‘Wandering In London’ … and the movie title, ‘Killer Elite'

Skyline from the London Eye...

I had unscheduled time and found myself, feeling a bit stunned, climbing aboard a double decker (the unconscious having it’s say): “Top deck, please!”  It was a sunny, very warm fall day and I was about ‘to do’ a London tour.  This is my 5^th 10-day stay in London over the past year.  Usually, I just wander.  Yes, I have taken in some of the sights e.g., the stables at Buckingham Palace!  But the wandering has been primarily to linger in the British Museum and Library; to peruse bookstores by London University; to hop on a boat heading up the Thames from Greenwich, to watch the sun setting over London; to stroll Hampstead Heath in a London drizzle; and to meander the many treed squares around London… particularly Russell Square, near my hotel and the British Museum.

Crossing Russell Square

I can travel the tube anywhere to find family, friends, shops and restaurants: from ‘The Ritz” to Crouch End to Brixton to Bloomsbury to Notting Hill.  I can get to any airport using a combination of tubes; taxies; trains… bus expertise coming more slowly. Finally, it seemed, I was to discover London on a bus tour.

There was a little bit of history… a limerick about the brides of Henry the 8^th; statues of Generals here and there; Cleopatra’s Needle; the Tower of London with one or two comments on famous imprisonments or deaths; old buildings where some of the famous historical figures were born/or lived… the first London pub (mid 1500’s?).  But for the most part it was about the marvelous architecture of ‘NEW’ London, including ‘The London Eye’ (three! times we were directed to find it in the view from our bus). 

The London Eye

the financial district, and Fleet Street.  London is about business! success! AND having fun! it seems.  The new millennium architecture is very articulate.

We also saw the fabulous hotels and residences of the ‘Rich and Famous’… the Queen does her business in Buckingham Palace, but spends her weekends in Windsor Castle; Elizabeth Taylor stayed here for 3 of her marriages; Prince Charles lives… Margaret Thatcher lives… here is 10 Downing Street.  Through the West End we went:  looking at all the white Edwardian town houses… very beautiful.  London is a rich city.

The British Portrait Gallery, the Modern Art Gallery, and the British War Museum were pointed out on the way through town. WW 2 was mentioned, briefly… “This wall is one of the few places left, where you can still see shrapnel scars.”  (I think it was the one part of the tour that touched me.) The tour guide became most enthusiastic when he could share the London we all know through TV:  “There! is where MI 5 was located… now here is the secret (but not!) MI 6; AND the New! Scotland Yard.”  This was not Sherlock Holmes’ London. 

The tour was designed to tell us about an exciting London, now preparing for the 2012 Olympics!  Roads dug up everywhere… the streets around Paddington Station and Piccadilly Circus have been a mess for 2 years. Dozens… hundreds? of buildings are decked out in scaffolding… WHERE! are they getting it all?  A multitude of cranes decorate the skyline.  London has history; London has its rich and famous; and London has changed.  That damn ‘London Eye’… three views of it in one afternoon… I still don’t like it.  I’m always left with a grumpy feeling.  (Guess IT touched me too.)

It is a new London, even though the medieval lurks, somehow ghostlike in the pavement just behind you!  And it is taking me quite some time to adjust to it. It was a disappointment, at first.  It is not the London of my mystery books and 1930’s novels:  London is no longer for the ‘British’ (the Oxford and Cambridge British or the British villager or the London ‘Cockney’). 

Hotel Russell on Russell Square (Old London)

My enthusiasm grew slowly, though. I gradually began to take note that it is an ‘International City’… full of every ethnic group and Nationality one can imagine!  It is a city chalk-a-block full of energy and the ‘London Life’ grips everyone, regardless of ‘home’ origins. I like this aspect of London:  seeing such a variety of faces before me; languages from all over the world.  Everyone talking!

International London is intense:  The young 20 & 30 year olds are hard at work during long days, and hard at play in the London clubs at night… high energy… dressed to the hilt, ready to party.  That’s what we see on TV, and that’s what I see and hear on the streets and in the tube.  They DO drink!  How do they do it!?  The new millennium is alive… pumping! in London.  London has a ton of young people. 

London does grip… as all big cities do.  At this point in history, it is intense and flying high.  You know, I have never stay internally focused for long, when I have stayed in London.  I muse (and mumble), but I am busy and seldom write anything during my stays.   The OLD haunts; and the NEW pumps:  It is a strange combination.

The new London skyline

Back to my title:  The title of these ‘Musings’ includes the title of a new movie that opened in London this October… a red bus with an advertisement in bright yellow and black flashed the ‘eye catching’ words, as I stood waiting at a cross walk:  “Killer Elite”.  I was shocked:  “Kill the Elite”!  This was the same day that I took the bus tour.  I thought it left me a little flat; yet, I misread this movie title taking it out of the standard, violent, action film realm and putting it into the realm of revolution.  I was stunned when I saw the words, and stunned again when I realized I had misinterpreted them.  I do know my rebellious, anti-establishment side.  It sure had been awakened.   I walked slowly, probably mumbling, down the street toward a string of restaurants, to look at the choices for dinner that evening. There was quite a string: French; Italian; Vietnamese, Turkish, an elegant, ‘smart’ fusion of some sort… no British ‘fish & chips’.

Britain has the worst unemployment in 30 years. Where are the old people, and those who are not very healthy?  The tubes and streets are much too demanding for anyone who is disoriented or wobbly:  crossing the streets requires close attention to very confusing signs, and speed! and getting up and down all the stairs to tubes takes incredible endurance!  (I do notice the aching knees and hips!)   London is also about the disenfranchised in all cultures; about poverty in all cultures; unemployment in all cultures; as well as, the young and ‘elite’ in all cultures.

  

 I was on Ibiza when I saw the recent (September) London riots:  Young people on a rampage:  A real wantonness.  There seemed no real aim.  It reminded me of the recent hockey riot in Vancouver.  The group mentality just seemed to take over.  Perhaps I didn’t need to see the words, ‘Killer Elite’, because there actually is a discombobulating feeling underlying the ‘Good Life’.  The words just brought it into focus for me.

Movie Poster

“Killer Elite” is a harsh combination of words.  No matter how you read it, there is violence in the air.

So London, after several visits and much wandering; first disappointed then enthused; has now caught my attention with harsh words.  Harsh is an aspect of London, of course.  It is energetic, enthusiastic, fun and exciting and it is a good example of the new millennium.  But, not surprisingly, all this intensity does have its’ harsh edge.  I see the ‘The London Eye” symbolizing something more than ‘a BIG and FUN city’.  What I see is the ‘ferris wheel’ from our childhood,  and the ‘toughs’ that ran them.

That which provides a symbol for the NEW London, replacing ‘Big Ben’ (‘Father Time’? Paternalism?) is also a “fun” symbol from our past: the ‘Funland –Playland - Gayway’ strips.  But my memory is that there was something tacky about them.  They symbolized the age-old conundrum:  “Have fun! but watch ‘the toughs’ who give you the ‘come-on’ smile!” London is BIG & FUN:  and its’ combination of power and materialism is particularly seducing. 

This harsh ‘edge’ seems more palpable here in London, than in multi-cultural and often violent New York, Istanbul, or Amsterdam.  In my musings, I finally settled into a sense that today’s London seemed closer to the feelings I get in Singapore.  Singapore also has an incredibly long and haunting history; and today’s Singapore is also ambitious.  Its financial buildings are the pulsating core of the city.  At Singapore’s new ‘Museum of Civilization’, the guide is proud to take you to a lovely big round window (in the old British colonial building which houses the museum), that faces ‘the might’ of Singapore’s financial district… a huge number of impeccably designed steel and glass towers.  The guide enthusiastically tells you Singapore is ‘the financial center’ for all the countries from Istanbul to Japan, including India and China.  The rich river delta, you are told, has been a port of commerce throughout the ages.  Now! its hinterland is the whole of modern Asia.  Clearly, nothing in the museum was more important than the view from that window.  I was stunned.  Like the British museum, it was a museum full of stories from a multitude of civilizations.

Mummies in the British Museum

My wanderings continue:  watching and sensing what is in the air.  I try to stay open…  and I can feel the enthusiasm.  But it gets overshadowed. In India, and more recently on Ibiza, in Spain I found books to read… filling in background and flushing out the current ‘winds of time’.  Here I am, even after perusing many bookstores, still looking for a book about London to catch my eye… not just pictures of the new millennium architecture.  (grumpy)  Maybe I have just missed it.  So far, I have only the highly charged, action oriented TV series; the ‘BBC News’; and bus advertisements to rely on for a perspective.   

Oddly enough, however, shortly after my bus tour and sighting the words, “Killer Elite”, a book did come to light.  As it ‘happened’, I came upon a commemorative service for Ghandi’s birthday, in Tavistock Square opposite my hotel.  I paused to watch:  a touch of India!  I can still be entranced by India.  The speeches emphasized Ghandi’s “Moral Politics”:  politics based on understanding the human being, not on ideas; or on succumbing entirely to the use of power.

Celebration of Ghandi's birthday in Tavistock Square

Not a phrase of Ghandi’s that I remembered.  As I listened, I got excited:  a form of politics based on understanding the human being!  I actually watched the whole ceremony.  It left me wondering, “Was this some British-India history that I had missed!  Was this phrase remembered particularly this year because it expressed something currently ‘in the air’!  Was it just a re-working of Ghandi’s philosophy and more romantic! liberalism?  It is easy to be pulled by the romantic.”

Like pretty leaves in a fountain...

LATER…    As I leave London and arrive on the Dalmatian Coast, a friend in India has emailed (responding to my email about the Ghandi celebration) to tell me that the Ramana  Maharshi Ashram has just! announced a new English translation of a book on Ghandi.  (Coincidentally, it is translated by an acquaintance, known to many as a saint, KVS).  This new publication can be purchased in the ashram bookstore, which is quite significant because the ashram only sells books on the sage, Ramana Maharshi.

Certainly, it is an interesting synchronicity.  I will see about getting the book.  Given the synchronicity, this book is either related to my own unconscious; or it is related to London’s and the new millennium.  Time will tell… in the mean time, I am tickled pink! a book has finally caught my eye.    

KVS, center, in pink

P.S.  Just arrived today October 29, as I am completing a 3^rd draft of this difficult ‘Musing”…  an email from KVS describing the book:    

"I am happy to know that you attended the Gandhi birthday meeting in London on October 2. The book referred to by Annette is titled 'Revolutionary Gandhi' published in June this year at Kolkatta. It is a translation done by 12 years ago, when I was at Uttarkashi, Himalayas, from a Bengali book written by Pannalal Dasgupta.  It remained unpublished all these years and I thought that it would not see the light of the day during my lifetime.  However, thanks to the efforts sof two dynamic, committed people - Bharat and Vinita Mansata of Earthcare Books, Kolkatta, it has come out.  The book was released at Kolkatta on June 5 but as I was not able to go, due to frail health, Vinita wanted to have a launch at the Ashram and our President, Sri V.S. Ramanan, willingly agreed.  It was launched from the New Hall of the Ashram on September 11 by Sri Gopal Krishna Gandhi, a grandson of Mahatma Gandhi. 


The book talks about Gandhi as a supreme votary of Truth, an apostle of non-violence, one who sought to spiritualise politics and economics and indeed every department of human life, as a revolutionary extraordinary. as a friend of the downtrodden, as one who showed that the means should be as pure as the end. as an emancipator of women and liberator of men and women from fear, as one who accepted all world religions and practised every worthy teaching, as a warrior who fought with love and without any weapon of any kind and as a mass leader unparalleled in human history.


Our President was keen that the book should be kept in our bookshop for sale, though I pointed out that there was not a single reference to Bhagavan.  He said that inasmuch as Gandhiji was a votary of Truth and the book talks about his total commitment to Truth throughout his life, the book should be kept along with  Ashram books."

ERIN AND ELLIOT’S WEDDING – LOCH LOMOND

Cameron House - site of the wedding

This was an experience that will never be repeated  (I just misspelt ‘be’ as ‘bee’… the little gold necklace Elliot gave Erin the night before the wedding.  The bee is something Erin loves.)  It is things like that which popped up again and again.  It was a truly magic affair.

All!!! And I mean ‘all’ family members behaved naturally, beautifully and had fun!  That was my experience of my own extended family; Erin’s father’s family; and Elliot’s very extended family.  During a pause after the vows, and before some rituals, a little 4 year old from Elliot’s family said in his own naturally expressive voice, “There is more!?”  Everyone had a great laugh; with Erin assuring him not much ‘more!’.  What came next was even more engaging:  Elliot did the Jewish ritual of stamping on a glass to cement the vow; and Erin had candles set up to be lit… one for each of them to light, and one for the couple to light together.

Prior to all this, at the beginning were the fathers, brothers and cousins being piped down the isle by two Scottish pipers; the men all in kilts, ‘the Pride of Scotland’.  (Sorry I don’t have a picture of them being piped down the isle… great! But caught us by surprise.)

After the men, came the very exquisite bride… strapless pale pink gown with a beautifully draped skirt…  a brilliant two inch band of ‘diamonds’ edging the top of the bodice: her mother on her right (dark steel blue strapless lace gown and jacket); and her father (in his Scottish soccer team blue plaid kilt) on her left.  Both parents incredibly proud… Barri holding back tears as best she could; Steven walking the Soccer man’s proud moment.  As he arrived at ‘the alter/arch’ Steve delicately turned back Erin’s veil… very touching;

A video of the walk down the aisle! It can be viewed by clicking this link if you're having trouble: The Walk

and the bride and groom stood apart and ready.  Somewhere amongst arrival and vows, both mother’s stood in turn to make the welcomes to  family and friends; and speaking heartfelt of the moment at hand.

                                

 A thoughtful idea on Erin’s part to include this kind of welcome… not a dry eye.  To be inclusive of all cultures and beliefs present, a ‘Humanist Society of Great Britain’ minister presided.  The vows were executed in a very natural, but graceful manner.

The ushers were ever present leading us from one venue to another… from the wedding hall … to drinks and nibbles in the lounge (while the wedding hall was being turned into a dining room)

 Jerry, Connie and the kids

 Roy and Trish

 Caroline and John

 Lindsey

 Catherine

… then into the dining room.  Names and table designation had been picked up in the lounge; each of us directed to our table… and awaiting gifts: homemade raspberry jam by Erin and bridesmaids, with a sprig of Rosemary (in tribute to Erin’s maternal grandmother) on the table for each; and for the women a pashmina shawl held in a roll with a pearl bracelet… each a different colour (Erin having carefully made a colour choice for each of us… a perfect choice, given her fashion expertise).  But we did not get to sit.  Instead we were called to the dance floor for the traditional Jewish circle folk dance… imagine 150 people! in 3 circles.  In the center of all these circles Elliot and his twin brother did the ‘Russian’?? leaps and knee kicks.  Everyone cheering.

Speeches followed … each parent, followed by the groom’s brother, and finally the groom.  The best moment was Barri asking Erin to turn to her left (which Barri had very carefully figured out, as it required her thinking in mirrored image) to acknowledge her new husband….

 Only! On the L was ‘the twin, Alexander’… Elliot was on the R.  Absolutely not fair!! I have met them many times and cannot… ever! tell them apart.  Great laughter.

The dinner delicious! Wine flowed!  The 4 layered wedding cake decked out in fall coloured hydrangeas… made by one of Erin’s bridesmaids… on beautiful display table off to the side of the dinner tables with arches of hydrangeas coupled with purple-pink English roses, blue thistle; and draping raspberry coloured “chennile” flower.

Buckets of candies; and a ‘wishing’ tree… with tags & pens waiting for us to write wishes for the new couple completed the wedding cake table.

The ceremony started at 3:30pm and we danced until midnight to all the best! dance music.  The evening ending with all of us in a circle surrounding the bride and groom with their parents, singing at full volume, “We’ll Meet You at Loch Lomond”. My voice was hoarse for the next 24 hours; my right hip is still adjusting from the hours of dance.

To put it in perspective, the actual wedding was one of at least 6 special events, including an “announcement’ ceremony at the family synagogue the Saturday prior, followed by lunch at Eliot’s aunt’s home; next day a tea for the bridesmaids at Erin’s home; on arrival at Cameron House, Loch Lomond on Saturday… skeet shooting in the morning (everyone who attended is determined to find the opportunity again!); a mother’s afternoon tea, including a special cake for Barri’s 56^th birthday;

The siblings; Jerry, Roy, Barri and Paula

and evening drinks in the boat house.

To emphasize the special planning and thought is to mention the gift bag in each person’s room:  a package of shortbread; a small bottle of Loch Lomond Scotch Whiskey; and a white linen hanky embroidered with an E & E… a hanky, it said, for tears of joy!  The LOVE and JOY was palpable throughout: A glorious, fun occasion. 

Post script to blog:

One more of those moments!  Erin's dad delivers a 50+ pound, 18+ inch high marble Teddy bear to Erin at the head table.... actually, given it's weight, delivered by 'her' 6ft 2in brother.  Took me a while, so no picture.  WHAT? Yes, carved by noted carver... has carved for Queen; and marble, ancient with petrified rocks.  But the real significance?  Well, the bear has been a symbol of the Royal Wedding of 2011... little did I know. Steve then contexting Erin & Elliot's wedding year.  A happy father/daughter moment in true Steven Donohoe style.

 The Bear! (from Ms. Groves excellent professional photos)

Here is a link to all the photos I took of the occasion: Erin and Elliot's Wedding!
And here is a link to the professionally taken photos of the event: The good photos!

‘THE SEASON’ Is Closing

Something has changed.  It is the end of August, and the end of the usual vacation time in most of Europe.  Perhaps it is not surprising that when I gaze at the bay to the SE, between punta de Jondal and punta  de Porroig, the bay is empty.  But it happened quite suddenly last week.  One day it was the same as ever, ships anchored in the bay from about 10am on through the day until by mid afternoon, certainly by 6pm, the bay was full (50 boats?)… to take advantage of ‘water sports’ and beachside bistros.  The sea between Ibiza and Formenterra, the two smallest of the Balearic Islands, has been like a club race scene.  All day, every day I could see ships stream across the Mediterranean toward this bay.  Tonight I see only a couple of sails in the distance; none have anchored in the bay.  It feels odd… a desertion of some kind.  It leaves more peace in the air, perhaps.  That possibility has not settled in yet.  It’s more a sense of vacuum for the moment.

 

 

No Boats!

While shopping earlier in the week a friendly clerk, asking about my stay and wanting me to enjoy it, informed me of 2 forthcoming changes: 1) that the heat wave would be finishing over the next couple of days; and 2) that the discos would be closed soon...won’t be long she says, September 20^th and they are closed.  The island becomes ours again she says.  She smiled happily. For now however, there are still torrents of people coming through the airport, if not by ship.  I stopped by the airport this week regarding my car reservation; it was a very busy airport.  This must be one of the last big weeks… August 21-28^th.   Strange! that the yachting crowd should finish before the last big week.  Maybe they are on their way back to a homeport.

 

Shops I frequent in St Joseph, close by my place.

The clerk was right; the heat wave was over in a couple of days.  But there is more.   It is not just an end to a heat wave.   For the last couple of evenings, I have had to put on long pants, a long sleeved top and a light jacket; and now this morning too.  I have even had a second cup of coffee, instead of iced tea.  It is not just a cooling off I’m afraid. The weather is changing!  It’s that first hint of Fall.  It has come even here in the Mediterranean. And! for some reason I am a bit miffed:  I am missing the heat!! Oh the days are still warm, even hot (34C); but it is no longer hot all day and deep into the night. What! How to explain my response to the end of a heat wave?  I was looking forward to a cooling.  Instead, I think I came to like this Mediterranean hot weather.  I think I like the slow outdoor rhythm that develops through the hot days: shade or sun I could always find the right spot to enjoy the Mediterranean day.  Here one does not retreat inside on the hottest days, like in the India late Spring, where one ends up just sitting too stunned by the heat to even think.  Here one finds a shady ‘breeze-way’ and stays outdoors, enjoying the day.  The days are long when one stays out into the late evening, an evening still warm enough for bare skin!  This inviting outdoor life is decidedly one of life’s gifts.  I have not mentioned the ever so sweeting singing of the canaries flitting in the pines… the sound, for those of used to the Pacific Northwest, is like a cross between a chick-a-dee and a robin.  This is the background to all that is so beautiful and vital on Ibiza…

The outdoor life has given me a feeling of vigorous health, maybe it is just seeing all this vigorous vegetation around me??.  The days outside, reading, writing, swimming, and going for the odd wander have made a strong impression. The swimming has been a real bonus… 3-4 times a day!  I can tell the difference with the body… more strength, more stamina, and even some change in shape.  Hey! Exercise works!   Those 25 steps up from my car I can now do in a sprightly walking glide… each step with a 2 foot depth and an 8 inch rise… up the wide steps I go, no longer hobbling along with the same foot making the stretch up, just one step at a time. The body is feeling much more fit.  I play with fantasies of keeping swimming as part of a daily routine.  Franciso was here this morning to work on the pool; I told him “Si! nadir (swim) ees buenos!  el muscular mucho grande!!  Yo equipaje (I baggage) de piscine (swimming pool).  Mi casa!  He laughed… enjoying my humour, maybe? My use of language for sure.

Talking by the pool with Francisco

One of the books I have been reading is John Julius Norwich’s THE MIDDLE SEA – A History of the Mediterranean.  (2006).  When Norwich contemplated a beginning and end for The Middle Sea, he decided to begin with the people of the ancient civilizations; and to end with WW 1 and the treaty of Versailles: when Europe and the Middle East were re-designed.   To him it was an end of an era, and thus an appropriate ending for the book:

“Does the Middle Sea of today retain the significance that it enjoyed when the world was young? … Alas, the answer must be no. … the trade routes no longer exist… the monster cruise ship prowling ceaselessly from port to port, island to island … it is becoming increasingly clear that its old raison d’être is lost for ever, and that the prime purpose of today’s Mediterranean is pleasure… .

          Not perhaps in every respect a bad thing…the waters in the past all too often were stained with blood.  One tends to forget…The miseries of former days at sea…slaves bled under the lash…a sudden storm could be tantamount to a death-warrant for an entire crew.

          What is sad is the loss of dignity: that the world’s most historic body of water should be so taken for granted…so polluted…its shores so littered that many are maintained only through the efforts of thousands of sweepers… .”  (my emphasis)

I would agree, mostly…though I have not seen litter; and there is a lot of our globe that seems to be littered and polluted.  But that this sea “should be so taken granted”, yes that hit a chord. “It links 3 of the world’s 6 continents; its climate for much of the year is among the most benevolent to be found anywhere.” Unlike other historical sites I doubt a ‘sea’ can be designated a heritage site.  It is too bad.  Though there are 7 Mediterranean regions in our world; there is only one ‘Old Mediterranean” full of the relics from numerous civilizations, including, at least 3 great ones. 

 

Which of the many Mediterranean civilizations? Found at old fort on Ibiza.

His rendering of Crete’s history is an example of his focus on various peoples:  It gives the sense of such a force for civilization!  Not a military culture but by 2000 BC the commercial crossroads of the eastern Mediterranean.  “Their life was easy, their climate delectable… the objects that they left behind them give the impression of a happy, peaceful, carefree people secure enough to leave their cities unwalled.”  Yes! Here we find King Minos; and the grand story of the Minotaur.  Norwich reports historians have actually credited Minos with having assembled the first great navy … largely clearing the sea of pirates and establishing governors on certain islands of the Aegean. This extraordinary civilization is one of the oldest threads in the weave of our Western culture.
I’m tempted to include it in this winter’s wanderings… maybe after Dubrovnik.  Glad to have found Norwich’s book, as I set out to traipse around the Mediterranean this fall/winter. 

Archetypal image found in most pantheons...Green Man/Dionysus in Mediterranean.

Another interesting book I found at the international bookstore in Santa Gertrudis is SEEING by the Portuguese Nobel Prize laureate, Jose Saramago.  A review:  “I have never read a novel that gets so many details of the political behavior that we for some reason insist on calling ‘organized’ so hilariously and grimly right.” Chicago Tribune (not an easy read; a moderate post-modern style; but it sticks!)

September 3, 2011- A perfect end of summer drive last evening: windows down; the air still warm but cooling as it breezes through the car.  The island is slowing down. Now I can feel the peace settle in; hardly anyone on the roads in the early evening.  So different! no one screaming up behind me wanting to pass.  I can just meander along the country roads… to watch a family of 3 (father, son & daughter) harvest some olives; to look longingly at the ripening deep purple black grape, the vines so close to the roadside I want to stop and pick a few.  But there is no place to stop!  The old stonewalls close in the roads…the valleys are full of the yellow-burnished orange stonewalls, bordering roads and terracing fields.  A lot of stones on this island!  

 

                                     Old rock terracing in the country.                                

Now September 4^th and I have seen no boats in the bay for over a week; and very few on the sea.  Looking out this evening, it is an empty sea. It is definitely the end of THE SEASON.  My hostess arrives within the week; we will have a couple of days to chat; then I am back to London and a family wedding in Scotland September 25^th.

 The amazing Mediterranean BLUE! even in the morning glory.

Slideshow of my travels thus far can be viewed by clicking here or on the photo below.

Ibiza, Spain

The Architecture of the Pitiusas Islands’ Pine

It is close to 40C today.  After a swim, I lie under the swaying clouds of a pine: my legs partially in sun but the body and head most decidedly under shade.  There is a clear blue sky, not a cloud; and a wind.  It’s a strong wind, often an echoing whistle like in the high Sierras… a bit eerie as it penetrates the space, just to your right!  The sound does not come from the bows of the trees; it is simply the noise of moving air:  sometimes the eerie flute sound; sometimes a great gusting.  Is it possible that it is The Mistral, a wind that screams down the Rhone valley and hits out across the Mediterranean? Perhaps it is just a major onshore breeze given land/sea temperature differences; or it could also be heat surges from the deep valleys?  Such is the life of a newcomer, forever observant, giving thought, and learning.

 

If I stood up my head would collide with the lower bows; if I climbed I would be to the top bows in two bounds (not that I bound!).  These are not tall trees.  They do not stand upright and mighty, but stagger in a tilt; the long limbs drooping, as if their weight were too heavy for the trunk; or the limbs too weak.  

 

The wood may actually be weak.  I have noticed that the wood used, as beams in local buildings, are worm eaten; have some rot; and split easily.  Maybe they only use the old trees?  I rarely see any standing that are dead.  Perhaps these ancient pines are not really strong, simply incredibly sturdy?

I lie gazing with curiosity. There are new 10-inch branching stems covered by the bright new 2-inch needles… amazing growth.  Now! in this heat it grows.  There are also the new bright lime green, tightly packed cones, amongst last year’s brown tightly packed cones; which are amongst another year’s cones which are just beginning to open; and finally they are all outnumbered by the old small dark brown fully blossomed cones.  I seldom see cones on the ground.  Only pine seeds, dark brown cone petals, and needles seem to fall.  

The bark is a contrast between an outer, almost dead, flaking grey crust; and a dusty, dry cinnamon like inner bark.

The wind has brought my full attention to these pines.  I am caught by their gentle movement; such a mesmerizing swaying softness.  It is not the floating of gauze; not the languishing flow of satin; but perhaps a silent billowing of silk. The fronds of soft stems and silky needles are grouped in large tufts, like floating cumulus clouds at the end of limbs.  They are not still; they are so silky soft, they are silent.

I can’t say I hear the trees growing, but they seem so shiny new they must be growing every instant.  And something else is happening:  I hear a ‘snap-crackle’! And wonder if there is a squirrel or some such creature breaking open the cones to eat pine nuts.  Several times over the day I take the time to squint up into the bows of various trees, standing as quiet as possible for some minutes.  The inner tree is quite bare though still loaded with old cones.  Many times I am startled by this crackle; at times it even sounds like a ripping … a Velcro rip, but quicker!  In an instant the sound is gone and I wonder… Did I really hear something?  Imagine a combination of a rip and crack.  A bird’s beak ripping into a cone?  That would be more continuous.  There is nothing in sight.  Absolutely nothing moves only those lovely silky green needles on the profuse new growth.  

After several hours I begin to think it must be the bark… the flaking of the outer layer that is crackling.  

Does it take this intense heat to curl back the old outer bark?  Is the tree growing so rapidly in this heat that it is stretching out of its old skin?  I can only hear it, not see it. Later I wonder if it is the cone… one of the older brown tightly packed cones of a few years back has perhaps started to gradually open… and then in the heat expanding so rapidly that it rips into a fully blown cone.  Have decided to take some time today to scout amongst these multi-phased prolific cones.  If any of them have suddenly changed, there should be some evidence. (I find what looks like some new curls in the outer bark.  Two days later, it is cooler… there are no ‘rips’ to be heard.)

The heat and air motion dries everything in moments.  If I hang washed cottons or linens on the line to dry, they are dried to stiffness within the half hour, even bath towels.  I swim; lie in the sun a bit, but the wet, cool suit dries so quickly, I start to prickle with heat before I am ready for another swim; soon the breathing gets a little labored.  I swim again.  “Very Hot!” the young Ibico man who does the gardening says.  “Si! mucho caliente” I respond, managing a word or two… never phrases:(.  He has been on the job since 7am; will stay until about 7pm.  I notice there is a mid morning and mid afternoon siesta… how else!  I don’t even contemplate going out to shop, or to enjoy a wander.  I have to wait!  I am either in the pool, or under the pines.  Unlike the fierce heat of the late springtime in India, I can still move from one spot to another, think, and read.  No complaints.

The architecture of the pine becomes clearer.  It is best realized while gazing upon it in contemplation on a hot day; or perhaps when one finds it next to a building, fitting into a space with the magnificence of a sculpture 

… the trunks so seldom straight; the limbs alarming long. Are there angles or just curves?  Such design: centuries of weathered sturdiness in the short trunks; the trunks don’t grow much in height, but do the looping limbs ever stop growing? In the hot months there is the addition of the silky, moist aliveness of the new needles and warrior-like armored cones. The heat creates a zest for life in these pines, not a shriveling into death.  Perhaps the cloud of new growth gets so heavy the limbs droop?  The rest of the Mediterranean islands also have pines but it was these islands, that the Romans named the Pitiusas  (profusion of pine):  Ancient trees, each beautiful in its unique shape, evoking the simple dignity of life.

The island’s current architects design their hillside masterpieces to be graced by the dignity and beauty of the island’s pine. It is interesting to note that the Rationalist Architects of the 1930’s came to these small Pitiusas Islands impassioned by the beauty of the lines of the organically ever-growing whitewashed farm houses … a main block, followed by other blocks in varying sizes as need demanded (more animals; more storage; more family).  The one contrasting element was a beautifully rounded outcropping for an oven. 

It remains an ancient tradition of neat functional design, and simplicity of line.  Even the church architecture was influenced.  They offer a unitary architectural structure.   These rural churches like the rural houses, lacking in any monumental aspect, were adapted to immediate need:   

a purity of form with dazzling white walls.  The architecture is distinct on the Pitiusas Islands*, like the profusion of pine.  Is there a connection?

                                               

Did the architectural beauty of the pine inspire the early builder:  The inherent purity of form in the ever emerging, shape evolving… pine?

                                                             

*  The Pitiusas Islands are known today as the Balearic Islands.

**All my photos from Ibiza can also be viewed here:

Ibiza, Spain

Wandering on Ibiza – August 11/11

“The True Wanderer, whose travels are happiness, goes out not to shun but seek, like a painter has to move about to get perspective.”  Stark, Freyda.  The Zodiac Arch.  1968

The island is about 20 miles wide and 40 miles long, with three main towns each having populations between 20 – 50,000; the island having a population of about 133,000… each year receiving about 2,000,000 visitors.

It is time to wander.  I have been here over a week now: swimming in the pool; looking over the pine covered hills; and gazing at the Mediterranean.  Hovering like the local falcon high up, drifting on the updrafts.  I have found a local market with internet café and bar; the bank; the post office; and a lovely café/bar on the cliffs at es Cabells, due south from the very beautiful residence where I am staying.  Imagine whipped cream infused with garlic to spread on slices of baguette; a dish of local olives; and vino!

Ibiza is one of several small islands traditionally called the Pitiusas Islands (profusion of pine trees).  While dry, the island thrives with the indigenous pine; olive tree; figs tree; carob tree; grape vines. Not surprisingly the Carthaginians who inhabited the island after the Phoenicians (654 BC), named their city port after their fertility Goddess, Bes or Ibusium (Ybshum, depending on language).  Upon arising my first morning, it was all so familiar! The air dry but not completely… not desert… there is a moist salt creeping about in it, creating a very special ambiance of life! A vegetation simply blooming with good things.  Dry, but not struggling.  It was like being on the southern California beaches of my teen years:  La Jolla; Laguna/Emerald Bay; Santa Barbara.  Indeed! It is ‘Mediterranean’.  This time it is the Mediterranean with a profound and incredibly ancient, Western history.

So much LIFE; so much History:  I am charmed.  There is an urge to become steeped in it.   Punic/Phoenicians; Carthaginians; Romans; Byzantines; Visigoths; Arabs have all left their trails.  In the medieval era the Christians invaded, principally the Catalans whose language is still spoken by islanders today.  So I have all day! Every day! For seven weeks or so.

Though I try to rise early to beat the ‘beach traffic’, once again it is 9:30a and 10:30a as I open the gates, turning very sharply right (can often take 2 tries!) to descend the narrow road down the hillside.  As I pass the main towns, I move into the valleys, which are agrarian still.  The farmer’s homes dot the landscape, in the age-old pattern.  (The newcomers, a very international group, build their homes on the hills, and they too are seen as white ‘dots’.  There are few ‘developments’, except by the 3 main towns.)

I have read one can find walks in the woods, so I am heading to San Miguel on the north coast of the island:  A place where there are mainly woods; few homes.  Arriving I find a main street, a church, a few hotels and businesses; then it is down the steep, winding road to the small cove and its beach… already crowded.  I head toward the beach wondering what I might find… other than muscles and curves.  With delight! I notice a path leading off behind the beach bar on the left.

  

Away I go. Traipsing up, along the narrow path amongst the pine covered hills whose cliffs drop sharply into the bay.  I grin.  This is the right kind of wandering.  I meet only two others on the path.  They are returning.

Soon, another little bay comes into view below the cliff path:  a few small, rectangular concrete boathouses, with rails to the sea (the local fisher folk?); a ‘bit’ of a rocky beach; and a very small wooden hut with awning of sticks and a scattering of tables… a café.  

No one appears to be in sight, but as I pass the hut I hear, “Ola!”  I return the greeting and walk on, behind the café towards the woods.  There is no marked path, but a walk of some sort seems to lead behind the hut.  “Oh dear… .”  Old chairs; a couple of broken down boats, holes in their hulls: General rubbish.  Then as I look more closely, gauging the scene… “Oh God! It’s a gravel pit making do for an outhouse… wads of paper scattered about.”  Yes! a bit frantically, I look about for a path that might take me beyond this mess… not deeper into it.  I skirt it as best I can, sure that I can see a winding path setting off up a near cliff.  Yes! Up I go.  In a moment I am up and away, passing an old hut of broken and fallen stone.  Built for what purpose?  My first ruin! 

Up, up I climb.  There is a lovely path through these woods.  At one point a distant bastion comes into view; only a glace then it is lost from sight.  Perfect.  Upward, though I have lost sight of the bastion, the bastion clearly marks the top of the hill:  Obviously an ancient lookout station.  After some time, the path seems to run out and I take to a road of deeply rutted dirt.   A jeep passes me going down the road toward the cliff edge, and a house or two, which can be seen through the trees… of the international sort.  I figure I can’t go wrong if I just keep going up.

Up! Up! Why am I walking up?  “Mad dogs and Englishmen… .” That damn phrase comes to me again.  Last time it was India… going to market in the noonday sun.  Will I never learn?  But it is truly a treat to walk this narrow path, cum road.  Something just off the path catches the eye:  Off to the right, a sacred site?  A circular area with piled stone markers… cairns; a fire pit; and an opened stone tomb?  I have no idea what this marks?  Who?  No information is provided.  

Higher up the three storied bastion comes into sight, crowning the cliff point.  Defensive architecture was built through the ages; many times reinforced.  I notice block cut rock amongst the natural boulders used to build this round tower:  Roman, I am sure.  An open wooden door and inner stairway lead to the top.  

Nothing could be more perfect!  An hour’s walk through a scented pine woods to an historical monument on a cliff high above the Mediterranean.  Today I understand “mediterranean blue’.  It’s not quite turquoise, except if the waters are shallow and the bottom is white sand; but a true, warm! blue.   The heart sings with the sight of that blue.

There are no guardrails or barriers.  Cliffs drop away on all sides hundreds of feet into the sea.  Not a tourist in sight; not a tourist marker.  Simply something of the past one comes upon when walking in the woods.  

A half hour later, and I am down at that little cove, sitting at the beach shack drinking lemonade.  Food? Comida?  A pequeno pescado (pes ka do… small cooked white fish), with salad, and blanco vino.  Por vafor!   Mucho buenos.  Gracias!  The tables gradually filled as I waited:  five Englishmen (late 50’s; early 60’s?) have been sitting in the sun, drinking beer.  Three beers later, they are burning multi shades of red. 

A perfect day.  Home for a swim in the pool.  Day 12 in Ibiza.

All the photos from Ibiza can be viewed here Ibiza Slideshow, or at my Facebook page if you have a Facebook account.