadium we bear witness to the stoic resistance of  Real Madrid to the wizardry of Barcelona FC. One hundred thousand passionate Spaniards are packed to the rafters, a sea of banners waving to the beat of drums, chants and songs. The great masters of the game, Messi and Ronaldo supply a goal apiece, honours are shared, the war goes on.

At night La Latina is the place to go. Narrow winding streets are packed with revellers, there are ornate bars and fragrant restaurants. We searched for Flamenco but found the blues instead at a hopping little club on the Calle de los Huertas. There are other delights to dip into. Deli food and wine are an excellent start to the evening at the lively Mercado de San Miguel. The Plaza Mayor is a signature for the city, but everywhere you emerge into magical plazas – Sol, Angel and Santa Anna thronged with diners, buskers, performers and hustlers. Art Deco architecture draws the eye upwards in delight. The Circulo de Bellas Artes is a particular gem – a slice of 1930’s New York containing a cultural foundation with a beautiful café. On our last morning we enjoy the ambience and watch the bustle of Gran Via  and Calle de Alcala pass by.

Our Easter vacation started with the sombre gaiety of Holy Week. Processions redolent of medieval intensity mark the days, the bond of spirituality runs deep. Religion, art, sport and society are entwined. This is the land of Death but so full of life. You can be seduced  to look at reflections in the glass of a shop window and pass through into a hyper-realist vision and see the possibilities of the whole world.