1993 Western Ireland

2.7.93 Dublin

Bewley’s, just by where The Colony used to be, and where some rather tacky joint has appeared.  Multi-floor, £10 for two, full of youth – and typical university youth – good buzz amongst the steamy heat (though it’s fresh outside).  Parked by St. Stephen’s Green, jam-jar picked up at the airport after multiply-delayed flight, almost (well, ish) half caught after driving down from Great Glen, caught in the horrendous M25 roadworks.  But we made it, and found our Anglesey House guesthouse with the quadrant-shaped bath in the bedroom.

3.7.93 Galway

Across the breadth of Ireland to here.  Through a land green, under a dull sky, drizzle falling, roads all but empty, drivers as insane as ever, churches, garden centres, cows, old men on bikes, small, low villages, rolling countryside – to here, one of my favourite cities in Ireland – if partly because it is a city.

Driving around the square trying to find a place to park, a Gay Pride march...brave people here. Then in to the centre for snack lunch.  Of necessity: breakfast was splendid.  Orange juice, yogurt, fresh fruit, stewed fruit, strawberries and cream – not aut/aut, but all.  Then a wonderful home-baked cereal, rather like apple crumble.  Poached fish (plaice?) for one of us, bacon and eggs for the other.  Then toast, fresh bread, and about three types of cakes, tea, marmalade – ye gods.  Great and included in the old Anglesey House price.  Nice to know we’re going back there.

On now to Connemara, my favourite part of Ireland.  So many young people around – reminds of the experiment tagging frogs in Lake Titicaca to count them – brilliant scheme.  To Cleggan, Harbour View House (£25 a night).  Now in Oliver’s Seafood Bar – six oysters dispatched, waiting for salmon.  Fine view of the harbour, the Queen of Aran waiting to leave.  We may take it ourselves to Inishbofin.  Salmon has arrived, along with seafood platter.

4.7.93 Cleggan

It is pouring with rain (hi, Ireland weather), so it is not entirely clear what to do today.  Four Italians (from Genova) to my left at breakfast.

On the Queen of Aran, equipped with fine sweaters, one peacock green, the other royal purple – necessary in this chillsome weather.  Off to Inishbofin – well, it had to be done.  After drizzle to start, the sky lightening, some bit of sun.  Gawd.  Roughish sea (what a surprise).  An hour after departure we arrive at Inishbofin, are dumped on the quay, abandoned.

Strange feeling: being abandoned on an island at the end of the world, with nowhere to go.  Not knowing what is here, where it is, how big the island is etc.  Then we buy a map: immediately things begin to fall into place – the hotel, the pier, the extremities of the island.  As we approach the eastern hotel – Day’s – we have a sense of real arrival.

Sitting now by the dour grey church, silver angels on its gates.  Intermittent sun, warm when it shines.  By us, two cars without number plates, both battered, one literally held together with string.  Is Inishbofin the car’s graveyard?

The bar and hotel lively and elegant respectively.  The bar in particular full of picture book faces – old, gaunt men in cloth caps, young men with monstrous sideburns and glasses of Guinness.  Outside a fine view of the harbour.  A lovely beach opposite, but no quick way to reach it.

It looks like the rest of the island will remain unknown to me this time, but that’s no terrible thing.  Now that I have started re-visiting out-of-the-way places I suppose I need to exercise a little restraint.  Flying over on Friday, it occurred to me that such coming backs will be the next wave of tourism/travel writing.  The second visit gives you the dimension of time (and of photography) while the third visit lets you see whether the second was an aberration.  And the fourth…

[To our right, two flagstaffs without flags have ropes clattering against their metal poles.  I think of Sanur for some reason….]

To Day’s again for scone and tea, the sun quite scorching now (ozone depletion?).  The surrounding hills really emerald (and Lake Hunt begins today….).  Amazing number of BMWs here – for the usual reason.  Still rather incongruous.  The water in the harbour sparkles.

On the ferry, into the strait.  Glorious sun, the Twelve Pins hazy but lordly.  To starboard, clearly etched cliffs of two small islands.  But the Pins…  Totally clear sky above us, slight ring of cloud.  And in a sense today has been right: a day ending in brief sunshine, spent in gentle indolence around the focus of the island’s main bar, Day’s.

  
The end of the day after another fine meal in Oliver’s.  (But no oysters…)  9.30pm, but still so light, and the Twelve Pins still strangely lit up by a light that seems to come from within.  From our front room the view is stunning: the harbour, the inlet, the mountains; how can I not stare at it till the fading of days?

Looking at the Ireland guides, I begin to feel that I am grasping the country.  Connemara is at once like the Lake District, Scotland, the Orkneys, and yet also unique.  The hills huddle like monsters, gathering for an attack, their humps showing behind a rise in the land.  The water silvery blue, high tide.  And still the sun shines.  This is indeed a faery land.  And Inishbofin, another crossing to an isle of youth (so many young people, dressed in t-shirts and jeans, their poverty showing, but irrelevant).

5.7.93 Oughterard

Not, alas, at the flash house in Lough Corrib – only a rather modern twin left there at £80.  Meal £7.50 sounded rather fine, though.  Instead a B&B just outside the town on the same road.  Very modern and clean.  Charming landlady (young, blonde, smiling).

Rose early – too early – and then went riding at Cleggan Stables.  On horses, too, not ponies.  Went along the road to a beach just above the B&B here (thousands of dead jellyfish). Fine curve of beach, where I cantered.  Then straight [I have just noticed a place on the map called Shanaglish] along the N59.  Wonderful scenery, of course, and relatively few buildings to disturb it.  Or to eat in.  Eventually found pub full of unemployed (?), smoking, drinking, playing darts, swearing. Sad.  Then to here, tired and very burnt.  Yesterday, in five hours of sun, we are both very burnt on the face.  Very strange (Ozone hole?)

6.7.93 Athlone

A pleasant city.  Small, with fine grey granite castle matching the cloud for our drive back.  Road empty as ever.  Feels very 18th century here – perhaps this is why I hope to visit Castletown today – I need some Georgian architecture.  And so to Celbridge – to Conolly’s for lunch (alas, café closed in house), and then to Castletown.  The irony: Aztec food being the bonus and bane of Irish life…

Dublin.  Room 14 of Anglesey House – grand, at the front, and with a brass bed.  In to the city for a quick walk at 5pm – full of people, lovely sunshine.  Then to Oisin’s.  Door looked shut when we arrive.  We knock and are admitted – even though the place is clearly very Irish – menu in Irish/Irish script.  Green everywhere.  Excellent menu, but £35 for set choices.  We take one and add a starter.

Venison sausages and Dublin coddle; spinach soup; beef soaked in herbs; seaweed cream.  And two glasses of excellent fruity Irish wine.  Pity they cost £4 each.  Meal overall £64 – a lot, but probably the nearest thing to “real” Irish cooking.

7.7.93  Trinity College Dublin

In the Long Room of the library.  Glorious sense of words piled up, of their precariousness and fragility.  Perhaps nowhere else can you grasp the 18th century sense of knowledge.  Kells no longer here: new strong room below.  Harder to see, but more sensible.

More destinations:

1987 Isle of Man

1989 Eastern Ireland

1990 Western Ireland

1991 Donegal

1992 Northern England, Scotland, Orkney

1993 Cornwall 

2020 Scotland: Isle of Skye, Outer Hebrides

1989 Eastern Ireland

22.7.89 Glendalough

Already a day out – but at least this time I'm trying to catch Ireland – last year's Cork and Kerry has almost all been lost.  A bad start: I slept barely at all Thursday night – real-live projectile vomiting whilst down at this years Ad Managers' conference.  I attended the first session then drove blitzed out of my head to Heathrow – a miracle I didn't fall asleep.

More fun at Dublin – no hire cars at the airport.  In to Dublin, to Hertz's south of the city depot.  A brand new jamjar (17 miles on the clock.)  Drove down the N11 to Bray, where I was meeting Sister Anne at the DART station.  Everything so slow and relaxed, the cars old and small.  Bray itself a bit like Brighton or some other cheap south-coast seaside resort.  Lots of young bored people around.  Not where one would want to stay – no character.  The tourist office at the top of the High Street, upstairs in a Victorian building.  At the back, a great metal plate "to weigh up to 10 tons".

Picked up Anne, then drove down the N11.  Outside Bray, the character of the countryside changed: great masses, green and wooded, reared up – not an Ireland I had seen before.  Again, very peaceful.  Passed tempting sign to Glendalough, but went on to Wicklow.  Which turned out to be Bray with a dirty-looking harbour (shades of Isle of Man's Castletown).  We phone the Royal Hotel at Glendalough and book two rooms.

The drive there rises to a plateau of rolling countryside.  Tiny back roads, hedges – reminds me of Cornwall.  The hotel lies in the valley down a dead-end road.  It is a turn of the century building, long and fitted out sparsely.  A nice two-star hotel feel to it.  The staff are obliging but amateurish: it is very quiet – strangely so in this glorious weather, and so near to Dublin.  And this the height of the season.  Early to bed to try to sleep off what was systemic dysfunction the night before (Tippett piano sonatas hammering through my fevered brain.)

This morning up late-ish (breakfast at 8.30am) then out to view the antiquities hereabouts.  First, the cathedral, behind the hotel.  A wonderful setting: sloping gravestones lichen-covered, high grass, a few paths, all in a valley floor.  A birch tree, leant against by the wind, with five trunks like five fingers.  The cathedral decrepit, but its Romanesque character visible.  Gravestones within – one to a man who died at 105 years – imagine the changes he spanned.

Then to the great Round Tower.  Surprisingly straight and clean in its lines, its surface broken by the interstices of rocks.  A celtic rocket.  (Priest's house).  St Kevin's Kitchen, an authentically dark and gloomy place with its little bell tower, leading to a bridge over a burbling brook.  A flotilla of pond-skaters, a dragonfly and the intensest green; strange butterfly.

Across the river along a path amidst bracken (Finzi's/Hardy's song) to St Saviour's, a spaceship in a clearing.  Flies everywhere – how I hate 'em.  Then by car to the upper lake, where I write now.  Wonderfully serene.  The water clear to the gravel beneath, the high valley walls descending steeply.  To the left, wooded slopes which remind me of Lake Phewa in Nepal; to the right, glorious pine trees, their branches picked out in rich browns and oranges.  High up to the right a crag with strangely blasted trunks like telegraph poles.  At the head of the valley, a waterfall, lots of scree.

23.7.89 Wexford

From Glendalough we moved to the Wicklow Gap – spoilt by fir plantations, then up to Russborough House.  First to Poulaphouca House for lunch.  A strange place.  The bar long and dark, with rows of small bottles, deer heads, deep-brown furniture and a TV playing Irish football high at one end.  A clump of young middle-aged men drinking silently, watching.  Through to the restaurant, empty except for us (when do these places even get busy?).  The food surprisingly good – excellent home-made mushroom soup – shades of my last visit in Kerry.  What made the place was the Ives-like music: Beethoven's Piano Concerti 1 and 2, Chaka Khan, and musique concrète from the kitchen.  Wonderful.

Then to Russborough House.  Beautiful lichened grey stone, classical Palladian design with two wings.  The house looks out to the Wicklow mountains.  Tour only, alas.  Just a few rooms open to the public, but some considerable wealth therein.  Good sequence of Murillos, Guardi, Constables, Vernet (Shades of Avignon), Ruisdael (Berechtsheim), Hobbema.  Shame about the stolen Vermeer, still missing.  A cosy feel, with furniture and ornaments chosen with care.  Friendly library.  Almost liveable in.  Lafranchini bros. Plaster-work brilliant, especially on ceilings.

After tea in an old kitchen (?) - high roof, unadorned walls (à la Kedleston) on to the Sally Gap.  Beautiful sense of space and desolation, spoilt only by the encroaching firs.  Stopped to admire Lough Tay, a strange industrial brown, glistening below.  Then completing the circuit, to Laragh, through the Vale of Clara and Vale of Avoca – the latter very attractive.  It was growing late so we hurried straight down to Wexford, staying at the Talbot Hotel, large but more character than White's, plus a better location.

That location gave us a brilliant early morning sun across the sea, glistening like white-hot gold.  After a full breakfast – kippers and gooseberry jam – a walk out to the breakwater.  High above, a huge mackerel sky like a lace shawl.  The waterfront before us, very still and peaceful, like the fronts on the Liffey in Dublin.

Wexford itself tiny, not particularly distinguished, but heaps better than most other places – Ireland's towns are surprisingly ugly.  I find the Opera Festival House with difficulty – it lies in the totally misnamed High Street – a tiny back road – and is almost invisible.  I wonder what the Festival is like.  Otherwise, little else of note here, the church and abbey ruins feeble.  The harbour and sea the best things.  I sit writing this in blazing sunshine at the end of Henrietta Street, a little semi-circular indent off the harbour.  Oddly, there is a railway line along the quays – functional, without warning.

24.7.89  Castletown House, Celbridge

I write this now in the coolest cellar imaginable; outside is blistering eternal sunshine.  I have eaten a passable cream tea in the heart of this mansion.  But back to yesterday.  After Wexford, half in search of the mysterious Yola – another lost language of these islands (Cornish, Faroese, Manx…). Past the lovely Lady's Island Lake – a weird castle tower balanced on edge like a stunt double-decker bus – then down to Kilmore Quay.  Anne wanted a trip out to the Saltees, which looked like huge, languorous whales in the sunshine, but no go.

The harbour charming: a huge poem of rusting cables and great hulks.  The village was relatively unattractive.  And the beach was simply too inviting.  So we accepted its long shelving beach, and hard clear sand left by the retreating tide.  There for two hours, a thin veil of could overhead like a huge piece of lace, nicely tempering the extreme heat.

From there, back through Wexford to Enniscorthy. Set surprisingly on a hill, it looked, at 3 on a hot Sunday afternoon like a deserted Spanish village during siesta.  Everything shut, but the dynamics of the streets good.  On then to Courtain – a total Butlin's – then up to Arklow.  A cycling race impedes our progress by car.  Parking and continuing on foot, we hear impro jazz bands everywhere.  Down by the estuary, the place is a tip.  Indeed, I am depressed by how many Irish towns are grey, ugly and featureless.  Give me England anytime.

But it was getting late, we were hot and tired, and we passed The Bridge, an eighteenth-century inn on the bridge.  Inside, slightly unprepossessing, but the landlord an honest-looking bloke and only £12/head the night for bed and breakfast.  Out in the evening – after a go on the paddle boats for Anne.  We encounter a big gig (100s) and Irish bands in every pub – of which there are many.  The whole town is a-buzz with music, and hot but happy people.  A surprisingly good Chinese meal (in Arklow?) - but no chopsticks.  Standing on the bridge we saw two worlds: behind us, modern barbarism, squat shacks and storehouses; in front, a vision of georgic beauty, Wicklow hills in the distance.

Driving out this morning, after a hearty Irish breakfast, we took the coast road to Wicklow, which was stunning: peaceful and beautiful, reminding me of the South of France and Cornwall at once.  Some nice villas too.  Then via the N11 to Enniskerry and Powerscourt.  Normally gardens do nothing for me – but these were different.  The setting for the main Italianate garden was magnificent: terraces down to a huge pond shimmering between the dotting lily leaves.  High trees everywhere, and in the far distance, the prospect of the Great Sugar Loaf, plus attendant hills.  What a backdrop.  Otherwise the usual paraphernalia of lichened urns, green dribbling statues and perfect lawns.  Other features are a Japanese garden set in a formally boggy hollow – à la Golden Gate park – with chickweed-type(?) greenery everywhere.

Near the entrance, past strange mushroom-shaped trees, a path led through wildly-coloured flowers – including huge blue thistles – to a gate in an old brick wall.  Thence to a magic realm: a dolphin fountain set in another shimmering pond.  Magic.

The house itself – as so many seem to be in Ireland – was destroyed by fire, though only recently.  As a result, the shell shows strange vegetable forms pressing against the lower room's windows – as if a conservatory had gone mad.  Inside, the visible remains of old wallpaper are sad.  The architecture itself looks unspecial, but apparently its contents were fine.  From this idyll, to the Powerscourt waterfall, also in the house's grounds.  Set in a lush hidden valley – lots of oaks – this comes cascading down a steeply slanting face of rock like a huge twisted silk scarf, or a Christo wrapping.  A stream wends away with tawny water, oaks overhead adding to the Dutch effect.  Driving away to Glencree, the retreating form of the Great Sugar Loaf.  The road down to Tallaght – so near Dublin – surprisingly bracing.  These must be some of the best-kept secrets in Ireland.

Now I leave the Castletown coffee room – a tour of OAP Yanks has arrived – why do the old travel?  What profit can it bring them now?  The long passageway is cool as only old houses can be.  As you might expect, many curious rooms: a glimpse of an old kitchen; a wine cellar; a room with a hip bath and crude frescoes of a foxes' feast – leading to a narrow white scullery – wit: the picture above the foxes' feat is of a huntsman fallen in a ditch; a dark room full of randomly placed chains like a surrealist work of art – a cool, dank small.  Locked, a nursery room with a huge crude doll's house, and furniture, a cradle and old suitcase; next to it an empty bedroom – bed, wardrobe, low chest of drawers, all very 1900s.

Inside the house – the entrance hall – a wonderful approximate cube – gleaming white.  My eye is caught by a chamber organ, eighteenth century – four and half octaves.  Ionic columns and half columns, simple design though complex ornamentation.  In the office, I see an amazing piece of furniture – with pigeonholes, drawers et al.  A leather chair – covered with a hood…?  On the staircase – Lafranchini (?) plasterwork.  A rather pleasant tour with a young lady who reminds me of my secretary Linda… Rather intelligent, by the sound of it…

The house quite interesting – but sad since so much had been sold off.  The best room was the print room – prints applied on the walls as decoration.  The facade is large but rather unimpressive – no focus, and the colonnades are rather short.  The gardens are simply parkland, again, no grand focus.  But a pleasant place, on an enjoyable day out.

On to Dublin – sampling the delights of the one-way system.  In fact, Dublin rush-hour looks pretty wild. I park in St. Stephen's Green, not far from the hotel I stayed in two years back (Powers).  Then a walk.  My feet gravitate towards Grafton Street – I am tempted by the bustle of Bewley's, but resist – then on to Trinity College Dublin.  Perhaps the echoes of the Trinity make this place attractive.  Then down to see the Project Art Gallery.  A nice space, simple, with Satie gently playing.  As I leave, someone cycles right in and out of another door.  Interestingly, this whole area – quite decrepit when I visited before – is becoming quite lively, and looks to be a Soho or Greenwich Village in the making.

The same also goes – as far as restoration – to much of Dublin that I see this time.  There are a lot of people around, and the atmosphere is more upbeat.  However, the same seems not to be the case for the rest of Ireland I saw – still very backward, with black (Bakelite?) telephones, and punch-button adding machines.  It makes you realise what England must have been like until recently to the visiting Yanks…

For supper, inevitably, I return to the Colony.  Much as I remember it: right on, stand-offish, with studenty posters and studenty posers.  Good angry music in the background.  Just right.  Then a turn round St Stephen's, on to the airport.

More destinations:

1987 Isle of Man

1990 Western Ireland

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1994 Trieste, Ljubljana

30.9.94 Venice, Trieste

Not in Venice, alas, but in the station, having arrived from Brescia.  On the way to Trieste, then Ljubljana.   But already a sense of being on the edge: the train half empty (overflowing to Verona), the land about to become undiscovered territory for me.  Reading "Trieste" – Magris – rather dry, but giving a good sense of that smarrimento.  Fine pale blue sky outside, hurtling towards the edge.

Note how each art has its peak when form and content match.  Architecture – the Romans, when engineering meets art; painting in the Renaissance, man the measure; music – eighteenth-century Austria.  Only literature has many – because language is arbitrary and changeable.  Other arts – architecture, sculpture (Greece), music, painting – all have an obvious measure, that of reality, harmony, representation…  Words are different (only poetry has non-arbitrary structures – sonnet the peak of these in some sense).

Trieste – in the Piazza Unità d'Italia.  Entering it I had the strange sensation that the fourth side was a huge white wall (clouds – though the sun is quite strong now through the clouds).  Hotel Roma (couldn't find the bathroom – behind a curtain of what looked like a windows).  Changed money into Tolars – confused by the rates, but I think 1T is about a halfpenny (that is 5000T = £25).  Delighted to hear the hotel receptionists talking in Slovenian – which I recognised from its similarity to Czech (and just why do we spell it that way?)

Cappuccino here – plus water and sweets: L.4000. - civilised.  I sit, of course, in the Caffè degli Specchi.  Miramare glimpsed on the way in (and Duino – thus Rilke – nearby).  To the Teatro Romano, - reminds me of Alexandria – not very moving, bricks mostly.  Sun very watery.  Sitting now (5pm) on the superbly-named Molo Audace.  Very strange – everything very strange.  Huge rucked sky above, very high clouds; sun recognisably that of Venice.  Air cool and full of the smells of water.  Men and boys fishing (can't helping thinking of that short story I wrote decades ago…).  A huge wharf being rebuilt – the sound of a man hammering carries so clearly across the water.  The aspect of the city strange as if falling into the sea – it doesn't stop.  Very long front.  To my right I may have seen the Miramare out in the haze.  Fish (small and round) in the (deep) water by us.

Before, spent a couple of hours in the bookshops here.  Aptly for Joyce's sometime city, there are many, both for new and – especially – for old (bells clang tinnily, a boat putters by).  Wandering in and out of the worlds held in these bookshops (old pornography, manuals – in Italian – for the Sinclair ZX80, poems in dialect, German literature in 50 volumes, 2000L each – alas, Grillparzer incomplete) I suddenly realise that this is precisely what the Internet is like: a huge warehouse of barely-ordered books.  Hence the excitement (mine) and the frustrations (of most people).  Next to me, two old men chatter in something that seems to hover between heavy dialect (alla Veneziana) and Slovene.  Doubtless the latter has heavily influenced the former.  People beginning to take their promenades now.  Light on the water like pale gold.

Bought: Slapater "Il Mio Carso" and Sabra – selection of poetry - plus book on Trieste and northern writers (Rilke, Joyce, etc, and Magris – all my heroes, well, almost).  Certainly this sense of the edge, a cavallo various lands and cultures, makes this my kind of place. I've not ever bothered "doing" the city such as it is: just being here, drinking coffee, roaming around in bookshop is enough.  I'll perhaps rise early and go for a morning stroll before leaving tomorrow.

Along the front, practically every large building has pillars or pilasters stuck on, purely as ornament.  To the Sala Tripcovich – right by the station, and so by my hotel – for a concert – Sibelius (Swan of Tuonela"_ and Bruckner #2.  Strange edifice: modern, shell-like – perhaps while they're restoring the Teatro Verdi.  Bloody pilasters again.  Probably sold out (few seats when I booked – 30,000L.), violins desperately practising.  Very well turned-out audience – I feared I'd be the only tie-less one.  The ushers very flash in their black uniforms and brass buttons.

1.10.94 Slovenia

Just inside the border.  A long passage – it began to feel quite menacing, a mistake.  That sudden sense of no longer understanding the language (though its links to Czech are clear).  Outside rolling green hills, neat houses, cheap cars.  It is very strange to be in a country I barely knew existed.  Ljubljana is wonderful – but closed: 1pm is the witching hour here.  Now, in Gostilna, near the Shoemaker's Bridge.  Gorgeous autumn day: warm sun, stiff breeze, the trees turning, leaves falling as the branches shiver.

Hotel (Grand Union) looks excellent value for about £40 – big room, clean, view of Miklošičev park.  Young women quite swish here – relaxed and sophisticated-looking.  [Music in the distance – saw ZDF van – the Germans invading already.]  German tourists, Italians, Japanese.  Flash Ferrari parked nearby – there is money here, it seems.   Rushed around madly, looking for two things: toothbrush and film.  The former found, but not the latter.  I have decided to speak in Italian here – seems generally understood.  

On the train, families laden with consumer goods – but the customs not too nosy – probably good for the country.  You know you crossed some invisible line when you're not only allowed to traverse the railway lines – but have to, in order to leave.  Ljubljanica the river here.  Fine Baroque facades everywhere.  A kind of Balkan Dublin (Ljubljanica ~ Liffey).  How far away that city seems… Once again, I have that schizophrenic sense of being in Ljubljana – and not being here, because this is clearly impossible.

A nice trout, heavily garnished with garrr-lic.  Two decilitres of white wine, patate all'Istria – what more could one ask…?  [The music last night variable: the conductor (American?) rather stiff – except in the last movement of the Bruckner 2 – the best I've heard.]  One thing: small noses are rare here.  With the coffee, a tiny chocolate – Croat – whose flavour is pure Mallorca of 30 years ago.  2050 Tolars all told (there's that contingent onomatopoeia again) about £10 – not that cheap – but least they take Visa.

Walking along the chestnut alley of Tomšičeva ulica – a rain of conkers – are they 56ers or 45ers – what is the magic number?  Beside the opera house – wild Empire style – playing "Die Fledermaus" tonight – I think, since it is in Slovenian.  But passing to Cankarjev dom, I see a sign advertising Pogorelić – tonight...hmm. After the National Gallery (the usual nth-rate Italians and Germans – touching in their own way), across the Ljubljanica to Stari trg – and a bookshop/gallery that is open.  Škuc galerija – typical over-excited young people's stuff – nice.

Well, I didn't go to the concert (I don't even know if there were tickets…)  I'd like to have seen old Igo (lovely waistcoat), but the concert (Tchaikovsky – 1812, Piano Concerto #1, Symphony #4) would hardly have shown him off at his best.  Instead I watch the news on RTL (why do female German newsreaders all have this blonde Nazi look?), and then wander the city (under the castle, which seems the happening place in  Ljubljana, although small).  I sit, horror of horrors, in the Pizzeria Ljubljana Dvor – not really hungry, but I want to be near the river.  I can see the castle tower from here.  Interesting (though hardly surprising) that Italian is often given as language #2 on menus etc.

Walking around the city – including dank cathedral alleys – it felt very safe – old ladies doing the same.  In many ways, Slovenia looks to be one of the most successful "new" countries of the Eastern Bloc.  It must have been pretty exciting as it broke away from what the Balkan Times (published in Greece) insisted on calling FRYugoslavia (along with FYROM – Macedonia to you and me – ah, these children…).  A lovely city to stroll through, of course, with the river, the castle, the Baroque facades casting deep shadows, the bridges… Reminds me of Budapest, or rather of Buda, the back streets…

One thing that is increasingly clear to me are the cognitive spheres of influence.  For example, if you want to know what is happening in Eastern Europe, you read German newspapers.  For the Middle East, French; for South America, Spanish.  For Japan and Far East I suppose the US press is more alert – though less so than the others, aforementioned.  Which begs the question: why read UK press?  For the ex-Empire, perhaps – India, South Africa (doesn't sound very convincing…). Walking around the National Gallery, the sense of how difficult it is to start from so little. I/we take so much for granted in terms of cultural assumptions – how much is a given.  [For some reason, this restaurant brought back memories of the café by the Pergamon Museum…]

2.10.94 Ljubljana

In the Gallery of Modern Art.  Rather less depressing than that of the National Gallery: after all, creating great modern art is (theoretically) open to all.  And even though the exhibition here is pretty weak, I wonder whether Slovenia in a sense is a hope for the future.  After all, it has only two million inhabitants, but has an opera house, various museums, theatre, etc. - that is, is functional.  If the world does split into thousands of "nations", perhaps they can survive and thrive. Note that the great galleries – in London, Paris, New York – are all built on power – empire/money etc.  - but not here.

Large if not wonderful breakfast.  Then to the market – to find that today there is no flea market – perhaps because of a bloody ZDF concert (the strains of sickly-sweet Bavarian sentimentality fill the air).  Also a few spots of rain initially, but these soon pass.  Sky clearing, sun trying to emerge.  On the way here, passed some kind of French cultural institution.  Stuff on Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.  Must read his books: the ones on flying across the desert et al. Look tremendous – the prose carries an exactitude but also a tremendous sense of being spent – French culture guttering in a century that it is extrinsic to (the Magris effect).  

At the top of the Castle Tower – hazy air, but fine view.  Unfortunately, the ghastly music comes up too.  No café here, and I'm starving.  I see that the café on the "skyscraper" is open, so I may slog back there.  Hills everywhere.  Very strange place: even though the castle itself is undergoing renovation, and therefore dead, buried deep in its bowels is this trendy bar (no food, alas).  Thumping bass line, gaudy neons, rough iron walls – feels very New York. All the young trendies here.

The National Museum had the usual Roman tombstones and stuffed birds – plus a rather fine display of bronze age stuff, including a stunning ceremonial cup/bucket with interesting scenes.  Among which a man playing the pan pipes...ah, to hear that music.  Unreasonably, I like it here.  Basically, inside a gutted castle building, lots of polished marble, grainy wood, metal (fine double staircase).  Stone walls of the castle evident.  Well stocked bar.

Afterwards, to the hotel for an apple, then to the 12th floor of the skyscraper.  Worrying coming up here: rickety old lift, and when I got to the kavarna – it wouldn't let me out.  Also slight put off by appalling pix of the strip-tease that apparently takes places here at night.  These poor 30+ women looking ridiculous as only sex performers can, with bored customers sitting around.  Fine view here (sun casting shadows in the right places).  The triple bridge just visible – what a great symbol for a nation: three bridges.  It's impressive: from here I can see the Dragons' Bridge, the three bridges and the Shoemaker's Bridge. 

Finishing the day in Tivoli Park.  A wonderfully autumnal feel – the smell of deciduous leaves, that chill in the dusk air.  The end of the weekend, of my trip, and of the season.  Into the church of Franciscans: very dark and gloomy.  Outside, the bloody ZDF Germans are nearly gone, leaving a focal point for the city.  I have noticed: no beggars in Ljubljana (though a few semi down and outs) and few signs of "dog dirt".  Prague felt far more oppressively ex-communist, and poor.  Perhaps the Tito years of later alternative communism bore some sweet fruit (the current war in Bosnia being its bitter crop).

As so often, I am back for my last meal where I had my first: in the riverside restaurant – having "Ljubljana schnitzel", and half a litre of wine (I didn't think I asked for so much, but it's good, so…).  Air cooling, but lovely to sit out in a jacket.  "My" pizzeria (pizzeria moja?) opposite.  Italians behind, Germans to my right.  Also opposite me, on the rather ugly concrete wall by the river, is the phrase: "Muki je moj, jaz ga ne dam…"  The wine has an almost flowery taste – rather drinkable…

Good to see the pages filling up these past few days – shows my brain has been loosened up – as I hoped.  I need these selfish solo trips to think hard about things I too rarely have time for – novels/ideas etc.  The countries in Europe still to "do": Sweden, Iceland, Luxembourg, Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Bulgaria...I might give Ukraine a miss.

And another thing: last night, while wandering the streets, I came across a group of itinerant Andean musicians – they really do get bloody everywhere.  But what a theme: musicians from so many thousands of miles away, so far from home, do gigs around Europe…  Excellent escalope.  Mad guitarist has just played "House of the Rising Sun" – I've no idea what the song's about, but it goes to the roots of my childhood memories. I've drunk nearly half a litre of wine – too/not enough...

More destinations:

1993 Urbino

2017 Bucharest

2018 Tirana

2019 Moldova

2022 Bratislava

Moody's Black Notebook Travels