Moody's Black Notebook Travels: glanglish

Well, here we are again. What a city; what a day. First, basic info: arrived Thursday evening, Friday at Confortec because of my new Confortique contacts. Yesterday a washout (= work). Today I'm taking off. Up early for a walk in the grey coldish (= good) dawn. Through Les Halles, through Marais, to Place des Vosges. First time in Place des Vosges – stunning. Typical French obsession with order and regularity. Lovely colonnades, very intimate in feel – perhaps because of the low roofs. To Hugo's house – bare inside, mostly pix.

From Bastille to Louvre (I have a Paris five-day pass). To Comédie-Française, where I buy a ticket for "Iphigénie" tomorrow at 8.30pm. I already have a ticket for 6.30pm tonight: "Charlus", based on the man himself. My French is probably good enough to cope. Then to Denon wing, a small exhibition of Lully stuff, OK. Up to Musée d'Art Moderne. Nice Matisse, rest rather ropey. To Palais de Tokyo – huge photo exhibition on sculpture. Quite interesting, if exhausting.

Then to here, Beaubourg. Which I have not been to for probably 15 years. Much better than I remember it. Busy, bustling, lots to see. But before I walk around, a few important things. This place (Paris) is so wonderful that I feel I will have to do something really corny: live here for a few months – to write "Doing The Business" (DTB). It all fits. DTB is emotionally Racine-based. I bought Iphigénie today and had the idea of incorporating it and four other Racines = 25 acts in DTB (Iphigénie - the choice about whether to fire someone, Phèdre – the editor and her cub reporter).

Anyway, it looks plausible living here for, say, three months – allow £3/4000 for it, should be possible. End of this year might be good timing, not too many tourists etc. Sounds good to me...It is becoming clear to me that Glanglish II, III etc will follow occasionally. My main task is DTB etc. The other thing is Paris is probably the best place to learn Arabic for a trip in 1993. Also (here, for example) there seems to be facilities, libraries etc. Provided Is till have my NUJ card, Paris is cheap – especially cinema (I'm tempted by Dingo…)

But to the pix. First, though: note, there was a real competitive market in plays in seventeenth-century France - people producing spoilers etc (see Racine book). Exactly like magazines, exactly like business… Racine lost too… But "A comedy".

Why are the analytic cubist pix nearly monochrome: because colour would destroy the planes = the whole point. I want to produce black and white pix like these synthetic cubist works. Purest form of their art. Brilliant stuff – especially the Picasso – I must read the new biography. Up now in the cafe. Last time I was here it was really tacky. Not bad now – full of young trendies – far younger than me… Grey day out there. Paris still at its best.

I am now in a Japanese restaurant about ten yards from my hotel – for many reasons perhaps: because I'm pretty sure that I ate here some five of six years ago. Though it seems to have changed menus since then. Full of japs though...probably a good sign.

Certainly was. Absolutely yummy – and very cheap (about £5) for tea, soup, salad and huge rice and chicken "omelette" thing. Hearing Japanese spoken: makes me want to learn it. When, though? And how? I wonder if there are any bursaries for writers…?

"Charlus" was all that I could have wished. I understood about half and remembered nearly all of that. The narrator was good – not quite feeble enough; Charlus was, well, Charlus to a T. Ultimately quite moving too, the loneliness despite/because of all his power and accomplishments. Hm. Intimate theatre, below the main one.
[DTB: "can't get this mag launched until you fire him" – cf. Iphigenie…]

12.1.92 Musée Picasso

Here again again. Everything I wanted. Analytic cubism the peak for me, really – so intelligent. Practically all of his pix have a woman in it. As if trying to understand them by re-stating the problem. Also minotaurs – at the heart of the labyrinth – Daedalus, patron saint of the new… (and Theseus in Phèdre…). Some thoughts on beauty – towards a Darwinian Aesthetic. Perhaps beauty is simplicity – compare "elegant" theorems in maths. Even in apparent complexity – a Bach fugue - you seek harmony = simplicity, all parts being of the whole. Also: the power of analogy. Analogy is about finding a structure pre-existing in the brain => saves brain cells – saves new learning. Similarly perhaps beauty is about minimisation of brain cells: a smooth "simple" curve is more easily stored than a jagged one => feels nice, because the brain finds it easier to grasp. Well, it's a start…

Back in the Japanese restaurant – weak, yeah, but saves faffing before the Racine (very Noh almost…? Nearest equivalent…) - also I have a strange lingering qualm about this trip – after all, I done little real work – very little today – and I've gained so much otherwise. After Picasso, to the other side of Paris: La Défense finally. Emerging from the RER, to be greeted by this huge primitive/modern arch, climb the great tsunami of steps – immediately made me think of Boullée. Up to the roof – crazy lift. Dull exhibition up there, crazy too – and very modern. Almost like a space ship – very flash, very French – compare the World Trade Centre – dull, commercial – and in the UK, nothing equivalent. The sheer effrontery of the French planning.

To Iphigénie, Comédie-Française. Round corner for a quick cafe crème before, then unable to find toilets – and no break. Comédie-Française sumptuous, acoustics not too good (I was on 4me). Very lush inside. Acting good: Iphigénie and Achille particularly so. Even with the lousy acoustics I could understand most of it: am I there?

NB: DTB – boyfriend is nearly killed in a car crash in Brighton (cf. Hippolyte) – driving because miserable, because neglected.

13.1.92

Strange day – work, first – consuming microcomputer magazines, then out to RBP France to convince them to launch Windows User...hard work, but at least not completely rejected. Strangely torn today… I felt I was living a Racine play – that flip-flop, that 0/1 of the binary digit, yes/no, the indecision. How so we decide (compare most important job of boss in DTB: to be decisive – because anything can be justified, any story sold – but not a changing one.)

Then for a long walk around Place des Vosges – which I really like. Most closed. Across to the Île Saint-Louis – which looks very touristy without the touristy (paradoxical, moi?). Saw place – studio – for rent there: £100 a week...nothing… I must come here – I could live here for years at that rate. Walking, walking – and back to here, which is a place I passed just south of Place des Vosges. Whereas everywhere else just felt wrong, this place, though grubby, felt right. Turns out to have Basque specialities...we shall see.

I was overcome by an intense fatigue when talking to the RBP bloke – I really don't care. Only a sense of duty – and a rather interesting possibility – kept me going. Vegetable soup no "tres chaud". One thing: somebody told me yesterday of a Linguatheque at the Pompidou Centre – practically every language in the lab...could be convenient. ["Truc" – the word on everyone's lips.] Soup – simple, good, hot, copious. Paris, obviously, is a walker's city. Perfect for the poor. It is also the quintessential city of exile. Perfect for me….

Tuna à la basquaise– everything I could have hoped. Délicieux. A long, narrow room, bare-ish walls, except for the bullfighting posters – and on the ceiling. Music – French – in the background. Only me except for two ladies (young) who seem to be friends of the patron. Life is good (could this be the half litre of win speaking…?) [Garbure – the soup]. On the wall, weird ball catcher – some Basque game, clearly. I must go there… Basque cake to follow – very strange, very nice. This, with plums inside. Yummy.

Interesting effect in the Métro: sitting opposite two women on the other track, I can almost hear what they are saying – à la St Paul's Whispering Gallery...

More destinations:

2023 Paris

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

Wednesday, 22 September 2021

1990 Western Ireland

5.5.90 Claddaghduff, County Galway

5.15pm, the sun beginning to sink over the Atlantic. Utterly idyllic, I'm afraid. Crunchy seaweed like a Chinese meal; the smell of Cornwall; hard, flat beach, a causeway across to an island; low tide, worm casts; impossible turquoise and jet-black-blue waters. No one but me and Sister Anne around. The sea a distant murmur. The wind keen, refreshing. Was I really in London 12 hours ago?

Everything like the last reel of a sad but profound film. My little white Fiesta tucked away by the sand's margin.

Now in Renvyle House Hotel. Backtracking… Up at 4am, to Heathrow – huge red globe of the sun like a fruit. Hour flight to Shannon – surprisingly big airport. Met Sister Anne (who stayed nearby overnight), picked up car, onto N18, to Galway.

Overcast (London was totally clear), coldish. Anne is optimistic; but I am not. Stop off in Galway for morning elevenses. Pleasant – bustling market town – looks like something out of the 1930s.

The coast road (R336) to Costelloe. Weather beginning to clear. The sea to our left, all very like Kerry of two years ago. A detour to Cornamona, then up to Gortmore. We see the 12 Pins (Bens) in the distance. Beautiful as we come into Cashel. Sun brilliant, a few fluffy clouds. Lunch (a rip-off) in Cashel, then up to the T71, through the Kylemore Pass – very Lake District.

We stop off at the Victorian Kylemore Abbey. A school for girls with a stunning view of the hills and Kylemore Lough. A case full of podgy blotchy hockey teams. The stars and their Cantab PhD. Tea and tea-cake (like Xmas cake) in their tea shop, then to Letterfrack (great name), up to Cleggan. Wind very strong now, the bay a huge ruffled turquoise pool, the 12 Pins behind, a hill opposite. We sit on straw bales – the smell of tortoises. Then round to the amazing, beautiful Claddaghduff, and its low tide causeway to Omey Island. Driving down to the N59/T71, the sea full of island – you can see why Irish mythology is full of Land of Youth and such-like – it's all obviously true.

Back to Letterfrack and then to here. £30 each for a decent room and brekkies. Fair number of sports facilities – including boating, which obviously Anne wanted to try. But the wind by now very strong – waves rising. We/I can't get the boat out. I sulk, we flounder – then I/we give up. Hmph. Anne going to mass soon. Earlier, we saw in the distance the amazing cliffs of Achill Island, where we hope to go tomorrow. Today – despite my deeply mature tantrum etc. - has been glorious. Who could believe that three weeks ago I was in Sonoma?

After dropping Anne off, down to Renvyle Point. To my left, the ruined tower and the slightly dusky sun falling towards it; in front, the bay, and the distant mountains gradually receding into the mist. Sheep graze, the wind roars and thunders – but quietly. The sea is a pewter pool, and looks infinite. Kelp lies in huge bundles like old rope. Hobbled sheep. A yearling lamb. A ram like a ball of wool. The lambs are eating the seaweed (and why not?). A ewe's bloated udder bounces between her legs. The beach a huge swatch of babbled, starry cloth, pebbles gleaming, pools white. Apart from the wind, such silence… A shepherd appears, timeless. Sicilian, weather-beaten, garbed in trousers and a cap.

Memories of other Irelands… Although unintentional and non-systematic, Anne's and my journeys in Eire are pretty comprehensive. A gibbous moon. The driftwood piece I gave as a gift. I could sit here for centuries (the Land of Youth again…). A cloud rests on a smooth peak like a disembodied gloved hand resting on a bronzed breast. A curtain of cloud rolling in from the West; and tomorrow…?

6.5.90 Renvyle House

Up late after superb dinner (6.45am). Overcast, but hope for sun. I sit on my bed, looking at the 12 Pins. Through a chasm in the clouds an extraordinary sight: a falling of white light like a silver shower. Very physical. Reading Peig Sayers' "An Old Woman's Reflections" – very strong sense of the ancient heroic age and its passing.

Last night, I gave Anne her various prezzies – Holy oil and tapes and a book from St Makarias – and "Glanglish". I was struck by the pleasure I gained watching her read a few essays – her expressions, her concurrence. I can see how this might prove addictive…

Along to Achill Island, to Keel – one of the most westerly points in Europe. Then the beach at the end of the road. Brilliant white beach, feathered with black. A stream to the sea, ox-bowing before our eyes. Anne is drawing the gothic arched bridge over the stream.

Lunch in Keel – oysters, lobsters – with what consequences…? Interesting restaurant – à la Man and Calf: long, aqueous, like a ship's saloon. Pop and rap incongruously fill the air. Food good, place nearly deserted. Achill Seafood Restaurant - £40.

After a stupendous meal, along to the Cathedral Rocks. Drive to the east end of Keel's beautiful beach. Looking back West, the headland with its implicit cliffs, the Lake District hills. The sun breaking through now and again. Strong smell of wet seaweed – and of Cornwall, 30 years ago.

Rocks like blasted trees, dendrochronology gone mad. Soft ferns draped like antimacassars – fairy lands again. The drip of water. Only the Garden of Fand beyond. That sound of lapping water – I'm a born Englishman, sea in my veins. The strand lit by the sun – a slivver crescent of light. Anne sketching, echoing in images these words. Software cropped grass – fairy lawnmowers… The sun comes out, hot and beneficent [A fly gets behind my Ray-bans…]. I could eat this seaweed – were I not stuffed. The cliffs rear up like Balinese rice fields, stepped, luxuriantly green. And yet the Cathedral's themselves are small and unspectacular – nothing compared to Étretat… The more I see all these places, the more I long to live here for a few months, writing, thinking. Will I…?

I sit facing the fabulous (fables, indeed) Cliffs of Moher. It is 8pm, and the curving sun has slipped below the broken cloud cloth, heading towards the burnished sea. The cliffs stretch away to the right, classic sheer drops, with deep arches – real "Famous Five" stuff. The polyphonic gulls' cries filter through the air. Down below they look like swarms of gnats. The striated cliff walls have green splashes – like stains in baths. Ink-blue black sea froths at the cliffs' foot. A tower is behind me, the sun at 45 degrees to my right. Most of the tourists have gone, leaving me with this majesty. Anne too has gone. Moody is alone (ah…). But a glorious end to a glorious day – and weekend.

This reminds me of Tintagel, and of the dragon watching the sun from his cave. The long, long shadows lie on the deep green grass. Behind the cliffs – which form a spur, the coast further south west – nothing for 3000 miles. The End of Europe. This place is very different. On the radio here, a programme about the latest news in Irish folk music.

Moving round north, the Aran Isles bask like happy whales. Beyond them Galway, Connemara and the 12 Pins. The cliff to my right like the curtain wall behind Queen Hatshepsut's Temple – sheer and incised. Then a wall at right angles to it, closing it off, making a kind of proscenium stage and arch. The rock layers very straight and horizontal – as if laid in courses. The sun growing golden. My body really quite chilled – but pleasantly.

Back in Ennis, the Queen's Hotel – not bad. No din-dins after such a lunch (and alas – I can't remember what I had for dinner last night – which was excellent: mushrooms stuffed with ham and mustard, carrot and ginger soup; but then what? With the Côte de Beaune?)

So, from Renvyle to Westport, then to Achill – very like Skye. So many beautiful vistas. And finishing with Keel. Lunch: oysters – crisp; lobster; then apple pie. All excellent and in such an atmospheric café. The hurtling back for Anne's bus to Cork. From Leenane to Maum, along Lough Corrib to Headford – then a long, straight road to Galway. We stop off at Gort to see WB Yeats' shack – idyllic, creeper up one side, fast trout stream with stepping stones. Then to Ennis.

Me out to Cliffs of Moher. As I return the sun stains the clouds amazing hues. A quick turn around the town – very pleasant, quite unspoilt and reminding me very much of Wexford. And so to bed (soon). What a day/life…

7.5.90 London at 1000 feet

About 10am – I have just seen my flat, flying over it – the air is so clear, and London laid out like a map.

Well, here's a turn-up for the books: Moody in Chiswick Gardens, just north of the villa. I have been along to Hogarth's House – finally, having passed it for so many years. But I never even knew these gardens existed.

The House – though much restored, and filled mostly with prints – is charming. A mulberry tree in the garden. The place looked after by a late middle-aged chap – typically friendly. Told me about Church Street – an idyllic street of Georgian and Elizabethan houses – and only steps from the A4. Down to the river – the smell of mud, the tiny crepitation of low tide.

Back to Chiswick. Past the greenhouse – reminds me of Powerscourt – a broken urn like something out of Greenaway. Café closed, alas. Round to the Rotonda (so to speak). Planes roar overhead, echoes of myself.

More destinations:

1987 Isle of Man

1989 Eastern Ireland

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

Thursday, 2 September 2021

1991 Lisbon

15.3.91 Gatwick

Strange to be sitting back here (in the café, needless to say) having failed to eat my statutory (US) muffin – only a suspiciously evanescent doughnut – beginning another of these black books – the echo of another time – but which one? Egypt? - would be apt since the first real draft of Egyptian Romance is almost done.

But an interesting day – with headhunters, then telling my boss, then flirting with Fran – who actually and unconsciously quoted from Rubbish in Glanglish – and then to here. But. I do wonder where "nel mezzo del cammin" I am going… and Glanglish is a flop – except with kind friends. So now I run away – Lisbon today, New York two weeks ago, Shannon in two weeks (fixed up today...who cares?)

Lisboa 16.3.91

I have messed up in a fairly serious way: it bucketed down rain during the night. But all I have is my standard jacket. Twit.

Hotel good: basic room, comfortable bed and stunning view over Lisboa (as we say). To my left (I sit now in the top floor bar for breakfast) the castle on the hill, to my right another Golden Gate bridge (orange, that is). In between, an undulating sea of red and orange roofs. Further north, the blocks of flats and mini skyscrapers. Low clouds – but also a tiny hint of blue.

A stroll into town. Temperature perfect – if the rain keeps off… Through small, winding, steep backstreets – easy to find the main road – but getting back hard. However, quite run-down. Some covered with old tiles. Doggy-do everywhere.

Down to Praça da Figueira – quite nice, then to Rossio – good character, lots of interesting buildings. One thing I saw on the way here: Miles Davis is in town tomorrow: if only…

Everyone, but everyone, wears black leather jackets. I, needless to say, stand out like the proverbial. As with all countries fresh from years of repression (Spain, Greece), there is a lot of soft porn in evidence.

I sit now at the riverside, at the edge of Praça do Comércio. The river stinks, and reminds me of Varanasi for some reason... People pour off the ferry. Up along to the Alfama. Past church of the the Madeleine, to the Cathedral. Beggars outside. Inside, five, six women. Very over-the-top baroque interior, fine dome over the nave. Walls faced with pale dirty orange marble. Totally OTT baldacchino-cum-altar. A woman rises from praying to touch the corner of an oil painting of a saint. Then she stands, praying under her breath, before leaving. Serious business. Instead of lighting, candles: you put money in a slot, and one of the around 160 bulbs on plastic candles lights up. Hmm…

Moron: now I'm in the cathedral – the other was some parish church. Lovely Romanesque job – pure rounded arches. That old, cold earthy smell – reminds me of that place near Aldeburgh. Very bare inside, very austere and beautiful. Up to Largo Santa Luzia – beautiful. Lovely ensemble of buildings, angled roads (cobbled), and the church with its glorious tiles, and stunning view over the river. The sun begins to come out.

Long walk around. Up to Castelo de S. Jorge – picturesque ruins – reminds me of San Gimignano. Then a wander through backstreets to Largo Martim Moniz, and then to Coliseu – shut – when does it open? Unlikely to have seats, I would have thought. So along to Rossio for coffee at the Café Pique Nigre (???) - anyway, on the pavement, directly facing the fountain. Very jolly in the sun, which is roaring down through broken clouds now. Lovely day. And lovely, as ever, to be here. Two weeks ago I was in New York – this is getting to be a habit, and feel normal.

Streets bustling now. A few blacks around from North Africa (?) - everyone well wrapped up, and with brollies. A few tourists – French, Dutch here in the café, other coachloads by the castle. Women typically dark here, dark brown eyes. Not particularly attractive [PS the other church was supposed to be built on the birthplace of Saint Anthony of Padua – brings Mahler to mind.] The road where the Coliseu is - R. das Portas de Santo Antão – is very colourful, and looks to be perhaps the real heart of things.

Once again (or is this a false memory?) a disconcerting sight of a bloke sitting down in the next pavement café, bent over a black book, writing; look up, writing… He has a ponytail – my stylish doppelganger?

Yo! Yo! And triple yo! - a ticket for Miles Davis tomorrow – what larks…

Now in Restaurant Gambrinus – a bit pricey, but what the hell. Fish soup, then eel steak boiled and '84 white. Yummy. Very stiff and formal here – clientele all middle-aged men – and the waiters speak little English, which is interesting. Things well presented: the wine served with great dash from a height, the soup on a separate table – my sort of place. Fish soup wonderful – thick and brown like oxtail, with chunks of seafood. Wine very dry, with a good taste. Tomato salad was also well presented. Opposite (I'm up on the balcony) there's a big old bloke puffing on his cigar, drinking his port.

The eel was disappointing. I'd imagined a large eel steak – something along the conger line. Instead, I got a little squit of an eel, cut up into 30 small portions. Very bony – and it tasted, well, very eely (what a fine word, let's have it again: eely – a bit like Ely, which is el-ig, of course...cf. Swifts "Waterland" – muddy and a bit bland. But one must try these things. I've still got the lamb's testicles to try in Lebanese cooking… And another bit of style: a wonderful blunt chopper-type instrument for scraping the crumbs off. Creme caramel cut from a mother of a CC…

I have just ordered a 1944 Port (costing around £10…). I can see the bottle approaching – dusty, rarely-seen, moved with a reverence befitting its age. Colheita do 1944 – a rite – shown to me, poured slowly, taken away – like a relic taken back to its sanctuary after the crowds have adored. It is very tawny, orangey, sherry in colour. How do I dare drink it? But in terms of cost it's not much more than that £30 bottle at Pollyanna's I once drank. So, here goes… Sherry, then a fragrance, then toffee, then the fragrance again. You can taste the brandy…

The hot, burnt, strong coffee acts as a kind of sandpaper for the palette – served from a kind of chemistry set retort. A very strange experience – that sense of reverence – 46 years old – older than me – the oldest drink I've ever had… Probably ten mouthfuls - £1 each. Also, this port was bottled during the war. Strange to drink something created then. But then Portugal is a kind of time capsule, standing outside the mainstream European history. The residual bitterness of the coffee grouts go well with the port. The last mouthful – but by now, my senses have been dulled by the power of the first few – Ô paradoxe…

Long, long walk out to the Gulbenkian Modern Art collection – free with NUJ card. Fantastic building – pix bit ho-hum, mostly Portuguese. But some interesting Brit stuff – Michael Andrews, Peter Blake, Hockney, early Hodgkin. But no expense spared for the collection.

To the main musuem – again free, but sans bag this time. I ignore the Egyptian stuff – seems pointless really. The layout of the museum is beautifully spare and sparse, everything presented to the best effect. Beautiful Roman vases – unusual effects – someone must have been pleased when he discovered them. Assyrian seals – nice: shown in material the same colour as the cylinder. Interesting: Armenian art. We tend to forget that Armenia once was a great empire. Two fine Rembrandts – one of them a young man in a helmet and armour, the other – very fine – of an old man in almost Scottish garb. The eyes, the hands very good good, lovely burnished tones of his cloak and gown. Two unusual Ruysdaels: one of a pool, but with a half-timbered church next to it, the other of a stormy seascape. Gob-smacking portrait of Colbert by Sebastian Bourdon – I've never seen a pic that seemed so likely to walk out of its frame and say "bonjour".

Famous Rubens of Hélène Fourment – but in a dress… A Venetian velvet fan. Amazing, I recognise a Nattier straight off. A very human bust of Molière, a very Mozartian smile on his features. Portrait of Madamoiselle Salle – looking just like Glenn Close… An extremely naughty statue of Diana by Houdon – complete with labia, not just a bump… Nice Gainsborough – Mrs Lowndes-Stone – less aloof than many. A roomful of Venice – all Guardis – nice one of fair in Piazza San Marco – very strange effect – all the grandeur gone. Including Guardi's realisation of the Palladio bridge at the Rialto…

Trouville by Boudin - I vaguely recognised the scene. Amazing Turner of Quillebeuf - great. Terrifying shipwreck scene too – makes you realise what the Titanic must have been like. Pic of Venice – by Corot: dead, dead, dead. Recognised Fantin-Latour – whatever next? Lovely Monet. Burne-Jones – Mirror of Venus with all the reflections terribly off. Re-looking at Guardi: there are no birds here either – was Venice devoid of them, or did Guardi copy this aspect of Canaletto?

So, I sit in the restaurant Já Disse – after a trek and a half. I have heard my first fado – and not bad it was – but the swordfish is off the menu… I am risking cod, which is meant to be characteristic – let's hope it's also good.

From Gulbenkian by metro – very cheap (45 centavos - about 20p) – very clean and efficient – to Soccorso, the nearest stop. Then out – straight into the red light district. Very interesting the patterns of people – that strange kind of loitering that is unique to these districts. Lots of stares as I pass not once, but twice past all the "bars" with ladies – some not so young – outside [fado is off again. When I entered during a song, they wouldn't let me through – respect for the fado must be a good sign. A few words on it: I've got blokes here – high baritones, lots of vibrato. Two guitars – one playing counterpoint de dum stuff, the other, with its characteristic shape, plays an obbligato line. Voice really keen – minor key stuff – vaguely modal at times.] Caldo verde – cabbage soup plus potatoes – and <i>one</i> piece of sausage.

At first I was worried that the singers and players were in their woolies – but I realise now that this is actually a guarantee of their authenticity. One of the problems I had while walking through the grid of Barrio Alto – finding it finally – was deciding which of the ten or so fado restaurants I should choose. Most disqualified themselves by their deeply tacky ads outside – star-spangled fado stars. This had little – but it did have a very neatly wordprocessed menu – I went into job interview mode, where details like that count, hovered for ages – then entered. Looks good so far – perhaps only one other tourist couple, the rest Portuguese. Interesting design here: a fake wooden roof – rather like Felfela – and some rather gruesome pelts on the walls – foxes et al.

An amazing concoction has turned up – cod and potatoes in boiling butter – lethal – plus garlic. Yup, totally lethal – pure garlic but, alas, that ain't a problem. The carafe of vinho has also done its work – on to the chocolate mousse…

So, as I was saying, finally back to the hotel for a rest – I have walked miles today (yo! M. Davis), a shower, then by taxi to Praça do Comércio – fine in the dusk. Up to Rossio, then out to Barrio Alto – a long walk, missing it at first, going too far, then back to here, wandering and wandering, looking for that place juste – and possibly finding it – insofar as a tourist can in one day. And now to coffee – but no port after lunchtime. Dinky coffee cups – with equally dinky coffee spoons.

One of the singers seems to be the owner/maître d'. A large lady has rolled in – a started singing rather well – a throaty female voice. This is definitely the biz – the audience is joining in, visibly moved. Interesting the jazzy variations in the chorus. Place filling up now – 19.15pm. She weighs 20 stone if she's an ounce (a thumb). Just ordered a madeira (I hope) – when queried, I said "ναι"…the influence lives on. OK, so I'm weak – on to a second coffee, black, small and perfectly formed – and the madeira – not bad – because it's clear I need to hear more the large lady ('cos it's not over until…). Nice: singer/owner/maître d' drinking brandy with guests – a good feel here…

Interesting that the madeira has a final slightly bitter aftertaste – unlike the '44 port. Drinking this stuff is like chromatography on the tongue: lingual chromatography; I can almost feel the different components separate.

Female chefs – with a kitchen covered in azulejos – and I failed to spot the connection between azul and lapis lazuli – twit. The fox skin next to me is hammered to the wall with nails and 50 centavos pieces.

A good day, making life seem quite bearable at times…

Lisboa 17.3.91

Glorious, glorious morning – though with clouds coming in perhaps. And what a glorious night yesterday. Yes, well worth the effort of searching and searching for Já Disse – the singing was pretty authentic – even down to the large lady just dropping in, having a quick sing. Pity about the "Madeira", which was prime grade engine oil at some point in its life. Talking of oil, the coffee here is as black – really strong, French-type – milk makes little dent in its negritude. A pretty sterling breakfast.

It's strange looking out from my eyrie here, how the scene before me – yesterday an inchoate roil of roofs and half-visible streets – has become a city with thoroughfares and characters even. At various points I can identify landmarks: Santa Luzia, Castelo San Jorge, Rossio, the Eiffel "Tower" of the Santa Justa Lift etc. I am beginning to claim Lisboa.

But yesterday. After the meal, and the fado, I emerged into quite a different world from the one I left. The narrow streets were seething with people – young people, including a fair few senhoritas – they exist here. As I walked past tiny, nondescript doorways, I saw inside packed smokey rooms, young people everywhere, talking, joking, laughing. Some were restaurants, some cafés, some bars, some just rooms. All were low and atmospheric. I suddenly realised how Soho must once have been – in the 50s? Colin MacInnes et al.? - a tiny area that comes alive only at night, like sea animals animated by the dark wave of water at high tide – I just had to walk and walk – pure being.

But then back to Rossio – the bars along the way spilling out onto the pavements. Lovely buzz. Down to the Tejo, smelling like Venice – and indeed much of Lisboa reminds of Venice – Venice on a hill, without the water...especially near my hotel. "The Hills of Venice"…

I pick a taxi driver who doesn't know the way, so can't find it. Amazing how few people speak English here – good sign. I wonder what Miles will be doing today – yo! Wonderful muzak in the background – old Sinatra hits, numbers from the 60s, musicals, all in swooning strings, chunky saxes, punchy trumpets.

Now that I have my bearings better, I walk easily to Praça de Graça, then to Santa Luzia. Now in Alfama, sitting in glorious sun, beside São Miguel. Pigeons coo around me, water plashes from a sea monster in a fountain on a wall. The sound of Sunday stirrings. Again, this place is amazingly like Venice, especially with regard to dog-dirt – you can't afford to admire too much lest you put your foot in it. Also of the square in San Gimignano. Carpets on a line to dry by the church, two netball baskets – sponsored by Coca-Cola. I sit on a stone bench backed by a hundred azulejos – all different.

Along to Santo Estêvão, so like San Francesco della Vignola in Venice. On the way, took the narrowest steps imaginable – the roofs closing above me. Round the back of the church, a blind doggia and azulejos, a strange heavy grille opposite, big stone bollards. Down the Escolinhas, a zigzag of paths, railings, trees, houses – a photographer's paradise…

By the wotsit monument in Belem, - finally. Another Moody magical mystery tour. Decide to take taxi...turns out there is a big run today, with thousands of people – and the road to Belem is closed. So we end up taking a huge detour. But...I did find two things serendipitously: the house with the spiked rustication looked like azulejos gone mad – and the great aqueduct. So all was not lost.

Now in lovely sun, cool breeze, lapping of waves, tens of sailing dinghies out. I'm sorry, but I rather like the monument – it strides out into space rather fetchingly, the clouds flee behind. Very peaceful here.

Inside the Torre do Belem – free today. Harpsichord music (whose? - CPE Bach/WF Bach-ish) – pleasant. Strange to be in the place – the only place – I've associated with Lisboa in my filing system. A long way here, hardly worth it frankly… But pleasant with the music on the harpsichord.

After coffee nearby, to Belem proper, and the Monastery dos Jeronimos. Gorgeous interior – King's College Chapel-type perpendicular on the roof of the nave, the columns crazily alive – as if the stone were bubbling. Lots of people around because of the race. Interesting empty niches along walls with doors beneath. A sudden burst of sunshine lights up the space. Fine gallery in the west end – giving a lovely low space underneath. Double-decker cloisters, small formal garden – wonderfully peaceful – reminds me of Sant'Agostino, again at San Gimignano. The stone used here weathers beautifully: black and white striping. In the distance, I hear Gregorian chant, echoing, booming. Great, tiny (sic) carvings of devils and monsters et al. To the West, a long, low room with simple scenes on tiles. Fine fireplace and picture of Santo Jeronimo – plus lion…

Rosa dos Mares Restaurant – upstairs – cool, rustic décor – just on Rua de Belem along from Rafael restaurant – Fodor's recommendation, which is closed. Fairly full with locals – big capacity at back. Walls rough plaster – very thickly applied, painted pink, white woodwork, wooden floor. Wine – although house – not bad, slightly tawny. Whenever I eat in these places – places with pretension – I often think back to those first trips with my family to eat at the London Steak House in Epsom. Albeit very limited, they did at least introduce me to the concept and normality of eating out – so that later in life I would take to it like the proverbial duck. I feel sorry for those who whom I meet at work who are plainly ill-at-ease in this context, be they never so senior. Alas, a little bland the food here. The vegetable soup lacking flavour, the kid not meaty enough (though not as tough as my goat curry in Brixton…) Cold baked apple and marsala. OK… but all for £11.

It's funny, beginning to think about Son of Glanglish...masochism, pure masochism – but when I get back I will send out a few copies for a lark.

To the Museum of Coaches: it joins Moody's Museum of Mad Musems – along with the hunting place – Chambord and the one in Jodhpur. Good setting for a horror film – a large hall filled with gilt and velvet bristling coaches – all gross. But undoubtedly, they have a certain something. Fine group of post horns – perfect circles. From the gallery, everything looks so old and musty. And like some mad ancient dragsters convention.

To the Museu Art Antiga – unknown to the taxi driver – perfect timing – 15 minutes before it opens. Nice Danaid of Rodin. Unexpected Piero della Francesca – St. Augustine. Rock solid and stern – his cloak scenes from the Bible. The terrifying "Temptation of St. Anthony" by Bosch: what a unique and precocious spirit his was – his vision is so modern in many ways – destruction, sexuality, gross consumption, nightmare drug delirium. And the fluidity of his images – men turning into trees, heads into bodies, animals into men… The blazing city – the terrors of war and invasion, the flying machines – what looks like a spaceship almost [downstairs, a piano is moving up a semitone at a time in octave tremolos...why?]. Back here after "doing" the museum...it peters out oddly in a new section – very dark and quiet. Interesting Japanese screens showing the arrival of the first Europeans – the Portuguese. But the best is the Bosch – so zu sagen. And I am now exhausted, my feet killing me.

The lord gives etc. - interesting ripoff in the taxi – he had a meter in the glove department – and only revealed at the end, and obviously running for a while – but I realised too late and lacked the words – and energy – to argue over £1...worth it for the knowledge. But rewarded with a ride in Eiffel's lift – and it really looks like the Eiffel Tower in the lift from my memory. Up at the top, I notice that my hotel is practically the top of Lisbon – brilliantly situated.

Lisbon quite animated. From here, I see the taxi rank – their green tops – oxidised copper colour forming a tasteful blob by the theatre. Looking forward to tonight. So, after walking down – good to see that the fire damage to the old part was not that bad – after buying some chestnuts (castanhas) – cold, some off – god knows what it'll do to my guts – but then I could do with losing some weight – I'm back in Pic-Nic, breathing in old smoke – which seems vaguely appropriate to Portugal, since everyone smokes, drinking milky coffee. Why here? Partly because the reasons for going elsewhere are not really good enough – i.e. being different for the sake of it – partly because this is the best place to watch the world – and the darkening skies – and to catch a taxi "home". As ever, I'm glad to be going back – if only because I've really pushed myself these 48 hours, and am now exhausted.

I wonder where the attractive young women of the Bairro Alto last night go during the day. They ain't here… Reminds me (lots of this) of the central square in Oslo, also of the Place de l'Opéra in Paris – with the theatre in the distance. Lots of people with trannies around – must be football – my conning taxi-man had it on – in between ogling women as he drove. But then he is his own punishment…

Archetypal Latins – smoke like chimbleys. Brolly clutchers too – worse than Brits. Chestnuts in Munich… When putative Brits walk by, it is almost painfully obvious, with their pasty complexions. Well, let's go the whole hog – having a port with my coffee – the latter being pretty horrible – if only to see what roadside port is like. A generous measure – about double, 2.5 times UK. A warm glow in the mouth and gullet. It makes me feel positively eighteenth century – cf. Whigs and Tories. A tradition I could get into the habit of – drinking port mid afternoon by the bucket… Particularly now that the air temperature is dropping.

Back to the hotel for a rest – and a shave, hoping to save time tomorrow. Then in to town, to eat before the concert. Along to the road on with the Coliseu finds itself – lots of fish restaurants – some almost empty – and this one, almost full (too full? - we're all cramped together, and the service is frayed) – but getting fuller too. Many people out – a real contrast with the UK – Sunday is dead there. Here it is almost the day out by the look of things.

Strange to see the huge lobsters alive at the front, waiting for their turn – presumably. I've just been shown my half – not too closely connected. So the meal...well, the shrimp bisque a little watery, the lobster (grilled) not as good as that in The Gambia. Am I fated never to have a perfect meal here? Cf. The fruits de mer at L'Huîtrière in Boulogne – now that was a meal and a half…

Interesting implements for eating: a hammer for breaking the shell. [At times I take a perverse delight in my cacography – and in its wild curlicues – almost abstract on the page – especially with my ideography]. An interesting effect: because the lobsters are in a tank in the window, and we are below the tank, it seems that we are below the water too… My expresso brings back memories of ...Sicily, and the Monreale Cathedral – a bar near there, lethal coffee and the standard glass of water…

60 minutes to go… (and I hope he does turn up…)

Among the lobsters, there is one top dog (sic) who sits @ the top of one of the two ladders: will he/she be first/last to go (and parenthetically, where did this "@" lark start…?)

Could I stay on the road for a year, say? Εξαρτάται: I tend to drive myself when I'm away – and exhaust myself. If I were away for longer, I'd have to ease up. Is this Moody's Second or Third Law of Tourism? [I also remember the curved road down from Monreale…] A good sunset this evening, golds and mauves – made me think of Egyptian Romance, waiting for me.

£40 for that? But who cares? I'm in the Coliseu – about 50 feet from the front. Amazing place – holds 8000 they say – cheap seats, packed, the Plateia – where I am not – people smoking though – wooden floor, wooden seats – everything wooden – makes King's Cross look like a match. Gob-smacking place – ten tiers then two tiers of boxes, plus one of standing at the top. Only possible because I'm getting a 7.20am flight, unusually… Fine royal box at the back. I can see I have committed a solecism by not tipping the little man who showed me to my seat.

Lisbon airport 18.3.91

So here I sit at a rather quiet airport, having been woken from a very, very deep sleep at 5am. Up quickly, a final farewell to the wonderful sights from my windows – San Gimignano again, of course – then by taxi here.

Great concert last night – even if it did end at 12.30am… leaving me precious little time to sleep. The band was actually bass guitar (Richard?), drums (Ricky), guitar (…?), sax (Kenny), and keyboards (odd name) – all young players, all extremely good – plus MD. I have never seen such authority on stage as when the man walked on in his black shades, platform heels, and black lame trousers – looking for all the world like the world-famous maestro he is. His trumpet – miked by a kind of crook – a shocking red in places.

The music was – for want of a better term – jazz-funk – very hard-driven, lots of synth, lots of funky bass. To begin, M. played with a mute – and the dusty, scuffed sound could be no one else's. It was immediately recognisable from his recordings – and seemed produced without effort – the odd high note punched out in the sky.

Because of the miking he was able to start with his back to the audience, next to the drum kit, playing softly, very subtly. Gradually he moved to the front, but in doing so, and in heating things up, he seem to dive down deeper and deeper into himself, bent double like a man in pain. Must be damn difficult getting the breath control…

Then out came the mute, and more forthright playing – but all very placed, broken up. And this would be the pattern of the evening, no excess – no sweat, literally, for him. He left the pyrotechnics to his young bloods – and they provided it in abundance, roaring and squawking. M.D. simply presided over it all, quite often playing with them – literally and metaphorically in a rather extraordinary way.

He would make them come to the front – like a teacher – and then play with - to - at - them, cajoling them, teasing them, provoking them. They too bent slightly, as if in reverence, as if learning from the master. Which they were. And what a master. He was a wise old lion prowling the stage, lashing out occasionally, growling sometimes, roaring at others. His great mane/wig of hair – dyed, looking quite appropriate – gave him the air of some visitor from another planet, a mighty alien with the brain of a planet etc… He simply dominated everything. Whether he walked, stalked, stood, played, stayed – whatever – he just held the thousands there in his hands – with his instrument.

[Some pretty stewardesses in their redcoats – so they exist…]

The music was OK – some drive there, but hardly inspired stuff. Instead we came to see the man – to just be. After all, a literal living legend – going back 40 years in jazz to the "Birth of the Cool" and beyond – and still there. I feel privileged – and well pleased – to have seen him, given my late arrival at jazz. At least I will be able to say: "of course, I saw Miles Davis live…".

A non-stop set of around two hours, the crowd well-behaved apart from a few nits calling out. Bloke and woman either side of me smoking...odd effect: to look around the huge, dark hall and see firefly specks of burning cigarettes. Also: to see the spotlights cut a swathe through the smoke, their beams like wedges. But good (metaphorical) atmosphere. Lovely venue – with its wooden floor, the acoustics are good - at least from where I was sitting, which was close. I hope the whole thing doesn't burn down…

The set ended with Miles first playing slow and soft – again that dusky, dusty sound, that effortless sprinkling of notes. Beautiful. We went wild of course, and gave a standing ovation – but to the band, because Miles slipped off after a final uptempo number – and we had not realised our loss – symbolic? The gig actually ended with a huge solo from the drummer – interesting way to sign off – this guy going bananas alone on stage, at the end of a long, late – great – night. An experience I would not have missed for anything.

So, what else would I not have missed in these 48 hours or so? Well, Lisboa herself, a real find – a place I would love to come back to. A civilised weekend sort of place. Also Portugal – I must return and sample the rest of it, I'm pretty sure there must be much that is unspoilt – scilicet the number of taxi drivers et al. who don't speak English – always a good sign. Then of course the 46-year-old port, Santa Luzia, Bairro Alto – the fado, the bustle and 12 midnight. San Jeronimo, the Bosch – and Miles, Miles, Miles.

My hotel is a find – brilliant location for the view – and cheap (cheaper than the bloody lobster, actually). [One thing I noted with Miles – his gammy right leg – he was limping quite visibly…] One other fairly crucial thing I have gained is Portuguese – in the sense I feel that I could learn it quite quickly once my Spanish is up to speed. And this in its turn means Brazil is opened up, and with it South America, which is great. I also feel that a missing part of of the great jigsaw puzzle of Europe has been found for me – Portugal was always a nasty bite out of the Iberian Peninsular – a hole both geographically and metaphysically – I knew little of its history and culture. Now I feel that everything's coming together a little more.

[I forgot the word for M.D.: magisterial.]

More destinations:

1993 Mexico

1993 Morocco

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

Thursday, 7 May 2020

1990 Egypt III: Asyut, Kharga, El Amarna

28.2.90 Aswan

Up to the high dam. Looking south, water is impressive – they must have been pleased when it filled up. Even the Soviet-Egyptian monument is simple and effective. Lake Nasser looks like the sea – huge, dark-blue expanse. Again, I find it hard to remember I am deep into Africa. To the Unfinished Obelisk. A madness of groups (the collective noun). Even the ancient Egyptians screwed up – but what an impressive attempt. People seem obsessed with walking on the obelisk – defying gravity and the usual rules, too. I do not know how they got 1000 tonnes onto a boat…

At the Cataract Hotel, E£10 for the swimming pool – seems reasonable enough – great view of the Nile, Elephantine, the hotel, the sun…. Came here by horse carriage – never again: the poor thin horse with open sores, beaten again and again. But who am I to criticise? The driver probably led a miserable existence. But I still felt my double complicity in all this.

Well, there are worse ways of spending the mid-point of my trip. Can that really be? As much to come again? Hardly: there can be no other Karnak, Giza, Valley of the Kings… I sit now under the awning next to the clay oven, waiting for a pizza Vesuvio (well, I had spaghetti bolognese last night…). Again, I have the Nile before me, felucca sails passing occasionally, the Aga Khan's Mausoleum visible high on the hill. I am increasingly tempted to visit El Kharga – the secular equivalent of Wadi El Natrun; we shall see. I have fairly basted myself today – sensibly, I hope. It really is just rather pleasant – and given that I won't be doing any more pure, animal sunbathing, it seems allowed.

It occurs to me that, as I half expected, part of the problem with the ancient Egyptian stuff I've seen is that there is so – almost too – much of it. We expect exiguous remains: from the Alfred Jewel we reconstruct a civilisation. Compare, too, Winckelmann's imperialising appropriation of Laocoön. We need fragments just as we need "inferior" races to colonise. If the civilisation is too complete – or the race too superior – we are in trouble. This over-generosity applies in particular to the religious inscriptions: we have zillions of Amun being worshipped by this or that one. We know pretty much exactly what is going on. There is no mystery.

Lots of feluccas zooming around the south of Elephantine. Tomorrow for me, I hope. I sit on the Cataract's end terrace. Below me the "gaily painted" feluccas: white with touches of orange, green and blue. The Nile is full of them. Watching, I am amazed by the adeptness of the sailors, the ease with which they push and pull them when holding on to land. So little friction. In front of me, the sun shatters on the water, the old shook foil routine. The dunes beyond have turned into huge velvety humps. There is a blessed breeze blowing. Selig.

1.3.90 Aswan

On Kitchener's Isle as was – though there is no reference to him. Out the hard way – by felucca, but me rowing all the way. Now I know how galley slaves feel. Conned by choosing a boat of an old man – asthmatic too, keeps sucking on his inhaler, and coughing his guts up on his arm. All this because I can't do much now: I have to be back at the hotel at around 10am to see if there are any vacancies.

The garden very lush, very attractive. Up by the tombs, in the bare sloping face of the sand, one of Those Messages, this time picked out in stones, letters ten feet high: "Oh aged Jamaica" it seems to say; and that says it all. To the new Philae – having obtained a (slightly mankier) room at Ramsis. Hiring motorised felucca – expensive for just one person – arrive out here. Sun scorching.

Hathor-headed columns in the Kiosk of Nectanebo – again. Nice to see a colonnade for a change – it shows how conditioned I have become to "classical" ruins. Also I feel strangely distanced from hieroglyphs – as if I had passed beyond this stage. Good job there are few more to come. Good also to see Imhotep – of Saqqarah – deified.

At the north end of the eastern colonnade – amazing capitals – really wacky variety. Lots of Greek graffiti everywhere. From the north end of the colonnade, nice rearing up of grey rocks – variety you don't get on west bank at Luxor – all too flat. Also attractive glimpse of Trajan's Kiosk. Great first courtyard – the asymmetry really appealing. All the hieroglyphs here remind me of the eighteenth-century craze for Pompeian designs – that false, rather twee appearance, the superficiality. Nice hypostyle hall – apart from the black and white bird droppings everywhere – it looks like a scagliola effect. I scoot through the interiors – all such inferior, repetitious work. The situation is the only thing that counts.

The ruins to the north of the island form a nice ensemble with the water and surrounding islands/land. Trajan's Kiosk is definitely the best thing here. Surprisingly graceful yet powerful, compact yet impressive, it opens out well to the sky and water. In the small temple of Hathor, pix of musicians – flute player, harpist – larger than previously, also another double-flute. One on each side. I suppose Trajan appeals in part because he is manifestly part of my Western tradition. Round to old Philae – but no romantic columns in the water – just a few pillars on land, a few houses, plus the tin dam that had been built up around the threatened buildings. No cathédrale engloutie, but romantic enough to think of the submerged land.

And no bloody taxi when I got back. Kicking my heels for 15 minutes. Then to the Cataract where I sit waiting another pizza. The day spent in luxurious, blissful torpor. The heat unbelievable – as is the efficacy of the old No.4 suntan lotion. Long slow walk back to my hotel, having consumed some fresh-pressed orange juice and turkish coffee – made in a small pot, boiled on a stove. At the hotel, commenced my orange orgy with some bought at the local souk; disappointing – not navel oranges, and stuffed with pips.

Shower – how one appreciates water amidst the desert and in the heat – then out for a final stroll along the corniche. The horizon to the west a sublime peach colour. Moon high overhead, its crescent horizontal – as in the Red Crescent. I spent some time last night trying to work out the relation of this angle to latitude – and failed.

After dinner, back to my room – to bed early since I must rise at 3.40am for my 5am train. The band is playing again. A local group, apparently for a wedding. I notice that even here, the men and women are not only separated but cordoned off. I hope I sleep through it as I did last night. It occurs to me that the end of empires – all empires – is tourism. History – and empires – become simply a reason to gawp, to find the world special. Tourism is the final empire, and will inherit the world. A propos of the music: several times people have clapped in a curious (to me) flat-handed way, producing far more high frequencies. Even clapping seems culturally determined.

The cost for four nights here was £30.

2.3.90 Asyut

Up very early – 3.40am. No brekkie, but given a take-away. To the station, conveniently near. Practically no one on the train; it will be interesting to see if it really fills up at Luxor. Restaurant car, needless to say, well-nigh non-existent. I ask for coffee, but when I notice the attendant is looking for a vaguely clean glass amongst those already used, I make my apologies then flee. Toilet pretty disgusting (and just what is that metal spout-thing sticking up?).

Glorious scenery outside, the Nile to my left. Essentially we keep pace with the cruise boats – which fairly move it. I notice that there are few villages: where does everyone live? At Edfu, all the names in Arabic – only one, whitewashed, showed English.

An old man by the tracks, as poor as anything, reading a thumbed paperback on cheap paper. I wonder what the literacy rate here is. The High Dam has meant an end of 10,000 years of history of living with and working with the annual inundations. In our lifetimes. Because of the Nile, it is noticeable how prodigal the Egyptians are with water. For example, at Luxor station, where I am now, a man is hosing down the dust on one of the side platforms. It looks good: "Luxor" on the sign… Pity I am only passing through – but it was definitely the right way to visit here and beyond.

Ancient Egyptian religion has no known initial foundation; it is apparently an outgrowth of a natural polytheism, especially based on nature. The whole business of proselytism – extending the empire of religion – is to do with bolstering your own faith, as empire is to do with self-confidence.

There is something delicious in the traveller's roulette: going into a hotel and asking for accommodation – some frisson – that is quite lost by pre-booking, however convenient.

What a game. The train is two hours late – another apricot sunset. Very unsure which station I am at – I ask several people, finally arrive in Asyut. Outside, pandemonium; this is real Egypt. Nobody speaks English. My muttered "Hotel Badr" produces only the response "Cleopatra?". Eventually I make it. Only one night currently free, but I'm too tired to argue. A group of 25 Swedes is bunging the place up. I am currently in the restaurant, trying to negotiate the implausible menu.

I must confess it is at moments like that that I wonder what the hell I am doing; however, a part of me – a distant, rational part – knows that places and experiences like this lie at the heart of foreign places – not the Cairos and Aswans… After the exhaustion has passed away, I think that the abiding impression of my travel down the Nile will be of its amazing, unexpected and unreasonable fecundity: it was as green as England or Ireland – proverbially verdant places. This generosity must have amazed the ancient Egyptians – and partly explains their precocity.

One of the nicest things about Egyptian TV is the real 1001 Nights-type music – all augmented seconds.

3.3.90 Asyut

A tiring day already. At least I am staying here one more night – I think. Out to try to find a bank and book my train ticket – both difficult. After finding a bank, only Bank of Alexandria seems able to cope with travellers' cheques. Amazing place: looked more like Bank of Beirut – plaster torn off every wall. Ticket to Alexandria non c'è – Cairo instead. After people pushing in, finally booked 6.30am train – rather more civilised. Then back to hotel to find I can't pay with a credit card. So back to the bleedin' bank again, hotter and dustier.

Now I'm in my cab for Kharga – I think I'm insane; the hotel certainly does. Rip-off price of E£200 – what the hell, half price of Covent Garden seat – how my values are twisted. Note: both here and in previous hotel, there a very interesting type of bath tile – it looks like water has dropped on it – effective – and apparently unique to each one – I can find no repetition. Nice idea.

Asyut is certainly real Egypt: the horns are noisier, the dust worse, the crowds crazier. Apparently, it is now the largest city of Upper Egypt. O Thebes…

A Peugeot 504 – a traditional African car – I hope: the thought of being stuck in the desert is not the most appealing. On the road to Kharga. The greenery dies out – then nothing but desert. I have been idly calculating the number of particles of sand in Egypt: ~10^21, which doesn't sound that big, but only goes to show how little I understand exponents. Even in the world, there is probably only 10^24 grains...Only. Aren't there 10^80 atoms in the universe? That is, each grain of sand on our planet would have 10^24 grains of sand, each with 10^24 grains, each with a hundred million grains...

The road is straight – the telephone lines are hypnotic. We pass barely anything. An army squad out training, camped in the desert. Yellow lines on the road: no waiting?? The occasional ridge – but basically flat. At 160km, the sand has turned muddy. Road generally good – we are passing a road building team.

Halfway, a rest house. Not an animal sighted for the last hour or so. About 90 minutes to here. Road now broken but not too bad. Surprisingly, perhaps, there is a nice breeze in the shade. But the sun is savage. This was part of the 40-day camel route. What 40 days they must have been. Interesting landscape: some rocks, then flat, then up over a hill, down – with huge plain before us, two big step-ups miles away. Pylons have appeared from the south. All looks like something out of Lawrence of Arabia. Amazing: every so often there seem to be houses out here – about four or five so far, in the middle of nowhere. First, a few tufts of grass, then suddenly greenery…

What a game. I am now at the Kharga Hotel – the only person there, apparently, waiting for an omelette and whatever. Fun before: at one of the many police checkpoints, they wanted my passport. I didn't have it, of course. So we had a little discussion – and then the head of local security came out, sized me up, and finally decided I probably wasn't a spy. Further in, the greenery gave out again. The sand a glorious colour – like Cornish ice cream (ah, what wouldn't I give for a Kelly's…), so neat and clean and tidy. There seems to be a piano trio playing in the background. This place feels like a school refectory. On the whole, the drive was not too bad – the view down on to the plain made it particularly worthwhile. It will be interesting to see how it holds up on the way back. Down to the souk – Kharga is very spread out, dusty and undistinguished. Souk rather quiet. [Meal E£4, rooms about $20 a night.]

Temple of Amun, Hibis. Persian – unusual. Still a fair amount of painting in the inner gateway. The main building is in a gloriously stippled sandstone, used for restoration – great whorls of the stuff – held up by wooden scaffolding. Cartouches of Nectanebo II in first hypostyle; rest closed off. Basically late – nothing special.

To El Bagawat – looks like a museum of mud churches – all arches and pillars, set on a horseshoe of hills on the edge of oasis, brilliant view of the rocky outcrops. 2nd to 7th century AD, there are 263 chapels. Coptic church architecture and early painting. Looks very Roman. Deep black shadows. Tomb of seven martyrs – 30 foot deep tomb, two chapels, one man, one woman. Adam and Eve and snake. Abraham, Isaac, Sarah, Gabriel, the ankh symbol. Thousands of Greek graffiti. Chapel of peace. A basilica, all in mud bricks. Exodus: first half of 4th century – one of the earliest. There are more ankh symbols. The pharaoh, soldiers, the Israelites in the sea – crudely painted – like kids' paintings.

Stunning views of the escarpment down which I came – a huge slab of striated rock. Amazing to see these small-scale churches/chapels, all in mud – even the columns – rounded arches – small semi-cupolas, painted, with geometric patterns. And a hole in the roof – a great patch of blue. And then, the final show – the mummies. I crawl down into the ossuaries: two men, one woman and child; the guide prods them. The man still has black hair. Mummy wrappings lie everywhere – outside too.

Back across the desert, the sun boiling. Fantastic view again of the depression. Now (5.15pm) the rays are low, casting long shadows across the ribbed and ridged sand. The light seems almost benevolent.

Back to the madness of Asyut, horns honking, cyclists riding on the wrong side of the road, everyone walking everywhere regardless. Good to be back – bath et al. I tried to find out what the taxi driver was being paid – to establish the extent of my being rooked – to no avail. Still, rooking or no, it was worth it. [They say pecunia non olet: not Egyptian money, it really stinks of use.]

Once again, I'm not certain whether I'll be here tomorrow. The hotel is overpriced, but has a faded charm – apart from the bathroom tiles, the smoked mirrors everywhere – half of them cracked; and I have just noticed a wonderful padded "leather" door leading to the kitchens – it looks as if it has melted, or is something out of "Alien": bizarre, sad and squelched.

4.2.90 Asyut

Down to the Nile – larger than it looks on the the old Lonely Planet map – as ever. Cool breeze at 7am. At least they have a room for me: this "don't know" business is getting ridiculous. [Some little solider boy has just shooed me off a pier I was admiring the river from. Well, he did have a gun…] Opposite is an island, looking very romantic in the early morning mist. Pity about the car horns though: they seem tuned treble loud – they really hurt my ears. Occasionally you get a symphony of them: sounds like Janáček's Sinfonietta gone mad.

I can't get "Peter Grimes" out of my head – the "Sea in the Morning" interlude. That old nostalgia…

The willingness of the population to adopt an invader's tongue is paralleled in the inroads of English as the tongue of tourism. One of the interesting things about the Coptic necropolis yesterday was that this (in part) was how the ancient Egyptian cities would have looked: that is, built out of mud, not stone.

Getting to El Amarna's proving fun. So far I am on the west bank, hoping for a ferry… Waiting on the ferry – in the taxi – the driver has decided to come with me. OK – but our language problems get worse. The Nile flows by swiftly, the odd branch/frond of lilies being carried past, the odd leap of fins.

A long wait – eventually there – mayhem on the other side – everyone jumping on before we landed. Then a water-tanker blocked the way – finally out into the open – and lost. We find the village policeman,who for some baksheesh shows us to the northern tombs – locked. Across a huge plain – barren, beaten by the heat, the middle of nowhere. High cirrus clouds, a haze to the north. The ferry goes about once an hour – if you're lucky. No other tourists, just the three of us. Utterly empty and god/Aten-forsaken.

In to tomb 25 – that famous image of Aten worshipped by Akhnaten. The hymn on both sides – beautiful limestone. Inside left – dancers. Down to the tomb – helped like an old woman, held by my elbows down each step.

Finally to Akhetaten itself. A pile of mud bricks, a heap of stones and sand – nothing. That this 3000 years ago was the centre of heresy – no trace remains. On three sides, the distant mountains, striated. These are the ruins we expect, that we can extrapolate from. This is what 3000 years ago should look like. But it was a city. In fact, the only one left from this time (?) – and now its inhabitants are hardly aware of it. Palms to the west, facing the river, desert to the east. One huge archaeological dig. What a failure. But his name lives on, as few others do… And the heterodoxy strikes again: the small explanatory plaques – at the gate – in the main courtyard – have both been smashed beyond usefulness – just a few words – "Akhet-aten…" His power to provoke lives on.

There are worse things to be than stuck outside Akhetaten, waiting for the ferry, watching the Nile stream by, the sun hot at 1pm, the wispy clouds overhead. A tough life. Money talks, they say: when even Glanglish fails, money always works. It is the link between language and imperialism. By the quayside, great fat fish. Two men sit by the Nile, fishing like any other Sunday angler. The Nile really is roaring past, with it, even more lilies than ever.

The quay is at the end of a large mud-brick wall, connected by a road. Behind, a large lake; greenery everywhere. In the palace, I saw wood planks set in the mud courses; I wonder if they too are 3000 years old – not impossible in this amazing climate. A curious fact: Egyptians love to put a German (D) sticker on their cars; an old sign of cachet? Below me, women beat clothes against the stones in timeless fashion.

The ferry arrives; amongst the crowd, three boys carrying fern-like plants in plastic pots. Amazing the ubiquity of tape players in cars – no matter how beat up, or how old the car. Mostly Japanese, like the trucks too. Only the Peugeot 504s reign supreme still. Back on the bank of the dead. Stuck at a level crossing – which all pedestrians ignore. This always worries me at Asyut too: walking across even when the bells ring. It's interesting how Western/"civilised" societies are more authoritarian in this respect. A product of our schools, perhaps?

To Hermopolis – not exactly easy to find – 30 minutes from Mallawi through back roads, poorly signposted. My poor driver thinks I'm nuts. I asked him if he enjoyed Amarna – nope. Thoth's baboons are huge 15 feet high. But rather sad to behold. Enormous testicles. On to the "basilica" – just Corinthian columns. Surrounded by fallen columns, mud bricks – not much, but all quite romantic amidst the scrubby heath – again, looking like "classical" ruins. Lovely afternoon heat; it feels like autumn. Moon half out. Palm trees very affecting in their occasional clumps. To the catacombs – Ibis, baboons, both mummified and statues, with blue eyes. Trapezoidal coffin for the ibis.

To the tomb of Petosiris – a kind of mini Dendera, with a pointy-topped altar out front. All Ptolemaic stuff. Can see Greek clothing. Amazingly deep tomb shaft – good colouring on the walls. Finally, to the stela – that image again, so haunting in its aspiration and the inscription – saying all this land is Aten's – some boast. Now just barren desert (blowing in my eyes with the evening wind). Distant, the Nile. Beyond the irrigation, desert.

For some civilisations – Roman, Greek – it is mainly texts that we have, rather than buildings, say. Ancient Egyptian is unusual: we have the texts because we have the buildings. Back to the hotel, - a proper orange orgy. A binful of Swedes – more/different – and pandemonium: not enough rooms. I have visions of being turfed out, and prepared to defend myself; no need. But a knock-on consequence: the restaurant is full of the buggers. I'm hungry and must be at the station at 4.30am tomorrow…

5.2.90 Asyut

Which I am – but not thanks to my watch, which I manage to unset. Wake-up call OK. To breakfast, where I notice Queen "Ty" tea. Last night at 8pm on Channel 2, I came across the Televised News – the English equivalent of the Journal Télévisé. One female presenter had excellent English and accent. Noteworthy the final, almost unintelligible piece at the end about Mrs Thatcher (another "Ty"), even more unpopular. Otherwise TV seems to be football, learned disquisitions on the Quran, chemistry/maths lessons and televised proceedings from parliament. It is worth noting that once again it is tourism that has saved many of the ancient Egyptian ruins – Egyptians more concerned with using them for fertiliser – and why not?

To the station – cold, as I expected. Mackerel clouds, tinged by red. They said the weather was turning. The sky now amazing – huge rucks of cloud fired with pinks and orange. Meanwhile, the muezzin continues his melancholy chanting, and the three neon signs of Badr Hotel (plus one in Arabic) flicker in the most wonderfully random way. Is there a little man whose job it is to carry out this art all day?

Train one hour late. Freezing wind.

It is interesting how much in Egypt comes from what was the Eastern bloc: for example, this carriage comes from GDR; the telephone from Hungary; a light bulb in Badr's bathroom, Poland. All cheap, I suppose. The difference between then and now: the past's rubbish – stone, wood, mud, metal – ages gracefully; ours does not: the paper, plastic, rusting scrap. This is a fact that is most clearly exposed in Egypt: its past is perfectly aged, its present prodigiously ugly and sordid. It is also why the passeggiata is unsatisfactory in so many Egyptian cities: you never know what you will tread in…

On the train to Alexandria – or Al Iskandariyah as it has been depersonalised. Only 15 minutes late so far. Nice train – a big red one.

On the platform in Cairo, waiting for my connection to Alexandria: I sit next to two ladies – one rather large. I get up to ask the station guards if this train at the platform is for Alexandria. He says no, and so do the ladies - who then proceed to mother me in the most charming fashion. Both are fluent in English, the younger – the daughter of the other whose hair is dyed deceptively well - with an excellent accent and command of idioms, and it turns out she is an English teacher. We talk about nothing in particular – though I am recommended to see "Fifi" – a famous belly dancer at the Ramses Hilton – and to eat the green soup. Both of which I shall try. Pleasant people.

Very civilised this train – they are offering lunch – with airline-type trays. Alas, I am not eating – but the very attractive lady stewardess – the first female maître d' I've seen in Western dress here – almost made me change my mind. The delta looked rather dull – less lush and green, no enlivening hills in the distance. Also no sun: it has been overcast since Asyut this morning. In a way, this fits my mood perfectly. Ever one for neatness, this distinguishes things well from Upper Egypt, from all the wonders I've seen there. From my reading it is clear that Alexandria has little to do with Egypt.

It is also apt because I have been re-reading the "Alexandria Quartet". I am amazed at how much is familiar – people, situations, phrases, words even – "banausic" – though I am ashamed to admit I've forgotten what it means. Such typically young writing – bursting with words and ideas – which is why I must write as much as I can now, even if it is no good – I will be grateful in years to come. His style dated too; its flowery language, its infinitely-detailed descriptions of love and relationships. And a different Alexandria, I'm sure, perhaps one that never really existed except for Durrell. And who needs more?

And so to the hotel. Quite a way (again, again) from the station to the sea front. The first taxi tries to rook me mercilessly, the second is only half as bad. To the Cecil (as the Egyptian ladies suggested), looking like something from Brighton. Full, inevitably. It is now the Pullman Cecil – they of the Cataract. Next stop, the Metropole (Brighton again). Much seedier – a cross between a youth hostel and the hotel in Bellagio I stayed in many years ago. At once, for all its crumbling plaster and faltering waterworks, I knew this was the place. Immensely high rooms, aspidistras (dusty), on each floor, an open cage lift moving ponderously and uncertainly – its lights going out when you exit – the hopeless air of the staff – perfect after Durrell's "Justine". Old Pullman Cecil (I console myself) would doubtless have been too smart, too new. This – at £20 a night, too – is not. I feel in some obscure way this is bound up with my novel…

My first room was on the east, with a balcony from which the sea was visible – stormy and rucked. The hot water failed to function, so I moved to the west – better view of the sea, better room (just) – 482 (Mozart's E flat piano concerto, since you asked). They say they will move me to a sea-facing room tomorrow; we shall see…

Alexandria is freezing. I hope it doesn't bucket, or I am stuffed…

In the bar, downstairs, drinking turkish coffee (what else?). A fine view of the people along one of the main thoroughfares. The whole hotel is delicately sprung: my room shakes in the most delightful way if anyone walks past. [NB: what happened to Rimbaud? He went to Luxor...where else? Where did he die? In Egypt, what lies after words?] I sit here, looking at an old man in a cap tottering across the road, hand held out apotropaically lest the traffic move. The high room is lit by an absurdly rococo chandelier, its gilt turned treacle colour. A sense of all that I have seen, a sense of all the culture and heritage I bear, a sense of all that might do, meets at this point. And foolishly, childishly, gratefully, I feel pure happiness well up within me, a kind of internal bubbling. I know this feeling so well, I am so privileged. I have to sigh with absurd happiness. [6.47pm.]

To hear Egyptians speaking English/French/German etc., you get the impression that for them it is all one language, different dialects; which it is. Perhaps Arabic seems the same after Coptic…

To the restaurant for dinner, past the TV room – full of Egyptians. A beautiful room – bright white, very high ceiling, wonderful pea-green frieze around the top – with classical (NB) Greek figures in relief. The same chandeliers as downstairs. Only one other table occupied – Germans. My first Egyptian wine – Gianaclis Village from the Egyptian Wine Company: ultra-dry white – almost sherry. In an unwanted access of bravery/courtesy, I offer some to the Germans. A meal without distinction – except that of its circumstances. Ridiculously cheap – E£12 for four courses – a magic ambience, a world that barely exists in England or Europe.

Before dinner, a brief walk along the corniche – dodging the spray of the rampant waves. The wind strong and northerly. Back along the main street – very bustling – to the Metropole. Outside, the Egyptian crowd periodically goes bananas in response to the TV – football, or a game show? Strange how I am unmoved by such things – in which I find the triumph of banality.

In the middle of the dining room, a wonderful piece of furniture: a large pillbox in dark wood; circumscribed by metal bands – for cutlery, tableware, perhaps. Marble-topped and rather fine. I donate the remainder of my wine to a young(ish) lady on her own reading Woolf's "To the Lighthouse" – which, by one of those drole coincidences, is the only other Brit book apart from the "Alexandria Quartet" that I have brought.

1990 Egypt I: Cairo, Saqqarah, Giza
1990 Egypt II: Luxor, Aswan, Abu Simbel
1990 Egypt IV: Alexandria, Wadi El Natrun, Suez

More destinations:

1993 Morocco

Moody's Black Notebook Travels