Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

As snow falls between the trees, deepening the silence, chilling the sense of depth in woodland, the sense that we do not quite belong any more in this ecosphere is enhanced.  Frost's poem, ninety odd years old now, reminds us that the human world of affairs and business is out of kilter with the rhythm of nature, even though sleep, that essential cyclical mystery of our being, is part of it all:  our superiority means that we can order our sleep to fit the plans we strive to follow.

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfOxdZfo0gs

Nomansland

When everyone (including Ralph Richardson, John Gielgud, Harold Pinter, and my dad) were very much alive (1975), Doctor Brother Gibbs Senior and I managed to see "Nomansland" in its entire novelty at Wymondham's Theatre in London's best end, with Ralph and John on top form, the former oily with motorcycle grandeur, the latter with grubby raincoat seediness. 

Now, here in this picture, we play Hirst and Spooner (men in their sixties) and contempt-plate the passing of life and lives on Nomansland Common, Wheathampstead, shortly before our dad took flight for kingdom come.

 

Here is Chaos....

R I P Paddy Fermor, master of the English Language, whose lifetime correspondence with Deborah Mitford, the Duchess of Devonshire, Mistress of Chatsworth House, is only outshone by the correspondence I had with him when I lived by Lake Bracciano in Italy and wrote to him about his description of the reflection of Bracciano Castle in the lake which I could see from my balcony.  Charmingly and not at all in tearing haste, he replied (from Kardamyli, on July 7th 1988).  "Alas, I mustn't agree to the idea of a visit!  Things are going so badly and slowly with my present book - largely because of being led astray with reviews, introductions, and visits, I've taken a vow that they must all stop until a safe, secret part of the book is reached and I am sure you will understand." 

The Self Unseeing

The interior of the Barley Mow Inn, in Kirk Ireton, Derbyshire.  A pub that dates back to the days of King James Ist and which has altered less than many old hostelries.  Although geographically quite out of keeping with Thomas Hardy, I could not help but recall this poem in this very English interior.

Between the Cradle and the Grave

Crocuses spring from the grave.  A picture composed at Ayot St Lawrence in Hertfordshire, where the neo-classical church upsets the landscape and the crumbling ruins of the older village church romantically satisfies the visitor.  The Palladian stretch of the more modern church separates one Lord Brocket from his erstwhile wife, with the legend that what the church united in life it will separate in death....

Here in a moody self-portrait, I muse on a picture of my parents and brother, taken in France a lifetime away, while my father lies close to death in hospital.  I rehears funerary thoughts with the paradox of life reviving in spring in a place of death.....

The Palace Beautiful

The Palace Beautiful as mentioned in the "Pilgrim's Progress."  In the background are the Bedford Levels - this is one that will be explored further.....

Handshake

                             

What is this Life?

Leisure

A moment's comtemplation whilst crossing the M1 just outside Redbourn in Hertfordshire on a walk from Harpenden to Berkhamsted to visit my ailing father. 

The Jitterbugs

From the West Country - The Mendip Fringe, 2

Chew Magna lives up to its name, and once upon a time it must have been magnificent, if the size and style of some of its buildings is anything to go by.  There’s a third storey to some of the eighteenth century houses that would have been home to quite a few servants, and there are outhouses and stables and walls and gates and ornaments and decorations and a degree of opulence not found in every village.  Harford House is one such dwelling.  Another is The Firs, which boasts 16 chimney pots.   Hence the name, “Magna,” and that’s the way it still feels.  Though I am not quite sure who is building what out of breezeblocks right in the centre of town, near the triangular village green with its ancient thorn tree.

The village has history – you can feel it.  It is the largest village in the area, and was already important in Saxon times.  It was a thriving centre for the wool trade in the middle ages, and the Bishop of Bath and Wells built a palace here near St Andrew’s church, some of which survives as Chew Court.  The church itself is notable for its 15^th century tower, embellished by pinnacles, and inside has a Norman font and rood screen.  Also from the 15^th century is the Church House, now called the Old Schoolroom, which has a beautiful façade with an ornate doorway and five windows giving onto the village green.  Much of the manor house was rebuilt in 1656. A house called “The Rectory” (though surely not the original?) was built on the main road south in 1672.  Many wealthy businessmen from Bath and Bristol have chosen to live here over the years, possibly to live quieter and healthier lives, possibly to enjoy retirement, but they have endowed Chew Magna and created a harmonious and elegant town.  There are three pubs, the Queen’s Arms, the Pelican and the Bear and Swan (a fine building from 1886, with something Victorian in its wooden furniture), and three nearby farms provide bed and breakfast for those who would like to prolong their visit.

Chew takes its name from the river Chew, which rises at Chewton Mendip and flows seventeen miles to join the Avon at Keynsham.  This also gives its name to Chew Lake, which was created in 1956 to provide water for Bristol.  I walk down the Chew Valley, under the watchful eye of Chota Castle and its potent black guard dog, and survey the bright expanse of water from the dam.  This is a shallow lake, averaging fourteen feet deep, but it covers over twelve hundred acres when full.  Many farms and houses were lost when the valley was flooded, but roads and hedges reappear in times of drought, and tree stumps can clearly be seen at the shallow end.  It is very popular for fishing (mainly fly fishing for trout, though pike of over thirty pounds have also been landed) and sailing, and is well managed as a recreational facility.  The lake recently hosted the World Fly Fishing Championships, and fishermen can make use of Woodford Lodge, a custom-built clubhouse, while other visitors can find refreshment at Chew Valley Lake Tea Shop.  There are also Nature Trails to follow and bird watching is also popular:  over 260 species of birds have been recorded here.

The fishing season does not start until late March, (for information call the Bristol Water Fishing Hotline, 09066802288, 25p per minute) and I have an appointment in Blagdon so must make tracks.  My route takes me through Chew Stoke, something of a poor relation to Magna, but a pretty and thriving village nonetheless.  The architecture is more vernacular and the pubs (The Yew Tree Inn and The Stoke Inn) possibly more rustic and homely.  There are some quaint touches, such as a neat little two-arched bridge over the brook where Pilgrim’s Way meets The Street.  Quite a few of the buildings date from the eighteenth century and there are many farms close by, some with names that tell something of their origin or the past (Fairseat farm, Pagan’s Hill Farm). 

I take a rather indirect route over to Blagdon, to sample the air at the summit of Gravel Hill, which reaches some one hundred and thirty metres above sea level, and from where there are superb views around the surrounding countryside.  I drop down Pit Lane, with the local names becoming more intriguing the further I go (Dewdown Lodge, Pixey Hole).  Eventually I reach the tail of Blagdon Lake, just below Ubley.  With time pressing I decide on skirting the Lake, informed by locals that I risk the wrath of the Bailiff if found without a permit.  Unfortunately there is no information about where such a permit may be found, though I would be more than happy to pay the £2 requested as a contribution to the well being of the local wild life.  The lake is stunning in the winter sunshine, and I hardly see a soul all the way round.  The birds, from heron to teal, are happily making the most of the off-season, however, and, had I had time to linger and make use of the hides, I could have observed the shimmering light and the flickering birds to my heart’s content.

This lake is almost one hundred years old now, and is stocked with trout, like Chew, by Bristol Water.  It is about 440 acres of watery heaven, nuzzling the Mendip foothills, skirted by mature woods, 42 feet deep at its deepest, and known to aficionados as the birth place of still water trout fishing.  Boats (rowing or electric motor only) can be hired from Blagdon Fishing Lodge, where permits are also obtainable in the season, or enthusiasts may perch themselves almost anywhere on the seven-mile perimeter.  There are supposed to be about two hundred thousand trout in this lake, and some catches have weighed in at over three and a half pounds, so there’s plenty for all!  There are facilities for other visitors, too, however, and you do not have to speak the language of small flies and nymphs, buzzers and diawl bachs, to enjoy these surroundings.  On Sunday afternoons, from May 27^th until September 30^th, the Blagdon Pumping Station and Visitor Centre is open, with a still functioning beam engine as well as many exhibits and hands-on displays, and there is plenty of space for picnics and a nature trail as well.  

I manage to reach the track that leads up towards Blagdon Church without the pleasure of the Bailiff’s company, however, and make it to my destination slightly out of breath at the last climb, but exhilarated.  The view back over the lake and the countryside from the garden of the New Inn is wonderful, something you would not expect just ten miles southwest of Bristol city centre (as the crow flies!)  And the log fire, ale and vittles inside the pub is worth the trip as well!

My days are in the yellow leaf

From the West Country - The Mendip Fringe, 1

There’s a certain something about Bus Stations.  The cosmopolitan bustle, the unhurried purpose, the smell of spilt oil, and the purr of big diesels – all controlled but disparate movements and noises blending into a general hum of purpose.  Within the bright confines of the snack bar, tea steams in polystyrene cups, ashtrays spill over with teabags and crushed fag ends.  On the stands, men, women, young and old, queue in patient order, their expectations quietly contained behind their masks. The colourful coaches and double-deckers nuzzle in and load, then edge out and depart, heading for magical destinations, the great elsewhere.  Fishponds.  Bath.  Weston-super-Mare.  Midsomer Norton.  Yate.   

I board the Chew Valley Explorer, bound for Churchill via Blagdon, and head out of town, gradually leaving the suburbs behind.  For a change it is great not to have to drive, and, also for a change, it is wonderful to be able to gaze out of the windows, taking in the surroundings, not just having to concentrate on the exhaust fumes in front.  It is also great to have the raised vantage point that a bus affords, and soon we are skimming past Chew Lake, which shines like a polished mirror in the sun over the still, silver, frosted, beautiful countryside.  There is a clear crystal blue sky, frost everywhere, frost on the grass, frost on the roofs, and villages still in the winter sunshine: Bishop Sutton, Chew Magna.  The weak sun just glimpses over the skyline through the bare trees.  In West Harptree the church clock gleams golden like a face reflecting the sun.  Then Blagdon where the church tower stands proud above the lake.  There’s a chill in the air; it’s a sharp crisp winter’s day.  The bus leaves me to linger here, and there’s plenty to see and delightful pubs to savour, but I climb the hill, past Pratt’s garage, left in a time warp with 1950’s petrol pumps and signs.  Further up the hill, past the pottery, there is Channel View, 1908, and indeed you can still see across the landscape to the Bristol Channel. 

Then, above Blagdon, Luvver’s Lane plunges off between hedges, catkins high above the path, symbols of spring to come.  The hedge has been trimmed neatly but violently with nicely layered piece of hedge, uprights driven deep in.  Blackbirds chatter excitedly in the woods. 

At 200 metres above sea level, at the end of Luvver’s Lane, leading on to the Limestone Link, with Big Batch rising up to 325 metres above on the south side.  A charm of goldfinches leads me across the Barrington Combe road to moor land rising on left.  The bridleway churned up by horses, feet and bikes though the ground is frozen bone hard.  Near Goatchurch cavern I cross a deep gully carved by a stream; the limestone strata above Barrington Combe gently undulating like waves.  There is a waterfall gushing down the hill but it disappears down a swallet hole and the streambed is left dry. 

The sun is warm on my back, though there is ice on the puddles.  There are strange cuts and dips in the land, with spiky reeds.  Dry stone walls crumble among the trees on one side; on the other, Rowberry Woods fall away deep inky black with the sound of water flowing at the bottom of a deep scarp. 

I reach the foot of Dolebury Warren.  Before me is a ridge of limestone covered in grassland.  According to the information board this is a place of bee and pyramidal orchids, yellow wort, drop wort and kidney vetch.  Tiny but beautiful spring annuals such as rue leaved saxifrage, common storks bill and early forget-me-nots thrive on the shallow rocky soils.  In places bell heather and bilberry grow amongst limestone heath.  The acidic soils derive from sands blown onto site during the last glaciations.  Dolebury Warren is specified a site of specific scientific interest by English Nature and a scheduled ancient monument by English Heritage.  There is a 2000-year-old Iron Age fort from which there are excellent views out over the Bristol Channel.  The National Trust owns the site that also has a medieval rabbit warren (which provided the local inhabitants with fresh meat) and a Celtic field system.  The crisp frosted grass matches the shadows.  A buzzard flies low across past me, unconcerned by my presence.  I pass ancient anthills, hummocks grassed over and trimmed by the sheep like green nodules, ridged hillsides and bare trees:  not a single leaf. 

I am alone, high above the countryside around, but fringed by trees.  There is evidence of a tree felling programme within the hill fort ramparts to enhance wildlife interest:  they are taking out non-native trees, especially turkey oak and sycamore of very little wildlife value; good quality English oak and hawthorn, ash, spindle, holly and wayfaring trees are being retained to keep the open parkland aspect.  The ramparts are impressive with sizeable limestone blocks and scree stones, and the fort is some two hundred metres long, sloping towards the west.  There is an amazing view, and it is a brilliant defensive position.  The levels are flat like a map and diminutive church towers and steeples mark the parishes below. There is a steep track down through woods to the A38. 

There are four pubs in Churchill.  The extraordinary Crown Inn, CAMRA pub of the year 1999, on the corner of Skinners Lane and The Batch, which is a place that is almost from another time, certainly from a wilder world.  A step away there is the bright and cheerful Nelson Arms, and on the A38 there are two pit stops, one on either side of the road: the Stag and Hounds and the Churchill itself, with the grand old man’s cigar-toting portrait as an Inn Sign.  The Crown, however, is a different experience.  It is not an everyday, modern, carpet and fruit machine boozer at all.  Possibly, just possibly, it’s a place that started life around the end of the last glaciations, where Iron Age men raised horns of mead.  Certainly it is a fitting place to end a stumble through limestone gorges and over a 2000-year-old fort…

The running of the deer

From the West Country - Severn Beach and Beyond

I last visited Severn Beach some twenty-five years ago, and certain details are etched on my mind.  There was a shingle bank along the Severn, behind which crouched some houses, most of which seemed then to have seen better days.  In the distance could be made out the smokes of Wales and the towers of the old road bridge, which was in fact quite new (opened in 1966) and, as the seventh longest suspension bridge in the world, it was something of a wonder as well.  I trudged along the riverside, wondering if the place had actually had better days, and then I returned to Bristol, full of slightly salty fresh air, and forgot about Severn Beach for years and years.

However, courtesy of the 9.20 train from Redland, whose station has been colourfully decorated as part of an unofficial youth occupation scheme, I recently returned to the same location, to find that many things have changed.  Some of the same old houses behind the beach are still there, but they won’t be for long.  New buildings and new roads are the order of the day, and there’s a growing community around the railhead.  The second crossing, as it seems to be known, carrying the motorway to South Wales and back, snakes across the Severn at almost the same place as the mainline rail tunnel burrows under.  The bridge is a colossus of concrete, awesomely beautiful in its grandeur and daring.  There is, indeed, a visitor’s centre, planted on some waste ground just behind the last derelict vestiges of my earlier visit, and in the shadow of the new bridge.  This centre is operated by the Severn Bridges Trust, and it is advisable to telephone on 01454 633511 if you are planning a visit.  (In the winter it is only open from 11 to 4 on Saturdays and Sundays.)

On this visit it is freezing cold, with crystals of ice on the rock.  Steam blows out to sea from the industrial areas of Avonmouth; vapour trails scar the powder blue sky.  The bridge gleams in the sun, spectacular, seeming alive with the persistent sound of the traffic pouring across in both directions. The tide is up; the high water swirls close to Binn Wall, which is decorated with debris of branches and seaweed, evidence of previous flooding.  Near the bridge two commemorative stones have been set side by side.  The first bears the date 1815, and simply bears the names: “E Williams, Surveyor, and F Calthan, Mason.”  The second bears the inscription: “This stone was unveiled by Mrs KJA Brown, Head of Regional Services and Defence Group, Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, to commemorate the completion of improvements to the Binn Wall by the Midlands Region of the Environment Agency between 1993 and 1998.” 

I now have a clear view of the “old” bridge gleaming white ahead of me.  Close to the wall there is an old farm - Severn Lodge Farm - a substantial building with 28 chimney pots, outhouses and a walled garden; it has an elegant portico to shield the front door and a neat little twin lawn front garden. Before the new wall it must have had its own defences, and there is still an old sign saying “unsafe for bathing, mud and currents.”  Out on the jetty, with the current flowing fast and muddy below, I can’t think why anyone would have thought that bathing might have been at all acceptable!  Two plaques on tell stories of past crossings from this point.  The first commemorates, “the crossing of John and Charles Wesley founders of Methodism, their journeys to Wales and Ireland from the ferry near the English Stones during the Eighteenth Century.   Dedicated for the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of their conversion May 28^th 1988.” The English Stones lie under the new bridge, just beyond Goblin Ledge and just before the Shoots, a channel through Crab’s Bay.  The second plaque is inscribed:  “South Wales Union Railway:  This is the remains of the terminal pier where train passengers embarked for Portskewett 1863-1885, Pilning Severn Stage Parish Council.” 

Down on the shore between the two bridges, the Pill issues into the Severn, with Red Ledge on one side and Sugarhole Sand on the other, leading up to Northwick Oaze, the mudflats which continue to the pier under Aust Cliff, from where the Aust Ferry used to ply, right up until the 1966 opening of the first bridge.  It is amazing to think that only 45 years ago, the only way to cross the Severn below Gloucester was via this route.  The shore is dotted with grassy tussocks; ice on the Pill that formed at high tide now flops down amongst the vegetation.  The grassy meadows are frosted, scavenged by flocks of Fieldfare while Dunlin and Oystercatchers scour the stones and mud.  A well-wrapped fisherman tries his luck and dog walkers steam up and down the footpaths.  The Severn way continues on from here right to the source of the river, some two hundred and ten miles in all.  It is one of the longest way-marked walking trails in Britain, offering exceptional access to areas of historical and ecological interest, and providing endless opportunities for observing bird life.

Perhaps another day!  I turn back towards Severn Beach, facing down towards Portishead and the Ocean, and the hills of Gordano.  Nearer the village the signs of habitation increase: “No cycling,” “Safety Notice:  No Parking - Area must be kept clear for emergency vehicles;” “Danger – Razor Wire.” The birds on the mud flats pursue their prey regardless; likewise the fishermen.  It is peaceful and, despite the changes all around, it is timeless.  Severn Beach has changed, and is still changing.  There are neat rows of modern houses, shops and caravan parks.  The Post Mistress assures me that there are wonderful sunsets, information she delivers with pride.  It seems a calm and settled place, even the loss of the local pub to more housing development does not seem to have caused outrage:  the nearest pub now is at Pilning, a couple of miles away – what’s a couple of miles? 

As I wait for the bus to return to the train at Avonmouth, I notice that passing drivers do not seem to be wearing seatbelts.  I board the bus, which is helpfully provided with lap restraints, but notice that the driver does not wear his.  I am the only passenger.  As we draw away, the rivers fall behind me: rivers of traffic over the bridges, the river Severn, the river of time.

Venezia (Venice)

La Serenissima

Everyone knows Venice, one way or another.  When one of my daughters was ten, and had not been there, she told me “It’s a very nice place, and I want to go there,” and she based this conception on pictures from books and TV.  Later we did go there, and she had a wonderful time.  We rented a one-room apartment in a residential district and lived like old-time Venetians.

I must have first heard of La Serenissima many years before I first went there.  Perhaps studying “Othello” at school?  Or in geography lessons?  Of course this is the same with many places.  We know the names Oklahoma, or Siberia, or Tokyo, without going there, but with Venice there is a particular fascination and a great deal of visual and imaginative evidence to hand.  Some will remember the film “Don’t Look Now” for example, with its creepy images of dark canals and sottoportici.  Others will have the wistful palette of Visconti in mind having seen “Death in Venice.”  Others will have the speedboat glitz of James Bond in their stock of images.  Television travel programmes, images in magazines, posters in travel agents, garish ashtrays, and shiny plastic gondolas - all contribute to our knowledge of this unique city on the water. 

As a teenager I spent one summer as a guide in a Scottish castle and daily gazed at two enormous Canaletto paintings, marvelling at the delicate pink of the Doge’s palace above the glittering water of the Grand Canal.  And then the remarkable thing was that when I did finally see that view in three dimensions with my own eyes, it was almost exactly as painted, and this is one if the continuing attractions of the place.  It is not that old, compared with many another European city, but it is, in many ways, unchanged by history, or at least, less changed than most of the places we see. 

In 1892, Henry James wrote that, “Venetian life, in the large old sense, has long since come to an end, and the essential present character of the most melancholy of cities resides simply in its being the most beautiful of tombs.”  The sense of what he says is true.  The population has changed, and certainly diminished, and there is no longer the bustle and business and pride that occupied the Venetian Republic before Wordsworth recorded its extinction:         

(Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;

And was the safeguard of the west:).

But then, to go back only a little in history, there was nothing there but reeds and rivulets, such as you see when your plane banks over the northern end of the lagoon.  Attila the Hun, in A.D. 453 set the ball rolling by invading the neighbourhood and causing people to seek refuge on the damp and muddy islets. Life in Venice has wavered and flourished and receded, a little like the tides, over the centuries, but still goes on.

I was recently amazed when, waiting for a certain assignation I had made in a quiet street in the Sestriere San Polo, the seemingly deserted calle I stood in kept being disturbed by signs of life.  People, with shopping bags and brief cases, appeared and disappeared, letting themselves into otherwise hidden doorways.  It took me a while to realise that, in fact, people were going home.  They had done whatever they did during the day, whether it was working in a shop or hotel or office, or managing the home for the numerous school children that also appear and disappear at certain times, and they were going back to their family residences to prepare the evening meal.  After all, when you think about it, how else would all the food shops and market stalls survive?  And there are many of them.  Venice may be dying.  But she sure ain’t dead yet!

How long this will persist, however, is not easy to foretell.  The phrase “Venice in peril” was responsible for television documentaries and news items many years ago.  It no longer seems to be newsworthy, as if the lion has cried “wolf” too often.  There is no doubt that she is sinking.  In one hundred years Venice has ceded twenty-three centimetres to the sea; in the last seven years, she has lost four.  In 1996 there were one hundred and one instances of “alta maree;” in 2002 the sea rose one hundred and eleven times over eighty centimetres.  In 2002 the first aqua alta was in February; in 2003 there had already been three by January 4^th, when at 09.35 the water rose one metre and eight centimetres.  As recently as November 2012 70% of Venice was inundated with high winds from the south and heavy rains whipping the sea level up to one and a half metres above the norm.  The phenomenon is complex and is generally attributed to low atmospheric pressure and sirocco winds from the south, but the greenhouse effect and the melting of the ice caps seem to be behind the inexorable increase in occasions when the Vigili have to direct pedestrian traffic on the passerelle to avoid intasamenti where the tourists are photographing San Marco under water.

As an extraordinary and highly successful example of human ingenuity and artistry, which, like all things, may not survive for ever, it is, worth first hand experience.  The worldwide trade in images of San Marco, or the Rialto, cannot substitute walking on the stones themselves.  No amount of reading, whether it is Ruskin or the Rough Guide, can replace the exhilaration to be had in situ.  A vaporetto trip down the Grand Canal must be one of the world’s finest bus rides, and it is one that bears repeating in different lights and seasons.  In the depths of winter, at night, it has an unusual attraction, perhaps because of its unphotographable darkness.  With snowflakes smudging your vision, the glimpses of illuminated ceilings, darkly glowing chandeliers, bevelled mirrors that reflect smoky portraits, and the floodlit architecture of the façades, swirl past over the inky viscid waters.  Around you stand silent, swathed Venetians; ahead of you looms the Rialto, festooned with a thousand Christmas lights; in the empty Fish Market stands a forlorn Christmas tree.  It is a world apart from the warm brightness of summer nights, or the spooky levity of Carnevale, and far more difficult than the misty colours of the autumn, but it is a memorable part of the cycle, and one that cannot but entertain.

There are so many sights in Venice that repeated visits may never suffice.  Art works abound and astound; architecture and nature work together to continually stimulate the visual imagination.  There are guidebooks aplenty to help you choose, and your own taste will help you select, as you will not manage everything.  Baedeker, in 1912, recommended five (very full) days for sightseeing.  Who knows?  If you are a retired film star who can stay indefinitely at the Daniele, then take your time.  Breakfast in Florian’s, lunch at Quadri’s and dinner at Harry’s Bar.  Maybe a picture or two in between.  If you are a lesser mortal, may I suggest a wander to the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni to see Vittore Carpaccio’s early sixteenth century cycle of paintings.  And spend some time working out exactly how St George managed to spear the dragon so deftly on the left of his horse’s head.  Brilliant stuff!

To complicate matters, the attraction of Venice is not limited to the major sights either.  Although many tour operators ship their charges out to Murano to see glass making and buy souvenirs (glass furnaces were banned in the centre at the end of the thirteenth century following some disastrous fires) not many make it out to the splendid isolation of Torcello, with 11th and 12th century bizantine mosaics in the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta.  Fewer still change boats at Burano, leaving the pastel shades of the fishermen’s houses (and the elegance of the Trattoria da Romana), to venture out to the island of San Francesco del Deserto where Saint Francis himself founded a convent on his return from the fifth crusade in 1220.

And, when all else is seen to, in Venice, as everywhere, the weary visitor needs nourishment.  Not surprisingly, there is no end of places to choose from, and many are regularly recommended by guidebooks.  In the early sixties, James Morris declared he soon became tired of Venetian food, and, perhaps, if you had to reside there for a year to write a book, you also might tire of the diet, but these days a casual visitor will find the many osterie, bacari and trattorie, charming and stimulating.  Seek out Osteria Do Mori, near the Rialto, if you just want un ombra (a drink) and some cicheti (snacks).  For something more substantial, head for Ca d’Oro alla Vedova, Cannaregio 3912, where copper pans and lanterns hang from the ceiling, and ceramic jugs and glassware nicely decorate the shelves.  It’s a busy, popular place, but as authentic as they come.  I have taken my daughters, and other friends, there.  They were not disappointed. 

Venice is not a republic any more.  It has been overrun by Austrians and French.  It has, perhaps, seen its glory days.  La Fenice has burned down and arisen from the ashes.  Peggy Guggenheim is no more.  Hemingway no longer downs Bellinis at Harry’s Bar.  Titian and Giorgione have hung up their brushes and Tourism overrides almost all else.  But it is still La Serenissima, and it is easy to throw off the crowds and pace the alleys without oppression.  On one of my first visits I walked for hours along dark lanes, over tiny bridges, through narrow covered ways, and alongside quiet canals.  I twisted and turned and thought I must have reached the outer limits of the city, far from the throngs in Piazza S Marco.  Then I spotted a light over a door, and a modest sign for a trattoria.  This seemed heaven-sent.  I was tired, hungry, in need of company and comfort.  I entered a discreetly lit restaurant with worn carpets on the floor and old fashioned furniture.  I was served politely, a delicious meal, with light Soave from the Veneto.  I saw no menu, but trusted the welcoming host.  It was heaven.  And when I was full and warm and happy and the bill was settled, I got up to leave.  Instead of returning the way I had entered, I took what appeared to be the main entrance, and found myself right by the Rialto market, and that I had just dined at the Antica Trattoria, Poste Vecie, reputedly the oldest restaurant in Venice.  It was a startling moment.  One that taught me not to take anything in Venice for granted.  There is more to this city than plastic gondolas, or pigeons in the Piazza S Marco.  And I, for one, will keep going back until the waters have covered us all.

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee;

And was the safeguard of the west: the worth

Of Venice did not fall below her birth,

Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.

She was a maiden City, bright and free;

No guile seduced, no force could violate;

And, when she took unto herself a Mate,

She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

When her long life hath reached its final day:

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade

Of that which once was great, is passed away

William Wordsworth

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Far and Few