Still on the run

 Part two: To Tuscany

In the morning, though it is still dark despite the Harvest Moon, I leave Geneva, and the train to Milan skirts Lac Leman and heads for the Simplon Tunnel.  The scenery is spectacular but shrouded in cloud and difficult to photograph with reflections on the windows and shrubbery by the trackside.  

At Brig we stop for customs and immigration - and also, the guard announces, temperature checks....  But all that happens is that a burly, desultory man glances at my NHS Covid Pass....  and that's it.  

Near Stresa I do get a good view of Lago Maggiore and Isola Bella from my seat (above) and am reminded of the stops we made at the Hotel Bristol, with its horizontal lift, in Stresa, when the girls were small.  My guilt has appeased a little as happy memories begin to take over.  

A quick change of train in Milan, and then a couple of hours later I pick up an Audi Q2 in Florence and take aim for Siena, and within an hour or so I am checked into the Albergo Chiusarelli, where we have stayed on a number of occasions.

A little later, showered and changed, I am sipping an aperitif on a balcony overlooking the Piazza del Campo, one of the most beautiful urban spaces in Italy.

Opposite me, next to the Palazzo Pubblico, I see the little roof terrace from where I watched the Palio, probably in July 1977.

And just on the edge of the sunshine, under the red awning, is the place where I asked Amanda if she would like to get married....(to me... Ed)  which would have been in August 1984.

We were previously here two years ago, almost to the day, on the last trip we made to Italy.  It was already difficult to find things for Amanda to eat, and even more difficult to get the timing right, but I eventually found somewhere for her to have mozzarella and soft bread at about six.....

This time I return to the Osteria Da Cice, where we have eaten well many times under the arched ceiling of terracotta bricks.  The hostess has been here thirty years, and here she is showing a table of young men some of the bistecche alla fiorentina that are about to be grilled for them.....

After Cantucci e Vin Santo I wander the quiet streets, and sit for a while gazing at the candy-striped cathedral.  It is like an old friend, and I share something special with it, for it would have been a much grander, more imposing building were it not for the Black Death in 1348, combined with a colossal overspend at the time, which led to the ambitious project being abandoned.  I like it as it is, but this memorial to the plague reminds me of how vulnerable we all are, and how we can never rely on the future.

In the morning, in glorious weather, I drive down the Via Cassia and turn off at Buonconvento towards the benedictine Abbazia di Monte Oliveto Maggiore.  I walk down from the car park, past the restaurant in the gatehouse, to the Church and the abbey complex, where, over thirty years ago, Amanda and I stayed in the Foresteria....

The principal reason for visiting this beautiful site is the Grand Cloister, whose walls are adorned with frescos by Luca Signorelli and Il Sodoma (Giovanni Antonio Bazzi - here from 1505 - 8), which tell the story of Saint Benedict.  

I particularly like the pictures of various animals which, I think, may have been part of Il Sodoma's menagerie at the time, like these badgers (being pecked at by crows):

And this delightful white cat:

And then there are the male femmine (naughty girls) that Florenzo sends away from the monastery, their innocent (?) faces influenced perhaps by the great Leonardo da Vinci, 

but so like Tuscan girls today.....

I move on, towards Montalcino, but stopping at Val di Cava, where my old friend, Vincenzo, is still making Brunello on what was his grandfather's estate.  I delight in seeing him again, after many years, and finding that his son, Pierfilippo (who is about the same age as our Hannah and who we first met when they were both in car seats) now works with his father in producing innovative fine wines from superbly healthy san giovese vines. 

From Montalcino I wind down to the isolation of Sant'Antimo, where Charlemagne buried some of his troops a few years ago.  

We have visited this beautiful church time and again over the years, and clearly remember when it was more or less abandoned, and that if you turned up to see it, the custode would zip down from the village on his motorino and unlock the dusty door, allowing us into the cool interior, which was lit by windows glazed with thin slices of alabaster (or onyx - or both).  

Now it is a commercially viable monument and active church, with regular services on Sundays, and parking for coaches from Germany.

Among my abiding memories of this place is seeing a Roller emerge from its nest in the campanile - alas, such undisturbed natural wonder is now lost to the popularity of the architecture.....

On the road to my destination another landmark rises ahead of me. This is the Castello di Velona, picked out above the vineyard and before the peaks of Monte Amiata.  Many years ago Amanda and I explored this place when it was a ruin, the roofs falling in, mattresses rotting under the sky, and an ancient ledger fluttering in the breeze with details of harvests and expenditures fading in the sun.

Then I climb a rough track and roll to a halt before my friends' house, at 600 metres up the shoulders of the mountain.

Little has changed here since I first visited in the summer of 1976.  Over the years Amanda and I, and our children, have been guests of David and Sarah, our friends, in this lovely old farmhouse. I used to place my clockwork wristwatch on the windowsill by my bed and would wake in the morning to hear it ticking, while golden orioles squeaked and squawked in the cherry trees outside.

Autumn crocuses break through the dry thatch of the grass around the building, 

A Grayling butterfly heads for the bottle of Rosso di Montalcino that Vincenzo gave us for supper,

In the valleys below smoke rises from where the contadini are clearing the ground below their sweet chestnut trees in preparation for the harvest,

The sun dips down to the horizon, backlighting the hills towards the sea and beyond, the heights of Elba just visible on the left.....

And then it is gone and the sky is just full of colour behind the walnut tree as everything fades....

My heart is at ease. Back home I know Amanda is cared for and safe. It is strange to be here, without her. My guilt begins to surface again as I wish she could be with me to enjoy this glorious evening..... But then I know she would be happy for at least one of us to carry these memories.

At Arcidosso - many years ago

On the run.....

Part one:  Getting Away

This is a personal story, but I am not claiming it's exceptional.  The pandemic has laid waste all sense of normality and created suffering across the world.  At the same time our struggle with dementia is more manageable, perhaps, than that of others.  We are fortunate, too, that we have support, from family and others, and can afford, at the moment, to pay people to help us.  

Things could be worse.  

That said, it is not easy, and I want to share experience so that others may understand.  So that anyone in a similar position, today or tomorrow, may be able to feel some company.

There is a saying that, Once you have met one person with dementia....  You have met one person with dementia.  No two cases are the same, though some may be similar and certain types of dementia may be better understood and more predictable than others.

As I have recounted before in these pieces, Amanda, my wife of some 38 years, has developed Frontotemporal Dementia (Semantic Variant), which is one of the rarer forms of dementia.  She has been afflicted for about ten years and has now reached the stage where she needs full time care, helping her with all the things we take for granted in daily life, from eating bread and fruit, to going to the toilet.  With Alzheimer's disease life expectancy from diagnosis to death is around ten years.  Amanda's dementia, coupled with the fact it was a fairly young onset, means she will probably live much longer than that before the general decay of the brain leaves her vulnerable to something which will finish her off.

In the meantime, it is a kind of slow demise, a slow death, and a slow bereavement.  But, to look on the bright side, she appears content and will chuckle and smile in an innocent, uncomplicated way.  And one of my messages, for what it is worth, to all and sundry (though I'm no paragon), is to grasp those positives.....

We moved in January this year.  A monumental enterprise (from my point of view) and one that left Amanda traumatised......  But this here (below) is our new home, and with the aid of certain prescribed medication and a persistent routine we have become accustomed to our new address.....

But, everything takes its toll, and, despite the help I get from family and employees, I have been responsible for the whole shebang - which includes everything from taxation to pensions, to the move, to dentistry, to ensuring we have enough Tena pants and medication - and the state, bless its convoluted ego, is not empowered to be of much assistance (though please don't take this wrong - those who are involved with us have been wonderful; just that there is a very clear limit for social care and mental health - it's not like you break your leg and they do everything!)

And so, with the permission of one of our daughters and a following wind, and given the alignment of the stars and a number of other fragments of luck, I take the train to Paris on my way south for a brief respite break.  My ultimate aim is Tuscany, where I hope to meet up with some old friends, and to rest.  I am apprehensive, but I look forward to several days not having to wake up at a certain time, not having to keep an ear out for the little steps upstairs (as I write this, I am listening for signs that Amanda may get out of bed upstairs, meaning I will need to go up and check that all is well....) 

But I am hoping to be able to go to a restaurant and relax with the menu and a glass.  To be 'free' to choose this way or that without a thought to where the nearest toilet may be, nor thinking what we can eat this evening (at six) without spitting it out.....

So, here I am, at Le Train Bleu, at Gare de Lyon, Paris. An indulgence that not even sophisticated Parisians (such as my companion on the Eurostar) have all treated themselves to.

And it is a luxury.  Wow, what an ambience!  Am I dreaming?  A quick zap of my NHS Covid Pass (no qualms there, and the zapper immediately knows who I am and how well vaxed I am) and I am seated under sprawling frescoes of women in shaded porticoes overlooking Monaco (Montenard pinxit).  Then food of an order of well trained angels, and Riesling that could baptise an Archbishop.  

I wouldn't want to dine here every day.  But.... It's one thing off the bucket list.

But then, forgive me, the first twinge of conscience.  I used to try places out in Paris with Amanda by my side.  Yes, being me, I often made the choices, but she was with me, and smiling, and we would accompany each other through these experiences, however difficult.....  Now, perforce, she is not here.  I have no hand to hold.  Somehow the food doesn't taste quite so good......

A little later I am seated on a train bound for Geneva, Switzerland. Another country.  Hundreds of miles.  But a mere three and a half hours from Paris, reaching 300kph at times and whipping through the history of Europe, up the last stretch as though the pre-Alps were something of a minor inconvenience, and then disembarking in a city without so much of a scratch on my passport.

I have little connection with Switzerland.  Amanda and I drove through it a few years ago on our last overland trip to Italy, just after some of the people in the United Kingdom (sic) chose to turn their back on the mainland. It was then an embarrassment.  It is now a shame.  But 'the people' had their wish and we have to live with it - for now.  

We also drove through the country when the girls were small, and each time I have been here  I have thought how calm and neat and clean and pleasant a land it is.  Right now, on my own, I think rather differently.  I am at ease, sort of, but on my shoulder is the unwelcome weight of a conscience, niggling at me - should I be here?

But then, what do I know?

So I am on the run.  Escaping from my responsibilities, trying to forget the daily pain of watching a loved one disappear.  But friends and counsellors have told me I need to look after myself, or who will care for - Amanda.  And there is the rub.  We both worked all our lives to save a little for our twilight days, and now it will all be tied up in her care (or perhaps mine as well?)  I am a pawn in the government's game. If I fall over, then the bill will fall to the local authority, already starved of resources by a cabinet of fools, but until that day, we pay.....  

And the result is that I feel guilty. Guilty for abandoning my powerless partner. Guilty for perhaps enjoying myself.  Guilty even for expecting some help when there are others more needy than us..... But, guilty, as charged, for being a self-centred Europhile flaneur, riding the TGV to Geneva and eating (and drinking Chasselan) care of Jose et Carlos Farina, at the Bistrot du Bœuf Rouge, 17 rue Dr. Alfred-Vincent, CH 1201 Genève.... 

Yes.  On the run.  

And guilty.

But.....

If you can read my mind Why must I speak?

Do I need your permission

To turn the other cheek?

Forgive the pun, but I am a little horse......

My sunflowers are dry, which doesn't suit the admiral, here in Nelson Country.....

There's a tangle of knots on the horizon.  The days are shrinking; unlike my cares.....  I don't have priority on this but my knots are tangling more and more every passing day.  And here comes the darkness, as sure as the rising tide.

Nearer the shore there is a mix of sanderling and little ringed plover - how good they can share their burdens.

Sweet mouthfuls.  Is there anything more lovely?  Nature au naturel?

Not far away the North Sea (the German Sea?) reaches out across the wastes to a curving horizon beyond my grasp.....

It is blessedly quiet - in my opinion - after the drifts of holiday makers in the school recess, though this beach had the space (it was the approach roads that suffered). Today it is sparsely populated......

Maybe because the airways are reopening?

I am tried by paradoxes.  I love the simplicity of solitude.  But I am never alone.  And then I wish I was.  But then again I yearn company.  Except that too much is more than enough.

Give me space....

But don't desert me, Bird Friday with your dinosaur tracks.....

Well, God is in His heaven

And we all want what’s His

But power and greed and corruptible seed 

Seem to be all that there is

I'm listening to Bob Dylan's latest release: Springtime in New York - The Bootleg Series Vol.16 1980-1985.

Not everyone's preference - understood.  Times have moved on and it is my bad that I am rutted in this particular past.  

But then we all have our tender fragrancies,

And I can tell you one thing

Nobody can sing the blues

Like Blind Willie McTell

Bob Dylan

I still have a wonderful vinyl LP by Blind Willie McTell that I bought in Lancaster with my friend Ray Steele in 1969, on which there is the unforgettable song, Dying Crapshooter's Blues:

I want nine men going to the graveyard, bubba

And eight men comin back.....

I walked with Amanda by the high tide flooded road at Brancaster and saw the swallows amassing ready for their flights south.  Each and every one of us: swallow, man, woman, insect, fish....  has to live as best we can.  

Nine men may go to my funeral, and eight men may come back.  But then, in due course, those eight will be seven, and so it goes.....

I want a gang of gamblers gathered 'round my coffin-side

Crooked card printed on my hearse

Don't say the crapshooters'll never grieve over me

My life been a doggone curse

Blind Willie McTell

1898 - 1959

Ten pics

 A Small Step (up the hill of beans....)

I have been taking photographs since the days  when William Henry Fox Talbot was a lad - or so it seems.  Perhaps I exaggerate, un petit peu?  My first camera, a Kodak Brownie 44a, was a smart little thing, and I still have a number of the snaps I took with it, some in perfect condition, and that was some 60 years ago.....

Then through the years I slowly crept up the ladder - my first 35mm being a Boots Beirette, then I acquired an SLR, a Russian  Zenith, with a brilliant lens.  After that, for some reason, I went for a Russian rangefinder camera, a Zorki 4, before going back to single lens reflex with two Pentax MXs (one for black and white and one for Kodachrome) and a series of lenses, until the digital age. 

I am, I suppose, pretty much entirely self-taught, which is to say I have read (some of) the manuals, viewed exhibitions, read books (by such as Roland Barthes, Susan Sontag and John Berger) and learnt by practice. I have done a small amount of professional work, with pictures published in various papers, magazines and books, and I have had, in Italy, two exhibitions. Nearly all my pictures, however, would be classed as amateur, though perhaps I now rank, as Canon will have it, as an enthusiast? 

Anyway, after all these years of snapping away, I began to wonder about some kind of qualification, or mark of recognition. I can't really explain why, but I joined the Royal Photographic Society to see how I could develop my skills, and realised that they have three grades of Distinction - Licentiate, Associate and Fellowship. To quote the RPS, to become a Licentiate of The Society, applicants must show variety in approach and techniques but not necessarily in subject matter. Demanding but achievable for most dedicated photographers.

So there we have an aim.  Something to achieve.  As a friend of mine says, it ain't worth a hill of beans, but, as I soon learned, standards are high and it (certainly) ain't a piece of cake.....  In fact, I failed twice to gain the distinction.  So I thought I would try once more.....

These ten pictures are the ones I recently submitted for a panel to assess.  I did have some help, and I am particularly grateful to Michael O'Sullivan who gave me advice and spent time with me in two 1-2-1 discussions.  And so, here we are....

The first picture in my panel is of Amanda on the beach at Holme-next-the-sea in February this year.  She has a winning mischievous look, but the scars on her nose tell a tale of disorientation and pain.  We moved to Norfolk in January and she was completely lost. We resorted to medication to keep her calm, but unfortunately this contributed to a fall in the bathroom and damage to her face.  And this, I think, gives the portrait some depth, with her trusting eyes and cheeky grin contrasting with the discoloured skin and scabbed nose.

To balance this intimate portrait I placed this picture of my friend Antonio next.  This was taken on our last, pre-pandemic, trip to Italy, in Antonio's house in Genazzano,  near Rome.  We have been friends since I first went to Italy in 1976, and we keep in regular contact. Antonio's father came through Italy in WW2, crossing paths with my dad, though in the Army not the Air Force.  He also picked up a sweetheart on the way, from the South, again not unlike my dad, except he married his girl and brought her back to England after the war, where they raised their two children. After graduating in Modern Foreign Languages from Reading University Antonio moved to Italy where his parents had taken up residence outside of Rome. There he befriended Gino, with whom he founded The Fiddler's Elbow in Rome, an Irish pub which is still to be found near Santa Maria Maggiore.

To cut the story short, Antonio spent the latter half of his working life as a seriously undervalued employee of the British Embassy in Rome, but he has now retired and lives quietly with his partner, Giuseppina, in a gothic apartment in the old part of Genazzano.  A brilliant linguist and highly literate man, he remains a great friend and I hope this photograph does him some justice.

My third picture was taken in late spring on a walk near our new home.  The countryside abounds with hares here and in the spring they are easy to spot charging about in the fields.  This one, however, was having a rest when we came through a gate on a footpath and instead of rushing away, he paused a while and let me take a few pictures with my new Canon mirrorless camera, before he decided to lollop off relatively calmly.  They are beautiful animals, and I thought this shot nicely caught that almost effortless acceleration they are capable of when the time demands, along with his wary eye and wonderful whiskers....

As a centrepiece to my panel, I chose this picture from the Musée Oldmasters Museum, which is part of the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, in Brussels.  I like the perspective, the eye-catching red walls, and the figure of the guide/guard wandering into the distance.  I love visiting art galleries, especially when they are quiet.  I like to wonder about the people framed there, and their lives, and to imagine entering into different times, different worlds.  I was once a guide in rooms in a castle in Scotland which had two enormous Canaletto paintings on the wall.  Every day I could float down the Grand Canal on a gondola before turning to look out the window at the gardens of Versailles....

Then another natural history picture taken with my Canon with its superb 500mm lens.  This kestrel posed obligingly, if somewhat haughtily, for me on a tree in the Chilterns, and by chance I was uphill and so at almost the same height as the bird, which makes it a slightly unusual viewpoint.  Having worked as a residential volunteer for the RSPB at a number of their reserves, I have tried many times to take good shots of birds, but all too often they see me coming and are off before I can raise my lens, but this fellow wanted to stare me out, and so I got him full face....

The pandemic closed us all down, and for two years I have been fidgeting about wanting desperately to be on the move again.  This picture reminds me of the diversity and fun of travelling; it was taken in the Grote Markt, in Antwerp, and the gentleman was demonstrating to me how one should drink jenever, which is usually poured to the rim of the glass, so you don't pick the glass up, but bend towards it and sip.  One of my judges said he had no idea what this chap was doing (when the pictures are appraised there is no information allowed about where they were taken or anything), but now you know!

I lived in Italy for twenty years, in and near Rome, and I am still awestruck by the city. This is a view from the terrace bar of the Mecenate Palace Hotel, where we have stayed on recent visits.  Yes, there is quite a bit of dark sky in the picture, but that Roman sky is so velvety.....

Anther great European city is Vienna, and this view of the steep roof of Stephansdom (St Stephen's Cathedral) seemed to work well with my overall panel, the diagonals linking with the surrounding pictures and the colours providing a nice contrast with the art gallery above.  I also find the window fascinating - who lives in there I wonder, and why is it placed exactly there, its own triangles at odds with the geometry of the tiles?

Another night shot - this time from a low level.  The Polite Police in the Grand Place of Brussels keeping an eye on the tourists.  This is a glittering square, full of lights and glorious architecture, but the presence of armed police is a reminder that perhaps nowhere is entirely safe these days.....

And finally another portrait.  This is Martin, who helps at the bakers attached to Redbournbury Mill on the River Ver near St Albans.  He kindly let me take his picture a couple of times and hope he won't mind this exposure now?  I miss our Saturday walks to the mill from our home in Harpenden, and the superb multiseed bread we used to buy, and Martin was always friendly and interesting to talk to.  His head is a work of art in its own right; I hope he is well and that his beard will never grow shorter!

So, that's it.  Not a race nor a competition; but a selection of pictures offered up for considered judgement against a set of criteria, which are:

Camera work and Technical Quality 

Visual Awareness

Communication 

Overall Impression

full details of which can be found by following this link: LRPS Guidelines 

I think that as with so many things there is bound to be some subjectivity in any judgement, but having been through the process three times now, and having learned how some pictures can be 'improved' in certain ways, and how some pictures, or indeed an overall impression, may not sufficiently meet the criteria, I have to confess to feeling a sense of achievement and satisfaction that my submission has been recognised as being of a certain standard. No, my pictures won't suddenly fill the pages of National Geographic, nor feature on the cover of Vogue; I am not (yet) a member of Magnum; and yes, there's a long long way to go before I can be compared to Ansel Adams or Henri Cartier-Bresson et alios, but, hey, it's a step.....

And the next step will be to aim for the Associate Distinction, (which requires a body of work/project of a high standard and a written Statement of Intent. Strong technical ability using techniques and photographic practices appropriate to the subject).....

We'll see.......