Tag Archives: London

SATURDAY PHOTO #4A(oops!)- a slice of life

I’m testing out my theory is that you can cut a slice through any crowd shot and find that the world is full of fascinating people. If only we had time to meet them all!

Aachen, Germany


Kathmandu, Nepal


London, England

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RYE – England’s best preserved village?

Four hundred years ago, John Cheston decided to demolish his house, overlooking the cemetery of St Mary’s church in Rye. He’d just removed the first roof tiles when a cry came from the burghers below, ‘Desist, thou scurvy varlet! (or words to that effect) Thou despoileth our streetscape and wrecketh our potential tourism industry.’

The city fathers invoked a 1606 heritage law, thus sparing Mr Cheston’s house, and securing Rye’s future as a centre for artists, writers, musicians and miscellaneous bohemians. It has become a perfect location for filming British costume dramas and a very popular short trip out of London.

Rye claims to be England’s best preserved village, and who am I to argue, not having seen the other contenders. The Ryers (or ‘Mud Heads’ as they’re uncharitably known in the rest of Sussex) have been particularly sensitive about building conservation since 1377, when some rowdy Frenchmen cruised across the Channel, literally set the town alight and nicked the church bells as souvenirs. A heavily-armed delegation paid France a return visit and brought the bells back. Rye was restored to its former glory and now boasts more historic buildings than any town in Britain.

The village is almost too cute to be true. An elegant white windmill neatly balances the cluster of black wooden huts where fisherman used to hang their nets. Steep, narrow streets wind between houses with the Tudor timber frames and slate roofs we tourists love. The battlements of Ypres Tower and Landgate Arch, and the aforementioned St Mary’s church are striking remnants of the town’s medieval past.

Rye was once a major harbour for warships, an important member of the Cinq Ports, and given the title ‘Rye Royale’ by Elizabeth I. But eventually the sea gave up the battle against the silt and beat a retreat. Now at low tide small fishing boats lie on their sides in a muddy channel while sheep graze on the Romney Marsh between Rye and the nearest beach, several kilometres away.

Nobody seems to miss the sea too much. Tourists still flock to hobble over Rye’s cobbles, browsing the galleries and pottery shops and drinking traditional English coffee (a tasteless, milky liquid that pre-dates the modern macchiato) in charming traditional tea-rooms.

It’s all very genteel these days, but Ryers also take pride in their grimy past, the smuggling era in particular. Rye was the haunt of the owlers, as smugglers were known in the eighteenth century. In dark back rooms, deals were done on smuggled liquor, tea and luxury goods, and also on wool and banned English language bibles. ‘Pssst – wanna buy a cheap bale of Romney Marsh and a couple of gospels?’

The Mermaid Inn, now an upmarket hotel, was the hub of these nefarious activities, and night ghost tours are run through the secret passages of the town. Inspired by a visit to Rye, Rudyard Kipling wrote A Smuggler’s Song, ending, ‘Them that asks no questions, isn’t told a lie, So watch the wall, my darling, while the gentlemen go by!’

I also heard the macabre story of a girl called Amanda and a young monk named Cantador, who were bricked into a wall as punishment for their illicit love affair. Apparently Cantador’s ghost often sings in Turkey Cock Lane, now a carpark behind Rye Lodge Hotel, though he was taking a break when I visited.

I loved the permanent exhibition of penny arcade machines in the Rye Heritage Centre. I’m such a sucker for these things. I bought seven old copper pennies to feed into the slots of my choice. The fortune telling machine issued a card that assured me: ‘You will discover easy methods of making money,’ which was encouraging news for someone who’d just swapped a perfectly good pound for a measly 7 pence.

My remaining six coins I invested in storytelling dioramas, where little models move around when the penny drops. The fun comes not because these things are so ingenious; it’s because they’re so unbelievably tacky that we’re delighted when they do anything at all.

For instance, I watched a miniature miser refuse a donation to a tiny Red Cross nurse rattling a tin. The devil popped up and a bag of money disappeared from the miser’s safe. Then there was the totally non-PC ‘George and Mabel in the Park’. George raised his hat to the attractive girl on the bench beside him, while surreptitiously lifting her skirt with the end of his walking cane. All good, naughty fun.

Back in the town, I shared a stroll with my fellow tourists, English, French, German and Dutch, noting the plaques on houses testifying to former residents. For a place with a population of less than 5,000, Rye has had an extraordinary number of celebrity Mud Heads. Jacobean playwright John Fletcher, Joseph Conrad, G.K.Chesterton and H.G.Wells all lived here. American novelist Henry James spent his final years in the impressive Lamb House.

More recently, Sir Paul McCartney sent his kids to local Rye schools and Spike Milligan was vice president of the Rye Rugby club. He’s buried in nearby Winchelsea, below the world’s wittiest (self-written) epitaph. Church authorities would only let the family inscribe it on his headstone in Irish, but translated into English it reads, ‘I told you I was ill.’

Mine was a fleeting visit, but I can see why they all came to Rye, and I can guess why they stayed.

The writer was a guest of 1066 Country Tourism.

TRIP NOTES:

Getting there: Trains leave at least hourly from London Charing Cross to Rye, take just over 2 hours and cost from GBP24 off peak, one way. See nationalrail.co.uk

Staying there: For numerous accommodation options, see visitrye.co.uk

Further information: Entry to the Rye Heritage Centre is GBP3, town audio guide costs GBP3.50. For other activities in Rye, See visitrye.co.uk and 1066country.com

First published, Sun-Herald, Sydney

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BRITISH LIBRARY, LONDON – Sir John Ritblat Gallery

Proofreaders looking for errors?

It’s inspiring for a humble hack to read the polished work of great writers.

But it can also be intimidating, so I also enjoy seeing how geniuses sometimes struggle.

I love reading their rough drafts, spotting the false starts, the wrong turns, the indecision and the writer’s block, as well as the flashes of brilliance. They are on display, warts and all, in the British Library.

There are over 150 million items in the library, including what must surely be the world’s greatest collection of manuscripts from the most illustrious scribes and composers of all time. Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, Mozart, Beethoven, Lennon and McCartney are all there, waiting for us to enjoy their little mistakes and eccentricities.

In 1998, after years of delay and budget overruns, the library moved into smart new premises, with the towers of St Pancras Station peering over its roof. Eduardo Paolozzi’s large statue ‘Newton: after William Blake’, squats in the forecourt, playing with geometric dividers.

Newton statue

There’s a queue forming well before the opening time, so we hop across for a coffee at the Last Word Café, as a mixed bunch – students, bearded academic-looking types, and a few tourists – line up at the doors. Many have their noses buried in books.

At 9.30 the doors open and in we go. Shakespeare’s statue looks down to welcome us and information boards advertise exhibitions on Darwin and ‘The Sound and the

Fury’, archival recordings of great and memorable speeches. We listen to Winston Churchill promising to fight on the beaches, Martin Luther King having a dream, and Gwyneth Paltrow tearfully thanking the world for her Oscar.

Inside it was all a bit of blur…

But we’ve really come here for the Sir John Ritblat Gallery. In the glass cases under dim light, we pore over the illuminated manuscripts of the Lindisfarne Gospels, ancient religious texts from the Indian and Arab world, and copies of the Gutenberg Bible of 1450, the first book to be printed in England.

Star attraction of the collection is a parchment copy of the Magna Carta. It rates a special alcove all to itself, though I confess I don’t entirely understand its significance. I know it was a breakthrough when King John, under duress from the barons, acknowledged that the monarch, like his people, was subject to the law, but I believe he repudiated the document soon after.

More accessible and appealing to me are the handwritten drafts by writers and composers I know and love. Jane Austen was already writing very well as a teenager. A story written for her sister is displayed next to her draft of ‘Persuasion’. I’m encouraged to see that she edited far more as she grew older, losing the certainty of youth.

Other great works also began life as stop/start affairs. Thomas Hardy wrote ‘The Daughter of the d’Urbervilles’ in his notebook, then deleted his first two words and inserted ‘Tess’. William Wordsworth and Joseph Conrad had plenty of second thoughts. Playwright Harold Pinter apparently got bored with typing ‘pause’. Pinteresque pauses turned up so frequently that he just typed ‘p’ between his speeches; then amended them with litres of red ink.

Through audio headphones I hear Lawrence Olivier and Stanley Holloway perform the graveyard scene from Hamlet. W.B.Yeats reads his own poetry, almost singing it in his musical Irish accent, and James Joyce gives Finnegan’s Wake similar treatment.

There are Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks, letters from Florence Nightingale, Newton and Charles Darwin, and Captain Soame Jenyns’ eyewitness account of the charge of the Light Brigade. The logbook of Nelson’s flagship, Victory, is next to one of Captain James Cook’s journals, (Cook also scrubbed out many lines he was unhappy with).

For heart-wrenching stuff, nothing beats Captain Scott’s diary from his fatal Antarctic expedition. It lies open at the poignant final page, ending, ‘For God’s sake, take care of our people.’

Douglas Haig wrote an inspiring call to arms to his troops in his Special Order of the Day in April 1918. He first included the sentence, ‘But be of good cheer, the British Empire must win in the end.’ Then he crossed that out. Too hollow perhaps, in view of the carnage, or was he having doubts about the outcome?

Opposite the writers’ displays are the original scores of famous composers. Even Mozart, I’m pleased to report, occasionally blotted his copybook, and Beethoven was a particularly messy worker. His violin sonata has phrases cross-hatched out violently, as if Ludwig was determined to ensure that nobody should ever see what stupid ideas he’d considered.

A group of French students cluster round the glass case dedicated to Beatles drafts. There are the lyrics of Michelle, penned by Paul McCartney on an envelope. A Hard Day’s Night is scrawled on the back of John Lennon’s birthday card for his son Julian.

My favourite is the sheet of paper with the words to ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand.’
Although it went on to be their breakthrough single in America, it seems that Paul was initially not confident that he and John had just written a hit. At the bottom of the page he’s scrawled a mock teacher’s note – ‘3/10. See me’.

I love Edward Elgar’s efforts. After two lines of music, he begins to doodle a series of comic faces on the staff, and interposes a line… ‘Waiting for 3rd symphony’. That’s what I like to see – someone getting really stuck and chucking it in.

Braced by the knowledge that great artists are also human beings, I risk humiliation by typing my own name into the library’s catalogue. Out of 150 million items, is it asking too much for them to have just one of my books there? They have seven. Phew! Hey, maybe they’d like to display my ancient floppy discs?

TRIP NOTES:

Getting there: The British Library is opposite St Pancras underground station.

Staying there: Numerous London accommodation options are on wotif.com/hotels/united-kingdom-london-hotels

Further information: Entry to the British Library is free. More information about the permanent collection and special exhibitions is on the website bl.co.uk

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