Travelling England (5)

Monday, July 19, 2010:

Chester

Packed my suitcase and discovered I've forgotten my bow tie for the banquet at Eastbourne. I'll have to look for one in London. Cousin Debby will know where. I've skipped breakfast since I had a copious dinner at the hotel last night. A little too copious. I didn't write much in Chester, only one poem and the beginning of a travel story. It was good staying here, but it was also a bit of a disappointment. Probably because of the bad weather and the many rather uncouth people on the streets and in the pubs. I felt somewhat insecure on my own. Much more than on my recent visit to Lisbon. I'm glad therefore I'll be staying at Debby's for a day or two. A pity I didn't make it into Wales. I saw the Welsh mountains in the distance. They were calling me, but the rain made me decide not to listen.

Took another long walk yesterday until lunch, after which I wrote in my diary. I felt rather tired and took a nap, as I usually do when in Greece. Afterwards I enjoyed myself in the bar with a few pints. I prefer much stronger Belgian beers to the English these days, but they weren't available, so I drank Guinness. I asked for Theakston's Old Peculiar, but they didn't have that either. I'll be leaving at eleven to have coffee and a bun at the station. I mustn't forget to buy my ticket from London to Eastbourne in advance to save myself a couple of pounds.

Three weeks ago, translating one of her poems, I asked Joanne Limburg what 'PG Tips' meant. I'm drinking it right now. Of course I should have known it was a brand of tea, but I hadn't realized. She mailed me the answer right away. Yet when you translate from English, you ought to visit the country at times, even if it has to be on your own. From now on I'll have company. First cousin Debby and the children and at Eastbourne my fellow Dickensians. The weather seems to improve, though there are still some clouds in the sky.

Travelling England (4)

Sunday, July 18, 2010:

Chester

Cold and rainy again. No weather to make a trip. I thought of taking a train to Llandudno or Conway, but I'll leave it until another time. Had dinner at The Gate of India last night. Not bad, but I had a better meal at India Corner in Haarlem. I went rather early, around six thirty. When I entered it was almost empty, but half an hour later people were queuing up to get a table. Afterwards I went straight to the hotel. Somehow I felt it wouldn't be wise to go out this evening. Maybe it's nonsense, but the atmosphere seemed a bit threatening, with just too many rowdy young men grouping together. Maybe I got the idea from John Burnside's book Waking Up In Toytown which I recently read. Coming back at the hotel I sat down in the garden with a pint and a pipe. The wind was a little too sharp and the temperature not really pleasant, but I felt like smoking. Smokers have been reduced to pariahs and separate smoking rooms, like the larger pubs in Holland have, seem unknown phenomena in Britain. I smoke very little, mostly pipe, never any cigarets, but I detest this non-smoking hysteria which is becoming ever more annoying in most of Europe. When it became too chilly I went to my room to read Elizabeth Speller's The Return Of Captain John Emmett.

Walked for over two hours after it stopped raining. Slowly the temperature rose and every now and again the sun came out. I took a lot of photographs, particularly of places that brought old memories. The Roman Garden, the walls, which were actually too slippery to walk, the cloister of the cathedral. I couldn't find the pub though where Wendy and I saw each other for the last time ever, somewhere in August 1970. Maybe it doesn't exist anymore. I haven't heard from her since the end of 1970, I don't even know if she's still living in England, if she's still alive. I always kept the letters she wrote me in the two years we were lovers, she on the Wirral, I on the Island of Dordrecht. We met in 1968 in Corwen in Wales, mere children yet. I sat down on a bench by the river Dee to smoke my pipe, remembering our walks on warm summer evenings when I went to stay in Redvers Avenue, Hooton, and our trips to Liverpool from there, taking the Birkenhead ferry. I remembered the way she kissed, the way we loved, sometimes even her smell, her wonderfully exciting smell, came back to me. The tide was out. A rusty dinghy in the mud looked like a stranded baby whale. 

Travelling England (3)

Spent £ 46,= on dinner. Not bad considering the kind of hotel, but tonight it will be an Indian restaurant. I just tried the trousers of my best suit. They fit again, so I could allow myself a full English breakfast. However, I prefer the French way: a strong coffee and a croissant. Slept very well after dinner. The food was average: cream of tomatoes, monkfish with 'real chips,' a spoonful of vegetables and a bottle of red Chilean wine. The fish was good, but the cook should make a trip to Flanders to learn what 'real chips' are. The cream could have done with a little more salt and taste. The girl serving me was sweet and rather good looking too. I shouldn't have ordered a whole bottle of wine though. If I order a bottle I drink it, but it was a little embarrassing for the waitress having to wake me up at closing time.

Received the map John H. drew me to find my way to the hospital, a very friendly gesture. I know where to go from Newton station, but Earlestown is closer. I think though I would have remembered enough of the place to make it on my own. Waking up I thought with pleasure of the girl I met in the street last night close to the hotel who gave me a very friendly smile. She was noticeably well dressed in a city where most women seem to be looking rather shabby.

Back from my visit to cousin Brian. I can't say he was too cheerful about the operation, but he didn't seem to be worrying too much either. We looked at the x-rays which show the fracture in his pelvis was not something overlooked by the surgeon, but developed after the operation because of a weakness of the bones. They'll be adjusting the construction in Birmingham. He's more concerned about the possibility of another infection than of the outcome of the operation. John H. wrote me the hospital was quarter of an hour walking from the station, but in fact it was only five minutes. I was half an hour early, but since it is a very small and quiet place, rather sleepy in fact, a nurse allowed me in and directed me straight away to Brian's room, where I stayed for more than half an hour after the official visiting time. Very considerate, I did after all travel all the way from Holland. It was good to see Brian again and to talk about the old days. I bought him Peter Mandelson's Memoirs and a copy of the Times Literary Supplement. From the train, somewhere in between Warrington and Earlestown I saw a weird character next to the track who had his face painted blue. I thought the ancient Celts used to do that before going to war, but he didn't look very much like a worrier to me.

Back at Earlestown station I had half an hour until the next train. I thought of having a drink in a nearby pub but it didn't look very welcoming so I sat down on the platform to read. A girl asked me if she was on the right platform for the train to Llandidno. I said she was after which she excused herself for moving into the sun which just appeared in between some clouds. Once on the train, which was crowded, a sweet young lady offered me her seat but I refused. It was just a short ride and I'm not a grumpy grandpa yet.

Phoned John H. back at the hotel to thank him and to tell him about my visit. It's almost six o' clock. Time for a pint after which I'll go and look for an Indian. I noticed an Italian restaurant yesterday but no Greek or Cypriot.

Travelling England (2)

Friday, July 16, 2010:

Chester, Queen Hotel, room 1103.

Very luxurious even for a four star hotel. My room is large, very large, and named after king Duncan I of Scotland. It's well furnished, equipped with a desk, a CD player and LCD television set, but surprisingly it hasn't got a minibar. The airco was on 17º Celsius, which I immediately turned up to 22º. It's windy, chilly and cloudy. It looks like rain, like in Harwich, but up to now it's dry. My window overlooks the garden where a wedding party is going on.

First of all I took the train to London this morning. I could have done myself a favour sailing from Rotterdam to Hull, from where it's a relatively short train ride to Chester, but I wanted to repeat the traditional voyage we used to make when I was a child: Dordrecht - Hoek van Holland - Harwich - London - Chester. Though in the old days it wasn't Chester, but Manchester, and from there to Newton-le-Willows. On the train I met Pete, an American from English descend, who's touring the world on his motorbike and thinking of writing a book about it. He visited relatives in England, while his bike is on its way to the States from Rotterdam by boat. We talked for a while, mostly about the Great War, until the train got crammed with commuters.

Once in London a had a dreadful trip on the underground. I had to change at Moregate which meant no elevators and negotiating an endless number of stairs during the rush hour while carrying a heavy suitcase. Never again! Next time I'll take a cab. Exhausted and covered in sweat I arrived at Euston station. I got on a direct train for Chester, but once on our way I found the airco wasn't working which made the ride rather tropical. The guard seemed unable to do something about it. I arrived in Chester just after twelve and was happy to find the hotel right across the road from the station. After a good shower and checking my e-mail on the computer near the bar (free of charge) I took a walk to the city centre. John H. sent a message that cousin Brian will be moved to Birmingham to be operated on his pelvis on Monday, which means I'll take a train to Earlestown tomorrow to visit him in the Newton-le-Willows Cottage Hospital. Depending on the weather I may take a trip to Llandudno on Sunday. A day trip to Llandudno by boat from Liverpool used to be one of the highlights of our summer holidays in England. Last time I went there was in 1995 together with Stella in the only summer we did not spent in Greece during the twenty years of our marriage. I'll probably feel sad walking the Great Orme on my own, but somehow I believe it will be a soothing experience as well.

Public transport is unbelievably expensive. I paid £ 90,= for a first class single ticket, the equivalent of € 120,= for a distance, more or less, from Dordrecht to Groningen. It would have been cheaper bringing the car along, but I didn't want to drive without company and certainly not drive through London.

I walked the Roman walls and noticed that the small cafe where I once had lunch with Stella, is still there. We were surprised it didn't have any toilets. I wonder if that's still the case. I sat down at a place called The Cheshire Farm, run by two lovely looking young ladies, for a sandwich and a beer and later on smoked a pipe sitting outside The Staffordshire Arms, near the cathedral and the town hall. A very friendly publican but a few too boisterous fellows around. After a while they moved on. I heard them saying they were off to The Cheshire Hangman. A place to avoid tonight.

Travelling England (1)

Thursday, July 15, 2010:

On board m.v. Stena Brittannica, cabin 8238.

When entering I became somewhat worried, seeing two bunks, while I had booked for a single cabin. No way I would share with someone else. In the end nobody showed up so they seemed to have upgraded me in some way or other. I arrived on board around six in the afternoon. After settling in I went to one of the bars to finish reading Het geheim van Paros (The Secret of Paros) by André Oerlemans. Quite a well written thriller. I'm not too keen on thrillers, but I'd given this book a chance since the writer is from my hometown. As usual there are a few coincidences too many, but on the whole it's enjoyable enough when travelling. Sadly there's a bad ending for the stunning beloved of the hero, but I find that rather refreshing. After finishing the book I had an agreeable dinner: poached salmon, fried potatoes with chicory and carrots, preceded by cream of tomatoes, followed by French cheeses and fruit and accompanied by a fairly good red wine.

On the train from Rotterdam to Hoek van Holland I had quite a conversation with the guard who's trying to grow the largest walnut of the Netherlands. He asked what I did for a living, so I gave him the usual mix of reading and writing history and literature, commenting on Dutch radio and translating poetry. He spoke with a rather heavy southern accent, I guess he came from the deep south, somewhere near Maastricht, which made him hard to understand every now and again.

The cabin is on the port side which means I'll have a good view of the town when we put in at Harwich tomorrow morning. It's an outside cabin overlooking the sea. There's hardly any wind so I expect a quiet crossing. I remember one or two very rough crossings on the Duke of York when I was a young child, with my mother seasick and my dad hardly knowing what to do. I believe I got some of my granddad's sailorsblood, as I never get seasick. Poor Stella did, which is why we did not do much sailing when in Greece. I remember us once crossing over to Paxos from Parga with a rather strong wind in a small kaïk. She felt so miserable while I quite enjoyed the ride. I can hear the engines start which means we're about to depart. Time for the bar.

Friday, July 16:

Stena Brittannica-Harwich.

It's raining. The sky is unwelcoming. I slept well and had no problem getting up early in the morning. Last night I drank moderately and went to sleep at around eleven, English time. I had a light breakfast and took a few buns with me for on the train. It's quiet on board. As most tourists travel on weekends I purposely sailed on a Thursday. It's still quite difficult without Stella. No doubt travelling alone gives you optimal freedom, but I'd rather do with less if that would bring her back. It's over three years now since she died and the pain hasn't lessened. We're waiting for the signal to disembark. There's an island right in front of me to travel.

Montaillou

February 1982. I was staying for a week or so in France with friends, somewhere near Carcasonne. I'd recently taken my BA in History. One of the more popular books at the School of Language and Literature (now named The Hague University) was Montaillou by Le Roy Ladurie. On our way to Andorra we passed the famous settlement, where this photograph was taken. It was still freezing in the Pyrenees. Most of the mountain passes were still closed because of snow, so in the end we would not make it to Andorra. Montaillou was deserted, but it seems a handful of people from Paris is holidaying there in summer. No trace of the mother-in-law of the priest who had the poor woman's tongue teared out. No old women in black gossiping about the latest events in the village. Not even a lost goat. Maybe just a brown bear hibernating somewhere in the nearby mountains. We decided not to go and look for it.

Deceptive beauty

Farewell Rijmenam. The title, in translation, of a poem I wrote the day after this photograph was taken. We visited Fa (middle) and Agnès Claes who lived in a farmhouse at Rijmenam. Shortly after they moved to Bruges. Chief editor of the literary magazine Kruispunt, John Heuzel (second left) and his wife Marie-Thérèse van Dycke (far right) came from Bruges that day. For years Fa and I contributed to Kruispunt which has since gone out of circulation. It was the first literary magazine in the Dutch language that published poems by my late wife Stella Timonidou (second right). It was a reunion of good friends. Something to do more often. We did, but Stella wasn't present at the Kruispunt farewell party in 2009, when the final edition was published. There's no fighting against the cruelty of nature. Nature which looked so beautiful that day in Rijmenam. Beauty which is too often deceptive.