To leave Torture for Torture.

The Christian's faith - his Lord crucified for his sake - carries him through the years of brutality that his Government meets out, desperate to refute his humanity.   A long battle - in that time his country may have turned around and welcomed him.  Ironic a "Christian" country refusing a Christian's claim - their ungodly act compounding the ungodly act of a fraternal genocide as brothers of the book, tear up their bond, their love and their land.  Christian's only hope - a land that will torture him before it lets him breathe again.   Apparently Britain is the only country in Europe that makes imprisons people seeking sanctuary indefinitely - spending a fortune, in the process - until their case - sometimes years and years and years later are resolved.  America, encourages refugees to immediately find work. Never thought I would think the UK would be behind the US in its policy. Surely allowing people to work and contribute, albeit while assessing their claim, would be more humane, cheaper and more logical. 

Amazing performance The Father's Tale.


At the Garburn Pass (extract Hubert Moore)

It's still going on, snow on the stones, hoisted wire in the wind, when it comes to the edge of the car and enters another photograph beyond, that no one's taken yet, (if you never know you can't count down the days)

Belfast

The road from Dublin to Belfast, runs fast and smooth, (EU funding) but on the comfortable bus asleep I missed as we slipped from Eire to Northern Ireland, however, the slight change in house styles, the signs to Newry, the English flag flying, the lack of dual language information,   made it clear I had crossed the border and arriving in Belfast I could have just turned up in some northern  English city.  Whilst Ireland felt like a different place, Belfast felt like parts of England, despite the odd IRA sign or signs that would be considered extremist nationalist.    Having only ever seen what looked like rather ugly streets  on TV during the troubles;  the bucolic countryside, with its  happy cows munching on masses of wild flowers, that comes right up to the edge of town, and the sun immediately shifted perceptions, but as I stepped down from the bus, thoughts emerged.   What is this place with its fragile peace, its strong and stern relationship with a parliament in London, with an English population like me only aware of media stereotypes and what is its relationship to the country down south.  All my Irish friends from north and south are lovely, regardless of the different cultures and histories of the two places and they share much culturally.  Down south there are numerous reminders to English visitors that Britain and Ireland share a brutal history of oppression, from which Ireland has emerged despite the terrible Colonial treatment the British handed out, but in Northern Ireland where large numbers of people have dual citizenship but equally large numbers of people are committed to staying in the UK, how was I to make sense of this place.

Being taken around the town, which reminded me a bit of Manchester with its red brick back to backs, I was shown the most bombed hotel in Europe,  the hen parties out on the razzle, the modern buildings that have replaced other bombed out, and examples of Victoriana and a memorial to the Titanic.  On first sight, it didn't strike me as a place I would want to call home.   Yet, it also felt like home. The pub we went to with a cage outside where people would have been searched was jolly and lively and colourful inside and served great cider, definitely a plus and culturally a bit different to what I am used to, but the meal at Pizza Express well I could have been anywhere.  But by the end of Sunday having taken in more of the culture of the town at the excellent Ulster museum and seen how lovely some of north Belfast is, only a few minutes walk away, I could see that there was more to the place than I had appreciated on first sight and this was confirmed on my last day by the visit to the sea side and a fabuous over the top in English style pub where I had the best soup ever.    Belfast is just over an hour away from Stansted..  It almost took longer to get from the airplane to the airport as no one came to provide steps, it took longer to get from Stansted home as on the mainland the trains were their usual chaos, and in some ways going to Belfast is a little like visiting Nottingham on a Saturday night, but in terms of history, potential, threat, challenge it is a fascinating place to visit and one I hope to return to soon.

In Dublin's fair city.

In Ireland they have a clever train ticket system, you can buy a ticket that is usable either an hour earlier or an hour later and thank goodness I took the earlier option as arriving at Hueston train station - I discovered Dublin was neither as fair or as small as I thought it would be and to confuse me further the map in the station did not even show the station, but luckily the tiny map suggesting the lie of the land and approximate direction for the hostel showed that once over the Liffey go right and then up and I would be vaguely in the right area.

 I was amazed how busy the town was as I traipsed along looking at immense unfamiliar buildings, but still in theory in the right direction and luckily I stopped by a bench in a park growing out of a tree which I had not even noticed. But a passing man said, people are always stopping to take pictures of that, to which I replied I was actually trying to work out from my map where the youth hostel was and luckily at last I had found someone who could point me in the right direction.  I failed to take the picture of the bench, but did finally find a rather large building and lots of screaming youngsters hanging around - but luckily also spotted another woman of my age too, who turned out to be in my dorm.  So night one in Dublin was fine and warm so I carried on walking to head towards a bustling OConnell street which was also as bush as Las Ramblas.  The place was almost unrecognisable from when I visited with Nathan.  I wanted to revisit the Post Office and the bullet holes but the police officer and slightly strained atmosphere encouraged me to keep going.  It seems the post office is now where the evening soup kitchen operates and things were getting rather tense.  So I headed along by the Liffey to check where the bus to Belfast would leave from.  I then continued down the river past the monument to victims of the famine which is very close to a new museum dedicated to the migrations where loads of people were out partying.  The many faces of Dublin and then a quiet walk back up elegant Georgian streets to the hostel where to my relief all was quiet.     

Thinking I knew Dublin, prior to flying out I decided to explore the Dublin coast and booked a trip to Malahide castle and Howth harbour.   So all I had to do was have a late breakfast and then return down O'Connell street and pick my bus.   It felt like a proper holiday, bus, driver, dialogue, and we were off. There were only about 15 of us which was good as I am not sure that a lot of people can fit into this small ancient castle.  It was very different to an English castle.   Interestingly Malahide Castle was occupied by one family, the Talbots,  for over 900 years so the few bits seen are either very old or fairly new.    Unfortunately we did not have time to look around the gardens, but we could see things being set up for the concerts that are held there during the summer.   From Malahide it was a short drive along the coast to Howth.  For me, this trip was really an introduction to what is out there, rather than doing my usual thing of searching out public transport, and slogging around to get to places, but because Dublin is close to the sea, all these places are easily accessible for a return trip.   Lots of people are connected with this area, including Marconi and Erskine Childers, so that was exciting, but it was also just nice to potter around, look at the fisher folk, (some Arabic) bring in the haul, and have a nice panini - no traditional Irish food even encountered on this trip. 

From small ships to tall ships, as back in Dublin several ships had sailed up the river.  Unexpectedly Monty Don - who I guess was over for Bloom - was seen in the area, the woman hugging him farewell turned excitedly to me and said, " I was asking him about slugs" so now we know. 

Just as wonderful was the Dublin City Art Gallery, which features Francis Bacon's studio.

Another unexpected sight the following day was Bewley's.  For sentimental reasons I decided to potter down Grafton Street to St Stephen's Square, not expecting to see the famous cafe Bewley's as I had heard on the news that it had closed down. But there is was,  Nathan and I ate Irish stew here when last in Dublin - this time I had a fantastic carrot and coriander soup for an outrageous price and found out from other diners that I was sitting in the re-opened and recreated Bewley's.   From there it is just a skip to the green to sit read and just relax before taking the new tram system back over the river and the bus to Belfast.   Northern Ireland next stop. 

From South to North - sun all the way Cork.

For a long time Ireland is a place I have known about through my studies, my love of the music, the occasional bombing in London and in John's case, my love of the late Mr Green, but the actual country/countries I did not really fancy visiting on my own till recently then I kept meeting lovely Irish people, a nice friend returned to Belfast and Brexit made the people of Northern Ireland go from being an unappealing stereotype to being of interest.  Who were the people who voted to stay but want to be a part of a people who voted to go.    It seemed like time to find out, and given that Ryanair is Irish is both very simple and very cheap.  I decided to go from the south, Cork to the north, Belfast, via a return visit to Dublin and given that the sun shone throughout the visit,  it turned out to be a brilliant thing to do.

6 days is clearly not enough time to get to know a place, especially one as complex as Ireland, but lots of interesting thoughts floated up.

The first night I only had time to walk a short way into town. On the corner of the street where my hostel was there were the groups of men hanging around who looked like they were migrants just starting out in life in Ireland, and who were making friends with each other.    In the centre of town despite the closed but prosperous looking central street a soup kitchen for locals was just dispersing.  The town looked unremarkable but potentially promising.


Cork has a  lovely river. The first morning there there were loads of office workers spilling out of the modern blocks along the banks of the Lee (certain familiarity there given that is one spelling of my local river) and all having morning coffee in the sun. It took me back to days working at the GLC that sense of camaraderie, everyone was very jolly, looking out for each other, smartly dressed, it felt a very positive start to the day.     Many of the workers in the cafes were European sounding, but there were also people of colour working in the shops too, including a lovely lad with a thick Irish accent who asked if I wanted regular Barry tea to have with my Chai Masala brownie.     At the University students sat around in the sun as they do everywhere and just looked interesting whilst the lads jumping in the river looked like a scene out of something that FrankMcCourt  would have written. ]

  On the Second evening I felt comfortable enough in Cork to step into a local hostelry and listen to some live music, whilst on the last day I even went to the theatre on my own there.  It just felt a very nice comfortable place. 

All around were posters, yes/no (change the abortion rules) and one or two people were still sporting badges showing their support for the Yes vote.Many of the cafes were really nice looking and I had a lovely lunch ensconced in the English market.  The Elizabeth fort was of interest to someone who has taught about the Tudors while the presence of  Countess Markievicz  who was housed  for some time at the County Gaol, which  made it an appealing venue for my last morning.  And the radio museum tiny though it is made me realise how important Ireland has been in the history of a medium still close to my heart.

 I would be happy to return and get to explore the countryside around about, but this time round it was time for a very comfortable train journey up to Dublin.

The GLC story

I was recently sent this, http://glcstory.co.uk/ and it was wonderful the memories it sparked in me.  The GLC was at one point a great place to work in, and it was a mostly fun place to work in. I assumed that the project was collecting people's memories, so I wrote my memories intending to send them to whoever the project organisers were/are, but it seems like everyone has been interviewed, all the stars, a few names that I remember.  But what about the stories of people, the regular people.  I am guessing at some point as the project has lottery funding that it will expand, but in the meantime here are some of my memories.

The GLC Years.

I had been offered a job at the BBC, exactly what I wanted, yet I somehow let my mother talk me out it and persuade me to join her at the GLC where she worked in the Market Research unit under Jenny Owens (?)   I was to be trained in something akin to town planning which was great as I like architecture and had studied sociology at A level. However, when I got to the GLC this professional qualification through work had disappeared so instead I was sent to Traffic Surveys down in Vauxhall, which I loved.  I was 19/20 and had to go out sometimes very early in the morning with a team of mostly older people to count traffic.  The pensioners were very loyal, and reliable, able to find their ways to get to anywhere in London despite the early hour and they worked split shifts without complaint.  I heard later when stricter rules came in re people only being allowed to work to 60/65 that this dedicated group were disbanded but that the students who replaced them were not normally as effective.   Despite being responsible for the merry band, I was able to come to work in torn jeans and bare feet in the summer.  It always amused me to be picked out as the person in charge when inevitably someone asked what we were doing.  I also enjoyed it when I got to plan the surveys. I worked with two very nice immediate bosses, Greg Strange, down at Vauxhall and Vic  Bamburgh….? Who was up at County Hall.  Contact with the staff up there lead me to getting married to a co-worker shortly after my mother’s death in 1976.   By then, I was also working up at County Hall.  I had applied for and got a promotion to the Information Service that was to open up shortly, but was not yet in place, so initially I was moved into Population Studies.  I was the non-demographer within a team of demographers. Our job was to answer Councillor’s questions on housing and population statistics.  Sometimes members of the public wandered in too.  I used to help them with their microfiche searches.   We all worked in a big open plan office and mainly got on well together.  I remember one person having lots of problems getting housing and his difficulties confronted me with the impact of racism on other people’s lives. I had seen him as a colleague and a friend; potential landlords had seen him as a black man, who they then discriminated against!

Whilst in this office I worked on a Research Memorandum with the demographer Miriam Fields (?)  on Non-Census Sources of Statistics – somewhat dry, but necessary in those pre easily accessible resources.  I sometimes dipped into the computer room to type input on cards. One error and I had to throw the card away.  The room housing the computer was huge and probably had much less computing power than my phone.      Overall, the job was very desk bound but having to take a message or getting the chance for dinner with my future husband or mum was a great reason to pad around the extensive corridors.  Sometimes during my travels, I would see an exotic creature who seemed to sum up the new zeitgeist permeating the building. He wore a short leather skirt, and sort of medieval breaches like a follower of Robin Hood and was someone fairly senior in the hierarchy.

The information service was also a part of the new spirit infusing the place.  I was dispatched to Highbury and Islington alongside Islington Council and CAB staff.  My boss, Noel, a charming Irishman, was an expert on housing and employment, I was the generalist, together we were supposed to be the face of the GLC but in the end we answered questions on all sorts of things.  I once even had to write to one of the Krays because of one enquiry we received and on the first day had to handle an enquiry from a women convinced her husband was trying to poison her.   It was a rewarding, if challenging job, but the death of my mother finally caught up with me and I was off work for 6 months, which evoked poison from my colleagues rather than support.  My County Hall line manager initially even refused to talk to me when I finally resurfaced which could have caused concern when the GLC refocused its information work and I was sent back to the telephone information service at County Hall.  Luckily the quality of my work and my reliability rescued me and my manager and I forged a good working relationship which she acknowledged beautifully the day I left.     Her immediate boss, the Head of Information, was one of those caught up in Entebbe. He spoke  once of sitting there on the plane, knowing his job title and imagining how that might play out, luckily because he survived the tale was amusing, but it illustrated some of the wider issues worldwide at the time and which in many ways the GLC was actively trying to challenge with its ideology under Ken Livingstone.

Despite the negatives, the GLC was a great place to work.  By the time I left to train as a radio journalist I earned a better salary than my sibling in the Home Office, about £5000 a year, and we had very good holidays.  It was only later when working as a teacher and doing 60 hours a week that I finally found a job with equivalent leave, but the work was much, much harder. Nowadays I am one of the army of over 60-year olds who cannot retire to 66.   As a result, I now regret trading in my GLC pension to help pay for my year's training as one of the first group of people outside the BBC to receive such training. I never made it as a broadcaster, though my fellow student, Mark Mardell did, but I did eventually used the experience to work as a media lecturer. I still teach but only part time for health reasons and earn if I am lucky about £11000 a year. I feared if I stayed at the GLC it would be too cosy, too comfortable.   I never dreamed that it would one day be a home for fishes. Us staff were conscious that for all its imperfections it was at the cutting edge. Working there laid a professional foundation of good and standard practice re diversity that has had a great influence on subsequent generations of council and related services and even with the cuts,  many of the ideals of the GLC administration at that time remain relevant and aspirational.

                                    ******************************

One of the things about visiting the project about the GLC is the discovery that this period of history, especially the time under Ken Livigstone is now almost forgotten,   my memory has forgotten lots for example I know I was also involved with a GLC women's project to do with art, but do not know if I was still working for the GLC when that happened or after, I guess whilst I was still working there. It was one of the few opporutinities for seeing the more luxurious parts of the building and was exhiting because suddenly just ordinary people like myself were being asked for our opinions.    

It is a long time ago now, so it was nice to suddenly revist in my mind, the corridors, the set of stairs where I sat reading when I first met my husband to be, the chambers where  all the Council members met and discussed things, the wooden panels and the endless corridors, the day I fainted after giving blood etc, etc.    Ken wasn't there all the time I was, but he is still a controversial figure today and so I it is nice to realise one paid a small part in that history. 

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I had written this and then saw something on Taiko drummers and that reminded me that in addition in Jubilee Gardens there were all these lovely events put on for example Taiko drummers from Japan came and performed.  I just fell in love with the whole idea of their life in japan, but still have not got there, but that was also typical of some of the great ideas that came out of the South Bank in that period. 

                                                                                  

Menacing marvellous Marseille.

Old Port. 

Marseille, is a complex town. The sight of lots of man sitting over their early evening coffee despite the cold, not a woman with them, felt slightly menacing, but then I recalled the Chinese sort of take out place, round the corner from where I stayed my first time. The upside of Marseille is these cheapish places for the locals to eat in.  9 Euros later, my tummy full of food, I headed further towards the port and the tourist areas, before checking in at my hostel.  This place is just off the old town and very convenient, and has a quirky appeal, but at 26 euros a night is not exactly cheap.   Breakfast however is provided and I was very happy the next morning to see the sunshine, despite the bad weather forecast, so decided on a very quick breakfast before heading to catch the 8,20 boat to the Frioul islands, catching sight of the Chateau DIf, the inspiration for the Count of Monte Cristo en route.  Fioul had come across online as a sort of French Galapagos with its birds and inlets.  I think that would be a mega exaggeration but it was pleasant enough to stagger about it as the sun rose and then treat myself to an ice-cream before heading back to catch my train to Arles. 

By Thursday I was back and to my delight found the Algerian restaurant I had found on my first visit so this time 8 euros down I headed back to the hostel. But rounding the street into a port, I was captivated along with most of Marseille by the sight of the Hermione.  The following morning I had planned to visit a museum except that it was shut,  so I just had to go back to my favourite cafe in the port, sit in the sun and watch the fish market and people hovering around the Tall Ship. One of the women in my dormitory offered me the chance to look around,b ut not till the following day, but she was able to explain that the ship was a reproduction of the one that took La Fayette to support the Americans against the Brits. Now just a crew of 88 manage her, but when the guns were in the operation over 200 sailors would have been crammed into her. 

Around the port many of the soap shops seem to have moved but near the Abbey I found an intriguing museum with lots of clay figures, which are local to the area, called Santons and before heading back to the UK I was happy to once again disappear into the more ethnic shopping area and head for the enticing spice shop.   

In search of Vincent.

So the plan was to visit Arles, but there are several things one should take into consideration before planning such a trip. 

1. Arles is near Nimes airport, not just Marseille

2. If you are travelling via Marseille you can take the train direct from Marseille Airport to Arles. 

3.  The Van Gogh Museum in Arles is not always open. 

4. Going to the Office for tourism does not guarantee getting as much information as you need. 

5. You need all the time you planned for and more. 

6.  You might not be able to get there because of strikes. 

7.  Despite all this it is worth the visit and if you are lucky, you just might find Vincent.


I was lucky when I arrived it was towards the end of dinner service and it was wonderful to sit in the lee of the Roman amphitheatre and just enjoy a light lunch and a glass of red wine.  After that I immediately headed over to the tourist office as I wanted to go to the Camargue on the Wednesday.  My researches online suggested there was a bus to where the flamingos could be seen, but when I asked about that line, did not really get a response.  However, I was given a schedule for bus 10 which went to the other half of the area including the salt. I dithered all night, try and find the bus that according to online info was going to the flamingo area, but not till the afternoon, or head out early and see the salt pans.  In the end the salt pans won out, partly cos it was raining, partly cos I had had a terrible night sleep and I figured just keep going and return back early and partly cos time in Senegal had introduced me to salt pans and I also thought worse come to the worse I can just stay on the bus and come back and see if there is another bus in the afternoon.    The rain lashed down on the way to Saltine de Giraud so returning seemed a credible option except that not an ounce of salt had been seen, so I got out and struggled through the rain to the Tourist Office who advised me that the walk to the observation place was about 2 k away.  Luckily it stopped raining whilst I pushed against the intense wind to get there, just in time to turn straight back around again to catch the bus back. 

  Saltine is a slightly strange place but the workers houses are interesting.   So I would say it was a sort of bleak masochistic pleasure that took me there. I now know if I want to go and really see the bits I want to see of the Camargue I have to go later in the year when the bus 20 runs all day.   It is only signposted on some bus stops and confusingly there is another bus 20 which runs a different route so all things considered it was probably easier to take the route 10 which I did have info for, and had I been staying longer in Arles, I would have attempted to return to the Camargue the following day, however, the train strike curtailed my visit so I only had two nights there instead of relaxing three.    Once back in  a pouring wet Arles, I broke up cups of coffee, by dipping into the many free photographic exhibitions, but eventually drowned returned to the warmth of my B and B. 

This place was relatively close to the centre, but making my way there the first night I missed a vital bit of information and landed up wondering around lost. Sadly no one recognised the address, but a kindly soul searched for their map and sent me on my way.  All done in French so that was good.   One of the attractions of the walk was the sight of an interesting building site in the distance.  Apparently it is a photography college or something like that. 

I need to come back to Arles another time and go to the Vincent Van Gogh foundation,but the good thing about it being closed is it makes you do other things and for a small town Arles is packed with things to visit. 

 I returned to the Information Centre to buy their pass for 4 monuments, and two museums.  I did not have the time to do all the museums, but in theory you can use the pass for a month, I in the meantime did more monuments and museums than I realised were possible in one day.   Amphitheatre, baths, theatre, are all testament to the power of the Romans.  They do not feature in Vincent's work, except that there is a scene and comments on the excitement in the town following attendance at the bull fight.  The church cloisters,  (which included another free exhibition are upstairs which is interesting and emanate peace then finally out of the rain, the Reattu Musuem.  Named after an artist I had not heard of before, this is a lovely place. The works are hung really well and in an interesting and arresting way. \Lots of great light and shade and good juxtapositions. Reattu produced loads of technically good art, his uncle I think it is Raspal, also painted and his picture includes a girl who loooked very likethe daughter where I was staying.   Intriguingly Wikipedia says he was born and bred in Arles but was French Indian, but nothing more.