Domnall Óg's Blog
I walked back from having dinner and passed through one of the arched exits from Avila. The sun was setting and the sky was giddy with swallows (golondrinas in Spanish. Just say the word to feel better!).
It was moving.
Deeply.
Mementos Mori abound. I came across a piece by Tennyson the other day.
Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
Isn’t it easy to lose sight of what excited you and moved you when you were young? We become cynical and dull and think in monthly cycles not of the Moon but of the utility bills. We should make an effort not to be swayed by the vagaries of time as it marches by disguised as money. When I was young I wanted to be always to be able to be touched by art – music, theatre and poetry. I don’t mean touched in a ‘that was nice now put away your bits and pieces’ way but in a ‘two week catatonic deeply disturbed at the roots of being’ way.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Up to now I still navigate the waters around the Happy Isles.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
The whole system is designed to punish you if you are different. Everyone is required to wear similar clothes, wear similar ideas and make the same emetically dull observations on a woefully predictable existence. Is that what you want? Really?
Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
So much has happened since I last wrote that I don’t know where to begin. Whether you are reading this in some academic outpost on the Iberian pensinsula, some military installation in Cyprus or during the night at a hospital in Leeds, bear with me, I pray.
I went to England to celebrate my mother’s 90th birthday. It was the first time the family has been together since my father’s funeral 15 years ago and so that, in itself, was an achievement. As a family we finally put the fun into ‘dysfunctional’ and made sure that the old girl had a day to remember. Two days actually. We had a bash in the family homestead with balloons, candles and some catering. It must have been a posh caterer because the Swiss Roll had a French name. By ‘eck we’ve come a long way from lard and Stork margarine, we ‘ave. We also had an Emmerdale moment and went to the Roaches Tearooms in the middle of the beautiful English countryside. Spring was springing all around and the glass conservatory that we had reserved became a display case of happy campers. She was delighted to be with her friends.
We repaired back to homestead and, after some whiskies and Guinness, we found ourselves in a true Irish session and songs from the political to the emetically maudling were the order of the day. Tom O’Riley and myself gave a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ that will sure live on in the seared memories of those present.
Al in all – mission accomplished. One happy mother.
Then all we had to do was head down to Luton Airport and fly back to the Spain. I woke up on Thursday morning bag packed, passport checked upmteen times and that nervous stomach thing that goes with travel. The BBC informed me that a volcano had erupted in Iceland and all flights were cancelled. It was all a bit Lord of the Rings.
We went to Luton anyway – hope springs eternal – and found that the flight was indeed cancelled. Oh well! Booked into an extortionate hotel that was horrid and waited till the next day. To cut a long short we went to London for the day, tried the airport again, returned to Choke-on-Stench (scene of aforementioned birthday), booked a boat, train to Portsmouth, booked into very nice hotel and sailed to Bilbao. By this point, of course, Britain was flying again but any port in an ash cloud. Hired a car in the Basque Country and so to Spain to unpack and pack again for a next day residential course.
But, here I am. Back in the saddle and hoping to work a lot and recuperate the shedload of money I spent in the UK. I have to say, the authorities and the travel companies were pathetic during the crisis. The England that won WWII has gone to hell in a handcart. No election will change that, I fear
Last weekend my girlfriend took me on a mystery trip. All I knew was that it was within a two hours drive from Madrid and that on the Saturday there was a special activity. So, off I went on Friday afternoon to my class with the creative agency Patito Feo full of that tense joy that comes from knowing that something good is going to happen but not knowing what. A Christmas morning for Grown Ups kind of feeling. After my class, in which we discussed the possibilities that could materialise, I was picked up and whisked away via Alacalá de Henares (birthplace of Cervantes), Guadalajara (difficult to pronounce) to the mediaeval town of Pastrana in Castilla – La Mancha founded in the 13th century as a bastion after the final expulsion of the Moors. We arrived, less than two hours later, at the small hotel Palaterna next to a beautiful 16th century fountain called the Fuente de los Cuatro Caños. Apparently the symbolic meaning of the fountain’s decorations have been lost to memory.
On Saturday morning we walked to the Iglesia Colegiata which began life as the local parish church in the 14th century. It harbours the gothic tapestries of Alfonso V of Portugal. I always light a candle for my late father when I visit churches and, alas, this ancient temple has succumbed to the blight of having electric lights that switch on when you drop your coin in the box. Where, I ask you, is the sanctity in that?
We visited the Ducal Palace that dominates the village square. Apart from some tiles and roof carpentry the building has no sense of it’s Spanish Renaissance history thanks to the disembowelment perpetrated under the name of restauration by the University of Alcalá. The tour guide seemed less than excited as she told us about the one-eyed Princess of Eboli and her legendary amorous adventures with Felipe II. The building is now Spain’s Observatory of Sustainability. Go on, weep.
After a hearty lunch of migas and roast lamb the moment of truth arrived as my girlfriend revealed that the afternoon’s mystery activity was a visit of Pastrana’s wonderful spa. She knows that I am a big spa fan after seeing me spend a week in a jacuzzi in Cadiz a few years back. The people who work in the spa have it perfectly calibrated and we enjoyed the cascading spa pool followed by hydromassage, exfoliation, turkish bath, cool room and aroma therapy in a relaxation room to balance our energies. Bliss it was to be alive that afteroon but to be 48 with your partner was very heaven. Very.
In the evening we hit the road to seek out nearby villages and tap into their rural vibe. All we found though was a badly hidden nuclear power station , a small one like hobbits probably have, and so we turned around and drove back to Pastrana to dine at the Cafe de Ruy . Carmen was not feeling too hungry and so had a ration of ham and a salad. I opted for roast beef washed down with a nice bottle of Cuné . The wine is 80% tempranillo grape and then equal parts of the mazuello and garnacha varieties. Delicious! At the bar afterwards we sank a couple of mojitos and so to bed.
The next day we had the great pleasure to meet a guide who was truly connected with her subject. We visited a convent established by Saint Teresa of Avile and St John of the Cross. Our guide showed us paintings and relics now on display in the cloister and church. One could tell that the guide felt some pride in what she was showing us. Her appreciation of the paintings was palpable and it was a joy to be in her company. It is worth a visit just to see the Via Crucis series of paintings that have a remarkable modernity of composition and light.
After buying some postcards we hit the road and drove through Castilla, wending our way back to the big city refreshed spiritually and physically. Saint Teresa said
“Each of us has a soul, but we forget to value it. We don’t remember that we are creatures made in the image of God. We don’t understand the great secrets hidden inside of us.”
Well, thanks to my girlfriend’s mystery weekend, we certainly tried,
Mills and Loon
Today, having a black hole in my teaching schedule, I went down to the centre of Alcalá de Henares to visit the house of the town’s most famous son – Miguel Cervantes – author of ‘El ingenioso caballero don Quixote de la Mancha.’ ( know to its friends as just Don Quixote.)
I don’t know what the illustrious lights of the Town Council are playing at but if I were custodian of the house of the nation’s most famous writer, I’d make it a little more interesting.
I was greeted by a security guard who intoned the litany of what I could not do and then pointed to a room. It was an anodyne arrangement of furniture that could have been from a fifth form production of The Crucible. There was no atmosphere. No sense of it being a special place. I felt so sorry for the teachers who had brought their charges here in the hope of igniting some passion for literature.
Upstairs there were some copies of Quixote from variious times and places but again no sense of the importance of the work. The contrast with how the English treat and package Shakespeare – the sheer bardolatry of it all – was striking and sad.
I have been in dentists’ waiting rooms that had more sense of occasion and gravitas. This sad non-thing of a house-cum- municipal office must have Cervantes spinning in is grave. Cervantes the Drill, the angels will be calling him.
I bought a pocket watch the other day. It is more practical as a teacher of private classes to have a pocket watch discreetly placed on the table than to be looking at a wristwatch. It is more elegant that a mobile phone’s digital display.
I also wear a hat. A proper hat. It is practical when it is sunny because it casts a shadow over your face (in Spanish hats are sombreros from sombra – shadow). It keeps you warm in winter and dry when the rains come. It can be angled to hint at your demeanour from Eastwood grump to jaunty lad about town. Men who don’t wear hats are imcomplete somehow.
I like boots. They’re tough and splash proof and their pointy tips are useful for any investigation of pavement flotsam. They make a satifyingly solid clump as you walk. Serious feet wear boots.
And that brings me to the bus stop at 7 o’clock the other day as I went to give my English sessions in Alcalá de Henares. There was a chilly wind racing the cars down the street. What a Yorkshireman would call a ‘lazy wind’; it doesn’t go round you, it goes through you. I was wearing my mucus green raincoat and dark purply tartan scarf. It occurred to me that a cloak would have been ideal. It protects you from the elements and yet doesn’t impede your movements.
And then IT kicked in!
I found myself wondering what people might think of me as I walked along the street in a hat, boots and cloak consulting my pocket watch. I seem to have become someone who suddenly gives a f*ck what other people think. That is grim news. Grim news indeed.
The last time I was self-employed was when I had a Theatre-in- Education Company in Manchester with the Italian actress Franca Fenocchi. Now, some twenty or more years later, I am at it again. But this time I am working as self-employed teacher of English in Madrid and Alcalà de Henares.
I have just finished my first week and had a bit of a baptism of fire as I got flu. The whole shebang; the fever, the cough, the Inquisition post-rack joint aches. Normally, as a wage slave for a third party I would have stayed in the scratcher and sweated it away. But as a self-employed man my boss is a monster and I had to get my sorry arse to the classroom. It was my first week for God’s sake and being ‘nesh’ was not an option.
I was lucky because my students are, without exception, extraordinary people. I give classes to an advertising agency and a technology consulting firm. Young, highly prepared people with a sense of humour and a healthy perspective. I am lucky.
Listen to the PODCAST
The English have a glorious tradition of inventing games and then being bad at them. Both rugby and badminton take their names from English towns, football was first documented in London in the 12th century by William FitzStephen. But the game which the English have taken into their hearts and souls is cricket.
The first game of cricket on record in England took place in the county of Kent in 1646 and since that time it has stirred English hearts with what sometimes looks like passion.
The rules of cricket are notoriously complicated but you can think of it as a subtler form of baseball played between gentlemen and, nowadays, ladies.
One game can last for five days. It begins at ten o’clock on the morning and, apart from breaks for lunch and tea, continues until the captains of the teams agree that there is not enough light to play more.
Each team has eleven players. However, only two of them are doing anything strenuous. The rest are just standing around in the field enjoying the day.
Traditionally a cricketer must wear white clothes, although, sadly, recent developments have seen this rule relaxed. I played in my school cricket team and learned a great deal about patience, perseverance and sportmanship from the game. I learned winning should rarely be an objective in itself but rather a consequence of doing other things well.
In English if something is not decent, we say “It’s not cricket!”
There are few things more rewarding than sitting in a deck chair at a cricket ground, drinking a pint of English beer, reading “The Times” with one eye and following the slow, easy progress of the game with the other. Summer and cricket go together like strawberries and cream.
Listen to the PODCAST
The Darling Craytur
Every day 1,000,000 pints of Guinness are sold in the United Kingdom alone. It is one of the tippler’s healthiest drinks as it contains malted barley, hops, yeast, and water. It is black because the barley is roasted like coffee beans.
Guinness was first made in 1759, the year Ferdinand VI of Spain died. Ten years before the birth of Napoleon Bonaparte. It is still the only drink in the world where the bubbles go downwards and every drop of the lovely stuff is brewed in Ireland using water from the Wicklow Mountains.
Good news for weight-watchers is that a pint of Guinness has only 210 calories. That’s 50 less than a pint of semi-skimmed milk. In England, post-op patients used to be given Guinness, as were blood donors, to build their recuperative strength. Sadly, this is no longer the case in England. However, Ireland has not cast off its civilised habits and Guinness is still made available to blood donors and stomach and intestinal post-op patients. Guinness is known to be high in iron content.
For people who like to fix things that are not broken, you can mix Guinness with ordinary beer and create a Black&Tan or even mix Guinness with champagne and create a Black Velvet. Personally, I think that anyone who does this needs their head examined, but it’s a big world and there’s space for us all.
Guinness has less alcohol than just about all other beers with only 3.4%. That is nature’s way to tell us to drink more of it. You should never only have one pint of Guinness; a bird cannot fly on one wing!
Flann O’Brien, author of the brilliant novel The Third Policeman, composed a eulogy to Guinness. He calls Guinness “a pint of plain.”
When things go wrong and will not come right,though you do the best you can,
when life looks black as the hour of night
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
and your face is pale and wan,
when doctors say you need a change,
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
In Spain, where people supposedly appreciate the finer aspects of good food and drink, it surprises me that so many people drink silly drinks like Coronita beer and Cuba Libres (what a terrible thing to do to a whiskey!). But then I shouldn’t expect the Spanish to be like the Irish.
The Irish, having the gift of the gab, are garrulous, gleeful, and gorgeous. We have great golfers, glorious girls, and a generous gallantry. And, best of all, we have Guinness – Vitamin G. God’s great gift.
Listen to the PODCAST
It Makes me Wonder
I saw Led Zeppelin in concert when I was 18 years old and it is still the best concert I have ever seen. Since then I have seen Prince, Fleetwood Mac, Mike Oldfield, Yes, Van Morrison, Queen, Iggy Pop, Joan Armatrading, Bob Dylan and God knows how many lesser mortals. But those 3 hours in Knebworth in 1979 shine like a beacon across the years.
There were 200,000 of us in a very large field. At one end of there was an enormous stage and towers of amplifiers. This was the Knebworth Festival. Also playing that day were The New Barbarians (The Rolling Stones without Mick Jagger), Todd Rundgren’s Utopia, Southside Johnny and The Astbury Jukes, The New Commander Cody Band and a dreadful duo called Chas and Dave. The other bands were okay (apart from Chas and Dave) but everyone, without exception, had come to hear Led Zeppelin – the band who played “Stairway to Heaven”.
As dusk fell and the smell of woodsmoke mingled with the scent of hashish, the electricfying introduction to “The Song Remains The Same” flew from the massed banks of amplifiers. The gods had descended to earth. Rock festival veterans had brought binoculars. I hadn’t realised that the band would be so far away. However, at the back of the stage was a giant screenwhich displayed closed-circuit TV pictures of the group.
One highlight was Jimmy Page playing his guitar with a violin bow out of which fired a red laser beam into the summer sky.
Led Zeppelin released nine albums between 1969 and 1979 and were one of the most popular rock bands ever. In 1975 six of their albums were in the charts at the same time.
Although from England, Led Zeppelin’s members loved the blues and American rock. Their USA shows were always sold -out and they only stopped when their drummer, John Bonham died. There is no adult guitarist in the English speaking world who cannot play the opening chords of “Stairway to Heaven” . It is the definitive ‘rock anthem’.
At Knebworth someone set fire to a flag and held it above their head. It burned like a torch. One of the closed circuit TV cameras turned and focussed on this image. The smell of the burning wood took all 200,000 of us back to the Middle Ages. Then Jimmy Page started to play those famous chords and the voice of Robert Plant began to sing the lyrics we all knew by heart.
“There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees
And the voices of those who stand looking.”
And we did stand looking. For 8 minutes on the 11 August 1979 Led Zeppelin had 200,004 members. All singing by heart and from the heart. None of us could tell you what the words meant. But none of us would tell you they were meaningless. They spoke to a yearning, to a feeling some of us still get.
Copyright © 2010 Agur Mr Chips ::: All rights reserved. Theme by Laptop Geek.
