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

1990 California

12.4.90 Yosemite Valley

I had to stop, just to write the above: Moody in Yosemite.

In front of me the sugar icing of Yosemite Falls floats down; behind, the craggy mass of El Capitan.  But Tioga Pass is closed still – there is snow visible everywhere.  Everything is so vertical – and greyly white – not Lakes at all.  The trees too – huge vertical firs – are not human in scale. [Ahead of me, a woman gets out of a car, takes a model ship, holds it to her eye, and looks along it at the Falls…]  Temperature in the 70s, 80s…  Also, the incongruous chapel, like something out of Brothers Grimm.  Further along, back to the 120, a shallow, glaucous stream.  In the distance, another waterfall, like a cloth of white linen pulled off a high ledge.  Everywhere the rocks stained with striations.

At the Cedar House Lodge – pleasant situation across the foothills of Yosemite.  An unpretentious motel - $45 a night for a self-contained cabin.  I am in the restaurant now – surprisingly busy.  Outside, the smell – grassy and warm – of evening. 

US TV fascinates me, snake-like.  Is this the future?  Multimedia?  So vacuous, so slick.  I went for a couple of Cokes in the attached bar earlier.  Mindless slobs in there, braying. 

Already I am afflicted with the sense of burden of writing this stuff.  Do I write about the last four days?  Probably, but not now…

13.4.90 Jackson

I've said little about my routes, so far.  From San Francisco airport, I took 101 to the huge toll bridge, then to Livermore (past signs for the Lab), Stockton, then to the 120.  I passed a hill with a skyline of Quixotic windmills – three-bladed rotors catching the wind.  Eerie in the slow, synchronised gyring.

Everything very tidy – the grass as if clipped.  Teams of men picking up litter along the freeway – there is almost no litter anywhere.  Obsessive.  Driving along, I scan through the radio stations.  As I move I lose and gain them.

In a diner in Jackson.  Film posters on the walls.  One – "Twist around the clock" – features a group called "The Marcels".  Clear blue sky, brilliant hot air.

OK, where do I sit?  - On the shore of Lake Takoe, at 6000 feet (hello, Kashmir), at 80 degrees F au moins – having booked a room at the famed Sonoma Hotel for tomorrow – yee-ha.  Directly opposite me, the last remnants of snow-capped peaks – the rest are only lightly sprinkled with snow.  A few fluffy clouds behind – in front, a clear blue sky with a huge X of vapour trails – it looks like St Andrew's cross.  The air is cool like water, the sun hard.  The lake is a great light-blue sheet.  I'm staying at the Travelodge here - $70, nothing special.  A bulky pine tree spreads its long needles over me.

So how did I get here?

Rising early, I drove down to Mariposa through valleys illuminated by a clean, low sun.  I passed a lay-by; a bloke and a woman stood by their camper.  He signalled for a lift.  As usual, I ignored him,  then noticed that his bonnet was up.  So I stopped: some bit of his motor was broken.  We talked – or at least I did in asking questions.  He was pretty incurious, made no comment on my accent.  I asked if he'd been abroad: "where?" he asked…

A glorious road from the gloriously-named Mariposa.  Rolling, verdant countryside (where are those sheep?), good fast road.  Through Sonora – very pretty, lots of wood-built shops with Western-type verandas.  Same for San Andreas (whoops...the San Andreas…?) then to Jackson (vide supra).  Up to 50 for a long haul to the Echo Summit Pass.  Along the way, I see lots of signs absolutely insisting that I put chains on my tyres – is this another Scott of the Antarctic?  We just keep on rising – 5000 feet, 6000 feet, 7000 feet – then down.  Lake Tahoe heaves into sight – as well as the airport.  I stop off just before Tahoe City for lunch – a "small" pizza of which I hardly eat half…  On the way I drive along a road sandwiched between two waters.  The development has been very discreet along here, and even Tahoe City itself is a one-street town of something approaching charm.

The radio stations: mostly pap (not pop) music.  Others more quirky.  The evo stations, and classical music – but also one on self-improvement.  Quite good really.

14.4.90 Napa

Up early (5.30am), trying to move towards GMT.  To the lake – a silvery morning, cold (6000 feet).  The sun rose peachy, the clouds like bunched satin.  No real reds.  Big expensive brekker.  Then up to Truckee, easy ride to the Interstate to Sacramento, then to here, a coffee shop (the smell of freshly-ground coffee of all kinds).  Huge cafe crème and weighty muffin (pumpkin and nuts).  The day overcast at first, with high, filmy clouds, but hot.  Napa  - "historic" – neat, small, every-so-tidy.  Café at corner of 1st and Main.

I read the second chapter of Jay Gould's "Wonderful Life" yesterday – a good story.  I'm interested to find some sloppiness in the writing (repeated words) and a tendency to quote Shakespeare at the drop of a hat.  His structure seems too loose as well.  But good for all that. [Bikers everywhere – very California.]

To return to Yosemite a little – I'm conscious I've skipped.  That Tioga Pass was closed (9,500 feet) was a pity, since it limited greatly what I could see.  Striking though was the verticality and relentlessness of it all – unlike the Lake District.  [Long hair too seems de rigueur.]  The tree-clad valleys in particular grew monotonous in their grandeur.  Only the glistening streams humanised.

A long winding road from Calistoga to the sea at Jenner.  Into Napa Valley, the towns are more and more attractive – St. Helena especially.  Very rich, neat, a beautiful row of blossoming trees.  Winding roads to Jenner, mostly beside a river.  It all reminds me of Cornwall or Ireland – even the weather has turned here – huge grey blankets of clouds rolling in.  The estuary runs parallel to the beach – mud-grey – then hits the sea with force.  On route number 1…  Easy journey across to Sonoma – or rather near to it: bloody awful signposting meant that I spent nearly an hour driving back and forth along 12 and the environs, looking for it.  It was worth it.

I write this in an ever-so slightly tipsy state – courtesy of the complimentary half bottle of wine.  I sit now (naked after a hot bath) on the three-quarters sized bed reaching at 45 degrees into my corner room (number 4).  To wit: the bedroom reminds me strongly of my stay at San José in Almería.  The same slightly Spartan feel – and the same (ish) dark green towels, flower in a pitcher and ewer, and simple, classic furniture.  Here it is American – dark woods – fine bed, large wardrobe commode, with books, nice half-settee (what is the technical term?), corner washbasins à la Duchamp and Museo Fortuny, and a bathroom with a huge claw-footed bath – deep and wide and hot.  Everything very harmonious.

The hotel sits in the corner of the square – which is Sonoma.  The town itself is very pleasant – unusually, it has a large space containing the town hall, and nicely matured shops around it.  Then a nineteenth-century (?) theatre, now a cinema.  The shops are touristy, but bind well.  The streets off the square's side end quickly.  The trees and water remind me of St. Stephen's Green.

I took a coffee on the patio here.  It occurred to me – à propos my/everyone's seeking of perfect moments – that these points of repose – the moment when we say "now, I am happy" – are what holidays and tourism are about.  If so, I have been so fortunate – a constant succession of such moments.  [god, this wine – Kenwood Sauvignon Blanc 1988 – is knocking me out…]

To the restaurant for dinner – where unfortunately I am almost completely blotto from the wine – having fallen asleep a couple of times.  And I have no money with me...ha!  Dinner – oysters, what the hell – and swordfish – plus a glass of white Zinfandel – which has arrived...red (?)  The dining room is rather amiss.  It is like some seaside hotel dining room: panelled to halfway, chintzy wallpaper, cloying repro pictures, fans and pipework, and at one end a stained-glass window.  I am wearing my suit; no one else is…  The food - especially the swordfish – is excellent.  A wild apple and apricot pie for dessert...

15.4.90  Berkeley

Before I forget: Taiwanese pork strip soup, sweet rice, oysters with spinach and swede fritters (?)… (no – turnip).  Finished – and quite disgusting it was too – especially the gelatinous oysters.  The restaurant is called "Taiwan", and serves Taiwanese food as its speciality.  Pretty busy, clean looking – but yuk.

Up very early – 5.00am – trying to get body clock back.  Cold, overcast day.  Brekkers not until 8 – down in the lobby, laid out on garden-type tables.  Orange juice, coffee, a muffin and...nothing.  Ho-hum. 

 
Down to Highway 101 – to the Golden Gate Bridge ($2) – shorter than I remembered [a phone is ringing – with that quintessential US phone sound – the herald of who knows what mystery….]  Then driving around San Francisco – great larks, especially the mega-steep roads – easily 1 in 3.  Then I spend a long time trying to park – the less said about why the better (hello Smoo – and what does Smoo rhyme with…?)  Ha-ha – in doing so, somebody shunts me up the back – nemesis – but no real damage.

Then out to the Bay Bridge – after finding roads closed and ending up going the wrong way.  Very long bridge – with double-decker above.  Turnoff for University Avenue – post facto turns out to be right.  Walking around before lunch, I notice many cinemas – one showing "The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover"...civilisation arrives.  Otherwise not as picturesque as Harvard.  Perhaps because of Easter.  Not many students obvious.

Thoughts on US driving: essentially cautious – 55 on the freeway, but only just.  Signal quite well, rarely jump lights – che contrasto.  Some cars are gross – I saw a van yesterday – a Dodge – that was big enough to put a Mini in.  Many Jap cars – looking increasingly stylish – cf. the new Mazda soft-top – very nice, wouldn't mind one myself.

At Larry Blake's R&B Cafe – one of the few decent-looking eateries (ha!) around here – surprisingly.  But after my Taiwanese, I can't really face the long trek to the potential Cambodian near the Freeway.  Next time, perhaps….

A pleasant afternoon, whiled away up here by the campus.  I drove up to look at the Durant Hotel – looks like a prison block, but pleasant enough inside.  I'll hopefully get up early and drive down first thing.  To the university art gallery – nothing special (small exhibit of Egyptian art…), but the brutalist concrete was quite interesting.  [Glass of Fetzer Sundial Chardonnary 1988 – yummy.]  Across to the campus – a motley collection; nice grass with stream, campanile à la Venezia.  Reminded me of Harvard Yard.

Then across to The Musical Offering: very civilised – CD shop and café.  St John Passion playing.  I bought 2 CDs.  Pleasant place to dally – reminds again of the bookshop/café in Boston.  Then more wandering hither and thither, looking for a restaurant.  End up here finally.  It is wonderful how at home I feel in California, America – nearly everywhere now.  "One World" and all that.  Once again, my break has been pretty idyllic.  I'm also pleased with my body's ability just to cope and keep going.

16.4.90 over Nevada

Up at 4am – to watch "Purple Rain" – Prince's unfamiliarity with the gentle art of kissing is embarrassing.  But who is the bint?  The plot is dreadful too: cardboard cutouts flipping arbitrarily.  Onto the Freeway, across the Bay Bridge ($1) – so much traffic – and it's 6.30am on Easter Monday.  Don't these Yanks ever stop?  Clearly not.  Just as their compulsive selling and buying never stops.  The whole country is about consumption.  It is embarrassing to hear even the classical music stations break randomly into paeans about their printers (wha??) and the constant "sponsorship" – ads by another name.  God help us if we go the same way.

It is very strange – I cannot imagine what would happen to the US without the act of buying and selling as the primary principle.  In the UK it is far more peripheral – instead, people concentrate on hobbies – a very Brit thing. Here, people follow fashion – the idea of a personal – i.e. unusual – activity is viewed as dangerous, "un-American".  In fact, most activities here are either self-improving, manifestations of wealth and success, or types of instant gratification.  They (the Yanks) are so goal-oriented that they seem unable to do anything for itself.  Ever met a US whippet racer or pigeon fancier?  Clog dancer? The latter possibly, but only as a social activity, not an anti-social speciality as in England.

It is bound up with Yuppiedom: by definition, yuppies come from nowhere – they are nouveaux riches.  A such, they are de-racinated, without – or denying – their aboriginal traditions.  Instead, they want to belong to their new set – and so mindlessly adopt the latest fad.  Hence the US, a traditionally classless society – and so rootless.
At the airport I sat where I sat four days ago, and where I sat 18 months ago.  There was a group of Hawaiians – one huge bloke.  I thought yesterday that if Asians were similarly huge, they'd be frightening.  We patronise them for their smallness.

More destinations:

1988 Boston
1988 San Francisco

1989 New York

1989 US, New Zealand, Fiji

1997 Seattle

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