As I enjoy going to the Tate Modern in London and love the Tate St Ives in Cornwall, I thought it was about time I visited the Tate Liverpool, especially as it's many years since I was in the city. The first time was as a student at Bristol, in the university archery team, when we had a match against Liverpool. The captain Andy drove 5 of us there and back in a day, all squashed into a mini. I was feeling car sick, the other girl had a grumbling appendix, and we almost crashed on the return trip as Andy was so tired he went straight across at a T-junction. Luckily there was no other traffic and we stopped just short of the ditch.
The second occasion was en route to a wedding at Frodsham, in a tiny church that was a converted barn. It was bitterly cold and the service took an hour, as it was a full Catholic nuptial mass. When it came to giving the sign of peace - something I hadn't come across before and wasn't expecting - the woman in front of me turned round, grabbed my hands and said "Thank God, mine are bloody freezing!". The aisle was the width of only one person, and speculation was rife as to whether the bride or groom would come down first at the end of the ceremony. It was resolved by the extremely possessive mother of the groom launching herself over the top of the pew, grabbing her son and refusing to part with him. The marriage didn't end well.
The final time was in my twenties, when I had to fly to Speke for a telecoms industry exhibition. The plane was very small, with only about 12 passengers, and it was a bumpy ride. By the time we arrived I was feeling green and didn't exactly excel at the exhibition. The lowest point was when I mentioned to one of the exhibitors that there seemed to be something wrong with one of his demonstration phones, as it was making a funny noise. He explained it was the new warble tone.
As well as visiting the gallery, I was looking forward to seeing something of the city itself. We had a smooth journey there by train and asked the young woman at the information desk which metro station we needed for the Tate. She looked completely blank and it was clear she'd never heard of it. Her much older (male) colleague gave us directions and we emerged into a cold brisk wind, with rain in the air. As we saw the Mersey and looked out towards the sea, I found it very poignant, thinking of the millions of emigrants who had made the journey across the Atlantic in appalling conditions, hoping for a better life. There is a statue in bronze given to the people of Liverpool by the Mormon Church as a tribute to the estimated 9 million who made the crossing to the USA. The child stepping forward symbolises migration to the unknown world whilst the child playing with a crab (barely visible in the photo below) indicates a deep association with the sea. The blur of Peter's finger indicates the need for more coffee:
The ferry terminal now is a modern block, with sentimental padlocks festooning the cable fencing:
Behind it you can see some of the Three Graces, which now have a rather unsightly funfair in front of them:
We stopped to have a quick look round the old Piermaster's house, which is furnished inside to illustrate family life during the Second World War, when bombing was heavy. Then our destination was in sight:
As we paused by the entrance and looked across the Albert Dock, we could see the cathedral in the distance and a nineteenth century boat - the Glaciere - which used to carry stones to Denmark and is now for sale:
Inside the Tate, I was wondering where all the works of art had gone. The basement and most of the ground floor had none; half of the first floor was closed as they were dismantling the recent William Blake and Tracey Emin exhibition (a narrow escape, as Peter can't stand her work), there was a Clore Learning Centre for families, and the rest of that floor and the second floor had a Constellation exhibition of the part of the Tate's collection that could in some way be connected with outer space; the third floor had some of their non-Space related pieces; and the top floor was devoted to an exhibition of paintings and photographs portraying Germany in the 1920s and 30s. Since outer space appeared to include empty space, it was slim pickings.
We did find a Mondrian - rather a dreary one (No.VI/Composition No.II, 1920):
There was also a rather fine Lowry (Industrial Landscape, 1955), though from his later, more depressed period when his industrial scenes were largely devoid of people:
I wandered into the Clore Learning Centre, having heard a lot about them in the past but never having been inside one before. It was a large, informal room full of wonderful colours, interesting shapes, some books and a few toys rather like lego but much more attractive as they were lovely colours and you could interlock them to produce all sorts of striking combinations. I was absorbed in playing with them when Peter found me and I reluctantly abandoned the idea of crawling through the mesh tubes (probably a bit ambitious anyway, and rather embarrassing if I'd got wedged). The large cubes which changed colour were mesmerising:
I just had to try out the bean bags but got well and truly stuck. Every time I'd almost reached vertical, a load of beans would shift and I'd fall back, laughing:
In the end Peter had to haul me upright. I was tempted to stop by the cube that had some of those toys on it but thought I'd better not push my luck.
So, it was back to culture - or what I honestly thought was pretentious rubbish, in some cases. One example, and there were plenty, was a pair of very small brown leather shoes:
The Tate's accompanying note explained that "This sculpture relates to Levine's Shoe Sale exhibition of 1977 in which the artist presented shoes that she had purchased from a thrift-store as works of art. Levine is part of the "Pictures Generation" of artists emergent during the late 1970s whose work adopted imagery, ideas or materials from already existing works of art or culture, using appropriation to comment on the notion of authorship and the act of borrowing itself. Levine's work also comments on the fetishisation of art objects while generating associations with the surreal uncanny. The apparent banal functionality of the shoes is undercut by their diminutive scale and emphasised by the over-long shoe laces". Huge shoes, tiny laces, anyone?
There were some exhibits I liked, particularly this life-size drawing in charcoal and graphite by Robert Longo (Untitled (Joe) 1981):
The sheer vivacity is infectious and I thought the drawing skill was very impressive. For the skill and the sense of drama, I was quite keen on the Andy Warhol self-portrait, painted in 1986, the year before he died:
The sculpture The Machine Minders, created by Ghisha Koenig in 1956, was also rather appealing for its simplicity:
It depicts two men minding vats at an ink factory in Kent, which she visited regularly, as her particular interest was producing sculptures of people at work.
We moved up to the top floor to have a look at the exhibition entitled Portraying a Nation: Germany 1919-1933. We'd been in two minds about whether to bother, as the posters looked off-putting and it was rather expensive. However the reviews sounded promising and it seemed silly not to go the whole hog while we were there. I'm glad we did, as it was very interesting both in terms of the art and in giving an insight into the mindset of parts of Germany between the wars.
The first half was 144 photographs by August Sander, who in the mid-1920s started his monumental project - which remained unfinished when he died in 1964 - of creating a social atlas of Germany through portraits of people from all segments of society, classified principally by their profession. Some of the most striking images were from the classifications of family and the disabled. Looking at them, you couldn't help wondering how many of the boys would survive the war and whether any of the disabled would.
Above the photographs was a timeline, describing the changes taking place in Germany during this period. I'd known about the hyperinflation but not how extreme it was - far, far worse than Zimbabwe, for example. I also hadn't realised how hard life had been for the farmers in particular. If anything I'd assumed they would be better off than most when times got really hard, as at least they could produce food for their families, but they were in a dire situation. It was uncomfortable thinking about how the British might have reacted - or enough of them, at any rate, to win power - given the same history and conditions.
The other half comprised some 150 paintings by Otto Dix (1891-1969), who was a significant artist during the 1920s and 30s. He was fascinated by the depths of human experience and focused on the aftermath of the First World War and the sordid underbelly of the "Golden Twenties". Having served as a machine-gunner for three years in the First World War, his paintings of some of his experiences were grim and again it made you think about what it would have been like being on the German side. In many respects, probably very similar.
Unfortunately we weren't allowed to take any photographs of the exhibition but if you have the chance to see it, I'd recommend it.
We finished our exploration of the Tate by returning to the ground floor, to see the so-called Space Tapestry by Aleksandra Mir and 25 young artists, which is in fact a huge segmented drawing in marker pen and biro that "contemplates the evolution of advanced space technologies and their increasing impact on our everyday lives".
What struck me was the coincidence that one panel referred to Columbia Road flower market, which I visited last month as another of the challenges (a very enjoyable one):
As we left the Tate and started walking back through the attractive docks area, we passed an interesting juxtaposition of old and new:
The bus is now a cafe, parked outside the Maritime Museum.
Further on, we came across a statue of a working horse, erected in 2010 by the Liverpool Retired Carters Association after 12 years of fundraising. It commemorates the 250 years' service of the working horses of the city. Through all weathers, they hauled goods between the docks and the warehouses, ensuring the flow of food and fuel through the port during the Second World War. Apparently they were considered the best in the land and the carters were renowned for their handling skills and the phenomenal weights they hauled:
Close by, we were surprised to find the propeller of the passenger ship the Lusitania, which was sunk by a German U-boat in 2015 off the coast of southern Ireland, with the loss of 1,198 men, women and children:
As we were leaving the area and heading back towards the metro station, we came across a group statue that I couldn't resist - even though as I posed for the photo, some Middle Eastern men standing behind Peter were watching and giving me points out of ten (not many, it seemed):
Although Tate Liverpool wasn't as exciting as I'd expected, it was worth the visit and the city itself has plenty to offer. We may have only scratched the surface but I love knowing that - equipped with my senior railcard - I can make day trips to all sorts of places across England. If you get up early and come home late, you can see a lot.
I have Peter to thank for this challenge. He decided it was high time I caught my own spiders, rather than calling for him and vanishing while he dealt with them. Catching them with a glass and a piece of paper wasn't enough - it had to be in my hands. Sheer sadism.
The only upside was that it meant I could ignore any cobwebs, as they were housing my potential targets. What I hadn't understood is that there is a spider season, and I'd have to wait until the autumn for them to appear. There were one or two earlier on, but Peter ruled them out as not being big enough. I found myself looking at spiders in a new light. Instead of shuddering, I was considering them as potential fulfillers of the last challenge in my Face the Fear section. My attitude was becoming almost maternal.
That all changed last night, when we were just about to go to bed and I spotted a huge spider above a bookcase in our living room:
(Apologies for the poor quality of the photos in this blog post. Things were moving fast.)
I hurriedly fetched a feather duster, to lure it down to floor level:
Instead of nestling in the feathers and allowing itself to be gently lowered, it fell to the carpet and sat there, lurking:
It was only when I crouched down, trying to catch it, when I realised just how much I really didn't want to do this:
It wasn't so much a question of whimpering, more of anguished squeaking, as it kept moving and I knew that at some point I was going to have to touch it:
Eventually I plucked up enough courage to catch it in my hands - horrible, really awful - and ran outside to release it:
It was such a relief to let it go, and to know I never had to do this again:
I stood up, brushed my trousers - and realised it was still in my hand. To my shame I screamed, which immediately set off Hesther next door, barking loudly. Muttering apologies to the corgi and neighbours, I tottered indoors, heart pounding. I hadn't expected to feel so scared, knowing it was irrational and I was considerably bigger than that poor arachnid, which I had just flung onto the patio. It looks as though Peter is still stuck with the job of spider removal.
Some years ago my friend Joyce mentioned that she and her husband Bill had very much enjoyed their visit to the Lowry arts centre in Salford Quays, which has the largest public collection of Lowry's paintings and drawings, displayed in a permanent exhibition in the gallery. Although Lowry isn't an artist whose work greatly appeals to me, it is iconic and I thought I'd like to know more about it. Usually when Peter and I go north it's to the County Durham area, where he's from, and the last time we were in Manchester was in the early 1990s. He's never visited Salford Quays and I've only been once, to the opening of a film studio in 1985. So a visit seemed long overdue, and combining it with looking around the Lowry and using my new senior railcard for the first time, made it an attractive choice for the list of challenges.
Normally we always travel standard or economy but Peter suggested we splash out and go first class, partly to ease the pain of having to get up at 6am for the train from Euston. I booked the tickets a couple of weeks in advance, to take advantage of the lower prices, but was surprised that even with the early booking and senior railcard reductions, they were substantially more expensive than going to Liverpool, for example. It took quite a while to go through all the hoops, as I had to rule out any which involved changing trains, and then alter my selection when I found out that the Lowry gallery shuts at 5pm, so we'd have to get an earlier train than expected to give us enough time looking at the paintings. The seat allocation wasn't straightforward but eventually it was done, the tickets were emailed to us and we looked forward to the trip.
I did my homework by reading my mother's old copy of the illustrated catalogue for the Lowry exhibition held at the Royal Academy in late 1976, not long after his death:
It wasn't until the afternoon before we set off that I printed out the tickets, although I had checked that they had arrived safely in my inbox a fortnight earlier. As Peter was glancing at them, he asked why the returns were dated for 11 September. What??? Somehow I had booked them for a week later than the outbound journey - and I knew they were non-refundable and non-exchangeable. They were also expensive, and we'd not only have to write them off but also buy new ones - assuming there were any still available.
As I was glumly looking at Virgin's website, I noticed there was a helpline and thought I might as well give it a try, though I wasn't hopeful. To my surprise I got through immediately and spoke to a very friendly Indian assistant. I explained what had happened and that I didn't want a refund, just to return a week earlier than the date on the ticket. He said if there was anything that could be done, he'd do it. He went out of his way to help, speaking to his supervisor and pleading our case. To my amazement he secured a deal which would reduce our loss on the redundant tickets by £10 each, and would cost a fairly modest amount for new return tickets with exactly the seats we wanted (admittedly standard rather than first class). He then suggested that if we travelled 20 minutes later than planned, it would knock off another £30. When he told me the total cost, I thought he must mean each - but no, it was for both of us, because the reduction of £10 each was in fact a refund of the full first class cost except for £20. The net result was that instead of losing a substantial sum, we were £3 in profit! For once, hurrah for Virgin!
We had a smooth journey, enjoying the comforts of travelling first class, including a hot breakfast. Salford Quays has changed considerably over the last 30 years and the combination of striking architecture and the light on the water made it a much more attractive proposition than in the freezing cold of November 1985:
The entrance to the Lowry was similarly stylish:
The foyer featured a wonderful piece of work - a "book bench", with two images symbolising the First World War - which is part of a series of benches around the area:
On a more prosaic note, despite having had two breakfasts I was feeling rather peckish so we decided to have lunch in the cafe first and a quick stab at the sudokus, before heading inside the gallery to watch a film about Lowry's life and work:
After that we were just in time to take part - along with only one other couple - in a guided tour of the gallery, which was very interesting and informative. What struck me most was how lonely and bleak his life had been. His mother, a talented pianist with social aspirations, had married "beneath her" to an estate agent. Lowry was an only child, educated at private school, and the family lived in a relatively comfortable area of Manchester in the expectation that the father would be made a partner in the firm. Instead, the owner's son was awarded the position and the family had to move to the much more industrialised town of Pendlebury in Salford.
Meanwhile, far from fulfilling his mother's dream of his becoming a barrister or doctor, Lowry left school at 17 and started working full time as a claims clerk in an insurance company. He was studying art at evening classes, as he continued to do for about 20 years, but this didn't help the atmosphere at home as his mother regarded art as greatly inferior to music. Throughout his life, she was his harshest critic and his constant attempts to please her were fruitless.
In 1910, having been made redundant (through no fault of his own), he began working as a rent collector - a job he held for many years, eventually retiring at 65 having reached the level of Chief Cashier. He did his best to keep his occupation secret throughout his life, threatening legal action at one point if a newspaper which had mentioned it, ever did so again. He didn't have to serve in the war because of his extremely flat feet, which was a blessing but perhaps felt at the time like another rejection, increasing his social isolation.
In 1932 his father died suddenly, leaving substantial debts as the family had been living above its means. It took Lowry two years to clear them. His mother simply took to her bed and stayed there for the next seven years, until she too died. Lowry would work as a rent collector all day, go home to give his mother a bed bath and a meal, tend to her bed sores and read to her. Only once she had fallen asleep could he go upstairs to the attic and paint.
In 1939, when his mother died, he felt totally desolate. His painting was beginning to be exhibited and gain acclaim, but it was too late now for it to impress his mother - even if that would ever have been possible. He was overwhelmed by utter loneliness. It is doubtful that he ever had a sexual relationship and he certainly never married, and he now had no family. Speaking of his art, he said "All my people are lonely. Crowds are the most lonely thing of all. Everyone is a stranger to everyone else". He referred to his "lonely landscapes" and commented "Look at my seascapes, they don't really exist you know, they're just an expression of my own loneliness.... Generally I put nothing on the sea when I paint it. Perhaps a tiny boat if I must".
In 1948 he moved from Pendlebury to a house in Mottram-in-Longdendale, Cheshire, where he lived until his death nearly 30 years later. His decision to move there was curious, as he had already claimed that he disliked the village. Its one advantage was its proximity to the moors, and despite complaining regularly that it was a terrible place, plagued by constant rain, he admitted "I'd never leave the north of England.... Warmer climates don't attract me, nor does the sun".
Apart from an initial burst of decorating, he did little to the property and it gradually became rather dilapidated - and it was always cold.
His furniture was heavy and Victorian, he eschewed modern comforts and there was "stuff" everywhere - masses of clocks (mostly his mother's), knick-knacks and paintings. :
His studio - which he preferred to call his workroom - was a jumble of paintbrushes, canvases, completed works and bits of clutter, all lit by a single light bulb:
Even by the time he was earning a decent living from his art - as well as the income from his full time job - he lived frugally, with no phone, no camera, no car (he never learned to drive) and no trips abroad. Although, in 1943, he was commissioned as a war artist, this involved no foreign travel and focused on images of Manchester. He had quite a wide circle of friends but none was close (his funeral was apparently sparsely attended) and he disliked surprise visits.
He did, however, collect art, particularly by Rossetti and to a lesser extent by Lucian Freud. He had a passion for the paintings featuring Jane Morris and owned 10 original Rossettis, which hung in his bedroom.
His own art evolved through three fairly distinct phases. Initially he focused on the work for which he is best known - the "matchstick figures", in crowd scenes. Although he had spent many years studying life drawing and was highly skilled at it, he made a positive decision to paint in this style: "I wanted to paint myself into what absorbed me. Natural figures would have broken the spell of it, so I made them half unreal.... Had I drawn them as they are, it would not have looked like a vision".
He used a very limited palette of only five colours - flake white, black, yellow ochre, prussian blue and red - partly because oil paint was expensive. The flake white had a high lead content and turns yellow with age. Lowry liked this effect and instructed that none of his work should be treated to prevent it happening - a curator's nightmare. It was only as he became better known and his paintings sold well that he started expanding both his palette and the size of his canvases.
He painted the background in white - in later years, painting the entire canvas in white first - and deliberately used no shadows, blurring, weather effects, sunsets or sunrises, and avoided any trace of sentimentality. He was particularly strong on line, construction and composition. He hated charcoal and vastly preferred pencil, for its precision. It struck him as ridiculous that people would always pay more for an oil painting, simply because it was in oil, whereas he felt that some of his best work was in pencil.
For most of his life he was a prolific painter, working on several paintings at the same time. If one wouldn't "come right", he would set it aside for a while and then come back to it. He drew and sketched outside but didn't like the inconvenience of carrying paints around, so virtually all his painting was done at home. That also suited his habit of producing composite scenes, using parts of actual places and bringing them together to make a whole.
Interestingly as soon as Lowry became famous for his crowd scenes, he switched to portraits and then, in his final phase, to paintings of the sea. He still produced some industrial scenes but they tended to be bleak pictures of flooded devastation, with only a few people, usually on the margins rather than centre-stage. As he grew older, his view of people as seen in his work became increasingly harsh and satirical - even hostile and cruel at times. His painting "The Cripples" (1949), part of which can be seen in the photograph below, is an example of this:
In his 60s, Lowry experimented with biro and felt tip. In the late 1950s, he tried using watercolours but completed only a few paintings. "They don't really suit me... dry too quickly. They're not flexible enough. I like a medium you can work into, over a period of time." With oil, as well as his brushes he often used his index finger and thumb, particularly for faces. The one subject he never mastered was horses. He said he simply couldn't draw their legs accurately. That's why there is only one horse in any of his paintings, and its legs are hidden behind a wall.
Real fame came late, with the offer of a knighthood when he was 74. He rejected it, along with other honours. He felt uncomfortable with the idea of this social distinction and in any case it would only have made a real difference to him while his mother was still alive.
There is one mystery about his portraits, and that is the identity of Ann, who featured in a number of his paintings and drawings during the 1950s and 60s:
She appears to be a composite figure rather than based on one real person, always depicted with swept-back hair and kohled eyes, and an oval face. Less benign were the erotic and sadistic paintings and drawings of dark-haired women which came to light after Lowry's death. They weren't casual pieces but had been revisited and reworked, almost like an obsession. Given his lonely and repressed life, and the influence of his mother, they aren't surprising but they certainly make uncomfortable viewing.
Overall I found the experience of learning about his life and viewing his work - augmented by an exhibition of photographs of him taken by Clive Arrowsmith which, unlike everything else on display, we were allowed to photograph - very interesting, albeit bleak. Always an outsider, as a large and clumsy child through to a depressed and isolated old man, his life seems to have been dominated by loneliness. Far from feeling released by the death of his mother, he never really recovered from the desolation it wrought. His own assessment was "Had I not been lonely, none of my work would have happened. I should not have done what I've done, nor seen the way I saw things. I work because there's nothing else to do".
Afterwards I felt in need of some retail therapy and headed into the Lowry outlet mall:
It proved a disappointment, with nothing worth a second look, so we caught the tram back to Manchester and enjoyed an early dinner in Carluccio's. After a glass of red wine, the world soon appeared in a rosier light.
Ever since university days I've liked extra dry martini. In my third year, living in a sort of large cupboard under the stairs owned by a Mr Brown, where all the furniture - including the fridge - was painted brown, my evening routine when I got back from the library was to put on a record, light the gas fire, pour a martini and lie on the settee thinking of nothing for 20 minutes. In the evening now, Peter and I get together for a couple of martinis made with gin and a whisper of vermouth, and talk about the day. When I was deciding what to include in the food and drink section of the 60 challenges, there was no doubt that something along these lines had to feature. Doing some research online, I found that Mele e Pere - http://meleepere.co.uk/page/about-us - in Soho offered a vermouth masterclass about once a month, which had excellent reviews and sounded perfect.
On our return from South Africa at the end of March, I started trying to make a booking but found that plans to hold the next masterclass were not yet firm. By late August I was getting seriously concerned, as there was still no sign of a date and I couldn't find anywhere else in London - or England - which offered anything similar. In the end I managed to speak to Ed, the manager and "vermouthier-in-chief". I explained about the challenges, the two charities I was raising money for and how I really needed his help to be able to achieve this one. He was lovely and immediately offered to run a class just for Peter and me, which was so kind of him. We settled on the last Wednesday in August, to start at about 6.30pm before the restaurant and bar got too busy.
I was sure I was going to enjoy the evening, and I was right. We'd never been to Mele e Pere before and I wasn't sure what to expect. The tone is set as soon as you enter, by the imaginative and stylish decor, with the accent very much on vermouth:
There is a bar and smallish seating area on the ground floor, and when you go downstairs you find a sizeable restaurant and a larger bar:
I liked the fact that in the restaurant, the chairs and tables didn't all match but worked well together as they are made of wood and have character. The lighting is unusual and carefully chosen to enhance the atmosphere. Although the surfaces are hard, you can easily hear one another as there are interestingly shaped white baffles on the ceiling, which look good and absorb the sound. If only all restaurants would do the same!
When we arrived the masterclass materials - glasses, bottles and some little pots containing dried herbs, roots and other aromatic ingredients ("botanicals") - were already set out on a long old wooden table, with swivel stools attached. Ed introduced himself and began by explaining the history of vermouth and how the taste varies depending largely on which botanicals and which base alcohol (wine or spirits) are used. Recipes tend to be closely guarded secrets.
Vermouth is one of the oldest alcoholic drinks in the world, dating back to 1500 BC in India. Its name derives from the German word (wermut) for its key ingredient wormwood, a plant - artemisia absinthium - from the daisy with legendary medicinal properties. In Europe it was first produced commercially in northern Italy in the 18th century, became the essence of classic cocktails in the 19th century, and is still regarded as the king of aperitifs.
Every week Mele e Pere infuses, blends and kegs 20 litres of its own vermouths on-site, using ingredients such as gentian, hyssop, lemongrass and angelica, drawn from the extensive collection of botanicals beautifully displayed on the second shelf of the bar:
Ed gave us two to sample, one white and one red:
The white one tasted dry and not overly bitter, with what seemed to me a flavour of grapefruit (actually lemon and orange peel) and lavender. The red one struck us as more of a winter drink, with a spicier flavour including cloves and cinnamon. We liked them both and were very happy to be making a dent in that week's 20 litres.
We then moved on to sampling three bottled vermouths, from Italy, Germany and France:
The French one, Lillet, seemed the driest and the German the sweetest, reminding me a bit of walnut sherry. I should perhaps add that the samples were generous...
Now we were at the point where we were going to make our own vermouths, using the selection of liquid botanicals provided - sage, oregano and rhubarb root for red, and angelica, marjoram and wormwood for white - together with dry white Italian wine and sugar syrup. Out of curiosity we decided to taste each of the botanicals in their dry form before using any of them. The angelica was relatively sweet and fruity. The wormwood, as expected, was very bitter although it is not the type - now banned - that is hallucinogenic and was much favoured by Toulouse Lautrec et al as green absinthe, and contributed to their early demise. The rhubarb root was intensely bitter - far more than the wormwood.
We both began with the white, mixing a few drops of sugar syrup with a third of a glass of wine and adding one ingredient at a time, using about a quarter of a teaspoonful. Peter produced a fine combination, using extra sugar syrup offset by enough wormwood to give it plenty of character. I found that simply adding angelica gave quite a caramel flavour, which was pleasant but bland. With marjoram as well, its taste reminded me of some Italian pasta meals, fragrant with a sharp edge. When I added the wormwood, the mixture smelled really bitter but the taste was less so. With a little more sugar syrup it developed a more rounded flavour, which I liked.
We then turned to the red. The sage turned the wine slightly pink but didn't seem to have much effect on the taste. With the oregano as well, the effect was similar to the marjoram. What made the difference was the rhubarb root, which gave it a woody fragrance which was unusual and not too bitter. It also changed the colour to a lovely pale rose.
Ed explained that we were free to continue mixing if we wished, but we were becoming aware of the cumulative effects of the strong alcohol - 16-18% - and decided to leave it at that, happy with what we'd produced. The masterclass includes three sharing platters between two, which you choose from the menu. We took a while to decide which to have, as they all sounded delicious. Eventually we settled on finely sliced porchetta, salsa tonnata, capers and rocket cress; bruschetta with sweet red peppers and truffled cheese; and figs with soft Italian cheese and honey:
They all tasted wonderful. I'm not usually a huge fan of Italian food - it's fine for casual eating, but not really special. This was completely different. Absolutely fresh, northern Italian flavours and combinations, perfectly balanced and with nothing too heavy. The last time we had anything like this was in Verona - and it turned out that that is where the chef is from. We were two very happy bunnies:
We decided, though, that we had room for a little more so Peter ordered a main course (saffron risotto with roasted scallops and razor clams), while I opted for focaccia and beef bresaola with rocket and fresh black truffle. We shared the Italian white wine left over from the vermouth-making - two glasses each - and thought how lucky we were to have this experience, thanks to the delightful Ed:
We will definitely go back there again for dinner, and even just for a drink - though it would be a shame not to savour that superb food again...
I've always been intrigued by the idea of mudlarking, looking for tangible pieces of history washed up on the Thames foreshore. Life as a mudlark in the Victorian period was grim and probably short, working hard in filthy conditions for a pittance. Being able to go home to a hot shower (although not in my case, as both bathrooms are still out of action) and doing it for pleasure rather than to avoid starvation puts a totally different cast on it. This was one of the 60 challenges I was really looking forward to.
What I hadn't realised was that last autumn a licensing system was introduced, which means that "Anyone wishing to search the tidal Thames foreshore in any way for any reason must hold a current foreshore permit from the Port of London Authority. Searching includes all such activities including searching, metal detecting; digging, or 'scraping'". There are two types of permits: a Standard one allows digging to a depth of 7.5cm, whereas a Mudlark one allows digging to a depth of 1.2m and access to certain areas prohibited to those who only have a Standard permit. However, to apply for a Mudlark permit you must have held a Standard permit for at least two years and have a record of reporting finds to the Museum of London.
If I'd known this before I compiled my list of challenges, I wouldn't have included mudlarking as it clearly couldn't be done within a year. I only found out when I started researching tide tables - which is essential, as the difference between high and low tide on the relevant parts of the Thames is 7 metres, the water comes in fast and the access steps are slippery.
I spent ages trying to find a way round the problem, as I was determined not to have to give in. None of the companies which had previously offered guided walks focusing on mudlarking still included this in their menu, as the licensing system made it too complicated and expensive. I did find one that would reluctantly agree to include the sort of activity covered by a Standard permit, but at a price that effectively ruled it out.
The next route I tried was researching mudlarking societies and asking whether any of their members would allow me to tag along, so at least I could learn from them and get the flavour of the experience. I found two societies, one of which specialises in using metal detectors. A woman who blogs for the more traditional one replied within 24 hours, explaining that life was hectic at present as she is writing a book which is right up against the deadline, and is also renovating a house, working part time and looking after her young twins. Although she'd be willing in principle to consider letting me accompany her, it couldn't be until after Christmas, which would be too late for my challenges. She very kindly offered advice about going on my own, such as the best places to search, what I might hope to find and what precautions to take (beware the tides, wear protective gloves, etc).
A man who seems to be the leading light in the other society offered to take me out on a guided trip, along with two or three other people, but again the cost was pretty steep. I asked whether he might consider a barter deal: one of my paintings for a 3 hour trip. He replied saying "Show me your wares, girl", which didn't sound too inviting. He was evidently as impressed by my art as I was by his sales technique, so that was a dead end.
I then tried looking at press releases and book reviews about mudlarking, with the idea of contacting the authors to see if one of them might be willing to help. In the process I noticed that the foreshore at Chiswick, which is conveniently close and has accessible parking (so I could stash my muddy Wellingtons and protective gloves etc in the car), seemed easily accessible at low tide and according to one article yields some interesting objects. I decided the best - or least-worst - option was to apply for a 1-day Standard permit (costing £32) and go searching there on my own. Wading through the PLA instructions, however, I discovered that you have to apply at least a month in advance and specify the day for which the permit will be valid - even though you have no idea what the weather will be like, nor whether something else might crop up in the meantime that made the planned date unsuitable. Suddenly the idea seemed much less attractive and I was back at square one.
Glancing again through one of the articles, I spotted a reference to "The Secret Thames - the Archaeology Tour", by London Walks - http://www.walks.com/our-walks/thames-beachcombing. It was clear that the walk, led by a distinguished intertidal archaeologist, had previously centred on mudlarking but had had to be substantially revised following the introduction of licensing. Now, instead of sticking to the foreshore in front of Tate Modern, it covers a range of the Thames on both banks, with Fiona (the guide) explaining the history of the area and showing us part of her collection of objects found while mudlarking. At the end of the walk, we would be free to go down onto the foreshore - which in itself isn't illegal, as long as you don't move anything to have a look at what's there - and would have a much better idea of what it was we were seeing. There was a walk scheduled in 2 days' time. Bingo!
The weather was lovely and Peter and I duly assembled outside Mansion House tube station, along with about 30 others, of all ages. As we started walking towards the riverbank, Fiona described the network of rivers in London and how most are now covered and have been absorbed into the sewage system. Apparently if you go to Sloane Square tube station and look up at the end where trains come in from the west, you will see the base of a large tube that contains one of the tributaries. In mediaeval times, the rivers would have been uncovered, filthy and stinking. Fiona pointed out the storm gate for the hidden Walbrook River, visible at the base of the left-hand strut below, which bursts open under heavy pressure:
We passed a black phone box - black rather than red, as it's in the City of London - and walked across Southwark Bridge. Looking down from the far bank, we saw a gull trying to eat a dead eel - without much success, as the skin is so tough:
It was a reminder of how successfully the Thames has been cleaned up, since the 1950s when it was so polluted that almost nothing could survive in its waters. Now there are over 125 different species of fish flourishing there, which in turn have attracted seals and porpoises.
As we walked along the South Bank under the Bridge, Fiona pointed out the murals depicting London's first Frost Fair, held on the ice when the Thames froze over in 1564:
The Thames was broader and shallower then, and the old London Bridge was built on narrow arches which concentrated the water into swift-flowing torrents, with the effect that in winter large pieces of ice would gradually block the arches. Eventually, usually only for a few days, the whole river would freeze over. The wording on the murals, taken from handbills of the period, is:
Behold the Liquid Thames frozen o’re,
That lately Ships of mighty Burthen bore
The Watermen for want of Rowing Boats
Make use of Booths to get their Pence & Groats
Here you may see beef roasted on the spit
And for your money you may taste a bit
There you may print your name, tho cannot write
Cause num'd with cold: tis done with great delight
And lay it by that ages yet to come
May see what things upon the ice were done.
Another unusual sight was the so-called Ferryman's Seat, which was intended for the convenience of ferrymen waiting to ply their trade across the Thames:
It's so narrow that only a child or a malnourished adult can use it, and the sloping back forces you into a subservient position, leaning forwards.
At the end of the walk, we settled down on steps near the Tate Modern to look at some of the objects Fiona has found since 1995, when she first started mudlarking. We were allowed to handle all of them except for the first one, an ancient hand axe made of flint for a right-handed person (you can tell by the shape of the grip):
Next were some small flints, fashioned as cutting tools with notched "serrated" edges (they're all but invisible in this photo, so you'll have to take my word for it):
We moved on to the sixteenth century, with a variety of clay pipes. It's relatively easy to come across the remnants, as the tobacco came packed in the pipes which were simply discarded once the smoke was finished. When tobacco first reached England, it was so expensive that the pipe bowls were tiny:
As their use became more widespread, they were produced in a wide range of designs, including the saucy (spot the lady's garter):
Fiona explained how they could be dated by the changes in shape and design, including whether the base of the bowl was flat or had a "heel":
One of her finds which particularly appealed to me was a late Georgian glass ink bottle which would originally have been in a writing slope:
The first present I ever gave Peter, for Christmas, was a Victorian writing slope, so it had a special resonance for me. I don't recall him using it once, but it's perfect for writing Christmas cards while sitting on the settee with half an eye on the television.
Moving into the twentieth century, Fiona showed us the detonator head from a German incendiary bomb during the Blitz:
Once the walk was over, I was keen to get onto the foreshore and see what I could find:
It was frustrating not being able to pick up anything, as there were plenty of objects that caught my eye:
Amongst them was an assortment of old nails, which don't show that well in the photo but it was interesting speculating about how they'd come there and who had first used them:
I was surprised at how many fragments of terracotta there were. Most looked as though they were pieces of roof tile and I wished I could have handled them, as Fiona had explained how the shape of the holes for attaching them to a roof had changed over the ages. At first they had been round and smoothed by hand on only one side (the underneath didn't matter, as it wouldn't be seen). Then, as skills developed, the holes became diamond-shaped and looked more sophisticated. Not being able to inspect the ones on the foreshore, I could only guess:
There were also various pieces of glass in different colours, mostly pale blue and green, along with some shells. Oyster shells are plentiful, as oysters were for centuries a cheap source of protein and eaten by the poor. It was only as the supply dwindled and prices rose, that the rich showed any interest in them:
I thoroughly enjoyed this walk and would certainly recommend it. If you think you might be interested in mudlarking, it would provide useful information on what to look for and its potential significance, and help you "get your eye in". Then, if you want to take it further, I'd suggest getting a £75 permit for 3 years, rather than a £32 permit for only one day. I'm tempted to apply for one, as it was so tantalising seeing objects that I wanted to pick up and couldn't touch. With a permit I'd be able to dig down a few inches, so that I could prise them out of the mud and have a really good look. I'm not expecting to find anything valuable, but simply holding a piece of history in my hands and thinking about who else might have held it, and when and why, would be very satisfying.
