Jane Brocket's Blog, page 21

i get around some more

[photo by Phoebe]

Stockport this time.  200 miles there, 200 miles back, seven hours in the car, two tired eyes because I was on my own. I feel I'm getting to know more about the the service stations along the M40 and M6 motorways than I ever really wished to know. Still, the lilac is out, there were two incredible, huge rainbows on the way home, there was white wine in the fridge, and the stylish baker had baked for me.

i get around

[The Grand]

We had to drive to Scarborough and back yesterday. 560 miles, 1o hours in the car, goodness knows how many inches of rain on the motorway, four very tired eyes. We had only an hour to spare in the town but managed to look inside at the incredible public rooms of the once-grand Grand which needs quite a few million pounds to restore it to its former glory (even then I think it's not what people want now), see one of the funiculars (now boarded up), admire the view of the bay, harbour, castle which is still something like the poster below minus the glamour, the tie, the Brylcreemed hair, the wide-brimmed sun hat, the warmth, notice the north's colourful answer to Brighton's bow fronted terraces on Falsgrave Road, catch a glimpse of the 1845 station, and exclaim from the car at the 1936 Odeon cinema, now a theatre.

But the highlight was the entrance to a holiday home park on the A64 between Scarborough and York, where the corner of the busy road is filled with tall, strong tulips of all varieties and the scheme is so far removed from the usual red-and-yellow public planting that  I had to stop to look at and enjoy the glorious mix of shapes and vibrant colours.

It's the work of the nearby Daisy Garden Centre; never mind the Chelsea Flower Show, this deserves a medal.

Just down the road is the old Castle Howard station, now a holiday home which would be a great place to stay if you have longer than an hour to spare.

And yes, Sunday's tulips were indeed 'bonny and blithe and good and gay'.

[great Beach Boys 'I Get Around' footage here]

And yes, Sunday's tulips were indeed 'bonny and blithe and good and gay'.

working hard for a living

Tulips give their all. So much so that there's not much chance of a repeat performance.

Carrying on with sport, I've noticed that the sub editors on the Guardian's sports pages (printed version) are working hard for their living - or maybe it's just one particular sub - by creating some wonderfully rhythmic headlines. This week's highlights have been 'Sunderland make light of Gardner's red card with show of slickness and spirit', and my favourite so far which uses iambic pentameter: 'Wiggins wobbles among curves and cobbles as Battaglin strikes blow for the minnows'. Hats off to him/her/them; I've been reading the sports pages for a long time as they often contain quite brilliant prose, metaphor, psychology and philosophy, and now I can include poetry.

friday's tulips

Should be loving and giving, but even I don't go that far with tulip anthropomorphism. 

To amuse myself on Wednesday morning I put together a Manchester United red-and-white bunch, something that turned out to be very apt when later that day Alex Ferguson resigned. I grew up with Man Utd and Bobby Charlton and Nobby Stiles and George Best all playing the classic red and white strip. My brothers supported Manchester City and my Mum supported United (but was still able to acknowledge Man City's generosity towards Man Utd after the war when they let them share their ground, Maine Road, because Old Trafford had suffered bomb damage). I've never been bothered about football, but growing up just outside Manchester you couldn't avoid it. My interest extended only to what the players wore, and I also liked the West Ham colours and the bright orange-yellow of Wolverhampton Wanderers. But nothing could or can beat the simple, striking combination of bright red and pure Persil white on a pitch.

Or in a vase. (The photo taken today shows just how mad some tulips go once they have been picked.)

far to go

[Thursday's tulips]

I could pick them when they are green, anonymous and tightly furled, but instead I pick tulips when the flowers have started to fatten up, develop colour, and when I can see which variety they are. I pick in the morning when they are still closed and fresh and full of energy. 

They've already come a long way. From Holland to home, bulb to flower, autumn to spring, hidden to visible, so I aim to catch them just as they have far to go in terms of colour and drama, glory and gorgeousness.

full of woe

Wednesday's tulips, shortly before they go on the compost heap.

On a brighter note, I've just enjoyed Bedsit Disco Queen by Tracey Thorn. Everything But The Girl formed the soundtrack to our IVF treatment. When I was making the ten or so daily 110-mile round trips to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, I used to play Take Me loudly on the M40 and sing deep meaning into the opening words. Incredibly, I got the three babies.

tuesday's tulips

...are full of grace.

(Monday's were appropriately fair of face.)

memorial

While we were out yesterday, I told Simon about the Liverpool Cenotaph. It is the most unusual and affecting cenotaph I have ever seen because it not only memorialises the dead, it also depicts the other side of the story by representing the mourners left behind.

It stands on the St George's plateau just below the vast, neo-classical St George's Hall which is all Greek and Roman influence, repetition of tall columns, friezes and steps, a monument to reason, enlightenement, and justice. Instead of being tall and thin, this cenotaph is shaped like a huge bier, a solid but simple elongated rectangle which fits perfectly with the building behind.

But it's the bronze reliefs on either side which make it so moving. On one side are the soldiers and sailors in various hats and uniforms, marching of to war in perfect formation, all looking as straight and as rigid as the neo-classical columns behind them, all facing the same direction which is, inevitably, death. You can't help thinking that they look like automata, dehumanised by the terrible conflict.

So what is wonderful is that on the other side of the monument is an equally huge relief which shows those left behind: the mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, the old and the young, laying wreaths in a remembrance ceremony, with stiff rows of graves in the background. Unlike the soldiers their heads are bowed, their shoulders are stooped, the men are hatless, the women are weary but defiant, and the children look innocent.

It was unveiled in 1930 and it's utterly of that time; it crystallises a response to something everyone must have thought would never happen again. The late 1920s clothes, hats, shoes and hair styles are frozen in bronze, and make it quite clear that no-one thought for a moment that they woud be having to add the dates of the Second World War to one end of the monument.

I can't think of another cenotaph which shows both the dead and the mourners, and it seems to me that this facing up to reality and not glossing over the horror is typical of Liverpool and Liverpudlians. Until Simon asked me, I hadn't considered which relief was on which side. In fact, the soldiers face the Hall, the voice of authority, the call to arms, the expectation that duty will be done. The mourners, the civilians, face the throngs of ordinary people who exit the great Liverpool Street Station every day. It's an orientation which undermines the establishment, and elevates ordinary people. It chimes perfectly with the spirit of the city, and with the speech which Bill Kenwright made at the recent Hillsborough memorial service in which he said that the two greatest words in the English language were "my mum".

When we got home we had a telephone call to say that Simon's brother had died. He'd suffered a long and at times harrowing illness; he wasn't young but nor was he old. The mourners on the beautiful Liverpool cenotaph remind us clearly and simply that 'in the midst of life we are in death'.

ready for my close-up

Tulips are highly theatrical. They let you know when they are ready for their close-up.

workshop

['Purple Rain' half log cabin quilt from The Gentle Art of Quilt-Making]

I think the half log cabin quilt block is an inspired design. Utterly simple, easy to make with basic strips and squares and, like tulips, capable of infinite variety. So when I was asked to run a quilting workshop, it was the obvious subject.

The workshop will be on Sunday 7th July at the wonderful Ray Stitch in Islington and all the details are here. I've recently made a couple more half log cabin quilts which I'll be bringing with me, and I'm looking forward to a whole day of exploring, playing and experimenting with colour, pattern, and scale.