1989 Oslo

12.5.89

Oslo – why Oslo?  I have been here before for a press trip – to Norsk Data – since plunged into the red, as predicted – probably because it took irrelevant journos like me on junkets.  My vision of the city was a fleeting one.  But pleasant.  Going north to colder climes and dour people was attractive.  I needed to get away for various reasons.  As soon as I arrived at the airport, it felt right.

Oslo is so neat and civilised.  There are fountains everywhere, attractive blonde women, long broad streets, a lack of tall buildings.  Everything is on a human scale.  Vastly exciting, it is not: the what's on guide is embarrassing in its paucity of offerings.  I arrived at 11am, and went straight to my hotel – the Savoy (sic) on Universitetsgata.  Then a wander down to the tourist office to pick up maps and info.

I am now in the café of the Grand Hotel, eating reindeer liver pate – very strong.  The price of food is terrifying here.  Across from me is the Stortinget, a Romanesque fantasy which reminds me of the Victoria & Albert Museum.  Karl Johans Gate reminds me of Helsinki.  Beautiful weather – hot sun, cool air.  Good news: no  smoking in public places; bad news: cyclists on the pavements.

In the Slottet grounds: two guardsmen in navy blue, with green epaulettes and feathered helmets, walk with a strange formal loping, left hand on their belt at the front, right hand swinging.  Earlier, I saw a procession with brass band – for the changing of the guard?  The palace is a rather modest affair, a miniature Buckingham Palace, two guards on duty, talking to passers-by.  The creamy, yellow colour seems quite common here: most of the older buildings seem eighteenth, nineteenth century.  They look like those in Leningrad.

After lunch, to the Nasjonalmuseet.  A few good old masters – especially Delacroix, interesting Norwegians – the stunning scenery makes "landskips" a doddle – and the cream of the Munch.  Strange pix for such an urbane-looking young man in his self-portrait.  "The Sick Girl" is slashed by deep lines – a battle of a surface.  "The Scream" is thin and almost a sketch.  The door to the Nasjonalmuseet very heavy – as have been several others – I almost gave up.  As in England, young mothers with kids everywhere.  

9.45pm – out into the cold rain – and a surprise: it's light.  I had forgotten this consequence of northward travel.  Otherwise an evening watching French, Norwegian and Swedish TV – plus Sky and Super Channel – the last two dire.

13.5.89

A grey morning, but clearing.  Out to the Munch Museet.  The Oslo underground is new and ultra-clean.  A wonderful smell.  And expensive.  Out to the suburbs, full of neat blocks of flats.  The museum is a low squarish building, easy to miss.  Rather fewer pix inside than I expected.  But big rooms full of wild garish colours.  I was pleased that most were familiar.  Interesting that those in the Nasjonalmuseet are often duplicated here – "Skrik", "Pubertet", "The Sick Girl".  New were the etchings.  Best of these were eight of "The Sick Girl" in close up – obsessional reworkings, all the more effective for the cumulative impact of the eight versions.  A very personal vision, but once again, I am glad I am not a painter.

Back on the T-banen, then to the harbour to take a boat out to Bygdøy.  Glorious weather now, scudding clouds, stiff breeze.  It is the first time I have looked out into the fjord.  Low islands across the sparkling water.  In the harbour a gleaming tall ship, three or four masts.  A proud beauty.  As we pull out, I see the castle which I must visit.  Looks unimpressive compared to Brit stuff.  Nice modern architecture along the harbour – why can't the Docklands get this?  Mooring on Bygdøy, then I walk to the Folkemuseum.  Very plush here: BMWs in quiet roads outside immaculate weatherboard houses, white in the sun.

I am sitting in the famous Stave Church – thirteenth century, and one of the most remarkable buildings I have ever seen.  Unlike most, it feels authentically old.  Outside is like some hazy northern pagoda. Both the church and the other buildings have a strange and wonderful property: their spaces seem particularly real.  That is, the space is won and constructed.  Modern buildings are typically divorced entirely from the outside space: there is no relation between in and out.  Here the two communicate, perhaps because the imperfections of the buildings never let you forget the act of construction.  The assemblage of these old empty buildings is touching.  As is the old ghost town which has been constructed.

It is starting to rain, so in to the Folkemuseum proper.  [Parenthetically, in the Munch Museet, three glorious portraits: Ibsen, Strindberg and Nietzsche.  It is strange how each seems defined by their facial hair.]  I write this in the old assembly room, a northern, scaled-down version of Palladio's Teatro Olimpico.   The museum is deserted.  I am left only with the smell of old wood and leather, and the still gazes from beneath wigs and perukes.  This place is thick with time.  To the building opposite.  A crazy exhibit of log chains.  Glorious smell of pine.

To the Viking Ship Museum.  Aptly enough, this is in the form of a church-like cross, three ships in three arms.  And what ships.  Black monsters, superbly preserved.  Very shallow draught, and intricately ornamented on the prow and stern.  And the carriages and sleds.  It is hard to connect these fearsome Viking images with the civilised people here today.  A nation which changed the face of England, France, Sicily, Russia and elsewhere.

Back on the boat to a sunny late Saturday afternoon in Oslo.  Most of the shops were shut by 3 o'clock.  I am now sitting down from the Stortinget, in an open air café – exorbitant but worth it.  The rows of elms are a bright, young green; the horse chestnut is a mass of leaves.  Behind the latter, more fountains susurrate.  Everywhere there are pretty, attractive blonds.  Blue skies.  "Selig", as a poet once said.

14.5.89

Glorious weather: strong sun, refreshing breeze.  Out to Frognerparken to see the Vigeland sculptures.  Those on the bridge as less impressive than those around the column.  The latter are more varied and inventive, and gain from their grouped setting.  The rock is beautiful: it looks so sensuous.  The carving is remarkable for its consistency.  The column is artful: lower down the basic lines are flat; then a diagonal enters – a left corkscrew into the sky.  At the top, verticals.  But I can't help feeling more tapering would have helped.  Aren't women's buttocks wonderful?  From the column, you get a splendid view down the alley to the road.  Hordes of tourists disembark like locusts.  Alongside the simple strength of the granite figures, they look mean and tawdry.

The main fountain is impressive – even in this city of fountains.  The bronze figures surrounding it are curious: they stand or crouch beneath trees; the trees look like alien flora from a Dan Dare comic strip.  

Last night, walking home from dinner at Mona Rosa's, I passed a young woman sobbing violently as she sat in a doorway.  What could I do?  You can't comfort in a foreign tongue.  I walked on, but felt sick at heart.

I am sitting in the chapel of the Akershus Fortress.  An organist – typically attired in suit and organist glasses – has just entered and started playing a strongly modal piece on some softer stops.  Outside the sun breaks through white and dark clouds, sending blurred images of the windows onto the blue carpet in front of me.  This is a real Sunday.  The sound and the occasional fluffs remind me of the short time I learnt the organ.  I was still at secondary school, but I remember driving to a church for practice.  I had to knock someone up for the key.  I remember vividly the smell when the door opened, the fat man wiping a hand over his greasy mouth, chewing still.  I had disturbed his dinner.  The air was think with lower-class living; children squealed distantly.  Once, upon obtaining the key, I went into the church to find a corpse laid out in its coffin.  It was cold and the darkness seemed thick around the light on the organ.  But it all seemed appropriate too.

Old glass in the church windows.  Seven o'clock and still as warm as an English summer's afternoon – the sun as high.  After the concert – before an audience of 12 – I have spent most of the afternoon near Stortinget, sitting in the sun, drinking coffee, watching the world – and young ladies – go by.  Unfortunately these erstwhile Vikings are smokers.

Dinner: devastating avocado, prawns, roe and cream; then reindeer medallions followed by summer fruits in champagne.  This lack of night is so disconcerting.  I am sitting on the wharf side opposite Akershus Slott (Akers is Oslo's river), which is eerily illuminated in the gloaming by sodium glare.  There is a very impressive waterside development here – far better than Docklands.  One warehouse has been converted into shops and boîtes – very lively.  But who are all these boys and girls in red/blue boiler suits?  And what are they selling?  To my left, the Rådhuset blocks stand out like blocks of patterned chocolate.  Half moon tonight.  The smell of sawdust in the air; new buildings behind.

15.5.89

Beautiful morning again.  A walk round the deserted city – a holiday today.  Then to the cathedral, the bells ringing clangorously with wonderful software discords of major seconds.  Inside, and I am immediately back in Helsinki cathedral – a memory long lost.  A Greek cross with a low crossing painted with a wild pointillist frieze.  Gilt everywhere.  I preferred Helsinki.

To the Rådhuset, which really is a beautiful building.  The dark brickwork conceals a wealth of detail – diagonally set bricks, rose circles.  It is, obviously, a very vertical building, emphasised by the tall vertical slots above the regularly placed windows.  Also, the squat central building throws the two flanking towers into prominence.  The astrological clock is a superb stroke: like an intricate jewel on a great flowing robe, it draws the eye in.

There are many races here: orientals, blacks, Arabs, other Europeans.  It will be interesting to see if the melting pot melts.

More destinations:

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1989 Zürich

18.2.89

The great bell of St. Peter strikes 9.  A grey but bright morning; cold.
I arrived here at 10pm last night, a mere one hour and a bit from London.  This is almost a test-run: what is the viability of jumping across to Europe for the weekend.  I am staying at the Hotel Florhof behind the Kunsthaus.  Last night I watched TV in German, French and Italian.

Now I sit in the pleasant St Petershofstatt – very quiet everywhere.  Zürich is full of pastels: lime greens, strawberry pinks, vanilla creams.  The architecture is terribly circumspect, nothing is garish or untoward.  Everything is very neat.  Walking along the Limmatquai, things were only vaguely familiar.  Driving in from the Hauptbahnhof last night I did recognise the high stone wall of Seilergraben.  I think I stayed near here – the street Zähringerstrasse is marked on my old (1979) map.  I remember only the shower of the old youth hostel (?) where I stayed.  Zürich was pelting with rain, and I was freezing; it was one of the best showers of my life.

Zürich very quiet all morning until 10, when I go to the Oper.  "Marriage of Figaro", sold out for tonight.  Then to the Kunsthaus.  9 francs to get in – which includes the last day of an Egon Schiele show (£1 ~ 2.70 Fr).  Round the museum – lots of dreck, especially modern.  Few decent old ones – Canaletto, view of Molo with reception of ambassador.  Good Chagalls and Munch.  Lots of boring Schweizer and old German stuff. Few decent Impressionists.  To the Schiele.  Frightening stuff.  But what a fiercely personal vision this boy – died when 28 – had.  Lots of lacerating self-portraits, lots of nudes – the flesh beginning to turn like dead meat.  Some of the landscapes were new to me – strange gleaming reds, like haunted houses – impressive.

Almost casually, I decide to visit the "Je suis un cahier" Picasso exhibition.  I expect to be bored after the Tate show.  It is miles better.  The virtuosity which was hinted at there becomes explicit.  The sheets from the sketch books are all dated: often there are ten from one day.  Rarely is there a correction to them: just sure, swift lines.  Many are masterpieces.  But even more fascinating is to see how he worried at a theme, teased out nuances – and then changed completely.  For example, he draws a baboon's head a few times, simplifies, then leaps to Shakespeare.  Pure disjunction or inspired transition?  Now in the Kunsthaus restaurant, I gaze at the familiar Zürich rain…

Grossmünster: typically Swiss – no ornaments inside, just clean, grey walls.  It all looks too new: there is no sense of time passed. I wonder if I came here before?  P.m., the rain holding off a little.  A few more people around – about as busy as Bournemouth on a quiet winter's Saturday…  To the Fraumünster Church – more churches – dull inside. But brilliant Chagall windows, five of them, long and thin. Jacob, Christ, David in the middle, blue, green and yellow.  Wandering in the rain.  Zürich is still quiet – definitely a one-day place.  

Back to the hotel to watch 16 channels of TV.  Several times I have tried to take coffee at the Café Bar Odeon – Lenin's old haunt, and one that I found very pleasant ten years ago.   Today it is noisy and smoke-filled – hardly the haven of civilised quiet it once was.  One thing I have noticed: there is a fad here for deeply unattractive glasses – huge square things, odd wing shapes – yuk.  Also, it has to be said, there are not many attractive women here.  They look Swiss and serious – no spark or flair.  But then there is very little squalor  either – I have seen only one tramp, and everyone else looks well-off.

I am now sitting amidst the guildic (?) splendours of das Zunfthaus zur Saffran.  I received a very snooty welcome – no tie, unshaven, jeans, trainers: will he pay? They think.  I hope they take Visa…  This is a strange city.  It looks like a film set – it is too neat and tidy, too perfect.  I am on the first floor; as the trams go by, their metal conductors creep past the eighteenth-century windows like huge silent spiders.

More destinations:

1990 Munich

1991 Berlin

1993 Prague

1994 the Danube: Neuburg, Vienna, Budapest

1996 Vienna, Venice

1999 Weimar, Venice

2022 Bratislava

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1988 San Francisco

29.10.88 San Francisco

9.45am  Work done yesterday, I am free to wander.  Writing is a slight problem though: I do not feel entirely happy about my back.  I have therefore come to the Hyatt at Embarcadero, and sit amid the totally de trop splendours of its lobby.

For example, the glittering lifts descend like golden dew drops, smooth and fluid.  Fountains plash, with the water pouring over the basin's edge in an unbroken sheet.  From where I sit the lights catch it and make it look like some crude plastic sheet.   The design of this place is curious.  Two sides of the triangular shape are sheer, and have small plants every 18 inches or so, turning the face into a field on its side.  The third side hangs out over the lobby at 45 degrees.

I walked over this morning to the Civic Center, down Taylor to Market Street – some of it pretty insalubrious.  Many homeless on the streets, more blacks here than elsewhere.  The UN Plaza full of homeless on the park benches.  Despite its grandiose architecture – totally inappropriate really – the place looks squalid and grubby.  The opera house and art gallery are simply dumped here: there is no sense of organic architecture.

One characteristic feature of San Francisco is the cable cars.  Not so much their quaint appearance, but in their absence the constant complaints of the cables which run beneath the streets.  It sounds as if the trolls of Nibelung are working away.  The often very steep hills – real Lake District up – transform the city, which is a grid system like New York, but looks nothing like it.  

I took the BART  – eventually.  First, it took me ages to work out how to buy a ticket.  Next, the station platform had no map telling me where I was going.  The BART itself is a strange mixture: poor and plush.  Thick carpets and comfy seats, but only lower socio-economic groups using it.

In the Cable Car Museum.  There are large wheels – "sheaves" – which circulate the closed loop of steel.  Cable cars grab this as they move.  The museum is like a circle of hell: huge, antiquated pieces of equipment, thrumming steadily.  

Back by Civic Center (alas), but the promise of Ethiopian food is too much.  Not yet 7pm, and already busy.  After beginning here, I then went to the bookstalls near Union Square, then back to the Museum of Modern Art.  Pretty poor.  Partly because the place is being renovated; but the exhibition of Chicago architecture very poor stuff.  Lunch at the café – the same artsy and uncomfortable chairs as the Design Centre.

Then on to the City Lights bookstore.  A gem.  Lively atmosphere – even chairs and tables so you can browse at your leisure.  City Lights publishers its own books, quite heavy stuff.  I was weak and bought Vikram Seth's book of poems – pre "Golden Gate" – and Ruskin's "Stones of Venice" – abridged, alas.  He seems to rabbit on about Santa Maria Formosa a lot….

I look up from my books – and see clear blue sky.  San Francisco is transformed.  I rush out, and go to Telegraph Hill.  The view is stunning, especially of the bay, stretching from the Golden Gate Bridge – a rather dull red colour – to Oakland Bay toll bridge. Hundreds of sailboats plus tankers et al.  Berkeley and its campanile visible [Honey wine tastes like cough mixture]. The rolling hills of San Francisco with their buildings: it's hard to see them as hills.  Sir Francis Drake must have felt pleased with himself claiming this bay: big and beautiful.  Now, bridges everywhere.

I decide to ascend Coit Tower on the hill.  It closes as I get there.  I sit and look, almost deciding to go back down to Fisherman's Wharf.  [The bread has the texture of cold foam rubber.]  I stay on the Hill for about an hour and a half, then descend towards the cable car on Powell.  No luck: full.  I walk up the amazing incline.  One bonus: the Cable Car museum (see supra).

30.10.88

I am totally knackered.  I have been walking for hours all day.  I woke early – clocks went back during the night – ate early, one of the big advantages here: you can eat anytime; then walked.

First up to Union Street, to see the Victorian houses.  Up incredibly steep streets – there was a race today in the brilliant clear blue sky – to practically the top – past rather decaying versions then to the genteel part.  Reminds me of Boston.  Shops – clothes et al. - nicely done out, surprisingly posh.  Everyone out for their papers – San Francisco Examiner, in about 15 sections, and weighing over a pound – and their breakfast.  Everybody seems to eat this meal out.  Parenthetically, John Dvorak has a Q&A in the San Francisco Examiner: rather feeble, I thought.  I like the Examiner; nice typeface, good style.  But they came out for Bush…

It is a picture: the neat wooden houses and shops, no two alike, the curving hills, the blue sky and radiant early morning sunshine.  Then down to the shore.  Foolishly, it being such a nice day, I decided to walk to the Golden Gate Bridge.  All the joggers are out – hundreds of them.  I am tempted to join in.  Out at sea there is a race: Indian-type canoes – about ten crews.  

Oakland is misty, but Alcatraz (= the pelican) is clear.  The bridge looms ahead, bright red.  I pass marinas chock full of boats.  Rich people/lifestyle here.  After about an hour (more?) I reach the bridge.  I am surprised that it would be so easy to leap off – and am vaguely tempted by that self-destructive devil within.  What is more frightening than looking down is looking up at the four cables every so often.  I have this urge to shimmy up them.

Golden Gate Bridge is big.  I walk less than halfway across and even that take me many minutes.  I see the Pacific for the first time (is Bali in the Pacific? Probably.)  Looking back downtown, the view is interesting: the skyscrapers, Coit Tower, the various hills.  Sausalito looks close, but I am already pretty tired.  In vain, I look for a taxi.  Finally, I find one, and go to Golden Gate Park.  It is much further than I think – thank god I didn't walk as I contemplated.  To the de Young Museum – quite one of the plainest buildings I have ever seen.  Lots of people milling around.  More joggers.  Lunch in the Museum.  Sitting outside in the courtyard and, the sun streaming down… not bad at all.  A quick tour.  Quite good Yank stuff, a few good Brit pix – the rest dross.  Everything seems so token and incomplete.

Outside to hear the Sunday brass band finish with a medley of tunes from "The Sound of Music".  Then wandering around.  The Arboretum, the Japanese Tea Garden, the hothouse, paying for most things.  The park is very big, full of people.

Because of the hour, the sun on the way down now.  Shadows lengthen.  I walk east the length of the park.  No bus, not taxis.  Foolishly, again, I decided to walk through Haight-Ashbury, along Pine Street, to the Civic Center.  It is a long, long way.  It is noticeable how past the green exterior of the Golden Gate Park, the neighbourhood turns crummy.  Am I too near the Western Addition?  Well, I make it, exhausted, back to the hotel.

More destinations:

1989 US, New Zealand, Fiji

1993 Mexico

1997 Seattle

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

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

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

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