Taking a closer look at the world

A friend of mine recently observed that on a beautiful, sunny day in Canterbury everybody seemed to be in a rush, few seemed to be taking the time to appreciate that rarest of occasions, a British summer's day. This travesty is, unfortunately, all too common in world where many become twitchy if a communication takes longer than a nano-second to be returned. So, this post is dedicated to taking a closer and longer look at the world, both natural and man-made and before and after the snap: be it the intricate make-up of petals on a flower; the wave-like effect of bark peeling from a tree or the water droplets skimming off the feathers of a bathing goose.

Many of the photos you'll see below are a result of me experimenting with the Macro function on my camera. These shots I then took home and played about with on i-Photo. I have divided them up and put them under four self-explanatory titles: 'Birds and Bees', 'Flowers and Trees', 'Wood, Metal and Concrete' and 'Plants plus People'. I hope you like them.

NB:Where they were taken is not really important, but there will be a short description under each picture/group if needed.

Birds and Bees:

Wildfowl of the Serpentine:

Close-up of Egyptian goose plumage

Mooching like a moorhen. 

Flowers and Trees

Daisy chain

 

Wood, Metal and Concrete

Locks in Hyde Park

Time for art plastique (métal) a Marseille

    

Books and what they're made of

Writing on the wall (or door)

Plants plus people

The unexpected garden (15eme)

Aix-treme chic

 

These last four photos are among my favourites from the last year and almost purely because I came across them unexpectedly.

The lovers' names scratched into the bark of a tree, clichéd but, by tweaking the saturation levels, the sap becomes bloody and the image takes on a sinister quality.



The computer's off, there can't be anything worth seeing on the screen, or can there?

Photo by Stephen Gildersleve

The seed pod that fell onto just that spot on my rucksack


and (my favourite photo of the year) .... a tree's detritus caught and collected in the eddy of a flushed out gutter.



Small things, unexpected things, things found where you wouldn't normally find them or found by simply looking a little closer. So, next time you're out in the sunshine with your iPhone, just let your eyes wander a little...you never know what you might find.

Just a quick addendum...

My friend Steve, who took the computer photo and has been to more places in the world than I can name, is currently compiling a video scrapbook of one-second recordings taken each day of his life this year - things that meant something to him, summed up the moment, or simply caught his eye. - He's up around the 120s at the moment, but by the time he's finished, he'll have just over six minutes of footage that could mean something different every time he looks at it. A year's worth of memories, emotions, weather, people and nature distilled into 365 seconds of film. - Why pick that one second out of the thousands more that took place each day? "Why not?" is what I say. Now, that's what I call living for the moment!

Escape to La Roche-Guyon

Looking for a spot of more far-flung escapism, my friend Dan and I ventured out into the Isle de France to the wonderfully picturesque village of La Roche-Guyon. Nestled at the foot of a chalk escarpment, in the scenic Val de L'Oise, you couldn't wish for a more perfect afternoon away from the city.

Arriving by taxi, in the searing heat, from Mantes la Jolie - buses at mid-afternoon in this part of the world are rare birds indeed - we were right in time for lunch. Save for a few hardy merchants selling saucisse seches beneath the colonnades of la mairie, everyone was enjoying their dej. Following suit we tucked into gammon and chips (jambon grillé) and the most welcome of cold pressions, while tapping the locals for info on the best sites to see.

We were both keen to head up to the ruined tower on the hill we'd noticed on arrival, so, after taking a post-lunch stroll along the Seine, we made our way to the Chateau de La Roche-Guyon. Built up against the chalk cliff itself, the castle contains a melange of different architectural styles ranging from 12th to 18th century. Facing the river are additions made mostly in the 18th Century and the grand designs of duc Alexandre de La Rochefoucauld and his daughter la duchesse d'Enville. Intricate ironwork gates and ornate pavilions catch the eye, but it is the hidden, older buildings that take the breath away (quite literally)

Various views of the chateau

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Coat of arms of the de La Rochefoucaulds

A very grand entrance!

At the eastern side is the imposing cour d'honneur, flanked by a round tower and abutting the cliff that contains a series of tunnels, storerooms and bunkers hollowed out by the Germans during World War 2. Inside the grand entrance a stunning stained glass window refracted a rainbow of coloured shards of light across the otherwise austere stonework.



Upstairs, amongst the usual trappings of life two centuries ago, we found immense, exquisite tapestries that both of us thought must have been paintings, until we saw the weave. There was also a room of curiosities, containing myriad stuffed animals and mysterious balls of rock. Perhaps most curious of all was the red, leather sofa placed half way along a medieval walkway. What with temperatures touching 30º, we could only imagine duc Alex was on intimate terms with Palin and co.'s Spanish Inquisition.

In a passageway, just past a little, nondescript courtyard, a small sign read "There are 250 steps to the top..." Said steps began in a regular, square-cut fashion as they spiralled up and into the building. At one point, however, the stairway opened into the fresh air, the chalk cliff making up one wall and a wooden framework the other. We then plunged into the cliff itself, into a tunnel bored through the smooth white rock, the steps, worn down through the centuries, turning into treacherous, down-curving shelves, ready to catch the unwary climber.

Now, both and Dan and I have become quite obsessed, over recent months, with George Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire ("Game of Thrones" for those only watching it), a smorgasbord of war, sex, political intrigue and dragons, set roughly around 200AD. So, as we wound our way up the rough-hewn passage, it became hard to rein in wild imaginations: the dwarf, Tyrion, climbing the Eyrie to win his innocence in front of mad Lysa Arryn; Varys creeping through the bowels of the Red keep, sewing intrigue and betrayal, or Grand-Maester Pycelle trudging his way to his ravens' roost (now dovecote) with some message of foreboding.

"No, no, my Lord Eddard. After you, I insist!"

"After you, my Lord Tyrion."

When, finally, we emerged once more into the air, and then into the remains of the medieval dungeon keep, each grey, stone cell, with mere arrow slits for light, became, without much of a sortie into the imagination, the prisons of the noble, but naïve, Eddard Stark, the bitter, but rueful, Theon Greyjoy and the arrogant, but honest, Jaime Lannister. There was even a genuine, 12th century privy, for the disposal of m'lord's night soil.

...and you thought Turkish toilets were bad!

Gazing over the view from the keep, over village, symmetrically laid out gardens,  and further on to the wide, looping Seine and mottled green/white cliffs, gave us a fleeting sense of power - from here, you could defend against anything. Come the Second World War the Germans must have been less certain.

...I don't know either

Back downstairs we took a trip into the 1940s and entered into the pallid chill of Rommel's caves. Square incisions into the walls indicated shelves on which the sheltering soldiers stored tinned foodstuffs, ammunition or clothing. Larger tunnels, with room-sized hollows carved into the side, could have been dormitories in which they cowered from allied bombing raids. A sound system broadcast the sounds of perpetual panic through the tunnels, though, in truth, they needn't have bothered as the sense of history was as palpable as the damp seeping through the chalk. In the final, cavernous room a monstrous contraption consisting of a chair surrounded by bands of metal connected, by a cobweb of wires, to an array of antique machines, conjured up images of unspeakable inhumanity. No labels were present so imagination, as it had done for most of the day, filled in the blanks.

The day finished as it had begun, with a couple of cold ones at the local, the conversation barely touched the realities of the working week ahead and as we poured ourselves out of the taxi a little later on, both Dan and I agreed that to really take a break from it all you need to let your mind wander.

Les Isles d'Insolitude

It was a strange feeling; sat at my computer in bedroom, surrounded by bulging boxes, bags and suitcases as the liquid sound of a string trio, blended with the hubbub of the Saturday market, floats through my window on a very welcome breeze. The days leading up to my departure from Paris were been hot, sticky and stormy, compounding the usual stresses of everyday life and leaving everyone's nerves frayed and balanced on the knife edge between depression and explosion. Perversely enough it has been in this last month that I have discovered that, even here, there are little islands of calm where you can forget it all and just be happy in your own company.

This journey into a peaceful Paris began with the purchase of a little book called "Paris au Calme". Now, the titles of many guidebooks often promise much: great views, happening nightspots and bargain shopping amongst them, without actually delivering on said promise. Even "The Secret Gardens of Paris" sometimes fails on both counts, including les Tuileries and the Jardin de Luxembourg, hardly secret and more like jogging tracks than gardens. "Paris au Calme", however, does exactly what it says on the sleeve.

Paris is seemingly dotted with oases of solitude, all the more appreciated because of where they are. Two of the most serene are gardens found enclosed in the inner quads of two of Paris's major hospitals, that of Hopitale St. Louis, a stone's throw from bustling Place Republic and La Pitié Salpêtrière, the capital's largest, barely a few doors up from Gare d'Austerlitz. Those of you who associate hospitals with poor food, the stink of disinfectant and the threat of MRSA would be pleasantly surprised.

St Louis was founded  in 1607 to ease the burden of the Plague on nearby hospitals. Now, however, its drooping pines and 17th century walls now protect those within from the fumes and decibels outside. Toddlers trace ancient footsteps around shaded corners, while mothers and nannies take a minute's repose from the stresses of la vie quotidienne.

La Salpêtrière has seen some historic medical breakthroughs, including Paris's first vaccination in 1800 and the world's first heart transplant in 1968 and was also the place Lady Diana drew her last breath. By the time of the Revolution thousands of women (of ill repute) had been partnered with convicts and sent to populate "New France". I wonder if the settlers knew what was coming. However an even greater claim to fame, in my opinion, was that for a glorious hour and a half inside its statue-strewn quad I couldn't hear the sound of a single car, bliss!

Back now in rural Kent, I have so much peace I'm almost longing for sirens again...no, I don't think I'd go that far.

Les foibles des Français

Ten days ago was Bastille Day. The epitome of l'esprit Français, when the bold, courageous citizenry, yearning for liberty and equality threw down the yoke of their royalist oppressors and stormed their hated symbol of injustice. Apparently though, according to a recent article I read on the BBC, the majority of French forget that the 14th July celebrations are not to commemorate its bloody ancestor of 1789 but the more joyous occasion of the Fête de la Federation in 1790. Here royalists mingled, ate and paraded with their soon-to-be executioners and together, even marked the birth of the heir to the throne (meanwhile, on the other side of the channel in 2013....).

On 14th July 2013 l'esprit Français was still very much in evidence. The authorities made the centre of town about as impassable as French paperwork; the military tried to look chic; Monsieur Le Président sat there doing nothing and no Parisians had bothered to show up. The crowds thronging the Champs Elysées for the défile and clogging every Metro station that le Police Nationale hadn't got to yet, were tourists. Les Françiliens themselves were either (as was I) ensconced in their cantines, sipping a chilled demi and grumbling about the state of...well...the state, or already on holiday - but apparently the fireworks were quite impressive though.

The point here is that, although your average Blaise doesn't really give a purple mediterranean fruit about 'the big stuff', he'll rip your arm off for a ticket to a dingy warehouse to see a hundred over-exposed, blurry pictures of the inside of someone's mouth. As for getting him to reveal the whereabouts of his favourite little brunch place, you'd be as likely to hear him utter the words "tall, skinny latté" without keeling over.

A week after the history, it was time for the nation's most revered sporting occasion as Le Grande Boucle (better known as Le Tour De France) rolled into town in all it's yellow-jerseyed glory. From two o'clock the crowds were gathering in anticipation. Positions were staked out all along Rivoli, Tuileries and Elysées and fiercely guarded by flag-waving, 10 Euro-a-pint-beer-swilling, doing-my-best-impression-of-a-roasting-lobster cycling fans eager to embrace this quintessentially Gallic sporting spectacle.

Come on Lance I think you over-did it this time.

Philippe shows the world his Art and Crafts project

When I said I was tired of being on duty...

A pretty girl with a water canon, enough said!

No, it's "Baguette"

It was mightily impressive; the pre-show caravanne was suitably silly, big and loud. The fun included a man in a hot air balloon on wheels advertising camping gas; a rolling pile of breadsticks (no free guesses on this one!) and (the most popular by far) mineral water being sprayed out of those pressurised tubs you use for weed killer.

 Once that was past the tension rose almost as high as the temperatures until (almost two hours later) when the escorting police vehicles finally rounded the corner of the Tuilerie Gardens and the shining black train of the Team Sky riders was finally sighted, the thrill was as palpable as the wind created by the peloton as it sped by in a lycra and carbon fibre blur.

There's a British winner in there somewhere

Back to the flags though. Among them I saw Norwegian, Croatian, Australian, Italian, Columbian (their rider Quintana came in second), somewhat controversially a Texan and of course a multitude of Union Flags supporting deserved winner Chris Froome. The Tricolor, however, was notably absent (aside from the one painted across the sky by the aerial display team).

Here's the thing you see, the French have come nowhere near having their own winner of their signature sporting event in decades, so they've resigned themselves to their other national sport, the aforementioned grumbling, at which they are European, world and Olympic Champions. Any French person I spoke to about Froome's domination of this year's event huffed disconsolately and said "B'off! He was very impressive, but he was probably doping."

The only Tricolor on display

Some people will do anything for a view

Many of you, I'm sure, would put this suspicion down to the poisoned words of a certain acrimonious American, but I think there was something else behind them. There's something of a superiority complex about the French. A nation that gave the world Napoleon, de Gaule, D'Artagnan, The Man in the Iron Mask, even Asterix; unbendable heroes, invincible (to a point), doesn't really like losing...well...anything really, especially on home turf. I mean, the people who set up L'Académie Française  to protect the glorious langue matérnelle from heinous foreign languages were certainly not going to stand for a bunch of anglos coming over and winning Le Tour DE FRANCE, c'est n'importe quoi!

...no, it's not this one

After hearing these gripes a few times, I began to feel some sympathy. Well, can you imagine: the Aussies coming over and beating us at Lords - anyone else apart from a Brit winning Wimbledon? No, neither can I!

Spot the nation of sporting excellence....

Well met by moonlight

When most Brits think of amateur dramatics they most likely envisage a group of "Hempen homespuns" hamming up a panto in a draughty church hall with Joe Blogs the town clerk and Billy Miggins the baker stealing the show as the two backsides of a horse. This, of course, is neither true nor fair to the myriad souls who quit the day in the boardroom or in front of the blackboard to tread the boards, enduring months of rehearsals and lost nights of learning lines before the stomach churning first night.

So last Saturday, when I received the invitation, from good friend Caroline, to an amateur, French-language production of A Midsummer Night's Dream (in which Sophie, an old friend of hers, was performing), I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

Going to see any comedy in a foreign language is risky enough, as you will never be totally in-tune with the cultural quirks and jeux de mots that are the base of most comic works. To watch Shakespeare, about as English an institution as strikes are French, is even more so, as you risk spending the whole show just waiting for the inevitable faux pas and that's before we've even got to the fact that it's in a foreign language! Anyway, as I knew the story pretty well, I thought it would be worth it. If anything, just to see how my French comprehension has developed over the past year. I'm glad I did!

It was far from an auspicious arrival though. The white-tiled centre d'animations on Rue Mathis (Paris 19eme) looked a bit like an old swimming pool (funnily enough it shared the building with one!) and the only people outside when I arrived was a barrel-bellied pool attendant and a middle-aged, dreadlocked West Indian child-care worker supervising a motley, if incredibly happy, group of charges. Soon enough though the theatre goers began to role up and at ten past eight we were ushered into the appropriately named Salle Shakespeare for curtain-up.

Well, not really, as there wasn't a curtain, apart from at the back of the stage, the opening and shutting of which issued in the scene changes from Athenian court to fairy-strewn forest (black background/ white background). Scenery, however was the only thing this show lacked. From Egeus's complaint, through fairy feuds and asses made and unmade, to Robin's final amends, it was a delight!

The hatred felt for Hermia by a bewitched Lysander fairly spat off the tongue. Oberon cast his funky spell on Titania in tones more Brown (James) than Bard. A lanky, shaven-headed, rubber-necked Bottom and a bearded Francis Flute made a sublimely ridiculous Pyramus and Thisbe, with a stage-struck Peter Quince (or Patricia in this case) uttering the fastest lines of French I've ever heard. The fairies, including Sophie's Cobweb, even incorporated a sensuous mixture of martial arts, yoga and modern dance to enhance the performance.

Puck, however, was the magic that held it all together. Bending, twisting and contorting leather-clad limbs and elastic facial muscles into expressions of mirth, menace and mischief, she (or he, or it) manoeuvred both audience and characters effortlessly through the action. Mesmerising!

As for the prospective language issues, my knowledge of the play ensured that I understood at least 60% of what was said. For everyone else though, the wonderful simplicity of the story; the fact that the plot devices are of a more visual nature and the exceptional performance of the cast ensured that people from anywhere could have understood and thoroughly enjoyed the play.

This is a blog and not a theatre review however. So, after the show, thespian appetites sated and stomachs needing some more nourishing faire, Caroline, myself and two other friends headed for la Villette, only for Sophie to call us back to a little café just around the corner from where the play had taken place. The magic of the fairy forest then seemed to return briefly as the brilliant 'super' moon hung in the ink-black sky, bathing the arches of La Rotonde in its preternatural glow.

Back at Café des Sports, as we tucked into various cartons, tubs and boxes of take-away with the cast, I could imagine a similar scene as Bottom and co. return home triumphant, through the Athenian twilight, to congratulate each other on a play "very notably discharged."

Lost in a good bookshop

Two months since I last posted! It's almost as if I've had nothing to talk about (how can you write sarcasm?) In the last nine weeks I've been north to Lille, where I discovered a canal that everyone seems to fall into and a French version of Welsh rarebit (God knows why); south to Marseilles and Aix-en-Pronvence, where I spotted the far from elusive cagolle and ran a half marathon with more ups and downs than a week's worth of Eastenders (well done on your first semi-marathon Elodie) and east to Duisburg, old German stamping ground and home to some of the finest examples of what people brought up pre-Facebook would call 'friends'. I've also been the star of a film student's video, beat a backgammon nemesis and oh yes, decided to leave Paris (not for discussion now).

This week, however, has been a little more arty. Music has featured strongly, with Tuesday's pilgrimage to Zenith to marvel at the longevity and get on down with the sheer rhinestone-studded cool of Texan blues-rock granddaddies ZZ Top. A lot less hip, the annual Fete de la Musique (or "how many times can somebody butcher U2?") on Friday saw the customers of Chez Gudule having the chance (or misfortune) to witness dancing a la Kad.

More sedate, though certainly not lacking charm, was the book signing at the Abbey Book Shop (29, Rue de la Parcheminerie, 5eme, home of the Canadian Club). The apartment opposite is allegedly home of French movie siren Isabelle Adjani, but we weren't here to spot celebrities. Perennial maitresse de la culture, Elodie, had invited me along to this little gem of a literary corner in the Marais to hear extracts from the book "Je t'aime, me neither", a tale of romantic adventure and misadventure in the City of Light, by her friend and self published Canadian author April Lily Heise. Though Lily herself was brilliantly bubbly - as was the free flowing champagne - and there was the occasional opportunity to meet the odd literary celeb (among them "A Year in the Merde" author Stephen Clarke, though not the fabled Adjani) the real star was the librairie itself.

A warm, Canadian welcome at the Abbey

Genius minus the gimmicks:give me this over Waterstone's anytime!

                                 
Set up in 1989 by amiable Canadian expat Brian Spence and squirrelled away in a cobbled alleyway, barely four people across, the Abbey is everything you'd want a little, old bookshop to be. In a kind of literary Tardis, warm, wooden shelves stretched for miles, literally piled from floorboards to rafters with fact and fiction, poetry, plays and prose (see photos). Forget a few hours, I could have lost myself for days in there, amongst the teetering towers and criss-crossing corridors, there was even a cellar for everything they couldn't fit upstairs.

As I left, clutching my signed copy of Je t'aime (for a friend!) and a novel in verse on the possible post-mortem exploits of Christopher Marlowe, I couldn't help wondering if Carlos Ruiz Zafon had found inspiration in the Abbey for his mythical "Cemetery of Lost Books" and if Isabelle Adjani actually knew how good a bookshop she had across the road.

Links:

The Abbey's Facebook page (I had too!):
https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Abbey-Bookshop/19922251361

Lily's book and blog:
http://jetaimemeneither.com/about/

Manger comme une marathonienne (Le first course)

Note: This post will vaguely resemble "The Hobbit" film (one short story, three parts, plenty of little treasures, minus the hairy feet)

My brother and his fiancée recently announced their engagement. What better place to spend the weekend than the romantic capital of Europe? However on this occasion the future Mr and Mrs Ben Kadinopoulos were not here to smooch along the Champ du Mars. No, they were down to run the Paris marathon - most people just go out for a nice meal - and my mum and step dad and I were here to lend our support.

My brother is a veteran of several IronMan triathlons and Pippa (his financée) too is a keen marathon runner, so they both knew exactly what had to be done to minimise pain and to optimise performance in the crucial 48hrs before the race. Ben had unfortunately had to pull out at the last minute due to illness, but that meant he became "super coach".

Intersections of key kilometre markers on the marathon route and metro lines were plotted on the smartphone; wake up and meeting times were to be noted and adhered to as were (just as importantly) types and times of nutritional intake (for Pippa, not the rest of us. As the host and so judged to be more in the know about such things, I was tasked to find the eateries for the marathon weekend, "Gulp!" But I needn't have worried. In terms of impact on the race I will call the three meals "Bulk", "Balance" and "Bonanza", for reasons that will become apparent. Anyone not doing a marathon anytime soon, don't be concerned these restos are well worth a visit no matter your athletic prowess.

T-36: BULK: Mission: Carbo-cramming to store up enough energy for the exertions ahead.
Venue: Au Père Tranquille, 16 Rue Pierre Lescot (Metro Station: Les Halles, Exit: Porte Lescot):

A word of warning for the uninitiated: anybody wanting to reach this lovely bistro will have to navigate their way through part of Europe's largest metro station. With more possible exits than there are hours in a day, the terrible triumvirate of Chatelet, Chatelet-Les Halles and Les Halles, cause even the most adroit Parisien to lose their cool, their nerve and their way. This is before you have to negotiate the labyrinthine, 4-level building site of a shopping centre. Needless to say I picked the wrong exit and so it was half an hour (and a long walk) later before we finally sat down in the gorgeous, mirror-cielinged, book-lined first floor of Au Père Tranquille.

Menu:
Pippa: Penne a la Chorizo a family-sized salad bowl of carb and wonderfully spicy sausage. - Crepe au Nutella
Ben: Omelette Auvergnant  or in Ben's word's "a proper omelette", at least a four-egger stuffed with jambon paysan. - Crepe au Sucre
Moi: Salade de Berger or "has anyone seen my lettuce?" where the salad stuff came a poor fifth place to creamy rounds of chèvre on crispy toast with more jambon paysan and set off with crunchy walnuts - Crème Brûlée
Wine: (none for the runner of course!): A well rounded Côte du Rhône
Service: Easy going with an easy smile. L'addition: Easy going on the wallet too: 52 Euros the lot.

Notes: 1: It is incredibly poor form to crack the top of SOMEONE ELSE'S Crème Brûlée!
           2: I swear, the metro sign told me to take that way back!

Mes dammes, mesieurs, Le second course will be with you shortly.