Not really so much a brag as just a link to a site that I did some work for a while back - Morocco Gateway.
Tim Evans, who runs the site, gave me a very clear brief - it's aimed at travellers who don't want to do a boring if-this-is-Tuesday-it-must-be-Marrakech escorted trip, but who aren't completely go-it-alone adventurers. 'Safe' adventure, or adventurous tourism, whichever you want to call it. We evolved a number of ideas for itineraries, which I've written up to try to give a feeling for the whole experience of travelling in Morocco - rather than trying to 'sell' any particular destination.
If you click on 'articles' you can find my articles, written with my partner Jacques Combeau who is the real expert. (And also the guy who got hit on by touts all the time - his temper being much more equable than my short fuse!)
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Wow!
I've just heard that a piece I wrote has been shortlisted for the Bradt/Independent newspaper travel writing prize. That's rather a thrill so I thought heck, let's brag about it on my blog.
The piece is here; it's about one of the strangest towns I've ever visited, from my trip to Morocco earlier this year.
And now back to reality; I have painting to do after having my bedroom redecorated.
The piece is here; it's about one of the strangest towns I've ever visited, from my trip to Morocco earlier this year.
And now back to reality; I have painting to do after having my bedroom redecorated.
Monday, 25 May 2009
Visions
I saw visions today.
I think I saw an angel.
A man lying on his back in the grass, and the sunlight caught the grass so that it shone and glittered with gold, like a halo.
Willow trees shimmering like gold leaf, so thin you can move it with your breath.
A pale blue sky with broken clouds that seemed to recede as I ran towards them (though I know, really, it was only an optical illusion caused by my more rapid progress towards a tall chestnut tree).
And last night, coming back home about ten as the sun fell, a pair of paper hot air balloons rising into the sky (itself just that rich purple velvet before full darkness comes), the tealights making them glow richly as they swooped upwards, taking the light breeze to the west.
I'd been wondering today, after reading Tracy Chevalier's Burning bright and blogging about the Blake exhibition at the Tate, how William Blake could see the 'chartered streets' of London as angels.
And now I know.
I think I saw an angel.
A man lying on his back in the grass, and the sunlight caught the grass so that it shone and glittered with gold, like a halo.
Willow trees shimmering like gold leaf, so thin you can move it with your breath.
A pale blue sky with broken clouds that seemed to recede as I ran towards them (though I know, really, it was only an optical illusion caused by my more rapid progress towards a tall chestnut tree).
And last night, coming back home about ten as the sun fell, a pair of paper hot air balloons rising into the sky (itself just that rich purple velvet before full darkness comes), the tealights making them glow richly as they swooped upwards, taking the light breeze to the west.
I'd been wondering today, after reading Tracy Chevalier's Burning bright and blogging about the Blake exhibition at the Tate, how William Blake could see the 'chartered streets' of London as angels.
And now I know.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Colours of English May
The colour of May is white.
Drifts of poplar or willow fuzz on the grass by the river Wensum, like a late snowfall. The white of hawthorn blossom in the hedges, with its heavy smell, like lily scent with an undertone of sex or decaying fish. Cowparsley, with its tight heads of off-white flowers, already a yard high.
The daffodils are gone, their heads drying into faint brown ghosts of flowers. All the vivid colour of March has disappeared, and there are only scatterings of white like confetti at a spring wedding.
Drifts of poplar or willow fuzz on the grass by the river Wensum, like a late snowfall. The white of hawthorn blossom in the hedges, with its heavy smell, like lily scent with an undertone of sex or decaying fish. Cowparsley, with its tight heads of off-white flowers, already a yard high.
The daffodils are gone, their heads drying into faint brown ghosts of flowers. All the vivid colour of March has disappeared, and there are only scatterings of white like confetti at a spring wedding.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Smells of home
The palmeraies of Morocco sometimes remind me a little of the oases of Oman. But one thing is very different; the air. Oman has a dry spiciness that makes my nose prickle; Morocco's air is softer, less pungent.
Few travel writers are much aware of smell. The smell of a latrine, the smell of a good meal, perhaps; but the hints of ozone and salt in sea air, the smell of decaying seaweed on a beach, or the smell of dry earth when the rain hits it - those are so often forgotten.
I was reminded of that out jogging this morning by the Wensum. As I ran over Whitefriars bridge, I smelt soggy cardboard, a smell like that evil glue on old envelopes when you've just licked it, warm and wet, the effluent from the packaging factory. And I realised, for me, that's one of the smells of home.
When I was a child in Ipswich I loved passing the Pauls maltings, for the rich, sweet smell of roasting cereal. It was like breathing in a Christmas pudding. That smell, alas, has been chased out of the docks by commercial development. (A malt floor is an amazing place; hot and wet like a rainforest, with a moist breath that blasts you in the face when you enter, and the fulness of the aroma. You shiver when you come back out, even in the middle of summer.)
You can even smell the weather, and the season; the grassy smell of spring, the heavy, almost rotten smell of hawthorn in a good May. Hints of woodsmoke in the air herald the winter.
And the other smell that lets me know I'm home; warm cat fur...
Few travel writers are much aware of smell. The smell of a latrine, the smell of a good meal, perhaps; but the hints of ozone and salt in sea air, the smell of decaying seaweed on a beach, or the smell of dry earth when the rain hits it - those are so often forgotten.
I was reminded of that out jogging this morning by the Wensum. As I ran over Whitefriars bridge, I smelt soggy cardboard, a smell like that evil glue on old envelopes when you've just licked it, warm and wet, the effluent from the packaging factory. And I realised, for me, that's one of the smells of home.
When I was a child in Ipswich I loved passing the Pauls maltings, for the rich, sweet smell of roasting cereal. It was like breathing in a Christmas pudding. That smell, alas, has been chased out of the docks by commercial development. (A malt floor is an amazing place; hot and wet like a rainforest, with a moist breath that blasts you in the face when you enter, and the fulness of the aroma. You shiver when you come back out, even in the middle of summer.)
You can even smell the weather, and the season; the grassy smell of spring, the heavy, almost rotten smell of hawthorn in a good May. Hints of woodsmoke in the air herald the winter.
And the other smell that lets me know I'm home; warm cat fur...
Monday, 27 April 2009
A baby sister for Chartres cathedral
We didn't mean to find a cathedral. We were only looking for an ATM. Jacques had run out of money, and we needed a bank.
But as we drove into Gallardon we realised we had found rather more than just a branch of Credit Agricole. A fine Gothic choir and a marvellously high spire, and a strange, huge, relic of upthrust wall crowning the hill, gave this town a striking silhouette against the low spring sun.
As soon as we saw the apse of the cathedral I knew where I'd seen it before. The flying buttresses, simple buttresses like semi-circles drawn with a child's compass; the simple, wide lancet windows, without tracery; it was exactly like Chartres cathedral.
The silhouette of the church is as striking as that of the town. The choir is gloriously high; the spire, at its north west corner, soars up to heaven. But the whole thing seems to be cut short. Then you realise the nave is there, after all, but it's so low its roofline is hardly visible above the houses of the town.
We went in, of course; after all, the church was next to the bank.
Even with that hint of Chartres cathedral I wasn't prepared for what I saw inside. Beyond the long, wide, rather low nave, steps led up towards the glowing light of the choir; the bleached white of fine, porous limestone. It was like a path of revelation; through darkness to light. I had to raise my head to look at the choir; the whole church is laid out on the slope of the hill, rising and rising again towards the east. It is an amazing place.
Of course, the effect would have been rather different had any of the original stained glass been left in the choir windows. The clear glass floods the apse; it was almost as if the light had become tangible, so strong did it seem.
And a baby sister for Chartres? Well believe it or not, I was right. It was built around the same time, and even the stone used to build the choir may have come from the same quarry, according to a note in the church.
But as we drove into Gallardon we realised we had found rather more than just a branch of Credit Agricole. A fine Gothic choir and a marvellously high spire, and a strange, huge, relic of upthrust wall crowning the hill, gave this town a striking silhouette against the low spring sun.
As soon as we saw the apse of the cathedral I knew where I'd seen it before. The flying buttresses, simple buttresses like semi-circles drawn with a child's compass; the simple, wide lancet windows, without tracery; it was exactly like Chartres cathedral.
The silhouette of the church is as striking as that of the town. The choir is gloriously high; the spire, at its north west corner, soars up to heaven. But the whole thing seems to be cut short. Then you realise the nave is there, after all, but it's so low its roofline is hardly visible above the houses of the town.
We went in, of course; after all, the church was next to the bank.
Even with that hint of Chartres cathedral I wasn't prepared for what I saw inside. Beyond the long, wide, rather low nave, steps led up towards the glowing light of the choir; the bleached white of fine, porous limestone. It was like a path of revelation; through darkness to light. I had to raise my head to look at the choir; the whole church is laid out on the slope of the hill, rising and rising again towards the east. It is an amazing place.
Of course, the effect would have been rather different had any of the original stained glass been left in the choir windows. The clear glass floods the apse; it was almost as if the light had become tangible, so strong did it seem.
And a baby sister for Chartres? Well believe it or not, I was right. It was built around the same time, and even the stone used to build the choir may have come from the same quarry, according to a note in the church.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Noises of home
I had a strange experience in the orchard today. I walked out, in the early evening, and the plum tree blossom was drifting slowly down, and the tree was humming.
It was the bees. When there's a single bee near me, I can hear it; the individual quality of its buzz is clear, as if there's a tiny silence between the infinitesimal moments of sound. It has a definite pitch, a definite texture almost.
But when there are so many bees, their sounds all mingle together into a huge hum, like the aftertone of a peal of bells, or a roomful of Tibetan singing bowls. It was magnificent. The sound of a French orchard in April.
It was the bees. When there's a single bee near me, I can hear it; the individual quality of its buzz is clear, as if there's a tiny silence between the infinitesimal moments of sound. It has a definite pitch, a definite texture almost.
But when there are so many bees, their sounds all mingle together into a huge hum, like the aftertone of a peal of bells, or a roomful of Tibetan singing bowls. It was magnificent. The sound of a French orchard in April.
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