The blue lotus issue 9

Lotus

Issue 9 Winter 2017

The Blue

Arts Magazine

in this issue Benjamin Brown Colin McAllister Ed Gold Lubaina Himid Liz Morris Chrissie Westgate Nick Bellamy Regina Lafay Bellamy Richard Noyce Nathalie Hamill Jan Richie Honey Khor 1

Lotus The Blue

Arts Magazine

The Blue Lotus remains a wholly independent magazine, free from favour and faction.

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The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine is an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asia to the world, and the world to Asia

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inside....

7 Editorial

Thoughts on the current issue

by the Founding Editor

10 Colchester

24 Creating a Future

Colchester arts

30 Benjamin Brown

Artist

36 Colin McAllister

Artist and Cartoonist

48 Ed Gold Other Worlds

50 Lubaina Himid

Warp and Weft

58 West Mersea

72 Liz Morris

Prints

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Front cover by Nick Bellamy

Winter 2017

74 Chrissie Westgate

Photography

82 London

90 Wiltshire

100 Paignton

106 Nick Bellamy

Ceramics

118 Regina Lafay Bellamy

Street Photography 130 Wales

144 Richard Noyce

Poetry 146 Liverpool

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156 Oxford

168 Nathalie Hamill

Ceramics 174 Jan Richie

Prints

176 London

Colchester Town Centre

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Lotus Welcome to

The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine.

September This issue marks marks theaend slight of divergence Summer. The from days the begin to (practically) change, and with all Asian it our trend thoughts. for The This Blue fresh Lotus issue of The Blue Lotus reveals magazine. spiritual paintings from India, PopIArt returned from Japan, to thefish UKfrom for aSingapore 'road trip'and withSurrealism Honey (my wife), to show from her what Cambodia. we could in a very short There are Amazing space digital of time. paintings from a young Indian Before painter she living arrived in Ithe spent Middle some East, time and in paintings my old home from one town, of Colchester.

Malaysia's masters, Inside this as well issueasyou buns willfrom see the the places Chinese wediaspora visited and andrecorded an insightfor into your Malaysian delight. food.

The Blue Lotus is a platform for international cooperation, The Blue Lotus aiming is atoplatform bring creative for international Asia to the world, and the to creative world toAsia Asia.to the cooperation, aiming bring creative world, and the creative world to Asia.

Now read on

Now read on Martin Bradley

Martin (FoundingBradley Editor) (Founding Editor)

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part one

road trip uk

solo

Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again.

Wisely improve the present, it is thine.

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Light rain is on the light dust.

The willows of the inn-yard Will be going greener and greener, But you, Sir, had better take wine ere your departure, For you will have no friends about you When you come to the gates of Go. Chinese Poem, From Rihaku, Lustra (1916) by Ezra Pound Four Poems of Departure

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Colchester, by Marriage's Mill

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colchester

Colchester, Castle

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to begin at the beginning (Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas, 1954)

In the late British Summer I undertook a road trip.

It extended from the oldest recorded British town of Colchester to West Mersea, Wiltshire, Devonshire, Wales, Merseyside, Oxfordshire and finally to London.

It was a trip permeated with memories, old and new, a remembering and a letting go (without forgetting).

Returning, after nearly a decade and a half, was to bring fresh experiences, new insights and the opportunity to see the country of my birth with fresh eyes, the eyes of an expatriate re-entering what was once stiflingly familiar to find a strangeness unexpected and unfamiliar.

This is a slight accounting of that journey.

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It is the East.

Evergreen banana fronds sway outside my bedroom window.

It is the East. Evergreen banana fronds sway outside my bedroom window. The day, for once, is a little overcast, ringing the change from seemingly endless days of heat and Summer to the few of rain, when it is cooler. The sun had broken through, earlier, but retired as it moved towards midday. I look at slightly swaying palm leaves belonging to plants outside the house opposite. Various vines and blue pea flowers trail across that property, displaying Art Nouveau curlicues, bringing a joy for me to witness. I have been thinking of the visit to come, albeit with mixed feelings. I am about to return to Albion, and to that ancient historic town on the Essex/Suffolk border, where I spent the time of my youth. Being besieged with five decades of memories troubles me.

Transcontinental flight, even in these technologically advanced times, is burdensome.

After half a day’s flight, at Heathrow Passport Control, I have a surprise.

I had not noticed, but my passport has a new gold embossed icon on the front cover. To me, it looked like the icon for one stop on a London Underground Tube map. In reality, it is a sign that I have a digital chip in my passport. The icon relates to that semi-translucent plastic, covering the image of my face, the printed seagulls, a most erect lighthouse and the quaint sailing boats delicately printed upon the early pages of said passport. Up until this point these things had meant nothing to me. A smiling, helpful, staff member now takes me in hand, and practically by the hand, and points to a row of Immigration entrance points. She is most patiently talking me through the process of entering Great Britain with my brand spanking new passport. I could not help but notice that she was young, of the Indian diaspora, and very professionally helping this sexagenarian. It has taken seconds. I remain amazed. Next is customs. I have nothing to declare and need do nothing except collect my no longer virgin, unnaturally green, suitcase, then walk the requisite distance to be able to alight an Underground train. London’s Piccadilly Line feeds me to Holborn. From there I am transported, via the Central Line, to Liverpool Street Station. Then begins the struggle with my suitcase, up copious steps and escalators until the moment that I am trying to catch what breath I can, to continue my journey to Britain’s oldest recorded town.

Liverpool Street Station has changed but a little in thirteen years. As I look around, Saturday evening louts run through the Station, hotly pursued by hosts of Keystone Kop policemen. Other loud louts disgorge from trains. They are already chanting their mindless, violent, chants, egging each other on, fists raised in the salute of thuggery.

It is late. I am tired. The journey hangs on me as a lead overcoat. On the 13

St. Botolph's Priory

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H Gunton delicatessen

Colchester bound train I am accosted by a red faced, obviously drunken, thin young man. He is enquiring if I am having a good day. Am I? It is an obvious challenge. To not answer would only incur the young man’s wrath. To answer incorrectly would do the same. ‘I’m feeling pretty tired right now.’ I answer truthfully. ‘I’ve been travelling for 21 hours’, ‘What, in London’ he replied somewhat intoxicatedly astounded. I said ‘no, from South East Asia’. He answered ‘Where?’ Is that, in London’. ‘Yes’, I said a little jaded, ’It’s like the South East of London’. He switches from tormenting me to targeting a young couple sitting opposite. Luckily, it is at that particular junction that the train pulls into Colchester, Central Station, and we all alight.

It is a warm, pleasant, evening, but I am travel weary. Outside Colchester Central Station, I drag that unnaturally green Austin Reed suitcase across bumpy pavements, pedestrian crossings and past my past. Midstride I am verbally accosted by youths outside Gala Bingo, bellowing something probably offensive and challenging, but I am too tired, and my ears too un-attuned to their accents, to hear. I had intended walking the full distance to the Airbnb but, on second thoughts, a cab seems safer.

It is tragic that I am beginning to feel far less safe in the country of my birth, than I have been living abroad for thirteen years. England seems very loutish now. Perhaps it always was. There was always the tussle between town and gown, with an emphasis on the Garrison part of the town. Young soldiers fresh from training or fresh from warfare, alcohol, and young local women are an explosive mix. But the garrison has been wound down now, relocated outside of the town and only the local yobs ply the streets with their inane challenges.

The East, with all its racism and religious ranting, has not made me feel unsafe on the streets, while these three incidents in one evening, in England, have left me wishing for the comforts (and relative quiet) of that green idyll of my Eastern, beloved, home, its banana fronds, towering, sun grasping, coconut trees and large, spiky, fruits that smell like hell and taste like heaven.

It was the Camalodunum of the Romans; the Colneceaster of the Saxons; and a favourite stronghold of the Danes. ...

John Bartholomew's Gazetteer of the British Isles, 1887

It is seven thirty ante meridiem (am) on a very temperate morning.

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Frank Wright & Son Butchers

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Henry Collins and Joyce Pallot mural

The warm night plagued me like a mosquito, of which there are none, here. I am in the ancient East Anglian town of Colchester. According to that Internet oracle, the only establishment open for breakfast is the allAmerican McDonald’s. I have checked with Google, then Foursquare, then again with TripAdvisor, but cafes and restaurants seem to take there own sweet time in proffering the first meal of the day. I used to complain about the lack of choice in my Asian idyll, and yet, by 7.30am, there would be Chinese food; which basically means a variety of noodle dishes, fried or soup, Pau (steamed filled buns) or half- boiled eggs, or Mamak cuisine (Indian Muslim food which has a taste all of its own), and plenty of them in every direction you can swing a domestic animal in. This, you might agree, is better than the rubber and cardboard that is McDonald’s.

There is nothing funny about leg cramps. I seem to suffer from them after long flights. Yesterday’s marathon brought on last night’s leg cramps, waking me at ridiculous times of the early morning. I still have the residue today after walking around town, pretending to be a tourist.

Doctors say there is no prevention, and no cure. Thank you doctors.

It is, therefore, with leg cramps acting as alarm clock, that I have finally given up on sleep. Regarding breakfast, I decide to wait for Tesco Express to open. Eventually I buy breakfast, lunch and sundries in what turned out to be an amazing, and very convenient Tesco mini-mart, if you remember to bring a bag that is. Britain does not give bags away lightly. But, before the Aladdin’s Cave of the Tesco Express, I have taken a Sunday morning stroll through Colchester town, being besieged by over a half-century of memories.

There were days of schooling at the newly conjoined St. Helena Secondary Modern school. Finally males and females were allowed to freely mingle. I had cycled five miles from the far end of my village of Great Horkesley, to Colchester town. My grey steed was a ten-speed cycle hand-me-down from my brother. He, by that time, had bought his second car, a Mini, so his old damaged cycle, which had argued with an apple tree, and lost, was repaired for me. That bike gave me wings. I could fly into Nayland (Suffolk), wing into Colchester, down the back alley between Woolworths and the market, sliding on vegetable discards and 18

Henry Collins and Joyce Pallot mural

loving every minute of the early 1960s, Beatles, Stones, Kinks and riding that grey Rayleigh bicycle to my heart’s content. It became more than a steed, it was my bestest friend ever.

But, and perhaps more importantly, I could cycle to the best bakery in Butt Road, Colchester, and buy marvellous sticky buns (iced buns), topped with sweet, white, icing, for my lunch.

The school remains. The old meat market, which stood at the entrance to Sheepen Road (or sheep pen Road), has long gone, along with the New Market Tavern which had watered me with pints of Rosieless cider in my late, soon to be psychedelic, teen years.

In The Last Don, Mario Puzo reminds us “What is past is past. Never go back. Not for excuses. Not for justification, not for happiness. You are what you are, the world is what it is.”

The old home town did not feel the same, as I stepped down off the train. I have no Mama nor Papa to greet me. Places, shops, have switched around, so it was with a gladdened heart that I see Frank Wright & Sons (butchers since 1926), still displaying fine cuts of ‘English’ meat, sausages, packets of seemingly exotic stuffing and still surviving after all these many, many years. A rival, on another side of town - Gellar (Quality Butcher, opened in 1966) purveyor of fine meat pies and sausages enough to please any Punch, is now permanently closed. The shell of it stands as a reminder never to return. Never to go back and try to relive your 19

Meze at Mirra restaurant

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Mirra Turkish, Mediterranean, Middle Eastern restaurant

memories, or pies.

Opposite the stoic Frank Wright & Sons, still stands the derelict remains of my cinema going youth. The original Odeon cinema, built in 1931, had closed in 2002 and had entertained an inquisitive 13-year-old to many an ‘x’ film, blood, guts, gore and no small amount of titillation too and, as long the staff got their shillings they didn't seem to mind about the corruption of minors. The Odeon, ABC (1930-81) and the Cameo (previously the Electric Theatre, 1910-72) cinemas, which had once clustered around one side of the town of my youth, have long since perished. The Odeon, especially, looks forlorn. It is a poignant reminder of the further erosion of Colchester’s town centre. It has given over to clusters of Nuevo coffee houses, Costas, Starbucks, restaurants proffering anything but local (British) delicacies, and any number of ubiquitous charity shops.

My quest to reveal good quality British food is off to a very shaky start.

My first non-Tesco packaged meal, back in dear old Blighty is, in fact, Turkish. A mixture of Meze, a soupçon of Turkish coffee and, of course, the ever sweet Baklava beckoned. Who was I to deny its call. There must be an unwritten rule about dining on Turkish cuisine and the concept of a mandatory Baklava. It not, there should be. Turkish coffee should also be in bigger cups, so should Italian, but I digress.

Nothing could hurt me more, than to see a great range of common covered with fern (pteris aquilina ) furze, (culex europaus ) and other spontaneous growth sufficiently luxuriant to shew the goodness of the land; and yet, within two miles of Colchester.

Arthur Young, 1784 Tour of Suffolk.

Unbeknownst to me, Monday is a Bank Holiday. A vague memory stirs. August Bank Holiday, aka St Lubbock's Day. Ah, it is Sunday all over again. No chance to hire a car today, nor to get a SIM card for my reasonably smart Samsung phone. England, it would seem, is going out of its way to make me exercise. So I walk. I bravely, and perhaps a tad stupidly, walk the 1.4 miles to the far reaches of Shrub End, never quite knowing which side of the footpath is not footpath and which is cycle way, it seems to change every few yards.

I’m not used to cycle ways. Whizzing Lycra clad individuals, hell bent on out-pacing cars are a mystery to me. I had been a cyclist in the days when cyclists needed no helmet, Lycra or streamlining, and no separate roadways of their own. The problem now, is that cyclists, when not given 21

Road sign honouring Queen Boadicea

their side of the footpath to whiz by on, claim the footpath anyway. I have just got over the shock of the Drury Arms public house (founded 1914 as the British Hotel, renamed the Drury Hotel, and eventually the Drury Arms) being turned into a minuscule Sainsbury's supermarket, when a seemingly earnest young man, atop a modern cycle, hurtles along the pathway and nearly bowls me over. He does turn and apologise, but his words disappear with him has he races away, this time on the road.

The absence of the Army garrison had already struck a blow. It was there that I lost my first love, Barbara, to a much older man who, incidentally had already left school and perhaps represented a more suave older man as opposed to naive, fifteen year old, me. Later, it was at that garrison that I had claimed my right to be a street sweeper, in the early 1970s. It couldn't, and didn't, last, thankfully.

The very idea, that a garrison having been in Colchester since Anglo Saxon times would be overtaken by public housing, is a great surprise, nay a shock. It is one of many surprises en route to Shrub End. I pass Ralph and Rita Martin’s (the florist), expecting to also pass the football ground. I walk, and walk, and then walk some more and was beginning to doubt my navigating skills, when I come to Boadicea Way. Yes, I am on the right road. Okay, so what happened to Colchester United football ground. That football club, apparently, departed Layer Road and was subsumed into the Colchester Community Stadium, along United Way, outside of the main town and near the A12, in 2008. United Way? Back in Colchester town centre. Wimpy. Do you remember Wimpy?

Wimpy (previously called the Wimpy bar) was the first fast food burger joint in England (1954), and Colchester still has a Wimpy. I do a double take, wipe my eyes, and it is still there. Wimpy was established in England a decade before Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC, 1965) Two decades before McDonald’s (1974) or, indeed, Burger King (1977). Wimpy competed with the established, mainly Italian run, coffeehouses as typified by Cliff Richards’ film Expresso Bongo (1960). Starbucks, which now seems to be everywhere, up and down England, in towns, villages and Services along motorways was only established in England during 1998 and, as of the 2016 statistics, there are now some 898 Starbucks in the UK. I avoid as many as possible, preferring Costa Coffee as it gives a better coffee experience, and is not American but was founded in the East End of London, by two immigrant Italian brothers - Bruno and Sergio Costa, in 1978.

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that (Shakespeare's King Lear, 1605) 22

Deja Vue is the feeling that you have been somewhere, or done something before. In a sense I had, been in Colchester before, but not this Bizzaro World Colchester. High Street landmark Willie G’s, or Williams & Griffin, has vanished. In its place is Fenwick from Newcastle upon Tyne, scary.

I just dashed, well limped, down Castle Street to make sure that Colchester Castle was still there, and not some plastic covered, American owned, fun fare in its place. The Castle is still there. I stand, being washed with memories. I walk as the ghost of a schoolboy, runs through that Castle Park, fresh from school, to the Bus Park, buying American comics from the newsstand, eating bacon sandwiches dripping with liquid fat, waiting for the Great Horkesley ‘Norfolk’s’ bus which goes down to Nayland and eventually deposits that young me outside the Rose & Crown pub, and steps from my home. A nineteen year old me, in a dyed black army (first World War) great coat and pink scarf, leans up against a Norman archway and dreams romantic, poetic, dreams. Finally, as a forty-something Essex University ‘Gallery Studies’ post-graduate student I volunteer at Colchester Castle. The Bus Station too has gone, moved from its nest and entrance from East Hill to Osborne Street and Stanwell street with no cafeteria to sell bacon sarnies and no newsstand to proffer young schoolboys comics.

In 1965 Bob Dylan toured Britain. D.A. Pennebaker captured that on a film which was to become ‘Don’t Look Back’. I had seen that film at what was the old Cameo Arts Cinema. Dylan was right, don’t look back, don’t go back, there is too much heartache, too many memories crushed by the harsh reality of progress and change. You can’t go back. Time is not frozen. Even our memories let us down.

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Walking Woman by Sean Henry

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Colchester

Creating a Future 25

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The Minories Galleries houses a contemporary art gallery now run by Colchester School of Art. The site is also home to a shop selling some of the best art and crafts to be found across the region, and has meeting rooms for hire, and can also cater for weddings and other events. A listed Georgian building, The Minories is of local importance within the historic town of Colchester.

The Victor Batte-Lay Foundation, over the years assisted by the ‘Friends of The Minories’ support group, have ensured the building be used to present art for the community of Colchester and visitors to the town. This has continued and now ensures the Colchester School of Art provides contemporary art and design in one of Colchester’s most distinctive buildings.

Benjamin Brown exhibition at The Minories

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As well as the public gallery and shop, there is also the Batte-Lay Tea Rooms (run by Tiptree) and a wonderful walled garden that is looked after by The Friends of The Minories. The Minories is next door to Firstsite, Colchester’s new contemporary art space, in the centre of the town’s cultural quarter.

Find out more about the latest events and exhibitions on The Minories website.

The Galleries are open Monday – Saturday 10.00am – 5.00pm. Entry is Free.

The Batte-Lay tea Rooms is open Monday – Saturday 9.30am – 5.00pm during the summer, and 9.30am – 4.00pm during the winter.

The Garden, and some areas of the main Minories building are available for private hire, for business meetings, conferences or training sessions. The Gardens and Building are also a wonderful setting for wedding receptions, private parties and other celebrations. Contact us for more information.

E-mail: the.minories@colchester.ac.uk

The Minories hallway

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benjamin brown found in East Anglia

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Red Bicycle Swimming with Nicholas

Benjamin Brown (b.1989) is an emerging artist living in Manningtree, the smallest town in the UK. He is working primarily with found materials, often employing energetic mark-making and vibrant strokes of colour. Self taught with no formal training, Benjamin Brown is a raw and promising young British artist.

This year Benjamin started to exhibit his work. The Triptych Athos, Porthos, Aramis was 32

Fork's Sake

selected as one of the featured works in the Penarth Open.

- Recently Benjamin has been experimenting with photography some of his photos have been selected for Martin Parr's - Essence of Essex exhibition at Firstsite.

Benjamin released a book 'Paintings' which sold out within a week.

You can now buy Fine Art prints at Benjamin's online shop -http:// benjaminbrown.bigcartel.com/ 33

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colin mc allister Colin McAllister is a cartoonist and illustrator living in Colchester, working in black and white, pen and ink.

His current drawing interests include local urban scenes, portraits and cartooning.

His cartoons are microcosms of issues of interest, and, unlike most cartoons, require time to be studied in order to take in all the detail and action. He tells us that sometimes the subject matter is serious, sometimes sentimental and silly but whatever he is working on at the time has his full attention and he is always attempting to out-do his previous efforts without repeating himself. He has a love for interesting perspective and minute, exacting detail and attempts to use a piece of paper to its full capacity, leaving no subject detail left out. Colin also enjoys completing drawings which are updates of old masters paintings, reworked into my own style. He finds it interesting to begin with a wellknown composition and giving it his own modern twist.

Colin also goes under the pseudonym ‘Snublic’ and he calls his drawings Snublic Drawings. He aims to complete a drawing every month, either for himself or as a commission.

Colin is an affiliated member of ENAS through CO3 Studios http://www.essexstudios.org.uk/users/snublic

Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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Deep Dark Web

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Brexit

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2 Wrongs Makes a Right

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Manufacturing Consent

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New frontier

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First Site's mission is to inspire people through innovative art and culture – contributing to their region’s well-being, learning and economy.

Their inclusive and evolving programme immerses audiences in a wealth of visual arts that aim to bring art into the heart of our diverse community.

They present exhibitions from both local and internationally renowned artists, run events, activities and learning workshops and show a wide range of films and live opera and ballet screenings.

First Site believes 'that art in all its forms offers fresh perspectives on modern life. By encouraging dialogues between artists and audiences we aim to fire the imagination and stimulate new engagement and practice.'

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ed gold: other worlds

A self-taught photographer, Ed Gold began documenting people and communities whilst working as a farm labourer in Essex in the 1980s. He holds a B/TEC National Diploma in Graphic Design from the Colchester Institute, a BA Hons in Design from the Colchester Institute, and an MA in Interactive Multimedia from Central Saint Martins. In 2001, Gold began taking photographs full-time, and has since been ‘homeless,’ choosing to forego a home base and instead live amongst some of the most unique and isolated societies on the planet.

Communities that Gold has documented include Welsh Patagonians, the Inuit and Athabascan peoples, a family that lives in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, and the British and American military. His work has often featured on the BBC. 48

The presentation is made up a hundred photographs taken over a period spanning almost thirty years. These have been selected from Gold’s personal archive, and the various bodies of work chosen represent his ongoing interest in isolated communities (both geographic and social): Patagonia, Country Folk (Essex, Wales & Scotland), Afghanistan Bed Spaces, Positive Futures, and Nowitna, Alaska.

In the spirit of Walker Evans and James Agee’s ground-breaking text and photo work, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, 1941, Gold embeds himself in the communities he records, living with them for up to three years, sharing their experiences and forming close relationships with those he portrays.

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lubaina himid warp and weft

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A key figure in the Black Arts Movement, Lubaina Himid first came to prominence in the 1980s when she began organising exhibitions of work by her peers, whom were under-represented in the contemporary art scene. Her diverse approach disrupts preconceptions of the world by introducing historical and contemporary stories of racial bias and acts of violence inflicted upon oppressed communities.

Himid is best known as a painter, and Warp and Weft is comprised of three bodies of work in which the artist adopts the mantel of the History painter to question its imperialist tradition. By reinserting black figures into this arena of power and prestige, Himid foregrounds the contribution of people of the African diaspora to Western culture and 52

economy.

The exhibition’s title, Warp and Weft, refers to the process by which threads are held in tension on a frame or loom to create cloth. Himid chose the title for its reference to Colchester’s important position in the wool trade between the 13th and 16th centuries, and its complex history of race and migration that is reflected in the productive tensions of Himid’s work.

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Colchester Art Cafe

On a consistently warm, late August, morning the sun graced the expectant windows of a 500 year old Colchestrian building. On its way, that triumphant sun glinted off Colchester’s main Library and spectacularly highlighted trees at the rear of Colchester’s oldest surviving church, revealing the 11th Century Anglo Saxon tower belonging to the Holy Trinity Church, on Trinity Street, Colchester.

Renown West Mersea watercolourist James Weaver, his chef wife and daughter have created both an art space and a thriving cafe in Britain's oldest recorded town. It is a sister cafe to their highly successful, and artfully situated Art Cafe on the island of West Mersea, also known for its famous oyster sheds.

At their Colchester site, no. 7 Trinity Street, the Art Cafe’s 54

Colchester Art Cafe

antique, exposed beams punctuate the building’s interior.

In that 16th Century, Grade 2 listed building those beams are interspersed with intriguingly rendered white plastered walls appearing almost as artworks themselves.

Despite the outside A board tempting me with bagels and salmon, I was quickly to learn that they were out of bounds, until lunchtime. Pouting a little, I ordered and eagerly devoured Eggs Benedict. I was informed that it comprised of a modicum of locally produced ham (from Suffolk) and free range eggs hailing from West Mersea, not to mention the lovingly, and freshly prepared hollandaise sauce. To accompany, I quaffed two, fine, flat white coffees.

However, I became a little suspicious of their addictive quality, which seemed to be way above and beyond that of 55

West Mersea Art Cafe

mere caffeine, but I eventually put it down to the skill of the cafe staff, the beans and the machine.

On the Art Cafe walls, Rod Shone's stark (black on white) celebrity linocuts brought the 'Art' to the notion of an Art Cafe. Pioneer at Sea, another (large) linocut, this time of the boat Pioneer and by James Dodds, added to the already cultured ambience of the antique building.

That linocut held me in awe of its size for, as we know, the larger linocuts are the more difficult it is to get a good print from separating paper from inked linoleum.

The Weavers had chosen well. Settling into an antique building so close to the town centre, while remaining subtly aside from it is an art in itself. Trinity Street has a long history of art, from the old Trinity Gallery, art space and art supplier, to the studios of Colchester artists which once graced the street.

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West Mersea Art Cafe

The Artcafé, 2 Coast Road, West Mersea, Essex, CO5 8QE. Telephone 01206 385234 The Artcafé, 7a Trinity Street, Colchester Essex, CO1 1JN. Telephone 01206 577775

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west mersea

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Monkey Beach, West Mersea

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Sign pointing down Monkey Steps

The time of year is upon us. The Mayor of Colchester, Colchester’s Chief Executive and the Town Sergeant are gathered together on the east of Mersea Island, near Colchester, supping gin and nibbling at gingerbread. These actions mark the opening of Colchester’s (Mersea’s) annual oyster fishery season.

Once also known for its own concoction of pudding (Colchester Pudding, involving custard, fruit and tapioca), Colchester is, perhaps, much better known for its oysters. Since time immemorial, Colchester’s Mersea Island has been famous for what is called ‘Native’ oysters, native to the estuary and its surrounds. Colchester (or Mersea) oysters have been popular since before Roman times and, it is said, oysters may have been one reason why Romans invaded England in 43 AD. In 1189 AD, Colchester officially laid claim, by charter, to the Blackwater oyster beds in Mersea, now known as the Colchester ‘Native’ oyster beds, as one particular type of oyster (Ostrea edulis), known for its sumptuousness, grows there, and only there.

In modernity, annually, on the first Friday of September, the incumbent Colchester Mayor traditionally travels, by boat, to the Pyefleet Channel.

There a proclamation, dating back several hundred years, is read aloud.

The civil leader (Mayor) dredges up and eats the first oyster of the season.

This is followed by a toast of gin and a piece of gingerbread, dating back to 1540. And so the oyster season is begun. The actual Oyster Feast is held at the end of October and an Oyster Festival in June.

After a recent Colchester Mayor had difficulties with the boat journey, the ceremony has been switched to land, and the Mayor handed a plate of oysters, rather than physically dredging for him/herself the prized bivalve mollusc.

Somewhere, there is a black sketchbook containing my first few pen and ink sketches of houseboats on Mersea Island. It was in those preArt School days when Virgil Finlay and Aubrey Beardsley were my artist heroes, and before I became fascinated by the neo-Celtic works of Jim Fitzpatrick. I’ve not sketched, and especially not taken up my map pens and Rotring Ink, since transporting myself to South East Asia. Instead I use the camera on my phone to record the images that I am later to use 60

Garden Cottage Coast Road

for writing I walk, taking the footpath that runs counterpoise to the early morning work traffic, from my Airbnb lodging to the Town Railway Station bus stop (stop C). I anxiously await the 67A First Bus, to take me to the west of Mersea Island, from which I intend to walk to the oyster sheds.

Mersea Island is Britain’s furthest Easterly island. It faces the English channel and is formed by the Pyefleet Channel to the north, and the Strood Channel to the west, which connects the Blackwater to the Colne. Mersea Island is therefore nestled between Brightlingsea and Brightlingsea Creek, on the one side, and Tollesbury and its ‘Blackwater Estuary National Nature Reserve’, on the other. A causeway bridge (originally built by Anglo-Saxons), and the B1025 road connects the island to the mainland, with traffic frequently impeded by tidal flooding on the Strood causeway.

The three-quarters of an hour bus journey weaves me through the South East Essex countryside. With a talkative, retired, ex-charity worker bending my ear throughout, I try to glimpse the village of Peldon as we pass through, and eventually arrive at St. Peter and St. Paul’s Church, West Mersea (established somewhere between 654 AD and 1042 AD) 61

West Mersea splendour

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British Seafood array

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Fresh Mersea Blackberries

and is, apparently, considered to be Saxo-Norman).

The threatened showers hold off. I strip my shell jacket off and, as I walk, I bask in the late Summer sun. I am washed by Mersea salty sea breezes to the comforting sound of curlews and the smell of Oyster Stout. Yes, Oyster Stout. Mersea Island has its own vineyard and brewery, tucked away down Rewalls Lane. Its brews include a traditional Oyster Stout called, surprisingly enough, Island Oyster. The brewers claim that It’s ‘superbly rich, and smooth, brewed with Mersea native oysters’ and has 5.1 % alcohol content, available in bottles and firkins. I cannot attest to that. I rarely drink beer, ale or stout unless its ice cold.

Before ambling along the small road leading to the oyster sheds, fishers and one very traditional British seafood stall, I find myself on Monkey Beach. There is, of course, a dearth of monkeys. There are many stories as to how Monkey Beach and Monkey Steps got their name.

Some claim that monkeys were once held in a cage, in the garden, at the dark clapboard cottage adjacent to that particular beach, others claim that Customs Officers (who some say were called Monkeys), had their smugglers look-out post there. The smuggling part is, at least true, as attested to by Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould (1834 – 1924) writing his famous novel (‘Mehalah’) concerning smugglers and smuggling there.

That novel was based upon what the author could discover about 19th.

Century Mersea Island, and the Blackwater area, during his decade of residence. In Mehalah, Sabine Baring-Gould uses names of people, places and buildings still in existence, in a novel which is, essentially, a smuggling romance.

I stand on Monkey Beach. To my knowledge there are no smugglers present. The sky is an immaculate blue. Stones and sand crunch beneath my comfortable trainers, a breeze tugs gently at my shirt. In a perfect moment, I might toast a glass of sparking wine to a beloved, as we sit smiling inanely on a picnic rug, with crab salad before us and golden haired children playing happily on the sand, or in the water. But I am alone. I stir from that daydream and walk back up Monkey Steps and along a slight greensward, parallel to the rambling road. That stretch of coast seems quintessentially English. It has some of the best the sea has to offer, as well as all the traditional comforts of countryside, the blackberries, hawthorn, crab apples and, slightly away from the road, behind ageing cottages, domesticated apples, hazelnut trees, red squirrels and woodpeckers and, somewhere in the cooling Mersea waters, lives Sammy seal.

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Mersea Natives Copyright Chrissie Westgate

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Cleaning Oysters on Mersea Island

I walk past the bronzed young men stripped to the waist, washing nets full of freshly caught oysters, past the oyster ‘sheds’ and the restaurants, pubs and other eateries proclaiming the sale of fresh Mersea oysters.

Like a carload or two, leaving disappointedly, I am too early. It is 10.35 in the morning, oysters are served at noon. I volte-face, leave the proffering of traditional British seafood from a white hut calling itself ‘The Dukes’, and its hundred year old history. I turn to return to the High Street, rejecting jellied eel, dressed crab, cooked pink prawns, cockles, smoked salmon, potted shrimps, whelks, rollmop herring and a platter as a combination of all mentioned, because half past ten on a bright, sunny morning is just too early to indulge in British seafood.

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Native Oysters Mersea Island [Copyright Chrissie Westgate]

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Shucking Competition on The Packer Marsh Copyright Chrissie Westgate

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liz morris 'I trained as a painter at the Southern College of Art, Bournemouth, at Goldsmith's and the Central School, and only much later discovered etching at Morley College in South London.

Living in Greenwich I taught art and ran a print making workshop in my studio, and was one of the founder members of the Greenwich Print makers, a co-operative with its own gallery. Living now on Mersea Island I belong to the Gainsborough’s House Print Workshop, and was for ten years a member of the East Anglian based 12PM Twelve Print makers.

I am a print maker who enjoys islands and the sea, and my work has come to reflect two particular island environments.

They are Mersea Island where I live and where I work in my studio, and Heir Island, a small island in West Cork where for years I have spent much of the summer, sailing, walking and drawing. Sea and sand patterns, shapes of stones, textures, imprints in mud and tracks of birds, fish, gulls - and most recently – sea myths and biblical stories with sea references, are all used as starting off points for my prints In recent years I have exhibited at the Royal Academy and at ‘Originals’, the contemporary print making show at the Mall Galleries. Also at the Barbican in print exhibitions 1996- 2000, and at the Affordable Art Show, Battersea.

In East Anglia I have frequently shown at the Eastern Open at Kings Lynn. In 1999 I was awarded the Coley and Tilley prize by the Royal Birmingham Society of Artists, and in 2005 I was featured in the Anglian Television series ‘Coastal Inspirations’'.

On Packing Marsh Island

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Footprints

The Multitude of Fishes.Ed100

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chrissie westgate Chrissie is an international award-winning photographer with many years experience.

She specialises in street and informal portraiture, and also enjoys all aspects of this art form.

Chrissie says 'A photographic image can expose so many emotions and almost always transcends nations. Images are such a capable and powerful way of exposing situations of conflict and misery throughout the world and offer a compelling means of bringing about change.

The essence of being a people photographer is gratitude. I am constantly grateful for the opportunity to see and spend time with people and to make images that allow me to share what I have seen with others.

I can immerse myself in all genres of photography, and see it as a privilege to be asked to photograph a wedding or take family photographs, knowing they will be treasured and stay with those families forever.

Landscape photography, particularly around my home on Mersea Island, can be enthralling.

I find it difficult to describe that great 'inside thing' I get from creating an instant image that reflects how I felt at the moment I chose to press the shutter. However, if I had to find words, 'Harmony and 'Delight' would spring to mind. Harmony - for at the moment of capture I am utterly captivated and absorbed in my subject whatever it might be. Delight - as so many things delight me, but encapsulating a precious moment in time, such as the light dancing on the sea, or the sun setting is such a wonderful thing to be able to do.'

Chrissie's work has been displayed at The Victoria and Albert Museum, The Mall Gallery, The Menier Gallery, The Royal Albert Hall, The Greenwich Museum, Liverpool Street Station and many local galleries. ​ Prints ordered from this site will be printed using Fotospeed papers. https://www. fotospeed.com/ 74

Tom's hands Copyright Chrissie Westgate

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Gerry the Boat Gypsy Copyright Chrissie Westgate

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Ray Smith - Tomato Boat Man

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The Old Jetty 'At Their Own Risk' Copyright Chrissie Westgate

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london

The Annunciation, the Crucifixion and the Assumption) painted by the French artist, poet and film maker, Jean Cocteau, in1959

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Yesterday I had taken the very same trip, albeit a little earlier and without the unnaturally green suitcase. Yesterday’s trip was to meet a significant University of Westminster academic, and to talk about the Chinese diaspora in London. Names such as Limehouse, Lao She (Lao Tze), Thomas Burke and the popular fiction of Sax Rohmer (aka Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward) were banded about in the lunchtime Illy Caffé.

On that day, after gracefully enduring my questions, the prized academic had gone to her lectures, leaving molecules of her very feminine perfume behind to remind me of what had been a fragrant presence. I elected to walk to the modern incarnation of London’s China Town, now located within the area of Gerrard Street and Lisle Street with Chinese restaurants leaking into Wardour Street too.

The walk took me past Veeraswamy’s restaurant, in Swallow Street, reputedly founded by the grandson of an English General and an Indian princess, and purports to be the oldest existing Indian restaurant in England (first opened in 1926). It is not, however, the first Indian restaurant in London. The Bengali owned Hindoostane Coffee House was certainly one of the first. It was established in 1809, by one Sake Dean Mahomed who had hailed from Patna, Bihar, India. He converted from Islam to Christianity to marry his love, and has the reputation of being the first Indian to publish a book in English. The Hindoostane Coffee House was situated at 34 George Street (renumbered as 102 George Street) in London’s Marylebone.

As Veeraswamy’s restaurant was a tad beyond my pocket, I sauntered on to 5 Leicester Place, and into the Church of Notre Dame de France, to see the murals (The Annunciation, the Crucifixion and the Assumption) painted by the French artist, poet and film maker, Jean Cocteau, in 1959. Those intriguing murals were signed D.D.D Jean Cocteau, and with his characteristic star, one year later, in 1960. I luncheoned on the hoof, grabbing Roast Char Siu Pau (roast pork buns) from the Kowloon Bakery in China Town, and then to Liverpool Street Station and back to my Airbnb in Colchester.

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Veeraswamy’s restaurant, in Swallow Street

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Today, manhandling that unnatural green suitcase, now mostly filled with unwashed clothing, I board the train.

I am bored by the change of trains at Colchester North Station.

Eventually I am deposited at Liverpool Street Station, swipe the barcode (nestling in my Samsung Edge 7) on the standing scanner, and head for something to eat. I am a little fidgety, full of cortisol and adrenalin, for today I am to meet my wife for the first time in nearly a month. I am, somewhat slowly, edging towards Heathrow Airport Terminal 4 and the landing of her Malaysian Airways flight, later in the day.

I discover that Liverpool Street Station has little in the way of actual restaurants. True there are many kiosks with all kinds of panini, grilled sandwiches, even sushi and my favourite doughnuts (Krispy Kreme), but few places to eat them. I am loathe to go too far, what with that unnaturally green suitcase and its minuscule wheels and all, so I limit myself to what is being proffered on the station itself. Very little as it turns out. The Merchant at Bishopsgate, actually on the station, expects nearly eleven pounds (actually ÂŁ10.95) for what it calls Proper Fish and Chips. I end up dragging that unnaturally green suitcase up five steps and am having a bowl of Moroccan soup and two croissants from the Camden Food Company. The afternoon spreads before me. I am not due at Heathrow until 5pm. Do I dilly dally along the way, ever pushing or dragging my burden with me, or do I begin the journey just in case of unforeseen difficulties along the way. Eventually I chose the latter.

You might have thought that transiting to Heathrow Terminal 4, via the London Underground would be a simple matter. It is not. It was not the changing of lines from the Central Line to Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, that was the problem, but actually getting to Terminal 4. Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 and 5 are serviced by one Underground train, Terminal 4 by another, separate train. Do not assume that Terminals 1,2,3 and 5 on the front of an Underground train automatically means that Terminal 4 is inclusive of this array. It is not.

So here I am, having manhandled my unnaturally green suitcase, up and down steps from Liverpool Street Station, through the Central Line, changing at Holborn, and onto the Piccadilly Line where I assumed that it was safe to board a train, any train, heading towards Heathrow. It was 86

not safe. It was a false assumption.

There are twenty-five stops between London Liverpool Street Station and Heathrow Terminal 4. It takes about seventy minutes to complete, on a good day. It was not a good day. I had boarded a train marked Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 and 5, and it was only at Hatton Cross that the strange metallic Underground Dalek suggested that I might want to change trains to reach Terminal 4. Realisation had struck. I was on the wrong train. I shot out of that Underground train carriage, propelling my unnatural green suitcase at speed, onto the platform and wistfully watched the train pull out of Hatton Cross station, with but a handful of fellow travellers stranded at Hatton Cross station.

That is okay, I think to myself. This is London. This is the oldest, most professional underground railway system in the world. It had begun way back in 1890, as the Metropolitan Railway, while the line that I am on hails from the early days of the 20th Century (1901). I think, with all that history, and experience that it would be a small matter to hop onto Hatton Cross station, wait a modicum of minutes then hop back onto a train to my destination (Heathrow Terminal 4). That does not happen.

I, and others, watch as three trains pull in and pull out of the station, all headed to Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 and 5, one comes in 4 minutes.

Another comes at 12 minutes. The other arrives in 25 minutes, and only then is Heathrow Terminal 4 mentioned. It is a delay in the region of 40 minutes, and it is at this point that I am so glad that I began my journey early. The journey from Hatton Cross to Heathrow Terminal 4 takes an irritating two minutes. Hatton Cross to Heathrow Terminal 4 is so near, yet so far.

I am still early.

I settle in at Cafè Nero, one of only three possible venues to grab coffee and something resembling food at Heathrow Terminal 4 Arrivals.

I begin to read a novel from my tablet. I stop reading. My brain is too vexed and tired. I look around. I 'play, play' with Facebook. I read and re-read my dear wife’s last ‘Private Message’ to me ‘On the way to airport.

Don’t have time to sleep. Work until 5.30am, shower and leave home. See you soon’. ‘Soon’ is, of course, relative. For me, sitting at Cafè Nero, soon might be interpreted as a few minutes, ten, maybe twenty minutes.

Whereas ‘soon’ from another perspective might mean, ‘as soon as I reach Kuala Lumpur International Airport, drop baggage, exit immigration, wait for flight boarding, board the aeroplane heading towards London, endure the near 14 hour flight, exit plane, tackle immigration, pick up baggage from the carousel and walk, tired and weary, through customs and finally out at Heathrow Terminal 4, Arrivals’.

I wait.

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There on that concourse, children cry or run hither thither. People meet and greet. People come and go, and I have no idea if they are talking of Michelangelo.

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Terminal 4 Heathrow Airport

The Arrivals hall seems the perfect place to practise patience. There is, after all, little choice. All the ranting and raving, all the anxiety in the world will not bring your loved ones back to you any sooner. It is all to do with fate, or karma (Kamma as some say). The universe brings or takes away. In the fullness of an engorged time she will appear. I know that as a certainty. And yet, the devil on the left shoulder whispers of missing flights; being held in immigration; of not being allowed into my country. The angel on the right shoulder smiles a beneficent smile, shrugs and suggests that I wait and see. So, with just the teeny amount of doubt, I wait.

And then, at exactly the moment the universe has decreed, through the left hand doorway, a bronze suitcase proves to be the advance guard.

She is here. I cannot extinguish the huge grin on my lips. My heart is pounding. It’s a love attack. She is safe and she is here, in front of me, also grinning.

This Road Trip has begun, all the rest was but a preamble.

Having exited from the Hertz shuttle bus, we discover that Hertz is a tad out of our price range. The only car they have left, at such an advanced time of the afternoon, requests me to part with an arm and a leg. I am fond of my body parts. Fortunately, a very kind employee takes us to one side. He points towards a rival company (Enterprise Rent-A-Car) next door. I say next door, but next door is a couple of hundred yards away, a bit of a push with two suitcases and sundry bags. But we make it.

The deal is done. We drive away in a black Vauxhall Mokka automatic and head towards the motorway. Despite it being close to workers knocking off time, the drive out to the M3 and then the A303 is straightforward, once I have discovered which side the indicators and windscreen wipers are on, that is. I had booked an Airbnb overnight stay, online, at a homestay near Stonehenge (actually half an hour away) and, using the trusty Waze app on my phone, found Coombe Bissett, near Salisbury, Wiltshire. With little effort.

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wiltshire

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part two

road trip uk

duo

Grounds & Gardens by Honey Khor

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Well kept hens eggs, just in case

The hosts, the (farm) house, the proffered glass of wine, the kitchen decor (replete with colourful budgerigars) all engender a very warm welcome. Pink bougainvillea tangle with a deeper pink fuchsia on a mezzanine frame beneath the kitchen ceiling, The kitchen itself is half conservatory, half white painted wood, ornamented, and spacious. It is a dream. Eggs are kept in a small wooden chicken coop lest they run away, or are bothered by one of the foxes close by. Real, pink, and white orchids peek at us from every turn.

And so to bed.

This morning, the steaming light illuminates foxes. A fox motif quickly reveals itself amongst the plethora of farmhouse objects d’art, in what has turned out to be a magnificently decorated home. There is a small print of a running fox on the wall. A photo of a fox as he is half hidden amongst the bracken, which for some reason reminds me of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped and David Balfour’s journey. Beatrix Potter’s Mr Tod is framed and on the wall, while a stuffed cushion of a fox in hunting gear (Hanford’s English Hunt Plush Mr Fox perhaps, in his red coat outfit) sits on an antique wooden cane back chair. Breakfast reveals homemade marmalade and jam. It is all very, very English, from the hunting scenes on the walls of the kitche, to the green garden view the windows allow. I could not have wished for a better place to introduce Honey to England.

Heaven.

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Freddie Fox Tapestry Cushion

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Airy Kitchen by Honey Khor

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Today it is Stonehenge.

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That magnificent late neolithic stone structure on Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, mystically draws us to it.

Many years ago, when I had first visited Stonehenge (constructed about 5,000 years ago), it was still possible to walk among the stones, sense those ancient vibes and really get to feel at one with the ley-lines (lines of energy) and the ancients who had contracted that imposing circle, other circles, and groupings of standing stones in the vicinity.

Visitors by Honey Khor

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As well as Stonehenge, scientists now believe that they have discovered the remains of an even larger ‘Stonehenge’, laughingly titled ‘Superhenge’. What remains are thirty stones (out of a possible ninety originally) some fifteen feet tall, and nearly two miles away from the monument that we know and love. This follows the news that there was a wood henge, built about 2300 BC, in the same vicinity, mostly destroyed by farming but now marked by concrete posts for posterity. These snippets of news take nothing away from the mysteries and magic of the existing structure but, rather, add to the awe we feel when we come to gazing at Stonehenge.

Stonehenge is beset with rain.

We hustle from the carpark to the visitor’s centre, glad for our hooded ‘shells’ as it is too windy for umbrellas. Briefly stopping for a gulp or two of Fentiman’s (established 1905) botanically brewed Wild English Elderflower drink, we damply mooch towards the bus stop. Along with buses of others, equally garbed for the inclement weather. We are transported to a destination fifty yards or so from the standing stones themselves.

Not even the English rain can take away the splendour and mystery of the sight before us.

Though one Indian gentleman does try. Calmly, and with the weight of wisdom showing in his face, he asserts that Stonehenge is

We arrive after a leisurely drive

boring, for it is not carved like the Khajuraho group of monuments in India. Honey and I are stunned.

We are unable to fling back a witty retort, but mumble to each other about the inappropriateness of his assertion. The Khajuraho grouping is, of course, young in comparison to Stonehenge, Khajuraho was built between 950 and 1050 AD, and is at the very least two thousand years younger than Stonehenge.

That misguided gentleman takes nothing away from our interest.

The rain eases enough for Honey, in her brilliant red and sombre black jacket, to make a sketch or three. The rain’s easing allows us to stand and gaze when standing and gazing is necessary, jump up and down for cameras on

our phones, when our spirits are themselves risen, and even sit and muse at the questions the distant stones continue to pose. Visitors from divers countries snap away, as do we. Selfies are taken with Stonehenge, like family shots, with Stonehenge as the aged parent in the back row.

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devon

Paignton sea side

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I have never, yet, been to The Riviera, the French one that is. Some wag, perhaps in his cups, or a sworn pasty, scrumpy cider and clotted cream addict desperate for a fix, has named the Torbay area, in which sits Paignton, the English Riviera, and a quick re-branding has hailed Paignton as the Historic Heart of the English Riviera. I can think of no other reason why Paignton should have been named so.

That is Paignton, not I hasten to add, Peyton Place which sounds similar but was a somewhat mucky American book by Grace Metalious (1956), followed by a dubious TV series (1964 to 1969).

It was hardly a taxing drive via the A303, A30 and A380 etcetera. It was simply two hours (plus) of reasonable road and a roadside lunch so memorable that I have clean forgotten where we ate, or what. Perhaps it was because our minds were otherwise engaged on the company to come, the sheer delight of meeting old friends and learning more about each other. So, the seaside town in which they lived, was important in so much as they lived there, and it happened to be Paignton. As it turned out, Paignton was reminiscent of another seaside town, Clacton-on Sea, where I had spent a decade of my life watching seagulls, strolling sands and listening to the music of the waves. However, Paignton is a tad more upmarket. There are those who may indicate anything is more upmarket than Clacton, but I digress.

Paignton is yet another of those Anglo-Saxon settlements, also written about in the famous Doomesday Book of 1086 A.D. (as Peynton), beginning as a fishing village and, eventually, with the building of first a railway in 1859 and the construction of a pier in 1879, became a seaside resort bringing Victorian red sand, sea and whelk lovers down from London to sniff the saline air.

Honey had brought rainbows with her. We stand in an English Riviera carpark, just down the road from Paignton, in Torquay, and my favourite Chinese Malaysian artist holds a rainbow in her hand. It is not the first rainbow to spring into being during this trip, but the first to silhouette Torbay Palms making me a little homesick for Malaysia.

Honey and the rainbow in Torbay

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Fish & Chips by Honey Khor

Back in Paignton, in the morning, we forage for breakfast after a night of wine, women and talking about my friend’s ceramics and photography, the songs of Pink Floyd and images of the Mexican Day of the Dead, we have headed for Frankie’s (Breakfast Bar & Coffee House), on our friend’s recommendation. Over the course of (almost) a month in Britain I have become a little fond of the (great) British breakfast. Therein lies robust Cumberland sausages filled to the skin with at the very least 80% coarse chopped pork, spices and real gristle (most satisfying).

The breakfast continues with two slices of real (that is to say pork, not chicken, turkey or beef ) back bacon which are heavenly, and fresh (not tinned) fried mushrooms, which gives the breakfast before me the edge over many. All this comes with lightly fried eggs (two), actual tomatoes (again not tinned) and, in this case, a foreign object.

It is an obvious fact that New York Hash browns (previously called Hashed Brown Potatoes) are not British, and have no recourse to be resident within a British Breakfast, especially mine. Hash Browns may have a history dating back to the 1880s, mentioned by Maria Parloa in her book 'The Original Appledore Cook Book' (1872, page 82) simply as ‘Browned Potatoes’, but in her 'Miss Parloa’s Kitchen Companion' (1887, page 501) as ‘Hashed and Browned Potatoes', does not give them the right to invade my breakfast, however, that did not stop me from eating them.

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Redcliffe Towers, Paignton

Today it rains.

Sometimes it rains that miserable, cold, British rain, sometimes it is a little meatier and forces us to run for cover. After the delight of Frankie’s breakfast, Our experience of the Paignton seaside is dashing in and out of the, conveniently placed, shelters alternating in shedding our jackets, due to the late Summer warmth, and hastily replacing them and dashing for shelter. In between, thunderous battleship grey clouds part slightly to reveal delicate blue skies, then more rain.

Between the lashings of heaven sent water, and feeling a little windswept but not interesting, we stroll the ‘South West Coastal Path’ along Paignton’s promenade, to the somewhat imposing Redcliffe Hotel, (aka Redcliffe Towers), as it stands castle-like on the Paignton seafront, along Paignton Marine Drive and imposingly overlooking the smooth red sands. Colonel Robert Smith, architect and artist, had sketched and painted many hundreds of British troops in India, and life in the East India Company, alongside views of Indian temples, monuments and landscapes. He retired as an engineer, formerly of the Bengal Engineers, and between 1852 and 1864 had constructed Redcliffe Towers with styles borrowed from British, Indian and Italian architecture.

Being in Devon, it would have been most remiss to deprive my love of her Cream Tea. Devon and Cornwall are famous, or is that infamous, for Cream Teas. Cream teas, made exclusively from local ingredients, had began in the 1850s with the advent of greater tourism into the ‘West Country’. They are now advertised everywhere in Paignton, ranging from the ‘scrumptious’ to the vin ordinaire, with every variation in-between.

Cream Teas comprise of butter, a scone (or scones), jam (preferably home made or Tiptree jam) and clotted cream - the wonderful smooth, yellow, cream only found in Devonshire, Cornwall and Yorkshire, and tea, preferably a pot. Incidentally, ‘Clotted Cream’ is made from heating un-pasteurised cow's milk which is left in a shallow pan for many hours.

The cream rises to the surface and ‘clots’, giving a characteristic skin or rind, which many favour over the cream itself.

Supping of the fermented grape, teas with yellow cream and wet walks along coastal beaches must, eventually, come to a close. We bade teary farewells and exited Devonshire, heading towards Wales and fresh adventures.

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scrumptious

CREAM TEAS

Cream Tea with Devonishire Clotted Cream

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nick bellamy Creating with clay came relatively late into my life. Prior to this I was a senior graphic designer for a large design company for nearly 20 years. Unfortunately, throughout my adolescence and adulthood I suffered many periods of depression which fluctuated in intensity and length. It wasn't until early forties that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder (manic depression). Though this news came as a great shock to hear, in actual fact it answered many unanswered questions for me. It explained why I constantly lived with high states of manic elation through to the opposite state of utter despair. The condition I was informed would not erase itself from my brain, it required management for the rest of my life in the form of medication and specialised talk therapy.

Around this period of time I was forced to accept that the working environment profoundly and negatively affected my emotions and mood levels. In late 2008 I made the decision to leave work on

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these medical grounds to seek a more stable quality of life.

I also moved to coastal South Devon. The following year I found a pottery in the area, in fact it was a mental health wellbeing charity. It had a primary goal of using the creation of ceramics to help people combat the feelings of depression. I began to volunteer at their workshops as well as learning about the many processes of using clay myself. It was such a cathartic and grounding experience to partake in. Even though I discovered clay by chance, I know now that it entered my life just when I needed it.

Since then it has given me positivity of thought, emotion, and mood, a freedom of creativity, and a wonderful sense of wellbeing.

Photos by Regina Lafay Bellamy

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Photos by Regina Lafay Bellamy

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Photos by Regina Lafay Bellamy

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Photos by Regina Lafay Bellamy

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Photos by Regina Lafay Bellamy

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Photos by Regina Lafay Bellamy

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regina lafay bellamy Regina Lafay Bellamy was raised in Southern California. As a teen, her mother gave her an old hand-me-down Kodak camera. Regina spent nearly all her chore money on film and its development. A few years later she began modelling, but found photographing her model friends to be even more rewarding. She and her mother then joined a camera club while living in Las Vegas to learn more. From there her career revolved around photography and imaging, and eventually lead her to working in media.

At the age of 32, years of stress from her job, her marriage, and Bipolar Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Fibromyalgia had finally caught up to her. Regina suffered a nervous breakdown, which would ultimately lead to her retiring from work and collecting disability allowance. She quit her job and divorced her husband, but continued to work occasionally for another local media group as a Freelancer.

For years Regina had been doing digital art as a form of therapy. It was this art that caught Nick Bellamy’s eye online. In 2009, the two began chatting, though he was in England and she was in Las Vegas. A few months of correspondence lead to Nick inviting Regina to England. It wasn’t long before they were married and Regina found herself living in England.

After having lived in a city where people rarely walked anywhere, she discovered that being outdoors provided photo opportunities of a different kind; The candid story. She began engaging in street photography. Capturing a moment in time, a stranger’s story would become a reality that others would never see. People watching with a record. A photojournalistic view of the mundane. It was exciting and challenging, especially considering the anxiety disorder. Regina found taking photographs out in the world a great way to help overcome that anxiety.

In 2016, she received Best Single Image in the street photography category of the 9th Julia Margaret Cameron awards. For her, the accolade felt like acceptance. She was now an official street photographer. www.rlbellamy.com

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London Day 3 June 2014

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London Day 2 June

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London Day 1 June

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Elderly couple laughing on bench Paignton love

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wales

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on to wales.

It is Sunday. Today we leave Paignton early. At nine, on a cool, grey morning and, en route, breakfast is toasted bagel and toasted bun at McDonalds. It doesn’t sound much, but there is real bacon and McDonalds is the only one of two places open as we turn off the motorway. We are hungry and in need bathroom facilities, but Starbuck’s is just too expensive for a light bite, and McDonalds ‘Flat White’ coffee preferable. Today is a day of two journeys, one to Bridgend, in South Wales, which is about two and a half hours, mostly motorway, and the other from Bridgend to the idyllic small Welsh village of Berriew, in Mid Wales. Wales offers small roads and enchanting countryside, and quite possibly, sheep. The latter journey is a further two and a half hours.

Hence the early start.

Some two hours into our drive, having had a pleasant, uneventful, journey from England into Wales, we pull over for petrol. Near the petrol garage, in Minnett’s Lane, Caldicot, Monmouthshire, we discover a thirteenth century church. Saint Mary’s Church (actually in Rogiet) is a grade two listed building in the vicinity of Manor House Farm. We stop in awe of the architecture and the church’s practically perfect placement within its grounds and graveyard, just off the side of a small road. Honey becomes fascinated with a ‘Family Bible’ which has been left out on the rostrum. The black covered bible is very fragile. The spine and front cover of the book have become detached. Inside, on a very colourful front page, bears the legend ‘The Illustrated Family Bible with the Commentaries of Scott & Henry, containing many Thousand Critical & Explanatory Notes, edited by the Revd John Eadie D.D.LLD. Professor of Biblical Literature to the United Presbyterian Church’. With a little research I discover that this bible was, originally, published in 1858 by M’Phun, in Glasgow. One antiquarian listing attributes Gustav Dore as the illustrator.

We have diverted from the Bridgend road as Honey has a fascination with castles. Caldicot Castle is a thirteenth century castle built by Walter Fitzroger, with restorations made throughout the centuries, including that made by Joseph Cobb, in 1885. That castle is now set within what is a very wet, and quite miserable, country park, full of diminutive dogs. It is Wales. It rains here. Frequently. We have arrived when Caldicot Castle is having a ‘Mass Dachshund Walk', replete with dog owners wearing Wellington boots with dog motifs. The ‘Walk’ is not limited to ‘Sausage Dogs’. Spaniels and terriers, and one large ‘Sheep Dog’, co-mingle amongst the long, short legged, canines, with the whole being filmed by the BBC, and enthusiasts who post on YouTube. Honey is thrilled, me, less so. I am not a dog person. Nevertheless, we wander through what we can see of the castle ruins amidst the enthusiasts’s tents, and their pooch and pup buddies. Honey sketches as I admire the remaining walls, the Great Gatehouse and Gardens.

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Saint Mary’s Church, Rogiet

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Caldicot Castle is a thirteenth century castle built by Walter Fitzroger

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Caldicot Castle by Honey Khor

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We arrive in Bridgend in time for a late lunch - 2pm.

We have come to visit Honey’s ex-students who, along with their parents, have left Malaysia and set up in a Chinese take-away in Bridgend.

Business is good, providing you give the South Welsh what they want, and what they want is the (now) traditional British/Chinese admixture replete with Sweet and Sour (mostly pork) and Fried Rice, popularised in Britain since the 1950s and 60s.

In Britain it is difficult to find a small town, sometimes even a village, without a ‘Chinese Takeaway’ and, despite the recession, those small businesses continue to provide a living for many a Chinese family.

History has it that the first Chinese food to be proffered to the British public was at the International Health Exhibition, South Kensington, London, in 1884. Britain’s first recorded ‘Chinese’ restaurant opened in London in 1908, in Glasshouse Street, at Piccadilly Circus, London and, not surprisingly, was called ‘The Chinese Restaurant’.

Later, John Koon's Lotus House in Bayswater, London, was so popular that customers were frequently seen to queue in the street outside. Many of them began to ask to take food away, as there was limited table space.

Thus began Britain’s first Chinese takeaway, founded in 1958.

The long late Summer day wears on, and we still have half our journey to complete. So, it is with small tears in Chinese eyes that we exit Bridgend car park, near Asda, and resume the Welsh section of our journey.

At 6pm we are out, back into the Welsh countryside. We have passed through a range of low lying mountains called the Brecon Beacons, bypassed Merthyr Tydfil (once the largest town in Wales, and known for its slums called ‘China’, though it was effectively devoid of Chinese people, but full, instead, of undesirables, criminals, and maybe even opium smokers too). We are stopped, momentarily, to stretch and to gaze, in a small lay-by at Brecon, on the A470 road, espying sheep. Honey, who hails from a country where sheep are rare, is fascinated. But also concerned that we must go deeper into Wales before we lose the light.

There is to be no more stopping until we reach our destination -Berriew, near Welshpool.

We rollercoaster over Welsh hills, sail around sweeping bends, slide past antique architecture all begging us to stop and investigate, but we dare not. We must press on, as our hosts will be waiting for our arrival. Over swiftly moving SUV imprisoned shoulders, we cast honest promises to return, to experience the countryside on foot, or by bicycle, more leisurely, to splash in tributaries of cool Welsh rivers, tread grassy footpaths and breathe again that intoxicating Welsh air. But not just now, as we have, like Robert Frost on his ‘Snowy Evening’, miles to go before we sleep and must keep to our path between the borderlands between Wales and England.

Slowly edging towards Welshpool the roads narrow. The hedges become higher, the light slowly fades as drizzles of a quite inconsequential rain brush the windscreen. The road becomes single track. I have a slight concern as to what happens should I face oncoming traffic, but that does not happen. Instead, we are followed, close enough, by lights shining in A most warm welcome my rearview mirror. The narrow road becomes even narrower. The car dinner at Berriew plunges on, and, suddenly there is a large sign and a dead end. The sign 136

indicates that a new road is being constructed and, thank you for your visit, but the road ahead is closed, sorry not to have mentioned this a while back but we are busy, have a good night. Or words to that effect.

The car behind us takes advantage of the width of the cul-de-sac, turns around, and speeds off leading the way with bright light on full-beam.

We pursue. There is a small turning off to the right. The lead car diverts, we follow, and soon find ourselves back on the road we would have been on, if the way had not been blocked. It was but a minor detour, but for a little while had our heartbeats a little elevated. Robert Louis Stevenson had once mentioned that ‘Little do ye know your own blessedness; for to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour’ (Virginibus Puerisque, 1881) and, while that is undoubtedly true, it is also nice to arrive, be welcomed, greeted with hugs and smiles and a dinner awaiting.

We park in the village of Berriew, and are seated at our hosts’ dinner table by a little after 8pm. The phone app ‘Waze’, has once again brought us safely and securely to our destination. But the process has severely drained my Samsung’s battery so, while Honey and I need replenishment, so does my dimming Smart Phone.

Dinner is such a small word to describe the bounty set before us (so is bounty). Our hosts have laboured much, and long, to provide a veritable banquet, a feast, a jollification and merrymaking or wassail (a bringing of good health). A more welcome stiw cig eidion (beef stew), collection of llysiau (vegetables) or tatws wedi'u pobi (baked potatoes) there could not have been. However, it is but the beginning. Wine flows like, er, wine. Lemon tart has materialised followed by locally produced cheeses dominated by Caer Caradoc (named after a local Shropshire hill), and Hereford Hop (known for its citrus taste coupled with smooth and sharp flavours and a soupçon of hops) which hails from the Herefordshire border. The cheeses are accompanied by grapes so deeply red, that they are practically blue (to paraphrase Merleau-Ponty). It is an orgy of dinner, overseen by a glass of celery, butter, crackers and bottles of Florio, from the Masala region of Italy. Bless our hosts for their thoughtfulness, their kindness and for bringing back a remembrance of good hosting. We are wined and dined, tongues loosened to just the right extent to enable conversations of Liverpool poetry, art, for art is always there, and the delights of the area.

The softness of the bed, in a wooden floored, book indulged room, elicits slumber.

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Breakfast is only what we could expect from our congenial and generous hosts. There is a choice of white or brown eggs, as well as slices of red grapefruit charmingly arranged on a white plate. A full English, or is that Welsh, breakfast replete with some of the finest bacon I have yet to eat and all the trimmings, including black pudding appear by the magic of our hosts. There is a vague feeling of Hobbiton repasts.

Not everyone likes black pudding, or is that the idea of it. I had eaten black pudding in England long before I had congealed pig’s blood, Chinese style, in Malaysia. Black pudding was a favourite of my father, and is as ancient as the Roman invasion of Britain. Many believe that the Romans brought black pudding with them, and that it has stayed in Britain ever since. In Spain it is called ‘Morcilla’ and in France ‘Boudin Noir’, where they have ‘Chevaliers du Goute-Boudin’, or the ‘Knights of the Black Pudding’ who uphold the traditions of black pudding making.

Homer (in book twenty of The Odyssey), mentions black pudding ‘As when a man besides a great fire has filled a sausage with fat and blood and turns it this way and that and is very eager to get it quickly roasted…’

Berriew, where we stay, has a history dating back into Neolithic and Bronze ages. It became more established with the coming of the Celts (in the Iron age) who built enclosures for cattle and established their ‘townships’. Over time race has replaced race, culture replaced culture, and many of the houses currently seen in Berriew date back to the 17th and 18th centuries, most especially those itemised as brown and white

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(as there was no black tar in Tudor times to consider them black and whites).

Honey and I stand outside with a cerulean blue sky promoting white cloud. A mild sun highlighs the chequered nature of the buildings. We just marvel at the beauty of the village. Marvel at the bridge, and those idyllic seeming houses now painted black and white, with the tops of chimneys left as exposed brick. We feel a growing sense of honour to be there, to experience the wonder of this small village, its grace and winsomeness. As we stand and turn, above us, up a slight incline, sprouts an all red brick building, its roof grey tiles.

The sun has highlighted this against the blue sky, bringing it to our attention.

Berriew

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Montgomery Castle, overlooking the town of Montgomery

Knowing that Honey likes castles, we have been taken to Montgomery Castle, overlooking the town of Montgomery, just down the road, in Powys Wales. It was built somewhere between 1071 and 1074 AD, after the first of various French invasions, frequently it has been called the Norman conquests. Since 1066 AD, Britain has been invaded approximately 73 times, mostly by the French.

The castle is in ruin. However, it gives us the opportunity to gaze across Mid Wales, see those huge banks of grey on white clouds that we had espied earlier, in Berriew. We witness the gently rolling hills in the background, fronted by ancient stone walls. The land is so lush, lay’n out in rectangles of many shades of green, some buff coloured at this time of harvest. A welcome breeze tugs at our clothing, urging us from one prime viewing spot to another, as if the castle is revealing its landscapes to us, ‘look, look, and here’s another, yet another, no. no, please look at this one’, and so on. But time ever presses us. Our hosts proudly take us to the church where they were married. We discover that they have every reason to be proud.

St. Bartholomew’s church, in Shropshire, is a 12th century, grade 1, listed building, with additions made in the 16th, then 18th as well as the 19th century. As well as being poignant to our hosts, the church is beautiful. The exterior graveyard fits all the criteria for an English graveyard and I half expect Bod (from Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book) to introduce himself. I have used the word quintessentially before in this issue, and am moved to mention it again in regard to this church and the churchyard as being quintessentially English, right down to the castled elephant and the nibbling squirrel on one plinth, which are emblems of the family responsible for the foundation of the church, the Corbet family.

Inside the church is a painted tomb of Richard Corbet (died 1513) and his wife (died 1563), as well as another still painted tomb of Robert Corbet, who died in 1567. A short stroll away lay the remnants of 142

St. Bartholomew’s church, Shropshire

Moreton Corbet Castle

Moreton Corbet Castle. It is a 12/13th century ‘castle’ with a prominent gatehouse, and was remodelled in 1560 AD, ransacked and finally destroyed in the British Civil War, and rebuilt again but finally abandoned in the 18th century.

It had been a wonderful day.

Lovely to catch up with our friends over a two day period, hear the tales, learn more about our hosts and be treated so well in their beautiful house but, this morning, we have to dash out once more, this time to head for Liverpool and see Honey’s son, who has already landed at Liverpool airport, from Dublin.

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AFTER JOURNEYS AND HARVESTS

After journeys and harvests We have reached this point With our strange togetherness Having avoided some of the world's disasters Remaining not a little changed.

There were mountains to be seen Either across empty moorlands Or towering over grey city streets And there were oceans washing on the beaches Of other people's eyes.

So we swam in some of them And in some of them even drowned a little Realising slowly that we were not quite sane And learning love after the darkness.

Now we are following the same road That leads in so many directions .all of which point to the same ending.

My friend, perhaps we are mad But it is possible to buy mountains And in oceans to learn, fishlike The flow of currents.

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SONG TOWARDS AUTUMN In the evening it seemed as if The dry heat that arrived some weeks ago Would continue unabated.

At the turn of a corner A wind smelling of leaves Dry foxgloves and warm fungi Blew across an empty site Full of dust and the seeds of willowherb.

From the hills across the river Beyond the grey houses Came the echo of a horn As if for songs like this There would be no end of reason.

poems by Richard Noyce from After Journeys and Harvests, Selected Poems, 2013 145

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Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool

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At one point in time, during the 1960s, Liverpool had become the centre of the British cultural universe.

My Liverpudlian granddad would have been so proud. It was not just the music (the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, the Merseybeats, The Swinging Blue Jeans, The

Searchers, Billy J Krammer and The Dakotas, The Hollies, Freddie and the Dreamers and, of course, Cilla Black) but poetry too.

Liverpool had grown what was to become the Mersey Beat Poets.

A Penguin Modern Poets, series (series 1, number 10) featured the Mersey Sound in 1967. That book targeted Adrian Henri, Roger McGough, and Brian Patten as the forerunners of the Liverpool poetry experience. Aside from those actually born in Liverpool, Mersey Beat poets, inspired by Alan Ginsberg and the Beat poets from America, also featured Pete Brown, Adrian Mitchell, Pete

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The Mersey Sound is an anthology of poems by Liverpool poets Roger McGough, Brian Patten and Adrian Henri first published in 1967

Morgan, Alan Jackson, Mike Evans, Richard Noyce and many others.

Liverpool had also spawned the Disc Jockey John Peel, who was to be so influential in the alternative music scene, both on Pirate Radio and off.

After the heyday of the 1960s cultural revival, Liverpool developed a negative image. When all the fuss over the poets and the Beatles had died down, Liverpool’s harsh working class roots were explored by writers like Alan Bleasdale (TV series Boys from the Blackstuff ) and Jimmy McGovern (the TV soap opera Brookside). Violence had exploded in the Toxteth region of Liverpool and, as a result, the politician Michael Heseltine (as Minister for Merseyside) was drawn to Liverpool to help initiate the Merseyside Development Corporation, which went on to create the Albert Dock complex, which in turn ushered in Tate Liverpool.

I had visited Liverpool in 1991, three years after Tate Liverpool had been created. I was there to see Escape magazine’s comic book exhibition, held at the Bluecoat Gallery. It was there that I met Adrian Henri and, later, took myself along to Tate Liverpool to be impressed. And, at that time, I was.

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Today we are in positive moods. The three of us set out on the yellow brick road to explore a little more of Liverpool. I’m usually not a great fan of graffiti but, on the way to Liverpool’s Chinatown a collection of graffitied walls, around Oldham Place, draw my attention. Covering entire wall spaces, many of the images are most striking, artful. One is gold on black, another a variety of pink hues, yet another runs a static between blue and orange. They are the first artworks we see in Liverpool, and they remind me of American ‘Underground’ comix (comic books) from the 70s.

Liverpool’s Chinatown is recorded as being established in the 1890s. It makes that claim at being the oldest Chinatown in Europe. Whatever it may have been in its past, today, as the mild rain gets into our eyes, grey clouds spread greyness over Liverpool, its Chinatown seems a little run down.

At one in the afternoon there are few people about. Shops and restaurants seem either closed or closed down, and the epitaph ‘Chinatown’ seems more of a legend than a current description. One placard bears the legend ‘This is the centre of the oldest Chinatown in Europe and this pub, THE NOOK, became the Chinese ‘local’ in 1940’. Just as in London, what we see is a relocated Chinatown, not the original. Liverpool’s original Chinatown was nearer to the city’s docklands, in Cleveland Square, Pitt Street and Frederick Street, which were bombed out during the Second World War. The Chinese community had to resettle in the areas around Nelson Street, Upper Parliament Street, Duke Street, Great George Street and Berry Street. The refurbishment of a Chinatown continues, but isn’t that evident, today.

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Graffitied walls, around Oldham Place

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‘Summer of Love Bugs’. The installation consists of three VW ‘Beetle’ cars We continue our stroll towards the gentrified Albert Dock. It too seems empty, a little forlorn. While 'Tate Liverpool' continues with an impressive list of events, exhibitions, I feel the distancing I frequently get when face to face with an art which has become known as ‘Contemporary Art’. Evidently others feel that distancing too as the galleries are poorly attended. There is that ‘church’ feel, as if we are to bend a knee and worship at the artworks, or cross ourselves reverently. While one gallery features the very accessible work of Aleksandra Mir, his ‘Space Tapestry : Faraway Missions’ and ‘Constellations’, other galleries expect too much of their audience. We are exhausted. We move on.

Outside, nearer the town centre, is an outdoor installation titled ‘Summer of Love Bugs’. The installation consists of three VW ‘Beetle’ cars, and apparently celebrates that moment in time when we all had persuaded ourselves that love would save the world. All we needed was love, love, all we needed was love. It turned out not to be true, something had to pay the rent, feed us. The installation legend runs ‘The summer of 1967 gave the world psychedelic music, hippie fashion and flower power and also saw the release of The Beatle’s album, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. To celebrate, we’ve commissioned artists to transform three VW Beetles into iconic visions 152

inspired by the Summer of Love. The artists are Kieran Gorman and Krishna Malla.'

Today we dine at Turtle Bay, a Caribbean styled franchise restaurant, conveniently on our way to the car park, and bearing a vague similarity to a certain pseudo - Portuguese restaurant chain. The food is different, interesting, and like the pseudo - Portuguese restaurant chain mentioned just now, bears little relation to the food style is supposedly represents. Piri piri in Portugal is hot, smooth and very tasty, just as Caribbean food even in London’s Brixton is superb, and very authentic. Turtle Bay has a pleasant up-market ambience, but could spend more time on the authenticity of its produce, especially the Jamaican Beef Patty. I have had much better in Manila. The staff, too, need a little more training. Having eaten, we realise that time is running out on the car park ticket. We need to hurry. We also want to take our untouched bottle of drink, which we have paid for, with us. The waiter says no. We explain, still no. Eventually we throw away drink from our water flask, and pour the bought drink into it. Simple. The staff were still discussing this as we walk briskly out and to the car park.

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Psyche at the Well, Benjamin Spence, Walker Art Gallery

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On this very day we are overshadowed by grey skies and intermittent rain. Having collected Honey’s older son from his night’s rest, we walk past Liverpool’s Crown Hotel pub with its splendid Art Nouveau facade. It really is a most striking example of British Art Nouveau with the legend ‘Walker’s Ale Warrington’ bright gold against a deep red background, over the front door. Lower, the pub’s name in gold against black ‘Crown Hotel', with a flower, in gold, separating the ‘Crown’ from the ‘Hotel’. The Crown Hotel’s claim to Art Nouveau fame is challenged only by Liverpool’s slightly Moorish looking Grand Central Hall, built by Bradshaw and Gabs, of Bolton.

It is fortuitous, and scene setting, as we stroll a little further, past Thomas Thornycroft’s 1869, bronze, younger Queen Victoria astride a horse (VICTORIA D.G. REGINA F.D), now patinated with green, as we reach the magnificence of the Walker Art Gallery.

Andrew Barclay Walker, brewer and once a mayor of Liverpool, in 1877 presented a gallery he had had built, to the city of Liverpool. In 1881 the Walker Art Gallery bought 'Dante's Dream' by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

Later the ‘Walker’ also purchased 'Isabella' by John Everett Millais (in 1884) and William Holman Hunt's 'Triumph of the Innocents’ (in 1891) as striking examples of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, and one of the reasons we are here, but just one. Another reason, and as an aside,

is wanting to taste the cafe’s ‘Traditional Home Made Scouse’. Scouse is a meat stew, the name derived from ‘Lobscouse’, and had always been a favourite with Liverpool seafarer’s. The dish has been so popular that people from Liverpool, as well as being called Liverpudlians, are affectionately called ‘Scousers’. Yet, they are but two reasons to visit the Walker Art Gallery and, as good as they are, they are not the main reason, which is …the exhibition ‘Alphonse Mucha, in Quest of Beauty’.

Since the 1960s, and the psychedelic revival of Art Nouveau via creators such as Michael English and Nigel Waymouth in Hapshash and the Coloured Coat, who created images/posters for shops such as ‘Hung on You’ (1967), I have been a great Mucha fan. Having seen the psychedelic ripoffs, I, and many others, were intrigued to see where those ideas were coming from. In the 1960s there were Alphonse Mucha posters being produced everywhere as an offshoot of that psychedelic era. America and Britain were in love with all the organic forms of Art Nouveau, and with Mucha. My fascination Benjamin Gibson (1811-1851) after John Gibson (1790-1866) Psyche and the Zephyrs (1837), front - Walker Art Gallery

with things Art Nouveau, Mucha and Kafka had once led me to Prague, to see the museum dedicated to Mucha, at Kaunický palác, Panská 7, which had opened in 1998. But, for those unable to visit Prague, this travelling exhibition, with all its omissions, is well worth a visit.

And visiting we are. We make a bee line to the exhibition and drink in the sheer, unadulterated, beauty of the exhibits. After so much ugly art, which seems to be default factor of much Contemporary and contemporaneous art, it is wonderful to luxuriate amidst the wonder of Mucha’s motifs, the exquisiteness of his drawn line and the respectful tenderness of his colouration. Standing, once more, in front of his original lithograph posters is still thrilling, awe inspiring and artistically inspiring, so much so that Honey begins sketching.

Next, we backtrack. We skim through the ‘Walker’ galleries from the Medieval and Renaissance; the 17th Century;18th Century; the PreRaphaelites; the 19th Century; Animals in Art; the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists; British Art, 1880 – 1950; the Arts Council Collection, and finally Modern and Contemporary art, 1950 until now.

Then, with rumbling in our tummies, the ‘scouse’ beckoned. It didn’t beckon long enough nor loud enough, for the Cafe was sold out of scouse by the time we arrive there. It is a sign. It is time for us to leave Liverpool, yeah, yeah, yeah and head towards Oxford, or rather Witney, a few miles from Oxford.

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oxford

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Roald Dahl's famous writing hut

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The thing about Witney is that it is conveniently close to the Cotswold Hills, just a few miles from Oxford, and conveniently close to our friends'’ house. We arrive and settled in for the night. After breakfast we dash off, away from Oxfordshire, to grace Buckinghamshire with our presence.

Truth to tell, Honey has become somewhat of a Roald Dahl fan, and has been pestering me to take her to his museum. So off we jolly well go, to Great Missenden, to see the museum. Great Missenden does not, quite, live up to its name, for it that is Great Missenden I shudder to think just how small Little Missenden might be.

The Roald Dahl Museum, and Story Centre, is not quite as large as you might expect from its online presence. It is fun, educational and certainly aimed at smaller, younger people, but fun nevertheless. It does not take long to get around, which, I suppose is fortunate as we are both hungry.

I see the museum and have no great expectations of the café, Café Twit.

The café is not large, but cosy. We order soup and one of the ‘Fantabulous flatbreads’. The food arrives and is simply delicious, and quickly followed by cravings for pudding. The cafe and its food are intimate, charming and delicious, one could want for nothing more. Then we are back on the road again.

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Roald Dahl's Museum and indications for writing

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Treasures of Buckmoorend Farm Shop, Buckinghamshire

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Coming towards Great Missenden we had seen a sign to a ‘farm shop’. Whilst driving I explained to Honey what a ‘farm shop’ was, so on the way back I detour to Buckmoorend Farm Shop. The Polish shop assistant is very helpful. She allows us to take copious photographs.

She also gives some information about the locale. Seemingly, across the road we have travelled, beyond the rolling, private, grounds and private entrance, beyond that copse of trees lies ‘Chequers’, the country seat of Britain’s Prime Minister. According to internet sources, Chequers Court is the private country retreat of the sitting Prime Minister of the Britain.

Ever since 1921, British leaders have had exclusive use of the residence for entertaining and high-level political meetings. I am a little under whelmed.

The shop itself is a tad more interesting than any residence for country leaders, especially when those leaders are trying very hard to lead their country over a cliff. Honey and I ooh and aww of foodstuffs bearing the legend ‘Local Produce, Home Reared Meat, Home Cooked Food, Enjoy’.

And we did. Enjoy looking, at least. There were plastic wrapped slices of ‘The Merry Pig’ ‘Traditionally Cured Gammon Steaks’, pats of ‘Cotswold Butter’, plastic bags of ready to bake ‘Pork & Cider Pie’, Steak & Ale Pie’ and ‘Chicken & Leek Pie’, ‘Cheese & Pickle Tart’ ‘Cumberland Scotch Egg’, and their very own ‘Black Pudding’. Drinks included a variety of ‘Pressed and Pasteurised’ Apple Juice’some with pear', as well as the ‘Chiltern Brewery’ range of locally produced beer, advertising it to be ‘Gluten Free’, a catchphrase which has become popular in Britain since my leaving.

There is so much to take our fancy that we forget to look at the local cheeses. Outside, Honey is so happy exploring the farmyard, plucking apples from a real English apple tree.

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The main reason that we are staying in Oxfordshire, is not the splendid university city, its dreaming spires or indeed the Bodleian Library, no we have come to visit an author friend who writes amazingly best selling books, lives in an amazing refurbished house and resides just outside the city itself in a tucked away village. This evening, the day is waning.

Trees and hedgerows become quickly silhouetted. Honey and I have the pleasure of bypassing the same 12th century church, so many times that I am becoming dizzy. GPS seems a tad offish in the area. We phone through. Ah! We are on the other side of the village, which is, effectively, but a few feet away (it not being a terribly large village, bijou you might say).

While man cannot live by bread alone, I could live with the man who produced this lamb and vegetable that has been placed on the table before me. That is despite his dark secret, in his shed. The taste is every bit of a delight as the sight, and the conversation sparkles to the intoxications of Sauvignon Blanc and a cheeky Chianti. Our hosts fill the room with laughter, bon homie and the threat of locally brewed beer, but I know my limit.

In the morn we are awake, packed and ready to zip across country to London. We are on the final leg of this road trip, possibly on the ankle.

Our first stop is, of course, Oxford itself. We have little time, so it is a cursory glance, just enough to give Honey the feeling for the city.

It is Saturday, arts and crafts market day and we have trouble parking.

The trouble is not so much finding a space, but finding a parking ticket machine that works and will accept coins, of which we seem to have a plethora.

We walk past the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies, stick our noses into Lincoln College, to see the quadrangle, sit outside the Ashmolean Museum (at St. Giles) for photos and head towards the market, then into the Covered Market. It is lunchtime, everywhere is full, so we sit where we can and eat what we can. What is fascinating, is the butcher’s shop with its book propped open at page 29, ‘Cooking and Serving Sausages’. Next to the book is a fine array of sausages and pork products where sausages, ’Venison with Pork,' and ‘Pork and Leek’ rub shoulders with ‘Pig’s Trotters’, ‘Pig’s Liver' and 'Pig’s Kidneys’ (both at £4.38 a kilo) sit beckoning. We pass an antique shop. Chinese silks brush antiquarian books. A 1962 edition of Daniel Defoe’s ‘Robinson Crusoe’ nestles against K.H.Caspari’s ‘The Schoolmaster and His Son’ in eclectic splendour.

Daniel Defoe’s ‘Robinson Crusoe’ nestles against K.H.Caspari’s ‘The Schoolmaster and His Son’

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Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies

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David John Butchers, Oxford Covered Market

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nathalie hamill Raku-fired ceramics

'I am a ceramist living and working in Oxfordshire. Many of my pieces are stylised representations of animals such as bears, sheep, birds and fish which I finish using the Japanese Raku firing technique.

I have a mechanical engineering degree from Belgium with a Masters in Thermal Power from Cranfield, UK. This technical background helps me in understanding the combustion physics of the Raku firing, enabling me to finely tune the process to achieve good results repeatedly.

I discovered Raku in Belgium at the Comptoir de la CĂŠramique with a professional ceramist, Dominique Matagne, and took pottery lessons at the Sunningwell School of Art. I now have my own Raku kiln and fire my pieces at home.

I also teach ceramics at the European School, Culham near Abingdon. I teach children from to 6 to 15 years of age in addition to evening classes for parents.

I have exhibited during the Oxfordshire Art Weeks since 2006.'

Raku fire iloveyou

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Poule turquoise

Raku flat

Raku turquoise boxes

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Leaves candle holder

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Round bottle

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Radcliffe Square by Jan Richie

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Sheldonian by Jan Richie

Having studied textile design at Derby College of Art, Jan worked for many years as a fabric and wallpaper designer producing designs for both the fashion and furnishing markets. She worked for companies including Rose & Hubble, Warner Fabrics, Sanderson's, Laura Ashley and M&S. Her designs have been used in many places ranging from Buckingham Palace to Hollywood blockbusters! She has sold many prints and drawings, some under her maiden name Jan Collins; one of her latest commissions was the artwork and design for the Classic Ghost Stories CD

by Bill Spectre.

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london Honey Khor at the British Museum

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The rest of today is spent driving across to London, to our hotel, leaving our baggage and then on to the car hire section at Heathrow Airport, which is situated several minutes outside of the flight Terminals.

We return the car, which we have enjoyed so much and are, in turn, deposited at a Heathrow Terminal and await a bus. Not being familiar with the bus station, its buses, the requisite bus numbering, heading to whichever direction, this process takes us a while and a missed bus or three, to discover which is, ultimately, which. What we do discover, is that London buses are no longer cheap. At this point we don’t know about the free bus, or that a taxi for two people equals the same price as 177

the buses. We are but innocents adrift.

The hotel is reasonable, and reasonably comfortable, but distanced from where we want to be, which is not there, on Bath Road, Harlington, Hayes.

In the morning, after a reasonable rest, we scoot out looking for a bus, a bus, my kingdom for a bus. What we do find is, a taxi. The Hotel Taxi Service is, as I mentioned earlier, as dear or as cheap as travelling by local (paid) bus, so off we jolly well go back to the Terminals to catch the Piccadilly Line into London’s West End. Honey, ever smarter than I, has borrowed two ‘Oyster Cards’ from a friend in Malaysia. The journey is 54 minutes (approx) from Heathrow to Holborn. An ‘Oyster Card’, to quote from its publicity is the ‘cheapest way to travel around the city. The Oyster Travelcard covers journeys on London’s public transport network including underground, buses, over ground trains and the DLR - any time of day, any day of the week!’ Ah, we could have used them for our bus journey, had we but known.

The name Holborn, is supposedly derived from ‘Oldbourne’ or old brook. It is but a short distance, by foot, to the British Museum.

Tottenham Court Road, and most places from Soho to Holborn, form my old stomping ground. In earlier times, as boy and man, I would head for the antiquarian book and print shops, to comic shops, or there again to the foodstuffs of China Town, ‘Dim Sum’, ’Youtiao’, or Old Compton Street for continental cakes and coffee, at Patisserie Valerie (opened 1926), etcetera. Much has changed since my absence.

The British Museum is guarded by police in riot gear. They also have automatic weapons. It is not quite what I was expecting. I am led to believe that the presence of armed police has little or nothing to do with the exhibition ‘Scythians; Warriors of Ancient Siberia’, but rather precautionary measures after a bomb attack on a London Underground train, two days ago.

Honey’s interest in things ancient and spiritual has been piqued by her current (German inspired) Art Therapy course. This is why she has insisted on visiting the British Museum, just when I was leaning more towards that ‘Pink Floyd: Their Mortal Remains’ (sold out) exhibition or the ‘Matisse in the Studio’ (hellishly expensive £15.50 each) exhibition at the Royal Academy of Art. Having said that, and ignoring the black wearing, heavily armed, policemen the British Museum is always a joy to behold.

We are wandering from Ancient Egypt, through Ancient Greece and Rome, with plenty of zeal and zest, taking photos with our hand phones.

Minoans and Mycenaeans come and go, as do Athens and Lycia, the Parthenon, the Mausoleum of Halikarnassos and ‘The World of Alexander’.

I am becoming a little museum weary. My bad leg isn’t helping at all.

Honey sidles off to continue her questing, while I am quite happy to park myself near the ‘Court Café’. After some time, I get up and hobble around the book store, then amble back to my seat. I espy all kinds of people coming and going, to-ing and fro-ing, while I enjoy being sedentary for a while.

It is our penultimate day in Britain. Tomorrow will be devoted to resting before our voyage, so today we do all the things we are able to do before we take our leave of the country of my birth. Honey arrives and 178

Marble Horse Head

from the Greek Parthenon at the British Museum

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Parts 1 and 2

Barcelos Grilled Chicken

The New World Chinese Restaurant, Soho

I am hungry. We exit the British Museum. Still there is a large, armed, police presence. We walk past the places which once held antiquarian book shops, but now house various coffee houses and tourist nicknack places. One large departmental store has a display of Harry Potter goodies ‘Back to Hogwarts’, so there are a trillion articles devoted to the boy wizard. Honey dives in to purchase something for her younger son.

I am still hungry.

Eventually I shoehorn Honey away from the lure of Potterdom.

I guide her down to Cambridge Circus and, lo and behold, The boards are up at the Palace Theatre in readiness for ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Parts I and II’, running until 21st of October 2018. And then we are there, at the New World Chinese Restaurant, in London’s Chinatown.

We are a tad late and have missed most of the trolley service, but ‘Dim Sum’ continues to be available via the extensive menu. It is an old haunt of mine. When in London, dine at The New World Chinese Restaurant.

We eat well.

Outside, I steer Honey around London’s Chinatown and down towards Trafalgar Square. On the way I nudge Honey into the National Portrait Gallery to see an amazing collection of contemporary portraits, including one by David Hockney. The latest exhibition is the 'BP Portrait Award 2017'. First prize has gone to Benjamin Sullivan for his portrait ‘Breech!’, in essence a modern ‘Pieta’ with a woman in a dressing gown suckling a blonde child. The canvas is essentially brown toned, with slight pinks as flesh tones for mother and child. The portrait leaks an air of sadness, but is nevertheless reverential, non-voyeuristic.

London Underground takes us back to Terminal 2, Heathrow. Then we have further fun and games with local buses, and finally discover that there are free buses to our hotel. The surliness of the waiting staff, at the hotel restaurant only encourage us to dine elsewhere. We notice that next door to our hotel is a bowling alley, 'Airport Bowl'. It advertises a restaurant. Well, restaurant maybe overstating the eatery. It is a bowling alley cafe. However, it is no ordinary cafe, for it is a Barcelos franchise, a little like that other piri piri Portuguese outlet, but tastier. The food is delicious, tasty and chilli hot too, what's more we could buy Desperados Tequila Flavoured Beer, previously tasted in Tapas bars on our annual trips to Fiqueres, Spain.

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Self Portrait with Charlie, David Hockney (b.1937), National Portrait Gallery, London

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road trip uk

the end

It has been a good road trip, a bonding trip, full of excitement and talking. But, like all good things, it must end.

I write this and reminisce, remember all the good friends we have encountered and look forward to the next high adventure with Malaysian artist, Honey Khor.

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Dusun Publications

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Books by Martin

Bradley 183

CAMBODIA CHINA ITALY

WITH MARTIN BRADLEY

MALAYSIA PHILIPPINES SPAIN 184