wolf tracks

Ireland

2009-11-19T18:17:00.000Z

There is a problem with off-season photography in Ireland, which I noted on my first extended visit —then inconveniently forgot, only to rediscover during a subsequent stay— and that is that there is no sky. None. Earth and Sea and… nothing.

Eighteen percent grey (more or less) and utterly featureless. Does not show up on film or digital. May as well be in a studio. Great if your subject thrives on flat light, only you really must either not shoot any of the heavens to begin with, or crop it out or colour it in after. It does not read as sky.

I long ago observed that Wales subsists on second hand Irish weather. However, between the sea crossing and whatever else, Welsh weather has variation —diurnal, nocturnal and inverted— the winter pattern being mild wet grey days (no sky) and bright cold starry nights (all sky).

Perhaps the real Irish sky is reserved for paying tourists. If so, I may never know. Every shade of green. Not one of blue. Strange. And somehow impoverished.

Yet I love Ireland.

Transport

2009-07-12T10:48:00.000+01:00

In the olden days, it was thought that if you walked, it was because you could not afford to ride, and that if you ran, something was chasing you, and notwithstanding the current popularity of hiking and jogging, many of the same biases endure.

Spanish motor scooter riders in particular look down on cyclists, seeming to regard pedal power as suitable for only the youngest children. American cyclists' disdain for pedestrians can only be explained by an assumed conviction that all bipedal obstacles are simply drivers walking to their cars.

Little do they know.

Norwegian Wood

2009-06-18T07:14:00.002+01:00

fri 12 december 2003
bergen, norway
three weeks between a rock and a hard fish

the thermometer outside the kitchen window here is, as one would expect, graduated in centigrade... it's range is plus fifty to minus fifty, which, with reference to a conversion utility on my pda works out for the rest of us as +122 to -58 Fahrenheit

seeing a television for the first time here yesterday evening (aside from airing the extended 'two towers' dvd t'other night) - doing a spot of laundry at the apartment of a friend of a friend, who proves to be a keen 'handball' player, watches the world semi-final - norway v slovenia - in as closely matched a meeting as i've witnessed in any sport

the game - new to me - resembles a cross between basketball and football (soccer)... i am tempted to say 'and ice hockey', only there's no ice (though the squad size and penalty scheme are similar) - imagine roller basketball without skates, with a half-size soccer ball between squads of six (plus the keeper) who aren't permitted to cross a line which evidently runs seven metres from the goal - it is exclusively a girls (women's) sport, and is not miles from one i first saw played last month between the equivalent of USA 1st or 2nd graders at an english 'public' (private) school which a friend of mine attended long ago, and in which both his young daughters are currently enrolled, one of which represented her school on the court - their adaptation uses a (lowered) basketball style net and is more populous, the activity managed by players' positions being restricted to two of three zones...

but i diverge

following norway's triumph over slovenia - their invaluable keeper (who hails from bergen) denying an equaliser at the final whistle - we are treated to a televised weather report... lowest temperature predictably expected on the northernmost isle (well inside the arctic circus, and registering -22 C (an unusually warm december, i am solemnly informed), with great winds expected in the night (we've had a few such in the course of my stay)

additionally, someone very thoughtfully ordered snow for the night before my last day here, which began slushily late in the evening and gave up sometime around midnight - an inch or so lingers white on rooftops and the hills around while the ercury hovers at zero and my breakfast tea and toast go cold...

gud jule

The Irish

2009-06-18T07:14:00.001+01:00

The Irish*, given half a chance, are more than likely to tell you a goodly portion of their life story, warts and all. And, if you can get a word in edgeways, you may well find yourself reciprocating.

They cheerfully relate to one another all the silly things they have done and daft situations in which they find themselves as a result. This without the slightest hint of self-conciousness, reproach or deprecation. In this regard I find them particularly admirable, and resolve to emulate their typically easy going and good humoured nature.

It astounds me to consider - having lived in London - that here I am surrounded by four million souls. In the entire republic. Or so they keep saying. Possibly they've not tallied the Polish and Rumanian contingents.

* Republic of Ireland

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Mistaken Identity

2009-06-18T07:14:00.000+01:00

The strangest things do happen to me. Walking through the centre of a small unfamiliar city in Ireland (Sligo, as it happens), a fellow in his twenties approaches me unexpectedly in the street wearing a broad grin, enthusiastically grasps my hand exclaiming loudly, 'Man, you rock!' His girl friend seemed mildly embarassed. All I could manage was, 'Thanks.' I'm sure he mistook me for someone, but whom?

Having long since moved beyond the circles in which I am likely to be recognised for whom I am by anyone whose identity I am unlikely to recall (terrible with names - never forget a face), I've also long since grown accustomed to one of three things happening regardless of where I am in the world.

One, I am asked for directions. Probably I appear either as though I belong (or don't belong) anywhere, or that I know where I am going. I generally fail on the latter point, but usually have a map and an idea of where I am on it.

Two, I am asked if I wish to either buy or sell drugs, though these are becoming less common occurrences. Possibly I am getting older. Probably I look as though I am or once was either a drug user or dealer.

Three, I am asked if I mind having my photograph taken. Usually by students doing an elective course of study, but very recently by a lovely eighty year old Canadian coach tourist (from Vancouver), for whom I scratched out an address - something I often forget to do. At the time I was doing my best to blend into the shrubbery at the entrance to an Irish megalithic site - as their guide tried to explain the clooties in the hawthorn at the gap in the hedge - tucked in the shadows leaning on my staff. She spotted me, and - taking me for Irish - thanked me for the marvellous weather they had enjoyed for twelve days. I don't know where they were the following day, but where I was, it rained.

In recent years a fourth phenomenon has begun to supplant the second - I am mistaken for a famous person. This has nothing to do with my evil twin (who I will deal with under separate cover), and goes beyond the casual 'You look like Willie Nelson' or 'You could be Axel Rose' comparisons - this is someone suddenly going all glassy eyed and tongue tied contemplating my wizened visage. Do celebrities really have to endure this on a daily basis? Small wonder they don't venture out in public. Invariably I gently hasten to assure them that they are mistaken, without determining who it is they think they are seeing. This is kinder - I feel - for them, but shortchanges me.

Who am I?

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Complimentary, dear Watson

2009-03-22T11:28:00.000Z

One of the greatest compliments I ever received was from a German aquaintance in Spain, in 1979...

'You are the most in-American American I ever met!'

Reefer Madness

2009-03-19T19:18:00.000Z

Far back in the deep recesses of the giant refrigerator of space, like some overlooked remnant of an absent-minded chef's cosmic cookout, there floats a mouldy little ball resembling nothing so much as a science fair project run amok; the planet Earth...

2005-02-18T04:14:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Day 7

Friday, 18th February 2005

Shelter from the Storm

Turned the futon. Spent the afternoon sanding and staining woodwork in the van, now parked tight against the hillside out of the worst of the wind. Good to see progress.

Group playing again in l'Hostal tomorrow, half past midnight.

Scratch out a few postcards over a couple beers in the Casino.

2005-02-17T04:13:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Day 6

Thursday, 17th February 2005

A Ghost Town

"No hay" is the reply in the tourist information office. There is no library. Bit of a shock in this day and age for what now appears such a prosperous village. Must have other priorities.

Passed much of the afternoon first inside, then outside the Maritim, reading the paper (El Mundo Catalán), with tea and beer respectively, then snack and some shuffling of software downloads back at the van. Later, as shadows of the mountain overtake, down to the Casino for a leisurely beer over the supplement.

Town is dead tonight - one of those when the first hour in bed is spent warming the futon enough to relax.

2005-02-16T04:11:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Day 5

Wednesday, 16th February 2005

Tramuntana

Look at the trees on the hill, waving in the breeze.... Oh, sorry, those are telegraph poles.

The north wind which they call Tramuntana is known to blow up to 150 km/h (90 mph) - or so. It is from personal experience and no exaggeration that I say it is capable of lifting rocks and bottles into the air and hurling them as so many dry leaves. I don't know yet if this is that wind - I know it from late November 1978 - but it is characteristically strong and has blown now three days solid. Tramuntana is said always to come for odd numbers of days. It puts partners at odds, friends off speaking terms and drives ordinarily level headed men mad. Nor does foreknowledge of this phenomena immunise anyone from its effect. I have witnessed all of this.

David introduces himself to me in the Casino, saying "You are a friend of Katja?", and when I explain that I lived here long ago, asks "Do you remember John and Dennis?" The infamous twins. Well, yes and no....

2005-02-15T04:07:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Day 4

Tuesday, 15th February 2005

Over the mountain to Figueras, and Roses

Tried to snow in Figueras late afternoon, as I was buying a spanish sim card for my mobile. Parked up in Roses under the fortress wall, partly out of the wind. Will do internet here tomorrow at the locutorio. Cadaqués is actually more sheltered than this.

2005-02-14T04:06:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Day 3

Monday, 14th February 2005

Tramuntana

I was correct; Monday market, as ever. Very small, partly owing to the season, but more so I expect to the Big Wind which came on the heels of last night's weather front - northerly and chill. Obliged me to quit my bed after only a few minutes to shift the van to the lower coach park.

Snagged a few apples at the market. Panaderia shut. Swung by the butcher's for cheese and ham. Supermarket along the riverbed yielded McVities digestives, Vichy Catalan (sparkling mineral water) and sardines en escabeche (tangy pickle sauce). The first was a surprise, following the sad state of biscuits in France. I now have six different types of choccie biccies in stock. The vichy and fishy were among the reasons I had to return to this town. The water is not so strong as I recall, yet very good just the same.

Find no desire to split town in this weather. Rather fancy a walkabout the old town. Dali exhibit at Cadaqués Museum till 14th March. Shutting for lunch as I arrive, so off up the hill in search of Dr John's old gaff - which I dimly recollect, having been there once late and quite drunk. It was from outside his door that night that I prised my treasured heavy tin sign from the electric pole with my swiss army knife (and a boost up from a mate). "No Tocar - Peligro de Muerte", and a gorgeous skull and crossbones. Still, reckon I found the place - Carrer Solitary. Bit of a construction site. Good views of the back of the church. Took several photos.

Stumbled by the Tao Natural.com shop again, and recalling a desire for insense settled on a green blend of joss sticks, added a lavender prayer shawl and some stupidly strong Singaporean patchouli oil. Then, with an hour to kill, a San Miguel on the again deserted terrace at the Maritim, wind whistling in the rigging.

Bay again altered in appearance - darker still - white caps often forming well inside of the island and spray devils skipping out off the beaches.

Barcelona weekend warriors and American university students having departed, left with some French, who are on school holidays. Also a number of Americans with children. Interesting.

Detour to the van en route to the exhibition, manage to spill better than half said stupidly strong patchouli oil, mostly onto the web of my driving glove, in pretty much a classic 'do you have the time?' manoeuvre - this having already applied probably far too much behind my ears. First thing at hand to mop it up? - the prayer shawl, which may never recover.

Thus rendering myself unfit for human companionship for some untold period of time, I set off to view the photographs. Mercifully, I virtually had the place to myself for the first half hour, though the girl who took my money winced more than a little. A couple folks who wandered in later, however, were seized by fits of uncontrollable coughing and had to be stretchered away. Despite the cold, the extraction fans were running full tilt when I descended again from the third floor to make my escape.

Back at the van afterwards I've had another couple goes at taking the edge off, daubing at the offending bits, employing the prayer shawl soaked with Vichy Catalan, and burning incense to fool myself into believing that's not all me which I smell. It is becoming dark and cold and it seems I may be drinking alone this evening, regardless of where I choose to do so. Doubtless the paramedics would prefer I stay home. Still, I could don my longjohns and brave the terrace at the Maritim for a swift one, or chance a more leisurely sip in the grander enclosed space of the Casino. It's just that I'm not at all certain either is sufficiently large or deserted.

2005-02-13T04:04:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Day 2

Sunday, 13th February 2005

Omnireminiscence

Located Rosa's old cottage along the main road into town - no roof, doors blocked up. Shame, really. Garden lovely as ever.

Spotted my former first floor sublet flat, just up the little side alley behind the plaza. Now an estate agency. So it goes.

A bit further up the street I bump into Ian, the bassist in last night's band at l'Hostal, who tells me that Henry Dream died of pneumonia here a few years back. Also that Gavin (McDonald) returned for a time last year in a bad state, deaf as a post and more in than out of mental institutions for several years. Seems Gavin suffered a breakdown here a while ago....

Returned to the old football pitch, made my best guess as to our patch - where the bus was parked up. Shot an uninspiring panorama with the camera. Strolled down to Port Lligat to discover Dali's casa-museo shut for another six weeks. Very peaceful, Port Lligat. And filthy with cats.

The Maritim terrace is busy, so on around the bay as far as the little island - no longer private. Light fading, so back toward la vila, with minor excursions in the old walled town surrounding the church. La Sirena (restaurant), butcher, baker all where we left them - latter two on tomorrow's list before setting out.

Blew three euros on coin-op internet in the Casino bar, weeding out spam e-mail and checking for brushfires. None. Crawled out and polished off my beer to a lovely display of horizontal lightning outside the bay, curling north from behind the lighthouse.

2005-02-12T03:59:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Day 1

Saturday, 12th February 2005

Just getting my bearings...

Casa Nun (restaurant) is still there, overlooking the plaza.

Wandered up to the old football pitch by the camping (there is a swank new one near Hotel Misty). It's posted parking with a height barrier and somewhat overgrown, yet kids were playing when I passed.

Glimpsed Dali's place but couldn't hack the downhill - legs aching - really struggling to get anywhere on a slope. Gingerly made my way back down to the van for ibuprofen.

Seems the market has shifted to the bus and overflow parking upstream of the two storey car park atop which the van sits, in the company of several 'straight' motorhomes. Monday is market day, as I recall, though I'll likely miss this one either chasing stones or searching for a sim card in Figueras. There was a tiny flea market by the Casino earlier.

Dali's image is everywhere - when it would never have been before - there is even a life size bronze statue on a pedestal in the middle of the promenade, though someone has evidently nicked his walking stick.

Following the Cami del Ronda (coastal path) brought me by Tom's old house at Platja Ros, looking not altogether different, aside from being flanked by newer houses.

Gods, I wish I had a bicycle.

Mid-afternoon clouds have sent all the lightweights scurrying from the Maritim - and elsewhere, I expect - there was some light rain last night, the river is running a bit and pumps churning at a couple businesses situated low upstream, plus I overheard a local yesterday evening allude to the Tramuntana, which I guess may have passed?

Seen as many cats as dogs today. This town has changed.

20:40 - more lights on in l'Hostal, but no sign of activity. Spotted a photo of Maxi in a framed clipping on the boards under the awning - looked well sunned.

Martina, that was her name - the barmaid over whom all the (other) blokes drooled.

2005-02-11T03:56:00.000Z

Cadaqués - Arrival

Friday 11th February 2005

On the Costa Brava in Spain - after 25 years, and a bit

Dusk of a fine long day spent hiking outside of Vilajuiga. Seven dolmens and a burial cave up along one valley. Never knew all that was there, and loads more.

Score a map of the natural park at the same old newsagent's on the plaza. L'Hostal is shut - a hand lettered poster proclaims a band on tomorrow.

The little grocer's at the end is still there, as is the the tobacconist around the corner, and the Meliton bar between.

I see familiar faces, only they are not the same persons: a young Carlos; a Manola at the Maritim, yet not our Manola.... I sit at one of our favourite tables on the terrace - how could he know? A suitably aged Dr John sort takes a table with his younger spanish woman companion.

From the terrace overlooking the beach, it all appears much the same - with the new bridge, two storey car park (the lower level of which seems half full of boats this time of year), the now concrete lined riverbed and shopping precinct behind - though all the small fishing boats are gone from the main beach, and I don't recall there being street lamps.

There are still signs of construction - the concrete lorries coming and going - tomorrow I'll take the measure of it, ferreting out old haunts.