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More filler.

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More Filler

Thanks to Petrea for giving me permission to post more filler. I'm pretty pooped today from all the driving yesterday, so this is to remind me that the weather isn't always this crappy … just most of the time.

It's Tuesday, So It Must Be Filler

Just using up spare photos while I spend the day hanging around Heathrow waiting to pick up Phil and Jane after they abandoned me in the snow and went on safari in Tanzania, the smeggers.

WTF Monday - Inn or Out

There are hundreds of these dotted about the country. I know of at least two on this side of Norwich alone.

But there's still some part of me (the part that will always laugh at fart jokes) that giggles in the glory of such a name.

Sunday Stained Glass

Norwich Cathedral.

East Windows.

Like I need a reason …

Saturday Statuary - Screwy

A tiny man balances on the end of a giant wooden screw …
Yes, we're back in the Cambridge Genome Research Park, so don't ask me the reason for all this; it's probably something to do with genome research, but then again it may be just a giant wooden screw with a tiny man balancing on the end.

Either way, today you get a bonus statue, even if it's just made of snow. The fact that this was created by the genome research people is slightly creepy; I wonder if it's really just a snowman or some genetically engineered monster.

Whatever … It snowed again last night and the world sucks ice cold ass this morning.

Green and Pleasant Land

I want green and I want it now!
Nature's got the best idea: hibernation. Humans are African creatures; we're not evolved for this crap. I just want to go to sleep and wake up when it's spring. And if it means I can eat like a pig to build up fat for hibernation, so much the better. Why the hell is evolution such a slow process?

Meanwhile …

Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day …

Teach a man to fish and he turns into a moron who doesn't know enough to come in out of the cold.

More Shitty Snow

In Cambridge yesterday, for a very dull, all day meeting at the genome research park. This was the River Cam at lunchtime.

And this is what grown-ups do when they're sick of all day meetings.

Roll on spring …

Shovel It, Sucker!

When your recycle bin greets you in the morning wearing a new white fluffy hat, and you spend twenty minutes digging just to get your car onto the deep snow-filled road …

… and when you really - and I mean really - don't fancy the office picnic table at lunchtime …

… it's time for the boys to get out the office snow shovels and head for the staff car park up top of the hill.
What a splendid lunch hour we had. Actually, I shovelled ninety percent of this lot, while Matt and Neil (being of the younger persuasion) threw snowballs, kicked snow all over one another, built snowmen on top of one another's cars and generally fell over a lot.
There is deep joy to be had from sticking a snow shovel in the snow at one end of the car park and then running full tilt to the other end, laughing like a loon. Work hasn't been so much fun in years.

And hey! When it came to home time, we all got our cars away without a problem. Yay!

WTF Monday - The Great Osberto Parsley

Crazy name; crazy guy …
Well probably not, but what a magnificent monicker he had.
Osberto Parsley's biography is written out in full on a plaque on the side of the column that bears this lovely memorial in Norwich Cathedral.
Fifty years a chorister and choirmaster at the Cathedral; born in the first year of Henry the Eighth's reign, when the place was still a monastic institution, Osberto Parsley sang in the choir through almost the entire Tudor monarchy: Henry VIII, Edward VI, Jane Grey, Mary and Elizabeth, a time of ridiculous religious shenannigans that saw many a composer or singer imprisoned or worse. Ah, monarchy and religion … mass murderers par excellence.

These are the same choir stalls Osberto sang in (and indeed the very same stalls whose wooden walls winced in pain as I murdered the tenor parts in Handel's Messiah and Verdi's Requiem when I was at school).

So let's hear it for the Great Osberto Parsley.
Here's one of the many songs he would have sung (John Browne's Stabat Mater). He'd have also sung all of Thomas Tallis' and William Byrd's music, both in Latin and English as he straddled - and mercifully survived - Mary and Elizabeth's religious schism, but Browne is one of my all time faves so that's what you're getting.

Enjoy! And whenever you hear music as beautiful as this, remember the name of Osberto Parsley.

Tree Tracery

Boy, howdy, I would hate to have this as a jigsaw puzzle …

Saturday Statuary - Wheelie Bin Jesus

Spotted on my way home from work last night … a tiny snow person on top of a wheelie bin, wearing a little crown of thorns.
Cute or creepy … you decide.

Gate

Minus Thirteen and Sucky

We're between snow storms at the moment.
Pulls' Ferry was unreasonably picturesque at lunchtime, but with minus thirteen on the thermometer and a vicious arctic wind, if you were fool enough to step out of the door the cold was ready and waiting to bite your face off.
Feck that!

Here's the view from my office window when I managed to get in to work.
All very postcard, but I'll be a lot happier when the white goes away and the green returns to the trees.

Bleah

Don't be fooled by the pretties; it's pretty shitty here at the moment.
So anyhoo … yesterday's site meeting was eighty miles away and I set off just as the first flurries of snow floated down. The weather forecast was for a light dusting. By the time I was two miles out of Norwich the blizzard hit and the snow just came down in one big flumph. Vans and lorries started sliding off the road and the we came to a standstill.

There was a lorry jack-knifed up the hill ahead of me and it was obvious from the way the snow was coming down that I wasn't going to make the meeting so I hung a one-eighty and headed back to the city.
I got a hundred yards before I saw two lorries and a bus slewed all over the road ahead. No matter how well you drive on ice and snow, you're always at the mercy of people who don't. The radio reported sixty-three accidents in the local area; nobody was going anywhere for a while.
So there I sat. In the blizzard.

Luckily I'm a long-term London commuter and used to waiting around for hours. I sipped my coffee and switched off, while outside, people were running around and getting all worked up. One guy in a BMW decided to drive along the footpath and overtake everything. He slipped and skidded and over-revved his dumb, rear-wheel drive car in too low a gear, mounted the pavement and slid for a bit before ramming a lamp post. It was too pathetic to be funny.
A couple of hours later the snow stopped as suddenly as it had started and the sun came out, which is when I got out my camera.
Earlier I'd walked to a nearby coffee bar and called the office to tell them to call the site and say I wasn't going to make it … only for the office to tell me that after I left (around the time I got stuck in the blizzard) the site had called to cancel the meeting.
So there I sat with my camera and my coffee for another hour or so before things gradually started to crawl again.

By the time I got back to the city it was dark and the radio reported every road in Norwich gridlocked. The snow hit so hard and fast it overwhelmed the gritters and the emergency services, and every fool in every office decided it would be a good idea to head home early. Result: nobody was going home for a long, long time.
The sensible thing to do was to park up and walk back through the gridlocked traffic to the office, which gave me some more photo opportunities.

It looked like it would take hours for the traffic to clear, so I did a bit of catch-up work and then me and one of the partners headed to a spiffy Malay restaurant for a seafood frenzy.

The traffic had cleared by the time we came out, so I walked to the car and drove - slowly - home, on two inches of black ice as the fog and more snow came down.
This morning, it's minus thirteen, foggy and white out there, and due to get a whole lot worse by the weekend. I was going to take the train in to Norwich but the radio tells me they've all been cancelled so it looks like I'll be sitting in traffic much of the day.
Hey ho.
I wonder how many times on this blog I've said "roll on spring."

Old Curiosity

Here's that dilapidated Dickensian shop I was telling you about last week. It's right on the clifftop at Cromer, at the other end of the street from the pretty blue house. Lynn and I will have to fight over it once the renovations are complete (yes, it's being repaired and will soon be as pretty as the rest of the street).
Sweet, huh?

WTF Monday - Eat Your Heart Out, Metropolis

Best city in the world.

Sunday Street - Irony

"Irony" - associated with iron.

In this case the plethora of balconies and bridges criss-crossing the narrow streets behind London's South Bank wharves.

Today's street is Gainsford Street, just off the southern end of Tower Bridge, looking east toward Butler's Wharf. Trendy restaurants ahoy!

Saturday Statuary - Er …

Sea View

More of the little street leading to the cliff top from Wednesday's photo location.

How lovely to poke your head out of your bay window in the morning and see and smell the sea.

At the end of this street on the right is the wrecked Dickensian garret house that Lynn and I both covet. I'll post it later.

It's being restored at the moment and I shudder to think of how much it'll cost when its finished.

Where Did The Blues Skies Go?

I'm driving to Cambridge today in the fog. A dull day with a dull meeting. To cheer myself up, this is Cathedral Close taken on the first of January, just before the organ recital. Pretty, huh?

Wednesday Window - Sale

Beethoven - Year One

Garbled witness statement …

Ms.M. I wish I had N's power over words but I don't, so pray excuse the following:

Hokay … Deep breath.
Just home. Rather large tumbler of Islay malt.
Here goes …

Ego, compos mentis (well kinda) have just witnessed something that's going to hit the world of classical music like an H bomb.
D'you remember that Glenn Gould moment that Bach had in the fifties? Suddenly the world woke up and saw the light?
Murray Perahia took the ball and ran with it and then came Angela Hewitt; the world's greatest interpreter of Bach's keyboard music?
Remember that?

Well this evening I was sitting not ten feet from Angela Hewitt when she did for Beethoven what Glenn Gould did for Bach.
I mean it.

Let's set the scene:
What was always going to be an exciting evening: The incomparable Britten Sinfonia (the best chamber orchestra on the planet bar none and I'll kick the shit out of anyone who argues with me) launch their season with a programme of Wagner, Sibelius and Beethoven, featuring Angela Hewitt on piano.
So far, so wonderful.

First up: the pre-show chat. Angela talks us through the two Beethoven pieces she'll be playing: the youthful and exuberant second piano concerto (actually the first he wrote) and the majestic pinnacle of the fourth. She discusses Czerny's notes on how Beethoven taught him and how Beethoven actually played and developed the pieces. How most players begin the fourth with a flat G-major chord, while Czerny relates that Beethoven played it as an arpeggio, echoing his interpretation of the piece as Orpheus strumming his lyre in preparation for the third movement's struggle to calm the Furies and rescue Eurydice.
She fesses up that - after twenty-three years of playing the fourth with other conductors - tonight is her debut conducting Beethoven from the piano and she's nervous as hell.
Then she tells us how having had to learn and understand the parts for the whole orchestra has transformed her awareness of the piece, in much the same way as her two glorious accounts of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier (one after years of study and interpretation; the next after having toured the pieces for two years solid) revealed truths that nobody had previously dreamed of.

Angela was lucky enough to begin her concert career just when the 'authentic period instrument' movement exploded on the music scene. The slushily over-romantic interpreters of Beethoven and Mozart were elbowed aside by the new puritans, but this had the knock-on effect of making the music leaden and dull. In the decades since, musicians and historians have worked wonders in bringing us closer to Beethoven's true meaning and I (and many others) felt that Paul Lewis had fulfilled old Ludwig's dreams with his recent recording cycles.

Then this evening happened.

It started innocently enough. The Sinfonia hit the stage; as ever, frighteningly youthful and this evening led by the precocious child, Thomas Gould (the Guardian rightly calls him "staggeringly virtuosic"); they launch into the only piece Wagner ever wrote that can truthfully be called lovely: the Siegfried Idyll.
And they are perfect. I wouldn't have expected anything else. If anyone's going to make Wagner move me to tears it's going to be the Britten Sinfonia and they didn't disappoint.

Then some jigging of chairs as Angela's glorious Fazioli is wheeled centre stage and its wheels locked. They've removed the first row of seats this evening, to fit the orchestra on stage, so my usual third row; just left of centre seat is now second row and I can see every expression on Angela's face as she plays.

Oh, before that: I hope you're reading this, Robyn. You can tell your asshat at the Philharmonic who moaned at you for playing in trousers a few weeks back that the second violin with the Britten Sinfonia (the fabulously named Beatrix Lovejoy) played this evening in open-toed black stilettos, slit-bottomed, calf-length tight capris and a Nehru-collared blouse with see-through sleeves. Wear what you like and fuck'em.

Anyhoo … Back to the action:
Angela Hewitt hits the stage in (during the pre-show chat she wore - somewhat disarmingly - boots, black tights, a miniskirt and a frumpy cardie) a purple peacock gown that must have a thousand micro-pleats around the hem, and deep turquoise, kitten heeled, fuck-me shoes. Whooee! Apologies for all the fashion stuff but my gay gene must be kicking in.

Beethoven's second piano concerto is - like Chopin's first - his "Here I am, world! Fuck you: I'm FANTASTIC" teenage show-off piece-de-resistance. Where most recordings I have of it start with a dull blast from the orchestra, the Britten Sinfonia under Angela Hewitt are as refreshing as a bucket of iced water in the face on a hot day. They spring into the piece like new-born lambs and bring it to life as if it's the first time I ever heard it.
When the piano comes in it is a revelation. I offer huge apologies to all the musicians who have gone before, but frankly: what the hell were you doing? THIS is how to do it! THIS is the teenage Beethoven waving his cock in the air and yelling "Come and get me, laydeez!"
It's genuinely astonishing! Sprightly like never before, yet muscular where it matters, and Angela's coquettish eyebrows and unconscious grins of pure delight only enhance the experience.

People say it's Beethoven's "Mozartian" piece, but while the orchestration is certainly reminiscent of Mozart, the piano is pure Beethoven, filled with the unbounded joy of a staggering virtuoso who has been given one of those new-fangled fortepianos to play with and has shown the world just what it can do. It reminds me of Chopin's first in that both pieces show what happens when teenaged boys become the best musicians on the planet. No restraint. Balls to the wall brag and bluster and utterly magnificent.
It is a new world being born.
Then the cadenza … After the airy delights of spring, Angela hits us in the face with Beethoven's 1806 cadenza; the last of the three he was know to have written. I've never heard it played with such venom. Suddenly, in the midst of little Ludwig's boyhood fantasia we get Beethoven at the height of his powers, yelling at his younger self that THIS is how a piano should be played! Holy fuck!

Whew! The interval comes and we know we have been treated to something special. What we don't know is that the second half will blow all that out of the water.
In the meantime, I'll add this little piece of advice: always order your interval drinkies before the concert; that way, you can take your time getting to the foyer and they'll be waiting there for you without having to queue. I mosey into the foyer late and simply pick up my cognac from its reserved spot. Yum.
Hi to the lovely couple who chatted to me all through the break.

Right … The second half.
Back to the Britten Sinfonia. This time whetting our appetite with a piece I've only heard a few times: the "Scene With Cranes" from Sibelius' music for the somewhat macabre play "Kuolema".
Once again I am moved to tears. Once again everybody gets the chance to cough themselves silly while the piano is wheeled back to centre stage. Once again the purple peacock dress floats from the wings to rapturous applause.

Angela Hewitt has taken Bach's keyboard music to places nobody ever dreamed. She has played Beethoven's fourth piano concerto constantly on stage for twenty-three years. This year, however, she has to conduct it, too. She has had to re-learn the piece from scratch, studying and understanding every note that every member of the orchestra plays. The rehearsals have been the most vigorous of her career, leaving her aching from head to toe. She has re-evaluated Beethoven's greatest piano work from the ground up.
And now she lets it loose upon the world.

All I'll say is that Angela's touring this for the season (tonight was her debut) and the finale in London will be live on Radio 3. If you love Beethoven, listen in because it's going to change your life. Really!
I had to physically stop myself from crying out loud more times than I can recall. The finale had me biting my lip so hard I've got a smegging blister on it now from trying to stop myself screaming my joy to the rafters.

In the year that I was born, Glenn Gould woke the world up to Bach. This evening, Angela Hewitt gave Beethoven his Glenn Gould moment. This is Beethoven, Year One. Brace yourselves. Things are going to get amazing.

The Last Piece of Land Betwixt Me and The North Pole

Here - apropos of nada - is Cromer Pier just after sunset last Sunday, while Lynn and I were moseying our way back up the cliff into town. The sea really was that colour; we were trying to describe it but ran out of words.
What a splendid day we had. And later today I'll be missing from Blogville as I enjoy a splendid evening, treating myself. Yay! I'm going straight to the Theatre Royal from the office to revel in Angela Hewitt and the Britten Sinfonia playing Wagner, Sibelius and Beethoven (2nd and 4th Piano Concertos). Just enough time when I've crossed the city to down a warming cognac before the pre-concert talk. Yum.
Have a spiffy Tuesday, people.

WTF Monday - Best Nativity Ever

A Hidden Jewel

How Brontë is that?

Lynn's been over here on the correct side of the country for Christmas with her parents and yesterday I stole her away for a meandering drive out to the coast.
On our way, we swung by Hemblington; a tiny hamlet-ette only a couple of miles from my house, as one of Lynn's ancestors hails from there.

The hamlet is still there; a cluster of modern houses snuggled around a few mediæval thatched cottages, but the place had been emparked in the eighteenth century so the original village has long disappeared, demolished by the rapacious landowner who evicted the entire population, replaced them with far more profitable sheep and built his manor house by the church, which now stands over a mile from the modern hamlet.
While there are myriad mediæval halls and merchants' houses littering the local countryside, many dating back pre-twelfth century in part, I know of no complete working class house from before around 1400 anywhere around here.
Here in east Norfolk, we're on glacial chalk and there is no natural, workable building stone (hence the round flint towers of Saxon times before the Normans floated Caen stone over here on barges to build the Castle and Cathedral) and most folk lived in one room hovels built around a very basic timber frame. These frames were infilled with wattle and daub (wattle being the young growth from pollarded willows woven into basketwork panels); the local daub being of clunch (chalk rubble), mixed with clay mud, dung and urine, and "puddled" (trodden into a squish) before being thrown onto the wattles. The outside was weatherproofed with slaked lime and the roofs were thatched. They needed rebuilding every generation so none have survived (other than the timber frames with later brick infill).

All Saints Church took some finding, as it's cut off from the hamlet, but after a dead end and a muddy track we eventually found it, way out in the middle of nowhere and to my unalloyed delight discovered it is a virtually unspoiled, ninth/tenth century Saxon round towered flint church … a rarity indeed, even in Norfolk where we have more of them than the rest of the world combined.
I thought I knew all the Saxon churches around here, so finding this one so close to home was a wonderful surprise.
Anyhoo … looking at the photo above (and ignoring the madwoman): the tower is ninth or tenth century, as is the greater part of the nave. The only surviving Saxon windows are the bell-frame windows at the top of the tower. After the Norman conquest, when the church was already old, the new French landowner added a chancel (the bit on the right) in the twelfth century Early English style (the first, simple, gothic style windows you can see there). A later Plantagenet landowner replaced the Saxon windows in the nave using the lovely Decorated Gothic style (thirteenth century), and much later, the landowner who emparked the village added the knapped flint crosses to the porch and replaced the thatched roof with pantiles.

Inside, however, was another revelation. Hoo boy!

The Victorians - those criminal desecrators of all things tasteful - systematically whitewashed over every mediæval wall painting in every church in the country during their dreadful reign of cultural terror in the nineteenth century. Too primitive; too rude; too humorous for the Calvinistic Taliban.
In the last three decades, a renaissance has been under way and - very gradually - those original glories of gothic period church wall paintings have been painstakingly uncovered in a few remote churches.
 Here in Hemblington is the finest I have ever seen: Saint Christopher carrying the Christ child, surrounded by other Bible stories.
When this was painted, Mass was a Latin only service and the "mystery" of the Church was maintained by keeping the population completely ignorant of what the Bible was about (no English language version was available until hundreds of years afterwards). So to educate the peasantry, stories from Scripture were painted on the walls; our great religious cultural history wilfully destroyed by the ignorant Victorians.
This example is - judging by the style of contemporary illuminated manuscripts - probably original to the church and therefore may even be as early as the ninth or tenth century.
Wow!

Here's the thirteenth century font, repainted in its original colours. I've fallen in love with this little church and will be back in better weather to take more photos for you.

I'll leave you with Lynn, delighted to be sitting (and shivering) in the very pews her ancestor would have known all too well.
Toodle pip from Very Olde England!

Saturday Statuary - Black

Eleventh Day

Twelfth Night is heading this way fast, so let's get Christmas out of the way and look forward to spring.
This was taken from the Cathedral choir stalls on New Year's morning.

Premature Floral Ejaculation

This somewhat optimistic plum tree was happily blooming away on New Year's Day in Norwich.

Favourite Photos of 2012

Whatever else it might have been, 2012 was pretty good to look at.
Here's a selection from last year's posts to ignore/comment on/make a calendar from/pick a favourite/whatever …

Goodwood 2012 - Jaguar hitting the gravel trap … hard!

Saint Paul's from the South Bank.

Saint Paul's from the churchyard.

The hotel at the south end of London Bridge.

Southwold beach.

Rocking horse in Cathedral Close.

Cherry blossom.

The Moon and Venus over Norwich.

Floating jelly-beans.

Stormtrooper dad.

Norwich Cathedral's mighty organ (as seen and heard in yesterday's post).

Lotus sculpture at the Festival of Speed.

The City financial district.

Mike, Pete and Orion.

Hostess trolley.

Tower of London.

Sing along with the Village People.

Angle-tangle.

Birch trees at Tate Modern.

Hope you enjoyed those. I wonder if 2013 will look as pretty.