Surprise in Horsham

Yesterday, 30 December 2011, Marian and I drove to Horsham in Surrey, just 20 miles to the north of our home. Our purpose was to buy a small colander in the excellent cooking supplies store there. We failed in that, but that's OK, it was interesting to see current trends in middle-class culinary practice as dining habits change: more implements for Japanese food; collapsible colanders for a bijou kitchen; expensive French casseroles for single meals.
We needed gluten-free food for lunch, so bypassed the Italian eating places and found (again) a cheery, cramped cafe run by local Christian churches. It has a bookstore, too.  While we ate - an excellent vegetable soup for her and a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich for me - we spotted from the window a little cul-de-sac called Causeway. Along both sides of the street and some beautiful buildings of varying ages, one of which was home to the author, Hammond Innes, in the early 1920s. See my tumblr.com blog for some pictures.

Time Travel

     Intrigued by the intractable tensions in the Middle East, I determined to read Jerusalem - The Biography by Simon Sebag Montefiore. This evening I finished it.
     It's a big book, spanning the city's history from the time of King David (circa 1000 BC) to this decade. Apart from my constantly getting lost with the names, family relationships and various empires, what hit me hardest was the constant slaughter of people through most of the generations covered by the book. 
     That took my mind to the Old Testament:
     Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May those who love you be secure. May there be peace within your walls and security within your citadels.”  Psalm 122:6-7, written by King David.
     How many generations of Jews have prayed that prayer, or Christians eyeing prophetic writings about the nation and that city? Did they pray in vain?

     Just a few days before Christmas, when Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus, it may be well to join that ancient prayer and trust that one day the Prince of Peace will reign supreme and Jerusalem know prolonged peace.

Identity Confused

On November 6th our first grandchild was born in Cambridge. My wife is now Gran and I am Grandad. In my far off childhood my mother's mother was Gran and my father's father was Grandad. So these new titles are fine.
My Grandad was a quiet and authoritative figure to me. He used to sit in the kitchen saying very little. He had a full head of hair and a white moustache, which I think was tinged yellow from smoking. The sad fact is I never felt close to him or that he was much interested in me.
Perhaps it's the way families work, but my mother's parents seemed to be more loving. My Grampie was a shorter, smiling man who had words to build up. I hope my granddaughter remembers me as the smiling, talking one -- not that her other grandfather is anything like my own was.
The journey from the South Coast to Cambridge will become more familiar in coming years. It's mainly motorway: A27, A23/M23, M25, M11 with the glorious Dartford Tunnel going north under the Thames and the high-flying bridge coming south.
Sending a message to my wife and sons opens up the identity question. Should I be Tony, Dad or Grandad? I enjoy all three, so had better get used to the multiple identity.

Close to home

Sometimes the nicest things happen close to home, not on long journeys.

At 7.00 AM today, this was the view from an upper window in our house.

Itaipu Dam

In the 1970s Brazil and Paraguay set up a new entity to build a huge dam, then run the hydroelectricity plant it holds. The partnership is celebrated in the name - Itaipu Binacional, seen here in the first vehicle park visitors go to on their tour.

The most spectacular part is the overflow, which opens up when the huge artificial lake is too high. Giant doors that weigh as much as a jumbo jet are opened to let the water run down an enormous concrete channel into the river below.

 The whitish pipes to the right are 10 metre diameter channels for the water to drop 100 metres to huge turbines beneath the level of the river. Paraguay gets 90% of its electricity from this generator, Brazil 30%.

There are three sections to the dam:
1. An earth and rock piece, seen here from inside the coach as we drove down from the top of this section to river level below.
2. The concrete working section with the huge tubes, turbines, switching matrixes and high voltage feeder cables to nearby pylons.
3. The overflow section, also concrete, which deals with any over-high level in the dam.
I found it pretty amazing, in the ambition of its first conception, to the construction and now the invaluable contribution to green energy for the region.

Foz Means Mouth

My last post was from Iguassu in Brazil, with the spelling varying from time to time even within the town itself. Since the settlement developed around the Iguassu Falls, it's tempting to think that Foz is Portuguese for Falls, but no it means Mouth. A tour guide put things right by explaining that Falls are the cataratas in Portuguese.

Whatever they are called and spelled, the falls are truly awe inspiring. Just prove I was there... I am the one in the red, wet T-shirt. The bridge is built out over the first level to which the mighty river descends. Below it is another drop to the new, lowest level of the river. More pictures when I can get them processed.

There's an awful lot of coffee in Brazil

This afternoon I was thinking how many times I have attended meetings and conferences inside big rooms in a hotel or conference centre, most of which look and sound the same. Since arriving here two days ago I had not set foot outside the nice hotel where our group is staying. So, today I took a walk around a big block around 5.15 PM. It was still hot, probably in the upper 70s Fahrenheit, and humid. This town, Iguazu, is quite hilly in this quarter which is filled with various car shops--dealers, menders, washers, alarm-fitters. A friend who lived here for 17 years told me that the roads are such that shock absorbers, springs and electrics are all shaken to failure, so that's why the repair shops are here.

Just outside our meeting room is excellent coffee several times per day, each supply desperately needed for weary travellers trying to make sense of multi-cultural conversations as we probe the future for this mission. What I find really odd, having travelled through multiple time zones many times, is that the 11-hour flight from London to Sao Paulo required only a three hour adjustment to the wrist watch. Usually that length flight needs a draining 8 hours. And the coffee is not so good, either.

Little trips

Since Lisbon, our journeys have been in the U.K. - the longest to Newcastle Upon Tyne, where our oldest son was ordained into the Church of England. It's a region unfamiliar to me and proved to be as beautiful and interesting as any other. Then Cambridge where our youngest son has moved for his work. Buying a house these days is a major challenge for first-time buyers, but he and his wife have managed it. The only other journeys have been up and down a ladder as I painted the eaves of our home. In October comes a major trip to Brazil for the mission for whom I volunteer. Excellent!

A Sabbath Day's Journeys

Today's Sunday, so not the Sabbath. We live in the age of grace not law, so the old restrictions on journeys on Saturday don't apply - unfortunately. The weather here has been so summery through most of April and today, 1st May, that it's great to be outdoors. Today, I started with a semi-jog around the local golf course (3 miles), walked to and back from a local church (1.5 miles), then walked from Truleigh Hill to Devil's Dyke along the South Downs Way - and back - 6 miles. It's no wonder I feel just a tad jaded this evening.
Yet, it's time to rejoice again. Two years ago my darling wife was so ill we wondered if we'd ever even picnic on the South Downs, let alone walk so far. Today, she did it. And that's not the first time either. What a lady!

Ystad

It's confession time: I am a fan of Wallander - Inspector Kurt Wallander of the Ystad police in Sweden. BBC3 or BBC4 carried Swedish TV adaptations of Henning Mankell's detective novels, then English versions of other stories emerged starring Kenneth Branagh. The Swedish actor, Krister Henriksson, was the first Marian and I saw in the role, so he's the benchmark. We think the others don't make it. But, then, isn't that often true of the first recording one hears of a piece of music?
One reason I like Wallander is that he is getting older, touching 60 in later stories, his life has been unpredictable and disappointing in some areas, in his failed marriage, for example. Yet he's passionate in his pursuit of criminals and a just response to their deeds.
Since last Autumn I have read the first six novels - in English translation, as my Swedish is as accomplished as my "insert language name of your choice here." What a little islander these British Isles have brought forth.
Dark deeds, Swedish land- and seascapes, in light airy Summer or freezing wind-swept Winter, and a frail, flawed detective who always resolves the mystery. Excellent!

Counting some blessings

Going home - but where is home? It used to be where my guitar was, then became where my wife and family are. Now the boys have left home, so it's where my wife is. But both of us long to go back "home" from time to time. Back to where our earliest memories lie, back to Wales.
I was born in Cardiff and left there only to go deeper into Wales to university in Swansea. After that I have never lived in Wales, only in England, with a few happy years in Seychelles.
What does "home" mean? Wales is where our parents came from; 75% of them, anyway. Where our grandparents came from; 66% this time. For some reason we choose Wales as home because our own early days were spent there. The accents are familiar. We can pronounce most of the place names. Wales is where we feel refreshed, re-rooted in our lives, strengthened in the faith we were taught there.
They used to say that teachers and water were Wales' biggest exports. The three days we just spent in mid-Wales were rain free, unusually. Although trees were still winter bare, sheep were lambing, gorse bushes thrust out new yellow blossoms, daffodils celebrated spring and the sunshine was delicious.

Bookish Journeys

On my trip to Portugal I read Never Let Me Go, a novel by Japanese-born British author Kazuo Ishiguro. It was shortlisted for the 2005 Booker Prize and has been made into a film released here recently. From the very beginning Ishiguro uses simple language employed by the narrator to unfold a dark and depressing view of what might happen if science, medical technology and our endless pursuit of enduring physical life leave far behind questions of morality, or - even more seriously - what it means to be human.
The link above will take you to a Wikipedia article, if you want an overview of the book and don't intend to read it for yourself.
Maybe it's my age, but the news so often has real stories of how people are appallingly treated by others: think of the continuing drug-gang killings in Mexico or the slaying of Pakistani politicians daring to speak out for the rights of those affected by that nation's blasphemy law.
Whenever a nation, gang, religion or individual denies dignity and respect to other human beings, they are not far from the novel - meaning the book and the news.

Have A Laugh

I have an iPhone app that joins photographs together to make a panoramic view. I loved the surreal effect it had on one end of my living room at home.

Sunday Loss Of Routines

This morning we drove to a different part of Lisbon to meet with a small local church. Three of our group went, taken by a Brazilian gentleman who's been here months rather than years and who is a leader there. It was a lovely day, blue skies and wind; the beaches were full.
Soon we turned inland and parked in a street lined with multi-storey apartment blocks like many areas we passed through. Then into a small shop, used by the church for their Sunday services.
Apart from it all being in Portuguese, with only a few words of the songs guessable, it all felt very familiar. The people sang heartily and a preacher then got up and did a great job of engaging his audience with his study. Question, quips, participation of various kinds - all made it feel like a well-taught, committed group. There were 3 or 4 babes in arms, the younger children were in what would normally be the kitchen doing their stuff, differing age teenagers stayed for the teaching and the adults were younger rather than older, though all seemed to be parents.
One test of the health of a church is the quality and duration of conversations before and after services; this was a healthy church by that criterion. We visited a seminary on the way back, finally sitting down to lunch at around 2.25 PM.
Later in the afternoon, I walked along the coast away from the extensive surfing beach we see from the hotel. It was very different - rocky, black, grey and sharp edged. Definitely not relaxing, so I made my way back to the pavement along the very busy coast road.
There is a set of traffic lights on this road that seem to randomly stop the traffic. There is no pedestrian crossing and the lights are for one way only. I was intrigued enough to photograph this. Just a few yards further on was the warning sign for drivers of speed reduction lights. Local drivers are enthusiastic with the right-hand pedal, so someone somewhere thinks it's fun to stop all the traffic for 10 seconds or so.


On the way back I spotted a tree whose shape seems familiar. It grows on its own on the sparse soil above the dark, sharp rocks. My memory is that I saw trees like this in Kenya, a long time ago, but there many more of them and with Kenya's beautiful greenery surrounding them.


For a Sunday, this was nothing like being at home - except the nap after lunch.

A Quest For Food

Saturday evening, a long day's work done in a small committee room; outside - a fresh breeze, dying light, traffic jams as the beaches empty. Three cars edge along the coast from Carcavelos towards Lisbon. We pass through Belem, home to the Maritime Museum in a former monastery and the brutal linear rectangularity of the modern art museum.

Finally, at a quayside two cars release us to uncoil and stretch, the third turns up later having gone to another restaurant of the same name.    A further wait and the whole group is together.
Outside the restaurant is a 3 metre high copper vat used in brewing; this used to be a brewery, but inside has been converted into a light, open dining area.  The lights are the biggest I have ever seen indoors, the photo rather hides that each of the globes is about a metre diameter.

Before our meals arrive there is plenty of fresh bread, and - Portuguese style - we dip it in olive oil - delicious.

 To match the copper vat outside my meal is served in a copper coated container. It carries a traditional dish of flaked cod in a mesh of tiny fried potato chips, with egg and coriander. It is absolutely delicious.

Several of our party are Brazilian Christians; I must ask them one day how they manage to smile so much and to love life as they obviously do.

Last Museum

Tomorrow we start work - the other 5 people coming for OC matters (see the link to OC's website on this page.) Knowing that our base is in a hotel nearer the beach than the ABLA Guest House, I decided to go into Lisbon once again. At the railway station I looked through the city guide for tourists and was astounded at how many museums this city has. The choice was fairly easy: the museum nearest the railway terminus Cais do Sodres. It also was in the older district that had so many charms.
The Chiado Museum was exhibiting the work of Columbano, a Portuguese painter of renown in his day. His portraits have muted colours, obscured backgrounds that bring out face and hands of his sitters. Later, in the earlier 20th Century he painted facial expressions that spoke of inner turmoil, disdain, conflict or uncertainty. It was very interesting, despite the overall colourlessness.
The museum itself is worth the visit. Housed in a multi-storey former monastery, the entrance hall has high, beautiful arched-brick ceilings; the stairway and walkways to the exhibition areas float through this vast space, giving a closer view of those arches.
After lunch there, I walked further up the hill into squares I visited on Tuesday, but then down narrow streets that swooped down then up the next hill. Some houses were showing off fresh laundry to the sun, garments hanging on clothes lines fixed to the street wall; others were tiled from street level to eaves, goodness knows how old those tiles, but the graffiti was very new.
This was a goldmine for photographers. My camera is bulging with new pictures, but they'll have to wait until I get home - the cable I need is there. Look out for them next month.

A City On A Hill Cannot Be Hid

Each time I have a city break it turns out to be a walking holiday. This morning I decided to visit the beach at Carcavelos, about 10 minutes due south of here. It is February, yet many surfers were out in their wet suits, others were jogging on the sandy beach or along the concrete promenade below the main coast road. It was around 17 degrees Celcius and I was sweltering under a hot sun. The locals of my generation were wrapped up against the Spring chill. They will probably feel comfortable when Summer comes, I would melt.
Along the coast to the west, in profile, was a fortress-like building on a promontory; I like buildings with towers so decided to take a closer look. It is a military base doubling as the local lighthouse, red lanterns clearly visible close up. And no one is allowed inside.
Next back towards town and the railway station; a repeat ride to Cais do Sodres, then a walk up the hill through the old city. Imagine 4 to 5 storey buildings built into the hillside. The rear of them is only 1 or 2 storeys high. The street going up hill is carried by a bridge over the road to the rear, spanning over to the next 5 storey group. And so on. I was amazed at the civil engineering skill to densely populate such a steep incline.

At the top it was time to sit in a little square for refreshments, near a church building now fallen into disrepair and housing a museum of South American antiquities. Alongside is a century-old vertical road lift to take you down to the Av. da Liberdade, mentioned yesterday. My pictures of that are in my camera and inaccessible till I get home. But I have this photo from my phone to prove just how hilly this part of Lisbon is.

In Lisbon They Do Big

The walk from the plane to immigration yesterday felt very much like being imprisoned in a long twisted high corridor with all sight of external things shut off by patterned glass and drawn curtains. It wasn't a good first impression, but it was big - as were all the public spaces I saw in the airport.
Then on the metro, the tunnels are really huge compared with London or Paris systems. Perhaps the rock was softer and cheaper to tunnel, but I can imagine the very diameter of the tunnels could have been reduced along with the spend. David Cameron would have been calling for the small society.
Another "big" is in the public buildings and memorials, some of which reminded me of Soviet grandiosity and emptiness. Railway lines into a capital often show the seamier side and some of the big items along the coast were run down, needed some paint or grass taken off the roof or graffiti scrubbed away.
In the city the Avenida da Liberdade is a triple carriageway down the hill towards the coast. That was lovely to walk along, even when the mosaic pavements were uneven underfoot. I had to turn south and a bit west to get to the railway terminus. All of a sudden the area changed to narrow streets, steep hills, old trams and unexpected open squares - so beautiful. Here are some photos:

I Had A Ticket To Ride

So, today I learned a) how to buy a train ticket, b) how to ride the train, c) how to buy a metro ticket, d) how to change lines on the Lisbon metro, e) how to ask directions. The last item was the most frequent because f) I didn't learn how to read the Lisbon tourist map. As they say in Welsh, I was just twp.
The ABLA guest house is in Carcavelos, west along the coast from Lisbon. The train rides along the coastline to Cais do Sodres, where a metro line also terminates. Then it's a ride north to find the Gulbenkian Museum and Gallery of Modern Art.
The Museum is a gem, not huge, but housing exquisite items from ancient Egypt to pre-revolutionary France. How amazing to see the delicate carvings from 3,000 years ago or more. In the collection of Roman medallions, again beautifully carved, was ample proof that Hollywood blockbusters like Ben Hur got the soldiers' armour right - fabulous miniature images of long dead soldiers, notable ladies and emperors. 
Then it was Islamic art, a leap forward in time and a move into intricate pottery, glasswork, carpets, wall hangings, tiles - few of which represented anything human or animal. One Persian carpet, as big as our living room at home, had a flawless design in numerous colours, all of which presumably were held in the minds of the weavers - no computer aided design here.
The Chinese section was mostly 17th Century. What fresh looking colours on the pottery! - enamels in reality, but reds, greens, yellows and differing shades of blue, so detailed and still striking; a different league from European ceramics.
In the European section, once the artefacts had moved from Christian themes - embossed Bible covers, paintings of the flight to Egypt or Mary and the Christ child, wooden figures of Mary and John at the foot of the cross - the focus on French opulence and Dutch still life seemed too focussed on transience and human vanity.
Art and great buildings usually come from someone or some group accreting enormous wealth off the backs of poorer people. It was the French section that nauseatingly glorified the wealth holders, the other sections were - to a degree - more modest. So, thumbs up to ancient Egypt, the Graeco-Roman period, Islamic art and Chinese pottery.
For this privately acquired collection the items really are a wonder; my head ached at being pummelled by so much beauty.

Lisbon

A first - I am in Lisbon, Portugal. Flying out from London Gatwick on Easyjet was fine, though their policy of "free-fight for seats" reveals interesting aspects of human nature, especially mine. 
The promised taxi driver was waiting, my suitcase was in good order, so we drove out to where I am staying for three nights. It's 10 degrees warmer here than in southern England, positively Spring-like.
A little stroll down a gentle incline took me to the Riviera Centre, a little mall adjoining a big hotel. It was football night on the several big screen TVs around, including the one where I ate.
For the first time in my life I was charged for the food by its weight - each 100gm added about €1.50 to the bill. So, not knowing what the buffet was, I had lamb, blood sausage, flaked tuna fish, octopus, frites, french fries, corn and some black beans. It wasn't a conscious choice, colour was the decider and identification was by taste.

Just down from the mall was an open square, pretty full with parked cars and every cafe was hosting soccer fans. No one noticed I was wearing a rugby shirt.

Sequel

A lot happened in those few days after my iPhone 3G was nearly saved. It turned out that the tiny connector I'd damaged was the one driving the earpiece in the phone, so I could make calls only if I used headphones. Not much use.
Then, providentially, my good wife dropped the phone and it finally expired; it is now an ex-iPhone; it has shuffled off its mortal coil or connector; it is deceased.
For a couple of days I hummed and hawed about what phone to get. Tesco had the best deals on iPhones, but no stock either on their internet store or local ones. Also, iPhones are very expensive. So, I began to explore the HTC range, only to discover they were in short supply, too. I said to God that whatever one turned up first I would take as his input to the decision process.
Tesco in Littlehampton has a new phone store; the lady there promised to phone me back if they got new stock. Two hours after the promise came the news that they had just received two iPhones, would I like one? Yes, of course.
I dashed over after lunch, collected the new phone and went to meet my good wife who was going to look after our great-nephew for the afternoon. But she wasn't where I thought we'd agreed to meet; nor at the little lad's home; nor at our home. So I called her mobile which was answered by her sister who was with Marian in an ambulance going to A&E in Worthing. Good wife had a spell of extremely low blood pressure and ended up staying overnight for various tests.
So, the good Lord actually gave me a phone I could use without further learning just when I needed it - at A&E for the evening.
Next day, nothing sinister was discovered and good wife came home. Sighs of relief all round.