Places in the mind

The brain, as I have written many times on this blog, is the most extraordinary thing. As I sit here writing, I have a track by Unknown Mortal Orchestra playing in my head complete with the detailed bass line, his distinctive voice, crispy drum rolls and various guitar riffs that make up that song. It's not even one of my favourites but it turned up on my Spotify play list while driving yesterday and it's now well embedded, pushing out slightly the Detectorists theme tune which had taken up residence for several days. Actually the latter can stay; it's a beautiful song and I don't seem to tire of it, unlike Money Money Money which became a seriously unwanted lodger some years back due to Ezra having to learn it in his crap music lessons. 

Anyway, all that to underline how amazing the brain is, and my blog post was to talk/ramble on about the more visual aspects of memory, with regard to places on this maligned planet. I was on a dog walk yesterday with new friend, author Adrian Mathews and we were discussing our respective nostalgias for London, realising that we both held the fondest memories from the 70s version of London with all the stuff that went along with it - Routemaster buses, formica cafés, few chain shops, and many wonderful old landmarks now sadly crushed under a new sedimentary layer of London's history. Mind, if the current novel I'm writing has any truth in its wayward madness, London is still there both in our collective minds, in time, and in all its phases.

During this morning's walk, I considered the places that have meant much to me, or not even much but have just stayed prominent in colour, shape, sound and smell within my memories over the years. An assortment: 

Too many in London to state, but perhaps the ponds of Hampstead Heath, the small parks of Bloomsbury and the roads around St Leonard's church in Hackney where I have done so much wandering during Londonia research.

                                       Gower St at 5:am on one of my 'deep topography' wanderings

A particular rounded hill in Dorest called Wingreen. It has featured in many of my books, and it was just visible from the end of our road when we lived in Wimborne, its wedge of beech trees strangely comforting to me; a memory of many happy walks with Mum listening to the larks and scanning the distant landscape for a glimpse of our road back home.

Win Green - Dorset pictures.com

An elegant alley of oak trees also near Wimborne in an area called Pamphill, a short walk through which brings one to a perfect little brick pub named the Vine inn/ Probably my favourite pub ever, despite its restricted menu of cheese or ham sandwiches - or that's what was on offer last time. But actually, what could be better than a hearty cheese and pickle sandwich on white spongy bread and half a pint of something with a name like Rector's Leg, or similar. 

Canford Cliffs near Bournemouth: ah, the views of Old Harry rocks and the rolling grasslands of the Purbeck area; the sand, the sea and all the memories of arriving there late on a summer day when everyone else was going to their guest houses or homes; wading into a placid sea, lying back and staring up the the clouds.

More recently, many personal postcard views of Cerbère close to the Spanish border. Two in particular - on walking into the hinterland and looking back at the sea and the train lines while a mass of bees explored the almond blossom, and swimming late at night in the town's small harbour. 

And of Limoux, where we have just moved from. So many memories and mainly of places reached on favourite dog walks. Probably the one would be the point we always stopped on the 'runny fields' walk (where our greyhounds could run easily) and gazed over the vine-striped hillsides and steep hillsides above Alet les Bains.

                               The hills above our old house, an everyday and much loved, dog walk.

So, what poignant memories will be formed in this new-to-us area of France? Certainly the Loire itself - I must have stood for twenty minutes the other day just watching the water in the late afternoon sun. I can feel affection already for many sights and sounds here: the pale stone and slate buildings with their elegant details, the slightly fen-like distant views of tree-clumps and hedges, meadows and regimented striped fields, the late-summer swallows that still swoop and dip and the graceful herons traversing the skies as silent as gliders.

London wanderings (shortish)

Curtailed by time constraints and clothes-soaking-in-seconds rain.

First wanderings: quick stopover in my base - the St Athan's hotel, Bloomsbury; sadly no evening meanderings as I'd arrived at two in the morning, not seven in the previous evening (see last post), so just a mornings walk. Anyway, as ever, London even within a square mile or so, was visually and audibly fascinating, and perhaps it's not always a bad thing to have time and distance perimeters.
Left the hotel and walked around the Bloomsbury squares partly thinking about a wonderful little 1960s documentary narrated by Kenneth Williams of his childhood in the area (will see if I can post it), re-found Woburn Place with its charming little parade of non-knackered shop fronts, then got on a random bus and ended up in the madness of Trafalgar Square; up Charing Cross road (stopping in all second hand bookshops) turned left and into Soho, where, opposite Ronnie Scotts, I found the ancient Italian café of my most earnest desires (oo, ek).
Thought all these had well and truly been sat on by Starbucks, Costa's, Nero's et al but there it was in all its Formica and neon splendour. I asked if I should order at the counter and the slick-haired man smiled: "You like men or women?"
"Err, Men?"
"Okay, I take your order then."
I drank excellent hot chocolate (sadly no can do coffee, but did appreciate the scent of it), ate a weird little maggot-like cake that tasted of brandy butter, and listened in to the conversation all around - which was impossible as it was mostly flamboyant-sounding Italian.

                         

                 

Back out into Soho square and beguiled by a shop-display pile of old TVs all broadcasting the same flickering 70s? film, went in to see what the shop actually sold - hand-made designer and vintage glasses. The two elaborately dressed assistants or owners were helping two traffic wardens with a possible choice of frames, a conversation I think had been going on for some time. After the dark-suited two had left purchase-less the woman turned to me with a unruffled expression.
"I think they just come in to keep out of the cold."

                        

I continued on, crossing over the river of consumerism (Oxford Street) and wandering around the streets leading back to Tottenham Court Road - Goodge Street hardly recognisable from when I lived there back in the late 80s. Took my crap old iPhone 5 into one of the small electrical shops as its charge was disappearing after an hour.
"Hello, do you deal with antique phones?"
Looks at it with mild distaste. "Maybe - what's the problem?"
Explained, after which he suggested a new battery for 35 quid, to which I said, "Oo, not sure," to which he said, "OK, 20 for cash." Ten minutes later after some technical stuff involving a hairdryer, my crap phone was once again working. Useful info BTW: never let your phone charge for more than 100% and certainly not overnight - "kills the battery dead quick," he said wagging a finger at me.
And so, it started to rain. Back to the hotel, grabbed case and off to the tube/Waterloo.




Thought my spelling was bad . . .

           

                         Grey day in Trafalgar Square.


Shop windows around Bloomsbury and Soho



The Pitted Olive - good café near Tavistock Place

            

                 Waterstone's shop window display - 'Why we Sleep' . . .

                        

One of the beautiful shop fronts of Woburn place (Champagne dress-trying event underway in the shop)

                

Two beautiful people in their vintage clothing shop

Second even shorter London trip from Dorset to see a literary agent.

Set off after meeting to do a planned walk to Archway but the steady drizzle morphed into a monsoon; cafés and buses and tube visits/voyages instead . . . which had their own pluses.

                                                

                                                               Wet weather solace




Aliens on the Central Line



Pushchair Spiderman



Take five



Bus condensation art

Some days are longer than others

Smiths song, wasn't it?  . . . nope.  Some girls' mothers are bigger than others - that was it, anyway, yesterday was extremely lengthy, the hours stretching impossibly longly - is that a word? I don't know, I only slept for four hours last night, but I have a large pot of tea and an egg not-Mac-muffin  in front of me; it's a perfect drizzly London day and all will be well.
Yesterday, the hours had been quite normal until Mark dropped me off at the airport - a hundred and twenty minutes too early but that was fine; time to work and do a bit of London wanderings-planning. X-raying-the-stuff time arrived, all ok, and they failed to spot my extremely dangerous lip-salve concealed in jean's pocket.
Usual wait in the 'holding bay' with whirr and clunk of vending machines, hiss-hiss of headphone music and choo-choo of plastic train-ride, occasionally interrupted by the cry of a disgruntled child wanting another turn.
After a remark from my seated neighbour regarding the weather, we got chatting and, weirdly - how I love these accidental meetings - he told me he had bought a house in our town: the house I had looked at some years ago with some B and B guests staying with us. Great little place - well done Andy, if you read this.
The time came and we obediently trotted out into the rain and stood about while staff ran around with walkie-talkies and then told us to go back inside. Being optimistic sheep, we stood about a bit more hoping the vague info about the plane being 'en panne' - broken, was Fake News. Nope - it was broken and we would have to go back in and eat crisps for some indefinite time until someone could stick the wing back on, or whatever the problem was.

                                               

Back inside there was excited talk of a refreshment voucher. We queued and were handed a two pieces of paper: one, a lop-sided photo-copy explaining how you could spend a day trying to reclaim money for the late flight, and another, the voucher for . . . five euros! Wow, a small cake and a cup of tea, or possibly just the cake since we were in an airport.
I talked to my new friend, did some more work and waited for information. The pilot appeared, (who seemed to be about eighteen), to buy some nougat for his 'other half' and explained that the problem had been a small sensor announcing there could be a brake issue. They had tried to mend the sensor - probably turning it on and off a bit - that usually works, but it had stubbornly decided to continue saying there was a problem. Not a bad thing, really; the thought of cruising the Stanstead tarmac at several hundred miles an hour with no brakes, well, best not to think about it . . .
We drank tea, and some people drank a lot of wine,  especially a white haired lady next to us . . . actually, no-one had been remotely grumpy, and even when the announcement was made that we would have to wait until ten, there were no heavy sighs or complaining, just a lot of silent texting and buying of more wine.
The Ryanair solution that had been arrived at was 'a plane is being brought up from Barcelona' - I liked this, imagining the giant white metal bird on the back of some Pantechnicon being delivered up the autoroute, or more likely, the flight of an empty plane, with just a (undoubtably, fed up) pilot or two, lights on, seats empty, the ghost of a drinks trolly rattling up the aisle.
Ten o'clock: we again shuffled outside, stood for some time in freezing rain and eventually entered the still-cooling plane. Flight of nodding off, slumped, wishing I had one of those neck cushions, until we reached the UK coast. Then it was worth all the hours of sitting about. I have never seen a more magnificent view of London. The air must have been particularly clear after a recent rain episode: every road into the city a glittering coppery-golden necklace, the river a dark lazy snake within a jewelled web of lights. I could have looked at it for hours but the seven minutes or so laid down a permanent visual trace in my mind.



Pic: Reddit. com - my camera failed to work

The plane landed with a squeak, bump and no fanfare (odd that). The pilot came to say goodbye to us all, standing at the door of the cockpit like a fresh-faced vicar after a Sunday service; I really did get the feeling he meant it too. We exchanged a few words about the view, and he said, eyebrows raised in agreement, that it had been the most spectacular he could remember too.
Found my case, found the train (last one, and full of yawning, dead-eyed folks returning from or starting holidays/jobs/new horizons), and eventually ended up in Liverpool Street station keening for a taxi as I was too pooped to lug my case any further - but there weren't any so I did lug my case up and down many staircases, escalators, and through tunnels, and got lost - got lost somewhere between the central line and Piccadilly line.
Found the platform and even in my weary state, did gawp, as ever, at the astonishing plethora (after Southern France) of different humans - topped by a beautiful bearded black guy dressed in leggings, cowboy boots, woolly bobble hat, Chanel sunglasses/earrings, jewelled and feathered mohair cardigan, shouting at a trio of youths who had 'commented' on his attire, to, and I quote, 'go back home, watch Brigit Jones and pull on their three inch dicks'.
Arrived at Russell Square, resisted the idea of a glass of wine and packet of cheese and onion crisps in a pub that still seemed to be open, and loped, everything aching, to the St Athan's hotel (hurrah!) where I signed in, got lost again and wandered the corridors looking for room 16 which seemed to have never been constructed; at last found it and collapsed on the bed to find the heating was on full and impossible to turn off. Opened window, despite adding wildly to global warming, and tried to sleep, knowing it was now 2.00 am and I would no doubt wake as is my habitude, at 6.30. Which I did.

Aw . . . and silver linings

When I was in London last, walking and planning where things would take place in my latest book, I happened upon the most perfect location for 'Hamish's' book shop: a small, dusty and wonderfully-atmospheric book shop betwixt Bloomsbury and King's Cross, which was perfect in every way. Then I discovered on returning to my hotel room/work space and consulting Google that the shop had already been used for this brilliant comedy. Damn. Still, I'm only borrowing it in my head.

We had somehow missed this series, being well away from Channel Four since the early 2000s.

Now happily making our way through the box set . . .

January London wanderings

 . . . As ever, based vaguely on a 'map' of one of my book character's movements, workplaces and habitation.
On venturing out in the early morning, I considered the fact that I really should spend part of my sacred day going to see some art. London is stuffed with it and magnificent museums, theatres - all aspects of culture, but somehow I felt over-compelled to continue my mission of stalking Hamish's (present main character) London life-map.

          

              Perfect day for a tad of psychogeography . . .

After porridge and tea in the excellent Bloomsbury café situated beneath my favourite home-from-home, the St Athan's hotel, I walked swiftly( at first) in the direction of East Finchley before getting distracted by a thousand or so details of my favourite city that I had never before observed. The Keystone Crescent (previously Caledonian Crescent - better name, methinks) for example.

 

How had I walked about WC1 so many times and overlooked this architectural wonderment: smallest radius of any Crescent in Europe, and unique in having a matching inner and outer circle.
First on my desired locations for Hamish's life was a small, black window-framed book shop and turning into Leigh Street I found it - perfect in every way, from to its teetering piles of books to shadowy small courtyard; perfect, except it's already been used (I discovered later after checking) in a   BBC (dark) comedy series. Damn. But I suppose there's no rule to say I can't mentally move into the shop too . . .



Continued walking to King's Cross and turned into a road that used to house a decrepit building/photographic studio where I often worked as a stylist back in the early 90s, running up and down the metal staircase with props and parking tickets. It had long gone, replaced by a boring dull-bricked hotel called sleep-u-like or some such thing; even worse, the beautiful little Italian deli at the end of the road was sadly empty, possibly waiting a wrecking-ball (sob). The downside of these nostalgic wanderings - missing buildings of my earlier London years, now gaps in the jaws of the city or morphed into uniform sleek edifices of marble and glass.



Continuing up the Caledonian Road, I caught a bus as my feet were complaining and arrived at Archway where I caught another bus to East Finchley, sitting at the top/front enjoying the pigeons'-eye view of scraggy shops, mustard-bricked terraces and hurrying commuters.
A florist shop figures highly in Hamish's life - a series of floral apologies and love messages, and I'd found the ideal establishment: 'Josephine's', established well before the decade the book is set in.



I skulked about a bit and spoke to one of the florists but unfortunately the manager wasn't there; not that I needed to speak to them but I just like to find out a bit of history surrounding my potential locations.
Onto Muswell Hill via Fortis Green road where I chose a house on Western Road that would fit the style I had imagined for my character's flat.

                             

  

A couple of unchanged shop interiors 

Muswell Hill . . . place of my childhood up until thirteen or so; everything is still so familiar, and many places unchanged - the old pet shop, Martyn's, the marvellous old coffee/tea/dry goods shop with its coffee roasting machine still in the window, and the parade of shops on Duke's Avenue where I wish to place 'Lily's' taxidermy establishment. Old chemist chosen, I checked out a few charity shops, caught the 134 back to Russell Square and meandered into the sub-real district of Bond Street with its shop displays of obscenely-expensive shoes and handbags fabricated to carry life's essentials of a single lipstick and a gold American Express card.

  
 smaller than a hedgehog 

 
Mm, comfy



A . . . beige shoe with special powers?

After walking around snarling quietly at such excess, I went into Liberty's, mainly to look at their staircases' carved animal newel posts and the changing rooms on the women' clothing floors.
Hamish experiences a very spontaneous 'act' with his new lady-friend in one of these cubicles which I had imagined as large, spacious and full of William Morris wallpaper; in fact they were smallish, mirror-clad and possibly installed in the late 70s?
A beautiful man with skin like the most perfect cup of coffee (drink, not cup) and an exotic silver necklace informed me that he didn't know the date of the changing rooms and I would have to ask the store designers. There didn't seem to be any about so I had another gawp at shoes that cost 800 pounds plus, and went back outside in search of TEA in an old Italian, formica café, the likes of which of course sadly don't exist now, bulldozed into the past by Starbucks, Neros, et al.



I liked this very much but preferred the idea of paying the electricity bill

The weather had now decided to revert to standard January precipitation so I got on a bus and enjoyed looking out at the blurry traffic lights, headlights, window display lights, bus lights, etc, until I got to Russell square and ran back to the hotel with saturated feet and perused the internet for theatres/cinemas within slopping distance.
Three hours or so later I emerged from Tottenham Court Road Odeon wondering why I had spend 14 quid on seeing LaLa Land - sugar-sweet, silly, zilch story, and the dancing . . . well, maybe better to watch a re-run of Mr Kelly splashing about in the studio rain.



Man in bus shelter who had perhaps just heard on his smartphone who had made it to the Whitehouse



Bus window condensation-art