DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES – Love and poetry au fin de siecle

If you are visiting London you will find the Cadogan Hotel in Sloane Street conveniently placed for the museum district and for shopping at Harrods. Sadly, a recent facelift by international designers has deprived the hotel of its former, slightly faded, Victorian elegance, removed poached haddock from the breakfast menu and replaced it with avocado on sourdough. It was here on the 6th April 1895 that Oscar Wilde was arrested and taken to Bow Street Police Court. Oscar lived with his wife Constance and sons Cyril and Vyvyan only a short walk away at 16 Tite Street, but used the hotel as a peaceful sanctuary to write and to enjoy the company of its permanent resident, Lillie Langtry.

Oscar had once courted the notorious Lillie as he had Ellen Terry, a Diva of London’s serious theatre (‘she stands with eyes marred with the mists of pain, like some wan lily overdrenched with rain’). His overtures had also been rejected by society beauty Florence Balcombe who chose Bram Stoker, then manager of the Lyceum Theatre and later author of ‘Dracula’, the blueprint for all future vampire literature. Finally, in 1884, Constance Lloyd, ‘a grave, slight, violet-eyed little Artemis, with great coils of heavy brown hair, which made her flower-like head droop like blossom’ agreed to marry Oscar.  All was well for the next two years until Robbie Ross, a Canadian journalist and art critic ‘with the face of Puck’ introduced Oscar to physical love between men.

Five years later, soon after the publication of ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’, Oscar met the twenty one year old blonde and beautiful (but spoilt, arrogant and petulant) Bosie (his nickname for Lord Alfred Douglas), beginning the tragic relationship that would eventually result in Oscar’s arrest.

To mark the change in his sexual preferences Oscar abandoned the lily for the green carnation. Few of Oscar’s words or actions had no meaning, symbolic or otherwise; surely the previously omnipresent lily was the Jersey Lily. Oscar’s affair with Bosie may dominate his love life in the public imagination, but Oscar loved beauty, whatever form it took. When Ms Langtry told Oscar he was wasting his time before surrendering herself to the Prince of Wales, Oscar retired hurt leaving this moving love poem, addressed simply to LL, which reveals the depth of his feelings.

….I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat.
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird:

And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird’s throat
With its last big note:

And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed:

And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.

          *   *   *

I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain?

And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face…
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue,
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry.

‘You have only wasted your life.”
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.

         *   *   *

Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know
Poet’s hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God’s heaven and hell.

The charges against Oscar were laid under the provisions of The Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885, which made all sex acts between men illegal. In spite of the efforts of eminent physician (and Ripper suspect) Havelock Ellis to change the law on the basis that homosexuality should be accepted as a fact of life, the law was to ruin countless lives for a further 72 years until its repeal in 1967.That same year, as if in celebration, the world’s first bookstore catering for gay and lesbian readers,‘ The Oscar Wilde Bookshop’,  opened in New York . Alas, like so many bookstores, it fell victim to ‘dotcom’ disease, the on-line buying mania emanating from the Internet, and closed its doors in 2007.

While being escorted by the constabulary from the hotel to a waiting carriage, Oscar was clutching a copy of L‘Aphrodite, a mildly erotic novel by French author Pierre Louys. Desperate for further evidence to fuel their outrage, spectators and Press alike identified the book by its yellow covers as THE Yellow Book, an avant garde, literary journal associated with dandyism, decadence, feminism and, after Oscar’s trial, with homosexuality. Following public vandalism of its offices, The Yellow Book’s publisher, Bodley Head (or ‘Sodley Bed’ according to certain of its critics), dismissed Art Director Aubrey Beardsley for bringing the journal into disrepute, first for binding the periodical in the same yellow covers used by French publishers of pornography and then for his exquisite drawings packed with sexual innuendo. Beardsley was also tainted with decadence by providing the illustrations for Wilde’s play ‘Salome’. But other than its yellow covers and Beardsley’s drawings, the magazine was relatively harmless. Henry James was a contributor, as were HG Wells and WB Yeats and artists John Singer Sargent and Walter Sickert (another of the many ‘Ripper’ suspects). The perception of decadence and the loss of Beardsley were critical; The Yellow Book struggled on for two years until finally closing its doors in the spring of 1897.

Naturally the instigators of all this effeminacy and degeneracy were the French. Already responsible for introducing the British to sexually transmitted diseases (‘French Pox”), the roots of the decadent movement were clearly present in two French publications: Charles Baudelaire’s 1857 volume of verse ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’ (Flowers of Anguish’) and J K Huysmans novel ‘A Rebours’ (‘Against the Grain’ or ‘Against Nature’) published in 1884. Rejecting the current, popular literary themes of romance and naturalism, Baudelaire elected to criticise the charmless corridors of Haussmann’s new Paris and to write of prostitutes, wine and eroticism, thereby earning himself lasting fame and a fine of 300 francs for insulting public decency. Like all good pupils, Huysman took things further. His plotless novel, a manual for the rich delinquent, revolves around the eccentric and reclusive Jean des Esseintes who is dedicated to exquisitely perverse pleasures. He reminisces about past orgies, creates a garden of entirely poisonous plants and kills a tortoise by setting gemstones into its shell. The book celebrated all those values that were deplored and unfashionable in contemporary France. Immediately condemned as decadent it became the Bible of the movement spawned under that name. Oscar’s Salomé was inspired by Huysman’s description of Gustave Moreau’s painting of the Dancer of the Seven Veils; it is the handbook of erotic advice given to Dorian Gray by Lord Henry Wotton claiming it contained ‘all the sins of the world’. A copy of ‘A Rebours’ was produced by the prosecution at Oscar’s trial as evidence of the defendant’s decadence.

Decadence, like the pox, soon spread across the English Channel. That is not to say England did not have its own home grown decadents. Algernon Swinburne had shocked Victorian society with his dandyism, atheism, alcoholism and masochism. The art critic, Walter Pater, who was gay and effeté but not a ‘decadent’, remained a subversive in that he rejected the Victorian ideal that art should contain a moral message.  Art, he said, is for its own sake and beauty should be worshipped as a religion.

Decadents and aesthetes like Wilde, Swinburne and Pater were despised, especially Wilde who purposely exaggerated his effeminate and theatrical mannerisms for the purpose of annoying others. The Victorians appreciated men of action, men in red uniforms sporting dundrearies, forming squares to repulse hordes of charging Zulus or whirling dervishes, men like Lord Roberts of Kandahar, hero of the Afghan and Boer wars and General Gordon who attained hero status by committing suicide in Khartoum. Otherwise it was sufficient to be the Christian, sober, hardworking head of a family. Poets, by contrast, had no visible, steady job or a workplace to go to. They tended to be foppish and effeminate. However, not all those with artistic leanings were deplored; the novels of GA Henty, H Rider Haggard and RM Ballantyne all preached an acceptable message. Rudyard Kipling’s thirty two line poem ‘If’ remains a catalogue of Imperial values. Today, when we expect and applaud extremism in everything, from cake baking to cage fighting, we have lost much of our ability to be amazed or scandalised.  Oscar with his green coat and lily buttonhole, his defence of homosexuality, even his abandonment of wife and children would not shock us.

The national pursuit of manliness created a mania for health and fitness. The bottle of Perrier mineral water on your table today owes its distinctive shape to Victorian gentleman Sir John Harmsworth who, having bought the French source, designed the bottles in the shape of the Indian clubs he used for exercise. War and sport, so hard to distinguish in the 21st century, were taught at an early age. In 1844 draper George Williams founded the YMCA (‘healthy body, mind and spirit’) and, in 1883, The Boys Brigade, the world’s first uniformed youth organisation was formed. But it was the Public schools, with their message of ‘muscular Christianity’ that became the main spawning grounds for the ideal Victorian male and remained so until the early 1960s.

Another casualty of The Yellow Book’s death by mistaken identity was one of its regular poetry contributors, the shy and scholarly Ernest Dowson. Born thirty year before the journal’s collapse into a modestly prosperous family in South London, Ernest had spent much of his youth on the continent where his father sought relief from tuberculosis. By the age of fifteen Ernest was fluent in French and, by nineteen, sufficiently well read in Latin and Greek to find a place at Oxford where his interests lay with the French Symbolist poet Verlaine, Edgar Allen Poe and Baudelaire, placing him from an early age amongst followers of the decadent movement.  Meanwhile income from the family’s small dry dock on the Thames, unable to service the larger vessels that were now appearing in the port of London, was dwindling and Ernest was forced to abandon his studies.

He turned to writing for a living and joined ‘The Rhymers’, a literary circle founded by WB Yeats and Ernest Rhys. They met in a room over Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese off Fleet Street where Dowson, often too shy to recite his own work, would discuss his favoured poetic form, the villanelle, a French pastoral song consisting of five tercets followed by a quadrain, only remembered now as the name of the fictional assassin in the TV series ‘Killing Eve’. Oscar, an occasional visitor, expressed his admiration for Dowson’s poetry and initiated their brief friendship by taking him to lunch at the Cafe Royale.

Whereas Oscar had once admired Ellen Terry, Ernest became infatuated with her niece, Minnie, a child actress who had first attracted the poet’s attention when he saw her, at the age of six, on a London stage. For the next two years he amassed a collection of photographs of Minnie that, today, would place him on a paedophile watch list but which, at the time, raised no eyebrow. The ‘Cult of the Little Girl’, the worship of young girls for their innocence and purity was commonplace. The theme resonates through the works of Dickens (Little Nell), JM Barrie (Wendy Darling) and Lewis Carroll (Alice) as well as through many of the portraits by Pre-Raphaelite painter, John Everett Millais. Shirley Temple’s entry into adolescence marked the end of the cult. For Ernest, this period of devotion to Minnie was ‘the most intense experience’ of his life.

One evening in 1889, entering a small restaurant in Sherwood Street, Piccadilly, Ernest found his muse. Adelaide, or Missie as he called her, was the eleven year old daughter of the restaurant’s Polish proprietor, Joseph Foltinowicz. Dowson’s evenings soon adopted a regular pattern; a few drinks at the Cock Tavern and then dinner at Sherwood Street  where Missie would occasionally serve at table or sit and talk with him after he had finished his meal. At ten o’clock when Missie had been sent to bed, Ernest, normally the meekest of fellows, turned into Mr Hyde. After finding solace in the arms of a prostitute Ernest, shameful of his disloyalty to Missie, would become angry and aggressive. Torn between feelings of lust and self-disgust, he drowned himself in drink. ‘Absinthe’, he claimed ‘makes the tart grow fonder’.

The agony Ernest felt by the contest between pure love and lust dominated his life and became a major theme in his poetry. No poem expressed it better than Cynara:

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
   Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
   Yea hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

In 1894 Dowson’s father died of tuberculosis. Within months, Annie his wife, also a victim, hanged herself rather than have the disease end her life. Soon after Ernest found that he too was affected. Tuberculosis or consumption, called also the wasting disease and, in previous centuries, The White Plague and The King’s Evil, has also managed to attract another epithet – romantic.  Although indiscriminate in its choice of victim, its responsibility for the deaths of Edgar Allen Poe, Paganini, Charlotte Bronte, Keats, Chopin and Modigliani helped promote its romantic image in the public imagination. But it was the publication of Alexander Dumas fils’ novel, ‘La Dame aux Camelias’ (Camille) in 1848 that sealed the disease’s romantic reputation. Based on Dumas’ real life lover, the beautiful demimondaine, Marguerite Gautier, signals her availability for naughties by wearing either a white or red camellia. The fatal disease takes hold just as there appears the possibility of true love.  ‘The death of a beautiful woman’, said Edgar Allen Poe, ’is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world’.  Yes said Verdi and penned La Traviata, based upon the story of Camille, which opened in Venice in 1853. High opera specialises in the death of beautiful women and Puccini followed suit in 1896 with La Boheme, in which its heroine, Mimi, also dies of consumption. The two spots of blood left on the white handkerchief became a theatrical trope.

If you lived in the latter half of the 19th century, were British, tubercular and prosperous you would have gone to the French resort of Menton for treatment. Ernest Dowson’s father was there for the cure with his family in the winter of 1873, staying at the Hotel du Pavillon where they made the acquaintance of Robert Louis Stevenson, another victim of the disease. Poor Aubrey Beardsley went there to die in the Cosmopolitan Hotel in 1898. It was the publication in 1861 of ‘Winter and Spring on the Shores of the Mediterranean’, in which Dr James Henry Bennett claimed to have been cured of the disease after a stay in Menton, that was to transform the town into the tuberculosis capital of Europe. From two or three hotels in 1861 the number had grown to thirty by 1875, while the cemeteries filled with the tombs of English dead. Naturally, patients and visitors found time to explore and report home on the charm that existed along the rest of the Cote d’Azur. Tourists and royalty followed and the seafront thoroughfare in Nice became La Promenade des Anglais. Meanwhile Dr Bennett grew rich and built a villa overlooking the town with gardens impressive enough to merit a visit by Queen Victoria. No small wonder there still stands a statue of Dr Bennett in the rue Partouneaux. The inscription merely states the good doctor’s name and dates. His services to French tourism go unmentioned.

On his father’s death what little income Ernest received from the dock dried up completely as teams of Dickensian lawyers tied up the business in probate. There was no way Ernest could afford a cure in Menton. The publication in 1895 of Dilemmas, a collection of short stories which he dedicated to ‘AF’ (Missie), brought some relief, but Ernest was now sleeping rough and drinking more. He was ‘a ship without a rudder in a night without a star’. His misery was compounded when Missie finally turned down a proposal of marriage he had made two years earlier when she was fifteen. 1897 proved to be an annus horribilis; it was the year The Yellow Book closed, depriving Ernest of much needed income, it was the year Oscar Wilde left prison a broken man and it was the year Missie married Augustus Noelte, a tailor.

After the trial Oscar spent most of his two years’ hard labour in Reading Goal.  Bosie never wrote but Oscar addressed a letter of fifty thousand words to him. Prevented from sending it, Oscar handed the manuscript to Robbie Ross on his release. Ross published a truncated edition titled ‘De Profundis’ in 1905; a full version would not appear until 1962. As they left, the prison governor warned Ross, ‘he looks well, but like all men unused to manual labour who receive a sentence of this kind, he will be dead within two years.’

The first 1899 edition revealing the author’s name

After his release in May 1897, Oscar, still with the devoted Ross, took ship from Newhaven, disembarking at Dieppe as Sebastian Melmoth, an allusion to the early Christian martyr and to the Gothic novel, Melmoth the Wanderer. With Ross, he settled in a small fishing village on the Normandy coast and sat down to write his last poem, ‘The Ballad of Reading Goal’, the story of a fellow prisoner convicted of cutting his wife’s throat who was executed in the prison in July 1896.

Shunned by the long-established publishers such as John Lane (whose descendent, Alan Lane, was to found Penguin Books), Oscar turned to Dowson’s publisher, Leonard Smithers, who operated from his shop in Bond Street where he sold rare, antiquarian books in the front and pornography, or curiosa as it was called then, in the back. ‘He loves first editions’ wrote Wilde ‘especially of women’. This was to be the last golden age of erotic literature as the F and C words were soon to lose all their potency by becoming part of everyday speech.

When the poem first appeared in print in June 1898 its author was identified only by Oscar’s prison number, C33. Seven editions and a year later, in June 1899, his identity was finally revealed.

After the trial Constance had retired with her children to Switzerland where she changed their name to Holland. True to her given name, Constance now offered her husband financial aid and the hope of a family reunion on the condition he never saw Bosie again. Astonishingly, Oscar declined and when Bosie called he came running. The reunion was not to last long and Oscar, after leaving Bosie’s villa near Naples, wandered through Italy before finally making his way to Paris.

On 23rd February 1900 Ernest Dowson died at the age of thirty three, leaving only a single volume of poems, some short stories and a few translations. Wilde wrote to Smithers:  ‘I am greatly distressed  to hear of Ernest’s death…Poor wounded, wonderful fellow that he was, a tragic reproduction of all tragic poetry, like a symbol or a scene. I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb, and rue and myrtle too, for he knew what love is’.

Six months after Dowson’s death the prison governor’s grim forecast proved to be accurate. If you are visiting Paris you will find the simply named L’Hotel at 13 rue des Beaux Arts conveniently placed for shopping at Au Bon Marche and enjoying a kir royale at Les Deux Magots. Now a sumptuous nest of expensive Belle Epoque rooms, in 1900 it was the Hotel d’Alsace, a shabby doss house where, on 30thNovember, 1900, Oscar died beyond his means. The French have always been kind to artistic refugees and it is fitting that Oscar should have breathed his last in the arms of the hotel’s proprietor, Monsieur Dupoirier.


Oscars wife, Constance, predeceased him. She died 7th April 1898 after some botched surgery in Genoa.

Captain Cyril Holland was killed by a German sniper in France in 1915. His brother Vyvyan was a writer and translator whose Australian wife, Thelma, was a cosmetician and personal beauty advisor to Queen Elizabeth II. They lived briefly in Melbourne from 1948 to 1952.Their son Merlin, a writer, lives in Burgundy. Oscar’s great grandson Lucian is a computer programmer living in London.

After Oscar’s death, Bosie returned to England, married and settled down to a life of letters, turning out scores of uninteresting Petrarchian sonnets and publishing the right wing, anti-Jewish journal Plain English. By a bizarre turn of fate he was imprisoned for six months in 1924 for libelling Winston Churchill, responding to Oscar’s ‘De Profundis’ with his own ‘De Excelsis’ (from the heights) a slim volume of sonnets, one viciously anti-semitic. His memory was further blackened by his disgraceful treatment of Robbie Ross who he repeatedly attempted to have arrested for homosexuality.

Oscar’s true friend, Robbie Ross, exercised his duties as Wilde’s literary executor with energy, tracking down and purchasing the rights to Oscar’s works that had been sold off on his bankruptcy. All the rights he acquired he gave to Oscar’s sons. He also worked hard to restore his friend’s reputation, producing definitive editions of his works. In 1950 Robbie’s ashes were placed in a small compartment in Oscar’s tomb that he had asked Jacob Epstein to include in his design.

Adelaide Foltinowicz, Dowson’s ‘Missie’, only outlived him by a few years, dying of septicaemia following an abortion in 1903. The abortionist, Bertha Baudach, was arrested and incarcerated for seven years for causing Adelaide’s death.

Dowson never achieved Wilde’s fame; however, he is remembered each time we watch a re-run of Gone with the Wind. Margaret Mitchell ensured the popularity of her 1936 Civil War novel by preferring as title a line from one of Dowson’s poems over her previous choices of ‘Bugles Sang True’, ‘Not in our Stars’ and ‘Tote the Weary Load’.

In 1962 Dowson’s poetry was pillaged once again for the Oscar winning film ‘Days of Wine and Roses’; it also inspired Henry Mancini’s song of the same name:

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
            We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses :
            Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
            Within a dream.


What I read:

  • The Life of Oscar Wilde; Hesketh Pearson, Methuen, London,1946
  • Madder Music, Stronger Wine; Jad Adams, I B Tauris, London, 2000
  • Ernest Dowson, Poetry & Love in the 1890s; Henry Maas, Greenwich Exchange, London, 2009
  • Oscar Wilde, An Exquisite Life; Stephen Calloway & David Colvin, Orion, London, 1997
  • The Ballad of Reading Goal; Oscar Wilde, Smithers, London, 1899
  • Bohemian London; Nick Rennison, Oldcastle, Harpenden, 2017
  • The Poems of Ernest Dowson; The Bodley Head, London 1906
  • De Profundis; Oscar Wilde, Methuen, London, 1905
  • Salome and Other Plays; Oscar Wilde, Penguin Books, undated.
  • Fin de Siecle; Nevile Wallis, Wingate, London, 1947
  • Collected Poems; Lord Alfred Douglas, Martin Secker, London, 1907
  • Men and Memories; William Rothenstein, Coward McCann, New York, 1935
  • In Excelsis; Lord Alfred Douglas, Martin Secker, London 1924
  • The Importance of Being Oscar; Micheal MaLiammoir, Collin Smythe, Bucks, 1995

……. and of course Wikipedia.


When I was young my mother would embarrass me by playing the piano and singing. I decided that what had made me squirm was her flamboyant singing and playing style. Then there was her repertoire, mostly the works of Sigmund Romberg and Victor Herbert, coupled with the fact that she was out of character, engaged outside her usual activities of cooking, cleaning, shopping and gardening. Apart from launching me straight into the adult passion and drama of The Merry Widow and The Desert Song, she was forever repeating the same pieces of advice – ‘Never argue with a man in a peaked cap’, ‘You can always trust a man who smokes a pipe’, ‘ Never hit a woman, even with a feather’ and, each day before she released me into the arms of the kindergarten staff, ‘Never take anything that’s not yours, not even another boy’s pencil’. Another repeated instruction, ‘Look both ways’ was clearly related to road safety but as time passed I found a deeper meaning. This is how homes, rather than schools, make us what we are. Observance of my mother’s aphorisms, coupled with an absence of tattoos and facial hair, could get you a long way in those times. My father’s regular instruction – ‘Keep your head down’, turned out to be merely a golfing tip.

In 1956, when I was fifteen, my mother caused me further embarrassment by taking me to Spain. A boy alone on holiday with his mother was an unthinkable situation, one that could subject him to all sorts of unmerciful mockery by his schoolfellows, even though my own excuse was solid enough, for my sister had married and flown the nest and my father had moved into digs where he could drink in peace. ‘He’s been called to the Bar’, my mother informed me.

Our destination was Sitges, an unspoilt fishing village near Barcelona in a Spain still firmly under Franco’s fist, where divorce, abortion, contraception and homosexuality were forbidden. Spanish wives would have to wait until Franco’s death in 1975 before the law of permiso marital, whereby a wife required her husband’s permission to work, own property and travel, was revoked. A visit by President Eisenhower in 1953 and admission to the United Nations two years later had lightened the place up a bit with a trickle of tourism, but in 1956 even the quiet beaches of Sitges were patrolled regularly by grim-faced members of the Guardia Civil carrying rifles and wearing those silly hats that looked like patent leather ladies’ handbags.

You may think that the age of exploration came to an end when John Hanning Speke stumbled across the source of the Nile in 1858, but a hundred years later Spain was relatively unknown to tourism. The last, large group of foreign visitors had been members of the Foreign Brigade fighting for the Republican cause during the Civil War. That’s all changed. I doubt that today Heinrich Schliemann and a team of archaeologists could find any remnants of the Sitges I visited in 1956. Perhaps someday an old fisherman’s hut will be uncovered as they drill the foundations of a new multi-storey car park.

My mother was an efficient tour guide; we watched some flamenco and visited the Benedictine Abbey at Monserrat and the Cistercian Abbey of Santa Maria at Poblet, where the elaborately carved effigies of the Kings of Aragon have a lion at their feet and those of their Queens, a dog. That’s all changed. Alone one evening, I came across a capea. In a village square, in a makeshift wooden corral, young men were teasing a young bull, risking death or at least a goring to impress a girl or perhaps as the beginning of an apprenticeship on the way to becoming one of the 800 or so licenced matadors. Rather like Go-Karting before stepping up to Formula I.

One morning we took the train into Barcelona. Sitting opposite was a young woman with a babe in arms. Without a glance at the gaping jaw of the schoolboy facing her, the young mother casually unbuttoned her blouse and bared a single breast for her child’s mid-morning suckle. This was the first time I had seen a live breast and it was nothing like the pale, roseate-tipped, entertainment tits displayed by Marilyn in the centrefold of the Playboy magazine hidden under the floorboards in my bedroom. This was a working tit, olive and opulent, bursting with nourishment and covered with a road map of blue veins. The invisible mechanism that inscribes events into our cerebellum etched that breast deep and it still remains in my eternal catalogue of notable breasts, along with the tragic dugs of Van Gogh’s Sorrow and the aforementioned calendar tits belonging to Marilyn Monroe.

After some shopping and lunching, at five in the afternoon, when the sun had lost much its intensity, we joined the crowds at La Monumental, the principal arena of Barcelona. It was my first bullfight and like the breast, I never forgot it. The sand, the red wooden barriers, the boxes and galleries draped with shawls, the matadors in their traje de luces (suits of light)entering the ring, the brass band playing the pasodoble, and then what I have seen described as ‘A dance with death before killing a bull in a ritual sacrifice that appeared before language’. As is the custom for a full corrida, six bulls were killed by three matadors. I remember their names because I took home a poster of the event and it stayed on my school study wall for two years. They were Luis Miguel Dominguin, Antonio Ordoñez and Paco Camino.

When you are young life is a series of love affairs. Back at school my new loves, distinct but inseparable, were Spain, bullfighting, Ava Gardner and Ernest Hemingway. Whatever I read about Spain at the time, only For Whom the Bell Tolls and the Civil War memoirs of George Orwell (Homage to Catalonia) remain fresh. In those pre-internet times bullfighting and the careers of my new heroes were hard to follow. Interestingly, if I was so lucky to find a Spanish newspaper, it was not in the sports but in the arts section, among theatre and opera, that I would find news of fights or matadors. If there had been a Religious section the reports might well have been there.

Ava was a Hemingway woman, even before she met him – a drinker and brawler, feisty, insecure and highly intelligent. Her mere presence caused men to drink too much and fight. Not someone you would choose to mind the kids. She was witty too. Arriving in Sydney in 1959 she announced that she was there to make a film (On the Beach) about the end of the world, adding ‘and this sure is the place for it’.

After filming The Sun Also Rises with Tyrone Power and Errol Flynn and divorcing Frank in 1957, Ava continued to carve some illustrious names on her bedposts: David Niven, Robert Mitchum, Clark Gable, Steve McQueen, Marlon Brando to name a few. President John F Kennedy, (how did he have time to run the country??), managed to fit her in to his conga line of extra marital conquests. Claude Terrail, owner of La Tour d’Argent pulled out after a year claiming ‘she was too dangerous’. It was inevitable that she and Hemingway would become friends. The author was smitten. After witnessing her swimming naked in the pool of his Cuban villa he ordered that the water never be changed.

Hemingway, with DH Lawrence and Lord Byron, is one of the few writers whose personal lives matched the gravitas and reach of their own novels and poetry. Hemingway was also the ‘go to’ guy for bullfighting. His second novel, ‘The Sun Also Rises’, written while he was living in Paris and published in 1926, was about American and British ex-pats travelling to the Festival of San Fermin in Pamplona. ‘Death in the Afternoon’, published in 1932, was and still is, the ultimate guide to bullfighting.  

And it’s author  invented a cocktail to go with it:

‘Pour one jigger of absinthe into a champagne glass. Add iced champagne until an opalescent milkiness is obtained. Drink three or four slowly’.

You need to read Hemingway’s guide to understand the ritual and to be able to judge the degree of skill and bravery required in the performance of the various passes with cape or muleta – including the natural, the de pecho, the remate and of course the veronica, named after the Saint who wiped Christ’s face with a cloth. The passes are designed to turn the bull and stop him dead in his tracks, to lame and tire him and to bring down the carriage of his head for the moment of truth. You need to be Spanish to understand how pride, the strongest characteristic of the race, and pundonor (honour) take precedence over a fighter’s technical and balletic brilliance when evaluating his performance. Failing to kill the bull is more easily accepted than a show of cowardice.

If you are thinking that Hemingway was oblivious to the brutality, then read this statement from the first page of the book. ‘I suppose, from a modern moral point of view, that is a Christian point of view, the whole bullfight is indefensible; there is certainly much cruelty, there is always danger, either sought or unlooked for, and there is always death, and I should not try to defend it now, only to tell honestly the things I have found to be true about it’.
If you are thinking that Hemingway’s guide is some ‘Bullfighting for Dummies’, let his brief description of Ronda tell you it is not. ‘The bullring is at the end of a hot, wide dusty street that runs into the heat from the cool forest shade of the town, and the professional cripples and horror and pity inspirers that follow the fairs of Spain line this road, wagging stumps, exposing sores, waving monstrosities and holding out their caps in their mouths when they have nothing left to hold them with, so that you walk a dusty gauntlet between two rows of horrors to the ring. The town is Velasquez to the edge and then straight Goya to the bull ring’.

In 1959 a now aging Dominguin emerged from retirement to reclaim his former glory as the greatest matador in Spain by entering into a series of mano a mano duels with his brother in law Antonio Ordoñez. Their rivalry was recorded by Hemingway in a series of articles for Life magazine, later published in book form as The Dangerous Summer in 1985. James Michener wrote the foreword. ‘This is a book about death written by a lusty, sixty year old man who had reason to fear that his own death was imminent. It is also a loving account of his return to those heroic days when he was young and learning about life in the bull rings of Spain.’

Unlike the rivalry between the arrogant Ronaldo and the dribbling Messi, which is easily decided on goal count, picking the winner between Dominguin and Ordoñez was more difficult. Hemingway gave it to Ordoñez; other professional critics were divided. Dominguin was gored at Malaga and Bilbao; Ordoñez at Aranjuez. Being gored is not prejudicial like a knock down in boxing and when Ordoñez was carried, wounded, from the ring he took with him the bull’s tail, both ears and a hoof, all signs of public approval for his courage and artistry. Rather like a standing ovation at the opera or ladies throwing their undies at Tom Jones. Ms Ordoñez would probably have preferred a piece of fillet; after all, post-fight the bull is butchered and the meat given to the poor, which is why all arenas are registered as abattoirs under Spanish and EU law.

Many things we feel important and eternal at the time are most often short lived in retrospect. In 1968 Ava moved into 34 Ennismore Gardens, a quiet part of London’s Kensington, where she remained, alone, wheezing and pigeon-breasted from emphysema, until her death in 1990. She was sixty seven. “You can sum up my life in a sentence, honey. She made movies, she made out, she made a fucking mess of her life. But she never made jam”. In 1998 the mayor of Tossa unveiled a bronze sculpture of Ava in her Pandora role. What would the world be without women who don’t make jam? Two years after the dangerous summer, Hemingway took his own life. He was sixty one. Ronda, perhaps the true capital of bullfighting, has its Paseo E Hemingway. Dominguin retired but returned to the ring in 1971 when he was forty five. His comeback fight was at Las Palmas in the Canaries and he wore a traje de luces in pale viridian and gold, created for him by Picasso.

Picasso and Dominguin

It is 2018 and I am with Honeybee in the city of Nimes. Near the Arena, which still hosts bullfights, we visit the Musee des Cultures Taurines (Museum of Bull Culture) to see an exhibition entitled ‘Picasso Dominguin – Une Amitié – a friendship that Jean Cocteau initiated when he organised a meeting between the two in 1951. It was Dominguin who supplied the text for Picasso’s book ‘Toros y Toreros, Drawings and Paintings’ published in 1961. The exhibition included many of Picasso’s works inspired by the corrida as well as photographs of the artist and the matador, but the pièce de resistance is that viridian and gold ‘suit of lights’ designed by the artist for the matador. Picasso was born in Malaga and his father introduced him, at an early age, to the bullfights. His first drawing (at the age of eight) was of a picador. He also produced a series of drawings of bulls. Beginning with lifelike images, Picasso gradually reduces his bull to a few geometric strokes. Amazingly but unsurprisingly the final, purely linear works have an uncanny resemblance to the bulls drawn nineteen thousand years ago on the walls of caves at Lascaux and Roc de Sers in France. I left the museum with this thought, but what I had seen at the exhibition also reminded me of Sitges and my mother and Ernest Hemingway and Ava Gardner and the fights and that breast.




Two men influenced the early part of my life; one was Adolf Hitler, the other was Hugh Hefner. Hitler did more than just influence my life, he did his best to end it. Although he failed in that respect he succeeded in breaking up our family, forced me to spend my first four years sleeping in an air-raid shelter and was responsible for my food being rationed until I was fourteen. Long after his mortal remains had been incinerated, Adolf’s shadow loomed over the land. Many of London’s bomb sites, more exciting playgrounds than the swings and roundabouts provided by local councils, persisted into the mid fifties. At school meals our Housemaster, who had spent three years in Colditz, employed salt and pepper pots and cutlery to daily reconstruct the Wehrmacht’s flanking movement that had deprived him of his wits and liberty. Without the benefit of any serious study I can identify the shapes of most WW2 military aircraft. I still hear the wail of the air raid siren and the all-clear.

In 1953 a new leader came out of the West, a mild, pipe smoking hedonist who ran his operations, dressed in silk pyjamas, from a round bed that revolved and vibrated. His name was Hugh Hefner and he came, not clutching a copy of Mein Kampf, but a magazine called Playboy, which would prove to be just as revolutionary and more popular, with a monthly readership that was to reach seven million in the 1970s. ‘Smut’ decided my mother, writing to tell me she had burnt what she called a ‘substantial collection of pornography’ found in my wardrobe. But among the naked lovelies, there were short stories by Norman Mailer and John Le Carre, articles on fashion and sports cars and Hef’s support for progressive social causes.  Black guests were invited to the Playboy Mansion when Jim Crow Laws still operated in many US states and the magazine was used to campaign for the decriminalisation of marijuana and for abortion rights in an age when doctors refused contraceptives to unmarried women. In 1961 the first Playboy club opened in Chicago and when the London club opened at 45 Park Lane in1966, I was one of the first members through its doors.  Hitler once wrote that the world was made of ‘Gods and beasts’; Hef changed that to ‘Gods and breasts’. The bare breasts in the centrefold of the very first Playboy issue belonged to Marilyn Monroe; it is entirely fitting that Hef now lies beside her in a Los Angeles cemetery.

If Adolf launched a V2 or a couple of Doodlebugs at London while my mother was wheeling me in the park then she would have taken shelter in the Underground.  Apart from safety there was often a cup of tea and a sing-along perhaps organised by Joan Littlewood, a belligerent, chain-smoking impresario in a woollen cap. Under surveillance by MI5 for association with the Communist Party, Joan led a collective of left-wing leaning actors who performed in the street and outside factories to working class audiences as well as conducting sing-songs for those sheltering from the Blitz. In 1953 Joan and her group, now calling themselves the Theatre Workshop, found a permanent home in the derelict Theatre Royal in London’s East End. The Company lived and slept in the theatre, redecorating it between rehearsals, deprived of government grants on account of its communist ideology. Joan was saved from sleeping in squalor by Gerry Raffles, an affluent, public school runaway who joined the company as theatre manager, fell in love with her and took her into his luxurious home in Blackheath.

The next years were a battle between East and West. It was Joan’s mission in the East to create plays that stimulated and entertained, be both popular and serious, completely divorced from the polite, drawing room dramas of the West End, what Joan called ‘daffodils up arses’. She liked plays by and about working class people performed for working class audiences and found success with Brendan Behan’s ‘The Hostage’ and Shelagh Delaney’s ‘A Taste of Honey’.

The battle also raged within the East. Creditors had to be kept at bay and there was a continuing fight with the BBC who refused to show or air Theatre Workshop productions and with the Arts Council who refused grants.  Meanwhile Joan, foul-mouthed, unwilling to listen to advice, nasty and aggressive, humiliated actors and crew alike. ‘You can’t act’ she told Michael Caine, ‘so you might as well fuck off up to the West End or get a job in films.’ ‘Best bit of advice I ever had’, said Caine. Only Raffles stuck by her.

The East End – land of Jellied eels, music halls, costermongers and pearly Kings and Queens with its unique and colourful dialect of thieves cant and rhyming slang –  is no more, gone in a single lifetime, a victim of German bombs, closure of the docks, multiculturalism and gentrification. It was always going to be harder to conserve than the giant panda and the snow leopard, although Joan did her best to keep its memory alive with two brilliant ‘cockney’ musicals, ‘Fings Aint Wot They Used T’be’ in 1958 and ‘Sparrers Can’t Sing’ a year later.

Her masterpiece ‘Oh What a Lovely War’, an anti-war satire focusing on the folly and incompetence of England’s WW1 military commanders, opened at the Theatre Royal in March 1963. Using a backdrop of distressing facts and statistics of the Great War, documentary footage, marching and music hall songs of the time and actors wearing Commedia dell’Arte costumes and tin helmets, was an instant hit, transferring to the West End in the same year, to Broadway a year later and to the cinema in 1969. The film’s last scene, when the camera pans across the South Downs sown with rows of white crosses, is as moving a hymn to pacifism as you are ever likely to see.

When Raffles died in 1975 while sailing his boat up the Rhone, Joan walked out of the theatre never to return. Her destination was Vienne, a small town thirty miles south of Lyons where she kept vigil on the banks of the river close to the spot where Gerry had died, her only companion an adopted mongrel she called Jacques Tati.

How Baron Philippe de Rothschild knew of her whereabouts or even knew of her we do not know. He had certainly lived a world apart from Joan’s East End. His youth was spent at the wheel of a Hispano Suiza, skiing in Gstaad and sipping champagne from the slippers of high-class tarts.  At the age of 22 he inherited Chateau Mouton Rothschild, 222 acres of Medoc vines in the village of Pauillac, which became his home and where he introduced the concept of ‘Chateau bottling’ and the idea of using famous artists, including Picasso, Miro and Dali, to decorate his wine labels. He would certainly have known of Littlewood. He had an interest in drama; briefly managing a theatre owned by his playwright father and translating plays by contemporary English writers. He may have seen one of Joan’s Paris productions, for her work was acclaimed in France long before being accepted in England, partly because the French have always championed the Left ever since Camille Desmoulins jumped on a cafe table and called for a physical resolution to the French Revolution.

In May 1976, only two months after the death of his wife, Baron Philippe motored alone from Paris to Vienne and found Joan, dressed in clogs and slacks, outside a small whitewashed hotel not a hundred yards from the river. He records Joan as being reticent at their first meeting, even a little hostile, until they found common ground in the Baron’s translation of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine. A mutual interest in theatre and the Elizabethan poets soon overcame distrust; when the Baron returned to Mouton he took the pocket Marxist with him. There she became Jeanne Petitbois and lived platonically with the Baron whom she called ‘the Guv’, for the next ten years. The Baron involved her in his activities, designing the gardens, organising the Queen Mother’s visit and helping write his autobiography, the embarrassingly titled ‘Milady Vine’. It was not a perfect alliance but it suited both parties; she called her benefactor ‘spoilt, selfish and rude’, and her irreverence was not always welcome especially when she introduced the Baron to her friends as the fourth Marx Brother. When Playboy came to write an article on the Baron she came down to a grand dinner wearing floppy rabbit ears and a fluffy pompom on her derriere.

The Baron died in 1986, the showgirl in 2002. For all Joan’s Marxist principles and contempt for privilege she owed her life and legacy to Gerry Raffles and Baron Philippe de Rothschild, two members of a class she despised. Perhaps love trumped her contempt in the first case, companionship in the other, but it is common taste that reconciles strange bedfellows.

Dio li fa e fra di loro si accoppiano.

PS  A Royal Shakespeare Society production of a new musical, ‘Miss Littlewood’ is scheduled to open in 2018.



Only those who follow the vicissitudes of male fashion can understand the drastic fall in hosiery sales which occurs each summer in Milan, that elegant, business-like city of incalculable possibilities. For several years now it has been common among Milanese gentlemen to eschew socks in the summer months. The best way to get a peep at these naked pedal extremities is to watch the cyclists. Between the cuff of a Brioni suit trouser and the soft leather of a Ferragamo loafer you may catch a glimpse of a well-turned ankle, perhaps even the hint of a tasteful tattoo. Of course, Milanese gentlemen are not alone in spurning hosiery in the city; Australians can be seen striding, summer and winter, thonged and sockless, through Sydney; but theirs is not a fashion statement only a desire for convenience and comfort.


Rinascente, situated near the Duomo, is a good place to buy socks. The department store is currently celebrating the centenary of its name, devised by the decadent poet and war hero, Gabriele D’Annunzio who, at the same time, was devising the entire ritual of Fascism, including the Blackshirts and Roman salute that Mussolini adopted. This embarrassing information is prudently omitted from the Exhibition in the Palazzo Reale marking the centennial of the store’s name. It does however emphasise its title of World’s Best Department Store awarded at the Global Department Store Summit in 2016, won by Selfridges of London in the three previous years, although one suspects that Bergdorf Goodman, Libertys and Harrods were either not competing or facing drug bans.

We are not at Rinascente for the socks but for lunch as our favourite restaurant, La Bagutta, has closed its doors for good. Having frequented it for forty years it felt like a death in the family. Another favourite restaurant, Boeucc, which claims to have been here since 1696, is also closed, but only for the holidays. There you will find the best porcini mushrooms, grilled like steak and a genuine escalope Milanese or orecchio di elefante, which means it has the bone attached and is beaten thin to cover the entire plate.


I love the south of France, the sky is clear and blue and there’s a healthy atmosphere of gluttony. Many of the local dishes are difficult to find in an acceptable quality elsewhere – aligot (a blend of mashed potato and tomme), foie gras mi cuit, omelette aux girolles and aigo bouido, a white garlic soup. It’s just the coffee that lets the French down, tasting, as Tom Wolfe says, of ‘incinerated PVC cables’. Pierre-Jacques and I are making the 600 kilometre motorised pilgrimage from Paris to Laguiolle in the Aveyron to pay homage to the culinary arts of Michel Bras, who has hung on to his three Michelin stars for eighteen straight years.


The gargouillou at Michel Bras

The house special is gargouillou, a brilliant fireworks display of edible flowers, vegetables, shoots, leaves, stalks and roots that almost turns me into a vegetarian.

The service, the cuisine, even the place itself, perched on the lip of an escarpment, is outstanding. How was it? asks Honeybee; I tell her the dishes were mouth watering, the prices eye watering.

Apart from Michel Bras, Laguiolle is famous for its table knives. But if it came to a design knife fight the winner is clearly the Opinel, a peasant’s knife, an artisan’s instrument, ideal for whittling driftwood, peeling an orange or pruning a rose; Picasso used one as a sculpting tool. Apart from being inexpensive and useful it is also a work of art in itself and it was an


Laguiolle (top) and Opinel

Opinel, not a Laguiolle, that was included, alongside a Rolex watch and a Porsche 911, in the Victoria & Albert Museum’s 1985 exhibition of the 100 most beautiful products in the world.

The next day we drive west and south, past fields of placid Aubrac cows, through Espalion, Estaing, and Entraygues. At Conques we lunch with pilgrims resting on their 750 kilometre journey from Le Puy to Santiago de Compostela. The pilgrimage becomes more popular each year; 2,491 made the journey in 1986, 277,915 in 2016. Are we becoming more religious, or has El Camino just become another item on a bucket list? We pass many pilgrims on the footpaths and lanes, all bearing the scallop shell or coquille Saint Jacques on their back-packs.

Albi, La Ville Rose, when we reach it in the evening, looks almost Tuscan with its buildings of pink brick. We are here to visit the Toulouse –Lautrec Museum. Why do we like this painter? Because he was born rich and privileged yet worked for his living, because he overcame severe physical handicap to succeed as an artist, because he lived his whole life as he wanted and understood just what had brought him that rare gift. ‘J’ai acheté ma liberté avec mes dessins.’ (I bought my freedom with my drawings’).


The Gare du Nord hasn’t changed much since the 1970s except that now there’s the Eurostar instead of the romantic Golden Arrow boat-train with its individually named Pullman cars and crossed Union and French flags on the engine. Along with faster travel Europeans have become accustomed to bomb scares and when we are herded off the platform while the Gendarmerie check out a suspicious looking suitcase, no one looks surprised let alone alarmed.

Having spent the first twenty six years of my life in London, I feel I’m going home but soon realise I’m not. ‘It’s all over; all rinsed out’, says my cousin, resident since birth in the great city. ‘Town’s nothing but a collection of empty investment properties and Air BnB apartments full of tourists. The clubs are all closing because landlords find it more lucrative to convert them to flats for rich Asians; even Annabels has been forced out of Berkley Square’. My cousin feels the city, perhaps the world, has reached its nadir. But inevitably this age, with its adult videos, tattoos, cage fighting and celebrity worship, will be lamented in its turn, just like the last.

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The Golden Arrow


It’s the ‘summer of love’ at the Globe theatre where the Royal Shakespeare Company is presenting Romeo and Juliet and Twelfth Night, the latter a splendid production full of add-libs, dancing, music and audience participation that makes you think, yes, this must have been what it was like in Shakespeare’s day. After, we take the Millennium footbridge across the Thames and wander up Fleet Street, now lifeless without its newspapers, their journalists banished long ago to Wapping to hack phones. We have a drink in what was once one of the newsmens’ favourite watering holes, The Cheshire Cheese, now full of Asian tourists using its gloomy 17th century interiors as a backdrop for self-portraits.

In Gough Square we pass the home of Samuel Johnson once also the home of his manservant and friend, Francis Barber. Born Quashey, a slave on a Jamaican sugar plantation, he was brought at the age of seven to London in 1750 by his English owner. After spending five years at school in Yorkshire he was freed, given a small bequest and went to work for Johnson as his valet. Johnson, an eccentric himself, commanded a strange household in which only ‘tolerable concord’ existed. The disharmony between the housekeeper, blind poet Anna Williams, Poll Carmichael, a former prostitute, Dr Levet, a destitute Quack and the cat Hodge was such that Francis ran away and joined the Navy returning to Gough Square in 1760 where he remained until Johnson’s death in 1784. During those last twenty four years he looked after his employer’s affairs, became his loyal and trusted friend and inherited the bulk of his estate. After Johnson’s death he moved to Lichfield in Staffordshire, where Johnson had been born and where he sadly lost most of his inheritance through unwise investments. Barber’s descendants apparently still farm in the area.

The next day we take the train to Norwich, the sort of city, with its 11th century cathedral and cobbled alleys, that the English travel to France to admire. I have a special feeling about Norfolk; I believe it’s the home of my ancestors. Once part of Danelaw, an area of eastern England where Viking law and the 3 Rs – rowing, raping and raiding – prevailed, it’s now a quiet refuge for ancient Britons, green, lush, dripping with willow. At Blickling Hall, where Anne Boleyn was born, there are giant, sculptured yew hedges and at Blakeney, among flocks of sea birds, people mess about in boats in the muddy tidal inlets. If it’s a sunny day and if you are near Thorpe Market then you should lunch at the Gunton Arms, part of art dealer, Ivor Braka’s beautifully restored 18th century estate, complete with herds of deer and cattle. Nowhere else will you find a Damien Hirst painting in the Ladies’ Loo or a Magritte above the residents’ lounge fire-place. The food’s good too; try the spicy wild boar sausage with chilli jam or the slow roast shoulder of lamb with summer bubble and squeak.

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The green, green grass of home

While, unlike London, the countryside remains largely unchanged – the thrush, the newt, the bumble-bee, the oak, the oast-house are all still there – it’s not the countryside I remember. Only AE Houseman can express that sense of a long gone, deeply English (and perhaps imaginary), golden age:

Into my heart on air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

Years ago, on a menu in a restaurant in the port of Piraeus, I came across two local dishes the English translations of which had me in stitches – ‘Tender bowels, stewed’ was one, ‘Lambs Dong’ the other. Regrettably, I did not try either; I suspect the first would have been some kind of tripe and the other, tongue. Since then I’ve been on the look-out for other mirth inducing dishes; so it was a pleasant surprise to find ‘Mixed pig organ congee’ on my breakfast menu at Singapore Airport. This dish I am familiar with and it can be very tasty; it’s just the translation that needs to sound more appetizing. And incidentally, how amazing is the city of Singapore. I was expecting a dry cluster of glass towers full of accountants and hedge-fund managers, endless malls of phone shops and dim sum eateries. Instead there is an inspired blend of outrageous modern architecture and beautifully restored colonial buildings. Plus, I’m told it’s the only place on Earth with a Michelin starred street food stall.

In Chefchaouen, in the Street of Outstretched Hands, my English language version of a lunch menu offers a tantalizing selection of beef leg, giblets, sinew and brains. Checking the French version I found beef leg to be a more understandable ‘Pied de Veau’, while sinew (in French?), turned out to be ‘ox penis’. IMG_6514The latter can be a bit heavy for lunch and so I opted for the beef leg, or more properly the calf’s foot, which turned out to be a bowl of tasty fat surrounded by chickpeas in broth. Delicious! I regret not trying Khlie – lamb, seasoned, sun-dried, cooked in fat, preserved in jars (rather like duck confit) and traditionally served with scrambled egg; a sort of Babel el Squeak.

In Meknes I have my boots polished while lunching al fresco on kofta and chicken brochettes and a cumin-spiced salad of pepper, cucumber, tomato and sweet onion. In the back of the café our guide, Youssef, touches the floor with the seven parts of his body in prayer. Later, after we have finished eating, he carries our leftovers into the streets for the poor and hungry, making me feel, unintentionally, like a cad.

In Essaouira Le Chalet de la Plage had been heavily recommended and first appearances look encouraging. There is a seasoned bar of warm, dark, varnished wood and a view of the sea and the islands in the bay. Over the bar hang photographs of Nicholas Cage, Orson Welles, Ron Dennis and other notables, smiling with the proprietor. Frankly, the meal was disappointing and expensive (by local standards), made bearable by a bottle of the local (Meknes) Château Roslane. The only really bad meal I had in Morocco was the lamb tagine I prepared myself at cooking school. I did complain to the chef.

Freshness, variety, seasonality and hospitality are the keynotes of Moroccan lunching and dining. Much of the food, including sheep, grown or fattened in the field, is on sale at the side of the road. A sale occurs after bargaining and bargaining brings people together. In the narrow alleys of the Fez market there are spices in coloured mountains, camel meat, small fish, eels, oranges, figs and chickens so fresh they are still alive.

It’s Tuesday and market day in Azrou and the roads are filled with slow-moving pick-ups, crammed with a mixture of sheep, goats and family members. Bedouin, whose black tents are visible on the surrounding plain, have brought their scrawny sheep to town to sell to local farmers who will fatten them up for the feast of Eid al-Adha.

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The market at Azrou

They will be eaten as mechoui when the whole sheep is roasted in a clay oven for a few hours. There is no better way to eat lamb. Later, we pass rows of fossil supermarkets selling everything from tiny trilobites to great polished slabs of fossil-filled marble destined for the walls of Joan Collins’ bathroom.


On the road again we are protected from accident and injury by the hand of Fatima dangling from Youssef’s rear-view mirror and reach Tafilalt safely to look down into the great palm oasis, a broad, green ribbon stretching for miles along the bed of the Ziz river. I am reminded of the importance of the palm to desert people and of these opening lines of Roy Campbell’s eponymous poem:

Blistered and dry was the desert I trod
When out of the sky with the step of a god
Victory-vanned, with her feathers out-fanned,
The palm tree alighting my journey delayed
And spread me, inviting, her carpet of shade

In his book ‘Iron John’ another poet, Robert Bly, said that white stands for semen, saliva, water, milk, lakes, rivers, the sea and priesthood, health, strength and all good things and good company and the purity of children and brides. For the Moroccans, green is the sacred colour of Islam and the colour of the doors of those who have made the haj to Mecca; it stands for life, nature and renewal and here, in the oasis, it blazes in contrast to the sun-blasted hills and dun-coloured Ksars.

Among the perfect dunes of the Sahara we will sleep in a black Bedouin tent, complete with en-suite bathroom and air-conditioning. After dark, when the encampment lights are turned off, we look up into the night sky to see what Joyce, in Ulysses, called ‘The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.’ Then straight to bed as we are on the 7.30 camel in the morning.


What an extraordinary period for art were the early years of the twentieth century in the City of Light, much of it emanating from two refuges for poor artists and writers – Le Bateau Lavoir (the laundry boat), an ex-piano factory in the Place Emile-Goudeau in Montmartre and La Ruche (the bee-hive) situated across the river in the Passage Danzig in the 15th arrondissement.

It was the writer Max Jacob who invented the term Bateau Lavoir to describe the rickety, wooden building, which reminded him of the laundry boats on the Seine. Later he would call it the Central Laboratory of Painting. At one time or another, Braque, Derain, Van Dongen, Vlaminck, Juan Gris and Matisse as well as Max’s friend Picasso lived and/or worked there, as did writers Jean Cocteau and Raymond Radiguet.

La Ruche, originally a temporary, circular pavilion designed by Gustave Eiffel to showcase French wines at the Great Exhibition of 1900, had been dismantled and re-erected as low-cost studios for artists. Among its tenants and frequenters were Chagall, Leger, Soutine, Brancusi, Modigliani and Diego Rivera.

These innovative and talented young artists, many of them, like Soutine and Chagall, Jews fleeing the pogroms of Eastern Europe, were driven by poverty and exhilarated by freedom, more powerful stimulants than any strong drink or drug. ‘I knew we would make it through the Bateau Lavoir’, wrote Picasso, ‘There we were truly happy; we were considered as painters and not as curious animals’.

It is one thing to be present, quite another to recognise the importance of what’s happening around you. At the Dôme Café in Montparnasse Modigliani, who required strong liquor to fuel his creative urge, would offer a quick sketch in exchange for a glass of mominette, a cheap absinthe based on potato alcohol. How many of his drawings were framed and treasured and how many used to light the stove or compile the weekly shopping list? I wonder what I would have done with a portrait of myself with distorted face and elongated neck. Artists are not always the best people to market their own work and the tenants of the Bateau Lavoir and La Ruche were fortunate to attract the interest of art critic and poet Wilhelm Kostrowicki, the illegitimate son of a Polish noblewoman. Calling himself Guillaume Apollinaire, he drew these two artistic nests together and to the attention of the public and the collectors. Picasso and Braque had no idea they were Cubists until Apollinaire coined the term ‘Cubism’ in 1911 to describe the emerging art form. Likewise Dali, Duchamps and Max Ernst would not have known they were Surrealists if Apollinaire had not invented and included the word in an article for the program of the ballet ‘Parade’, produced in 1917 by Picasso, Jean Cocteau and Erik Satie.

1st English edition; Peter Owen, London, 1976

In the early days Apollinaire was also poor, forced to sell his literary talents to the clandestine market. His erotic novel, ‘Les Onze Milles Verges’ (The Eleven Thousand Rods), written in 1907 but banned in France until 1973, is a masterpiece of smut, its title a reference to the massacre in Cologne of Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand British virgins in the early centuries of the Common Era. So that’s where they all went.

It’s the story of Mony Vibescu, a Rumanian Prince who comes to Paris in search of excitement and sexual adventure, moving via the Orient Express to Bucharest and St Petersburg and ending in Manchuria during the Russo-Japanese War. It is verbally inventive, comic, obscene, satirical and deadly serious. A lot of the places and historical detail are actual and factual and there are real people or ideas behind the masks; example – the name of the Japanese prostitute Kilyemu is an abbreviation of ‘Celle qui l’emu’ – she who moved him. Tongue in cheek, Picasso claimed it was his favourite book, but it did remain one of his prized possessions. The publishers of my 1976 English translation omit whole paragraphs they feel too explicitly violent. These missing passages describing the crueller aspects of physical love and the triumph of evil were part of the writer’s attempts to rehabilitate the Divine Marquis and the belief that there is a fundamental purity in very bad behaviour.

His next literary works were three collections of poetry – L’Enchanteur Pourrissant (1909), Le Bestiare ou Cortege d’Orphee (1911) and Alcools (1913), the latter establishing his immediate fame and future legacy. The poems were applauded for their combining of contemporary themes with traditional poetic forms. I’ve tried to enjoy Apollinaire’s poems because I like the sound of the man, but as kindly, clever, loyal and gregarious as he was, his poems now seem sad and pessimistic.

Les feuilles
Qu’on foule
Un train
Qui roule
La vie

All went well until 1911 when Vincenzo Peruggia, a former attendant at the Louvre, stole the Mona Lisa, unwittingly involving Apollinaire in the crime, and creating an international uproar. The theft, claimed the New York Times, ‘has caused such a sensation that Parisians, for the time being, have forgotten the rumours of war.’ Bouquets of flowers were placed beneath the spot where the painting had hung and the Editor of the French news magazine, L’Illustration, asked ‘What audacious criminal, what mystifier, what maniac collector, what insane lover, has committed this abduction?’ Peruggia fitted none of these descriptions; he was merely intent in returning the painting to what he considered to be its homeland, Italy, and to extract a reward for doing so. Apollinaire was arrested and briefly jailed and Picasso questioned by the police, on account of an earlier theft from the Louvre of several Iberian stone heads by Apollinaire’s secretary, which Picasso had bought and used as models for his 1907 painting ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’. Peruggia kept the Mona Lisa in his Paris apartment for two years before taking it to Florence where he contacted Dott. Poggi, Director of the Uffizi Gallery, in an attempt to discuss a reward for its repatriation. But Poggi called the police who soon recovered the painting from a room in the Hotel Tripoli-Italia; Peruggia’s claim to have been motivated by patriotism earned him a sentence of just seven months.

Apollinaire by Irene Lagut from Les Onze Mille Verges

Soon after the Mona Lisa was back hanging in the Louvre, Europe went to war and, like the wind, Apollinaire’s luck changed. Taking up the Government’s offer of citizenship to any foreigner fighting for France, the stateless Apollinaire enlisted, and served at the front until 1916 when a shell fragment pierced his helmet and made him a semi-invalid. It wasn’t the Germans who finished him off but the Spanish Flu, so named because neutral Spain, free of war-time censorship, was the first country to publicise the pandemic. The most popular theory is that the flu originated in Fort Riley, Kansas and came to Europe with the American soldiers. Whatever the circumstances, Apollinaire, already weakened by his war wound, succumbed to the flu in 1918 just months after he was married. The French buried him alongside the rest of their heroes in the Père Lachaise cemetery.

The Bateau Lavoir was destroyed by fire in 1970 and rebuilt in 1978; it still provides studios, but not accommodation, for young artists.

La Ruche, saved from demolition in 1968 by Jean-Paul Sartre, Jean Renoir and others, remains a collection of working studios for artists.

The hotel where Peruggia hid the Mona Lisa is still there in the via Panzani, now called Hotel La Gioconda.



After the engines had stopped and the seat-belt sign turned off, the cabin suddenly fills with music. They are playing Volare and the lady sitting next to me begins to sing along. I join her for the few lines I know because it’s that sort of song. ‘Ah, Modugno!’ she sighed and I guessed she was recalling all those Italian summers by the sea that the song evokes, although the blue mentioned in the song has nothing to do with the colour of the Mediterranean. While Volare will always be associated with singer/song-writer Domenico Modugno, it was in fact the brain-child of his lyricist partner, Franco Migliacci. Franco’s inspiration came from seeing reproductions of two of Chagall’s paintings, Le Coq Rouge and Le Peintre et La Modelle, both of which decorated the walls of the café where he was working on a new song. The first mentioned painting shows a man suspended in mid-air, a familiar feature of Chagall’s work, while the second depicts the painter with half his face painted blue. And so we have a song about a man who paints his hands and face blue before being swept up by the wind and flying away in the infinite sky. Like many great additions to the world’s cultural inventory, the qualities of Volare were not immediately recognised by the experts in the field and it was only reluctantly and belatedly included among the entrants of the 1958 San Remo Song Festival, which of course it won, going on to become the most played to air Italian song of the 20th century.

Volare is only one of the entrenched and unvarying traditions of ‘la stagione al mare’. As soon as the school holidays begin, mothers traditionally take their children to the sea, maybe to a second home in Forte dei Marmi or perhaps to a rented apartment or hotel in Alassio, while their husbands enjoy a brief period of freedom with their mistresses before their own official holidays begin and they join their families at the sea. In summer the beaches from Ventimiglia to Rimini are covered with uniform lines of deck chairs and coloured umbrellas; newly painted pedalos are dragged to the shoreline and small beachfront restaurants offer that classic seaside dish, spaghetti alle vongole, best taken with a bottle of chilled Grillo and followed by a sorbetto al limone. Each year the stabilimenti balneari find new beaches to exploit as the tide of tourists increases (up 24% in 2017). Puglia, Basilicata and Calabria are the new holiday Klondikes and already on a sunny weekend it’s standing room only on Puglia’s Gallipoli Beach.

Santa Teresa di Riva, on the Sicilian coast between Giardini Naxos and Messina, is a new and still pleasant addition to the stock of summer destinations, called into service to cope with the overspill from the stampede of tourists that has ruined Taormina. The people of Santa Teresa are courteous and friendly, there are no souvenir shops, parking is easy and the waters are free of jet-skis, kayaks and wind-surfers, while a sharply shelving and shingled beach deters families with young children.

The Bar Vitelli

High in the Nebrodi hills, which rise steeply behind the town, is the village of Savoca and its Bar Vitelli where Michael Corleone asked Apollonia’s father for her hand in marriage in The Godfather.

From the village, or better still, from the terrace of the very charming Ristorante Gelso Nero, there are lovely views out across the Mediterranean. Let us hope that the Mayor of Santa Teresa will preserve its charms by resisting any attempt by Ryan Air to establish direct flights between his town and London, Moscow and Dusseldorf. One way of choosing a holiday destination may be to list all resorts then eliminate those that are visited by cruise ships or served by cut-price airlines.

View from the Gelso Nero

Even from sea-level the shoreline of Calabria is visible across the Straits of Messina, although sometimes, in the evening, a haze melts sea into sky and the mainland disappears altogether. Before the Atlantic Ocean breached the chain of mountains joining present day Spain and Morocco five and a half million years ago, you would have been looking over a dry valley. The breach triggered the most spectacular flood in Earth’s history, creating the Mediterranean. Originally seen by the Romans as a series of smaller seas, with names taken from neighbouring coastlines and islands – Mare Tyrrhenum, Mare Balearicum and so on, later they would refer to the whole sea as Mare Magnum and later again, Mare Nostrum – Our Sea! In the second half of the 3rd century AD, when Roman ownership of the sea was beginning to be questioned, Solinus, a geographer, became the first to use the term Mediterraneum – the centre of the world, as indeed it then was and to some of us, still is.

Woody Allen used Volare to book-end his 2012 film ‘To Rome with Love’ to good effect and Luciano Pavarotti’s version of the song still leaves me feeling I’m high on drugs, but my special Volare moment will always be the time I heard it on 17th July, 1994. I remember the date because it was the day of the World Cup final between Italy and Brazil and Honeybee and I were in a night club on the island of Capri. It was a particularly fun evening; the American Ambassador to Italy was there with a large party to celebrate his birthday and we were on the island with a group of friends to see an exhibition by Veronese painter, Pippo Borrello. It was while the orchestra was playing Volare that a message was passed to the band-leader, who, after examining the content, immediately stopped the music and made this brief and tragic announcement: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am sad to tell you that Italy has lost to Brazil on penalties’. Knowing how the Italians love their soccer I expected the mood of the evening to darken and that we would now be listening to a grim selection from Cavalleria Rusticana. But, turning immediately to face his band, the Maestro raised his arms and launched his musicians straight back into the song they had briefly abandoned …..

 Mentre il mondo pian piano spariva lontano laggiu’
Una musica dolce suonava soltanto per me
Volare oh, oh
Cantare oh, oh, oh, oh
Nel blu dipinto di blu
Felice di stare lassu’
Ma tutti i sogni nell’alba svaniscon perche’
Quando tramonta la luna il porta con se’
Ma io continuo a sognare negli occhi tuoi belli
Che sono blu come un cielo trapunto di stelle

And everyone clapped and cheered and it was the very best of evenings.



The fruit of that grand and tragic love affair between Anthony and Cleopatra consisted of a boy, Ptolemy, and twins – Helios (the sun), another boy and Selene (the moon), a girl. After their parents were defeated at Actium by Octavian and had taken their own lives, the children were dragged to Rome in golden chains as evidence of imperial insuperability. There, in an act of extraordinary charity, Anthony’s former wife (and sister to Octavian), saved the children from further public humiliation by taking them into her household. The fates of Ptolemy and Helios are unrecorded, but we know that Selene matured into a well-educated woman, whose loyalty to her captors was rewarded with Roman citizenship. Another contemporary, political prisoner in Rome, Juba II, King of Numidia, had also become Romanised, in spite of his father’s defeat at the hands of Julius Caesar and the appropriation of his Berber kingdom as a Roman Province.  In a bizarre turn of events, while Selene enjoyed the patronage of Octavia, Juba was befriended and supported by her brother, Octavian and was at his side at Actium. Notwithstanding Juba’s involvement in the defeat of her parents, Selene married Juba and the couple were dispatched by Octavian (now the Emperor Augustus) to develop and govern Mauretania, the far South Western reaches of the empire. Their mission began around 20BC with the founding of the city of Caesarea (now Cherchell in present day Algeria) and continued westward to Volubilis, an existing city of Phoenician and Berber origins, which became the capital of the Kingdom of Mauretania and therefore, some say, of modern Morocco. Its position on a ridge at the base of the Zerhoun mountain provides the visitor with fine panorama of a Roman city with its temples, agora, basilica and triumphal arch.   Although only partly excavated, the exposed mosaics are as fine as you will see anywhere and the small museum contains some interesting artefacts as well as spotlessly clean lavatories. It is a column from Volubilis that serves as a monument to Yves Saint-Laurent’s life and achievements in the Majorelle Gardens in Marrakech.

Our guide points out a farm in the plain to the South, the property of the de Villepin family, one of whom, the effete and snooty Dominique, was prime minister during the Chirac presidency. The lower slopes of the hills to the North are covered in olive trees, and local production of oil has survived for thousands of years, for no fewer than 85 olive presses were found during excavations of Volubilis. Every souk has its mountains of green, yellow and black olives although the oil is somewhat bland and not a patch on the green and peppery Tuscan variety. More suitable for pouring on the body than a salad, as I found out the next day at a Hamman where I was oiled, scraped and sandpapered and then sluiced down like the orlop deck of the Victory after a particularly sanguinary amputation. I’m not sure how many layers of skin were removed but my sun-tan had disappeared and my entire rib cage was visible as if through an x-ray. Retiring to an adjacent room for a massage, I was handed a tiny envelope containing two small eye patches joined by an elastic band; talk about ‘invisible panty line’! Anyway it was just enough to save me from six months for indecent exposure. Again, I was copiously lubricated, this time with Argan oil, before the masseuse got to work on my recumbent skeleton. Now, I’ve always thought that ‘argan’ was Arabic for ‘engine’ but Honeybee says no, argan oil is produced from the kernels of the small, brown nuts that grow, along with goats, on the argan tree.

Argan nut and goat tree

Apart from olive oil, grain and Barbary lions, Mauretania’s other main export to Rome was the purple dye extracted from the gland of the spiny Murex rock-snail. A Phoenician myth tells us that it was the pet dog of Tyros, mistress of Tyre’s patron god, Melquart, that bit into a shell, covered its mouth in purple dye and made the Phoenicians rich. The 1636 painting by Peter Paul Rubens depicts the same myth but substitutes Herakles for Tyros as the dog’s owner, reflecting Rome’s desire to replace Phoenician gods with their own. Tyrian purple dye, produced by the Phoenicians as early as 1,500 BC, was prized for the intensity of colour and its resistance to fading. On account of the vast number of shells needed to produce a small quantity of dye and because of the difficult and lengthy production process, the dye was fabulously expensive. Someone with nothing better to do has calculated that it takes roughly twelve thousand shells to produce 1.4 grams of dye, just enough to colour the border of a single garment. In re-establishing the ancient Phoenician process of manufacturing Tyrian purple dye using the spiny Murex shells that thrive among the intertidal rocks at Essaouira on Morocco’s Atlantic coast, Juba helped make Mauretania one of the wealthiest of Rome’s client kingdoms.

Following Juba’s death in 23AD, his son, Ptolemy, inherited the kingdom but, like many a second generation, not his father’s aptitude for hard work and frugality, although he continued to display the same level of loyalty to Rome and was rewarded for such with an ivory sceptre and triumphal cloak. Acquiring expensive wardrobe tastes, Ptolemy began wearing togas and cloaks in Tyrian purple in defiance of Roman sumptuary laws, which decreed that only the Emperor could use the dye to border his toga and bed sheets and to brighten the guest hand-towels in the Tepidarium. Invited to Rome in 40AD by the unbalanced and bloodthirsty Caligula, Ptolemy was assassinated on the Emperor’s orders. Was Caligula merely piqued at Ptolemy wearing the full Murex or was he concerned that sporting the Imperial purple was a sign of his guest’s political ambitions? Anyway, that was the end of the Kingdom of Mauretania, which was thereafter divided into two separate provinces. Volubilis continued to thrive until 285AD when it fell to local tribes. Ptolemy is still remembered as the first man to die for fashion.



After Chefchaouen, a Wedgewood maze of souvenir shops, the road South takes us through the Rif Mountains and, after Fez, to Ifrane, a pleasant town surrounded by a forest of pine and cedar, home to the miniature Barbary ape. Built by the French in 1929 as a resort, the town centre is distinguished by a fine sculpture of a Barbary lion, chiselled from rock by an Italian POW in 1945. Barbary lions once roamed the deserts and mountains of North Africa from Egypt to Morocco. Thousands were shipped to the Coliseum and other Roman amphitheatres to be fed on a tasty diet of Christians and gladiators. Later they were sought after by private and public zoos for their size and magnificent black manes and finally polished off by 19th century hunters. The kudos of shooting the last Barbary lion goes to an anonymous French hunter who, it was thought, had extinguished the species in 1922, although reports of subsequent sightings suggest that the Barbary lion may only have become extinct in the wild as late as 1956.

After Ifrane we continue on over dusty plains where the main mode of transport is the mule or donkey – small, miserable creatures on spindly legs, hung like men, sometimes almost invisible under a mountain of hay or an owner, sitting side-saddle and tapping its skinny buttocks as he jogs along.     It’s mid-summer, time, according to our guide, for the dreaded chergui, a fierce East wind that can shrivel a field of plump olives into a crop of desiccated peas in minutes. At Ouarzazate we pass a series of vast movie production studios, their lots crammed with ersatz temples and colossal Egyptian gods in painted polystyrene. On a bank of sand dunes stand the plywood and plaster walls of Jerusalem, once defended by Orlando Bloom against a crowd of turbaned extras in the 2005 epic ‘Kingdom of Heaven’. The studios are a major source of foreign income for Morocco, but more important for its future is what lies beyond the studios – the world’s largest solar power plant, designed to provide 52% of the country’s energy by 2030. On the Mediterranean coast, improvements to the port of Tangiers will soon make it one of the twenty biggest ports in the world. Clearly not all the country is moving at a mule’s pace, perhaps because Morocco benefits from the very best form of government – benevolent despotism. Hearing that another major project was behind schedule, the despotic but immensely popular King Mohammed VI immediately cancelled holiday leave for all management personnel. Now there’s a thought.

The lives of some authors rival their writing in interest; Byron, Hemmingway and DH Lawrence spring to mind. Gavin Maxwell, Scottish aristocrat, naturalist, explorer, secret agent and racing driver was another. His book ‘Ring of Bright Water’ (1956), which tells how the author raised otters he had brought back to Scotland from the reed marshes of South Iraq, established his literary reputation, while ‘Lords of the Atlas; Morocco, the Rise and Fall of  the House of Glaoua‘, published in 1966, provides a riveting portrait of Morocco’s recent political history. The Glaoui were one of several Berber tribes that, for centuries, had struggled for dominance in the High Atlas. Their fortunes improved in 1893 when they were rewarded for saving the Sultan from a blizzard with the gift of a 77mm cannon, which was used to immediately subdue their rivals. For supporting the French Protectorate T’hami el Glaoui, son of an Ethiopian concubine, was made Pasha of Marrakech and given control over the South’s olive and saffron trade and the region’s salt and mineral mines, making him one of the wealthiest men in the world. Guests at his palaces in Telouet and Marrakech included Maurice Ravel, Colette, General Patton, Charlie Chaplin and Winston Churchill. In spite of owning hundreds of slaves, he was a personal guest of Churchill at the coronation of Elizabeth II in 1953. By then the end of the Protectorate was in sight and in 1955, after restoring the previously exiled Sultan, the French withdrew, leaving El Glaoui to his fate. They didn’t shoot Morocco’s last great Southern leader, but when he died in 1956 the mob looted his palaces and lynched his henchmen. His reputation as a traitor remains intact and the verb glaouiser (to betray) has become part of French political jargon.

Kasbah of Telouet

We are in the High Atlas mountains, travelling the narrow road built by the French Foreign Legion in 1936 and since largely unrepaired. At eight thousand feet, on the corner of a desert plateau and surrounded by giant peaks we reach the Kasbah of Telouet, once El Glaoui’s fortress palace, now a crumbling building of red stone, pisé and green roof tiles. The Chinese silk panels and the rugs from Rabat have all gone. From the same balcony where I’m told Churchill once watched Berber horsemen show their skills, I can see the nearby village of Telouet, full of descendants of El Glaoui’s slaves. The field where the horsemen once rode for Churchill is now a dusty football pitch.


I don’t know about you but I’m addicted to the graphic image and the printed word. As a child I ate quietly and obediently, absorbed with the nutrition charts on jars of (my) baby food and later with the marketing drivel on the backs of cereal packets. My first instinct on visiting someone’s home is to scan the walls for literature and, if that’s all there is, I will settle for a framed Lord’s Prayer in crotchet. There is a small library in our toilet where I am reading Herodotus in bathroom instalments and I cannot enjoy a new bottle of wine without reading both front and back labels. In fact, when it comes to the overall enjoyment of wine, the label seems to play a not insubstantial part.



If I’m looking at a choice between two previously untried, similarly priced wines, I let the label decide. Is the front label a thing of beauty, with the gravitas that signals a noble drop or has the design work been given to the winemaker’s niece who is in her first year at TAFE? Worse, are you looking at an excruciatingly poor attempt to appear cool and funky.




‘Avoid any wine with an Australian animal on the label’ says top Sydney sommelier Tim Watkins. Good goes further, advising us to shun any wine with a label bearing pink goannas, holograms, fuschia, animals smoking or wearing glasses, PowerPoint clip art, bananas, wedding invitations and any using the font types, Comic Sans, Papyrus, Curiz and Chiller.



These are the labels of the counter-culture, a reaction to what is still sometimes perceived as the domain of the cultured and the elitists. It’s easier to break down elite doors than to become part of the elite. Defenders of the pink goanna will simply tell you it sells wine.

Then there are the so-called celebrity or Rock and Pop wines. Some are serious winemakers and label accordingly. Top of the list is Queen Elizabeth II with her conservatively labelled Windsor Estate sparkling chardonnay. The label on Francis Ford Coppola’s Californian cabernet sauvignon is also in classic style. Brad and Ange’s Mirval Rose (shortly to be sold in halves) comes in a display-sized Eau de Toilette bottle while Sting spoils some fine Tuscan reds by naming them after his songs – ‘Sister Moon’ and ‘When we Dance’. Very naf, but positively restrained compared to ‘Chateau Madge’, Madonna’s Napa Valley winery, which, in 2006, produced ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor’ showing the producer, hand-painted, dancing under etched disco lights.



Celebrity Cellars, a wine company owned jointly by Barbra Streisand and her manager, Marty Erlichman, takes a different approach, partnering with celebrities to market etched or labelled bottles using the stars’ logo and imagery. Apart from Barbra herself there are bottles etched or labelled with the images of KISS, Celine Dion, Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan and The Rolling Stones, or rather Mick’s tongue which sticks out on the particularly grotesque ‘Glitter Tongue’ six-pack.



‘We are not selling what’s in the bottle but what’s outside’ says Marty, adding that ‘only one in five buyers actually drink (the wines)’. Yes, better they remain unopened on display in the den where, if they remain there long enough, they may appreciate in value like the 1995 ‘Frank Sinatra’ cabernet, seen recently on sale on e-bay for US$540. It was a very good year.



At the other end of the spectrum are the labels of Chateau D’Yquem, Romanee Conti and the other great wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, which only change in respect to the year of vintage or to accommodate new wine regulations; then, why would you pay for new art-work when your wines are retailing for US$1,000 a bottle. There is one Grand Cru Bordeaux however that changes its label annually. In 1924 Chateau Mouton Rothschild first used a well-known artist to illustrate its label and, since 1945 has continued the practice for every vintage. Paintings by Jean Cocteau, Braque, Dali, Miro, Chagall, Picasso, Andy Warhol, Jeff Koons and Francis Bacon have all been featured on the label. In 1965 Dorothea Tanning was chosen over her husband Max Ernst and, as a ‘special’ in 2004, Prince Charles contributed an incredibly dull effort to mark the 100th anniversary of the entente cordiale, currently being extinguished by Theresa May and Boris Johnson.



 David Hockney’s 2014 label salutes the passing of his friend the Baroness Philippine Rothschild, while the 1989 label by George Baselitz, with its two upside-down rams, is a reference to the fall of the Berlin Wall. ‘Druben sein jetzt hier’ he wrote, ‘Over there is now over here’.

Dining alone with Scarlett (Johansson) in a private room at Antoine’s last week, I chose a bottle of 2010 Celebrity Cellars’ Honeymooners Collection Edition.honeymooners Our waiter, Chuck, holding the bottle as if it was the infant Jesus in his white-gloved hands, complimented me on my choice. ‘I think you will find the wine focused but unobtrusive, supple yet intense, sir’, he added, and unscrewing the capsule, poured a tiny sample into my glass, which could have accommodated a dozen goldfish. The wine had almost evaporated before it reached my lips, but I could already tell that the acidity and tannins were beautifully balanced. ‘I think you’ll like this’, I told Scarlett, ‘it’s fruit-forward with some aggressive notes of spring’. Chuck loaded both glasses and watched with disinterest as Scarlett tasted the wine. Still holding her glass she leaned back against the red velour banquette and closed her eyes, savouring, inhaling. ‘There are definite notes of graphite and pencil shavings here. I think I can detect cigar and tiger-balm too, perhaps even a hint of cappuccino’. I took another sip, trying hard, to no avail, to pick up the pencil shavings, but as the malic acid reacted to the air, my taste-buds suddenly detected additional, intense notes of incense, sea-weed, saddle-soap and chocolate. And, yes, the wine was elegant, enticingly layered, with a buttery nose and a velvety finish. Meanwhile Scarlett had found something else in the inky cabernet. ‘O my God’! she said, after dipping her petite, retrousse nose deep into the goblet, ‘I’m getting childhood summers in the Catskills!’       




Only stockbrokers or the people who lived in Downton Abbey drank wine when I was growing up in England in the 1950s; our family meals would have been accompanied by water or beer. Mother had her annual glass of Dubonnet at Christmas while my father couldn’t taste anything less than 40 degree proof. His loyalties seemed to lie with the Navy as I can only remember him drinking Cutty Sark whisky, occasionally with a beer chaser, and smoking Capstan Full Strength or Senior Service. ‘Your father’s three sheets to the wind again’ my mother would say, continuing the maritime theme when he was a little unsteady on his feet. Stronger language was employed for those occasions when he was, as PG Wodehouse described it, ‘oiled, boiled, fried, plastered, whiffled, sizzled and blotto’. Mother claimed he would live forever because his insides were pickled in alcohol; sadly this turned out not to be true. It was only when I moved to France that I finally came to grips with wine. 

Paris in the 1970s was bristling with British and American expatriates, mainly accountants and lawyers, and we tended to stick together.


On Sundays we met for lunch at La Brasserie de L’Isle Saint-Louis or at Chartier and on Saturdays the more sporting kicked a ball about at the Standard Athletic Club in the forest of Meudon. Like many clubs around the world it was created by British ex-pats in the back-room of a bar, this time the Horseshoe Bar in the rue Copernic. That was in 1890; four years later the Club won the first ever French Football Championship; the Frogs sometimes forget where their soccer history lies. During a state visit to France in May 1972 Queen Elizabeth toured the Club’s playing fields in an open car. She had left a little too late an important part of her visit, a last meeting with the Duke of Windsor, for the Duke was too sick to leave his bed and died a month later.  Paris was full of Brits struggling with the perfect subjunctive. img_0033-2

A very dapper David Hockney was designing sets for Roland Petit’s ballet, Shirley Bassey was appearing at Le Theatre des Champs Elysees, Mick occasionally held court at Castels and we all danced at Le Palace.

 Everyone read the Herald Tribune, in those days graced with the wit of Art Buchwald, as well as the Paris Metro, a weekly English language paper where we scanned the classifieds for baby sitters and second-hand appliances, read reviews of new films and in-vogue cafes and attempted the world’s first bi-lingual crossword.

It was in the Paris Metro that I saw an advert for a newly-opened wine shop that dealt in img_0028New World wines as well as French and where a customer could taste the product before buying; these were not just innovations they were revolutionary ideas in France at the time. Only in retrospect do we understand what times we lived in.

Les Caves de la Madeleine was in La Cite Berryer, a narrow thoroughfare linking rue Boissy-d’Anglas  and rue Royale and its proprietor was Steven Spurrier, a young English Master of Wine with the effrontery to sell the French their own wine.


Three years later he purchased the locksmiths next door and turned it into a wine school, which many of us soon found more interesting than the sports club on Saturday mornings. img_0020Courses at L’Academie du Vin were conducted in English because it was designed to attract the expatriate community, but soon the natives were clamouring to get in and Francophone experts were added. Spurrier was now actually teaching the French about wine; the sheer cheek of it! But it didn’t end there.

Spurrier was convinced that great wines could be produced outside of France, but there was little enthusiasm for foreign wines in a country where Burgundians didn’t drink Bordeaux. His answer was to organize, together with Patricia Gallagher, an American journalist at the Herald Tribune, a blind tasting of wines from France and the USA. The tasting took place in the Intercontinental Hotel on 24th May 1976; it was to be a fitting bicentennial nod to the American Revolution.  The judges were all French and all wine connoisseurs (including Raymond Oliver of Le Grand Vefour, and Christian Vanneque, somellier at Le Tour D’Argent), leaving a general assumption of a French victory.

Four white Burgundies were matched with six Californian Chardonnays and four red wines from Bordeaux with six Cabernet Sauvignon wines from California. The French were fielding some big guns, Mouton-Rothschild and Haut-Brion among the reds, Meursault and Puligny-Montrachet amongst the whites, while none of the American wines were well known. Each judge assessed each wine, presented in neutral bottles, by giving a score out of twenty. The result was a bigger upset than Waterloo. Californian Chardonnays took first, third and fourth places; not one judge placed a Burgundy in first spot. Stags Leap, a Californian winery, took top honours in the reds. Jurist Odette Khan, Editor of La Revue du Vin de France, asked to change her vote while a more generous Aubert de Villaine of Romanee Conti merely said ‘On a pris un coup de pied dans le derriere.’

In the mythological version of the Judgement, Paris’ choice of Aphrodite, or the sensual life over the contemplative and active, resulted in a ten year war and the destruction of Troy. The wine ‘Judgement of Paris’, a term coined by George Taber of Time magazine, produced happier results. Californian wines boomed, Chateau Montelena, the winning white, became a star and in 2007 Stags Leap, created only four years before the tasting, was sold for US$185 million. No, French wine shops did not suddenly start stocking USA wines, but the point had been made, if great wines can evidently be produced in California, why not South America, South Africa and Australia?  One important result was that French producers began joining the competition instead of fighting it. In the latest ‘Eldorado’ of wine, the high country of Oregon, there were 65 vineyards thirty years ago, now there are 676. Among the growers is none other than the Drouhin family from Burgundy, makers of the Beaune Clos des Mouches that lost out in the Judgement.

A film of the event ‘Bottle Shock’, made in 2008, left Spurrier unimpressed even though he was portrayed by that gentle artist, Alan Rickman.

Footnote 1

With Spurrier’s financial backing, an ex-employee, Chuck Scupham, opened a restaurant next to the Academie. It was called Le Moulin du Village and its faux rustic air and ‘cuisine du marche’ made it a novelty at first, but Chuck is an unfortunate name for a chef.  In 1980 another ex-employee of Spurrier, Mark Williamson, opened perhaps the first real wine bar in Paris. When the choice in most French cafes was between a basic red and white varietal, Willi had an extensive selection of fine, especially Rhone wines; he was known as the ‘Rhone Ranger’. Willi’s is still there, where it first opened, in rue des Petits Champs. L’Academie du Vin was sold to Baron Rothschild’s Chateau Clarke in 1988. 

Footnote 2

An Australian expatriate, Barbara Harvey, spotting some 1978 Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon at the Caves de la Madeleine, and mindful of Spurrier’s good taste, bought a case of the same as soon as she returned home to Sydney in 1981. Thirty five years later we drank her last bottle at Tetsuya’s, or rather most of it, because due to a decanting mishap some of it was lost. A week later Barb received a call from Tetsuya himself, asking for details of the lost wine. Two weeks later a bottle of 1978 Coonawarra Cab Sav arrived on Barb’s doorstep. That, mes amis, is class!














If I am lucky enough to be in Vienna in the autumn then Theo will take me to the leafy suburb of Grinzing and we will settle into a heuriger to share a carafe or two of Gruner Veltliner, the local wine that’s as tart and green as a Granny Smith. A heuriger, or tavern, will indicate that it is open for business by displaying a bush (buschen) of pine twigs over the door, a practice once common in England (where the bush was of ivy) and now only remembered on the occasional pub-sign, but not however that of The Bull and Bush, which refers to Henry VII’s siege of Boulogne in 1492 and is a corruption of Boulogne bouche (blockaded). It was the Romans that introduced this most ancient device of the wine-seller into the far parts of its empire which is enshrined in the proverb, still current, that a good wine needs no bush. In Rome it was vine branches rather than pine twigs or ivy that were pinned over the tavern lintel in honour of the grape and in reverence to the God of Wine.

Wine’s origins are only conjecture but it seems likely that someone, perhaps somewhere in the Caucasus and several millennia BC, took a sip of the juice of a bunch of rotten grapes and experienced a brief moment of euphoria or perhaps a longer period of drowsiness. It was this mind-changing quality of the fermented grape, interpreted as divine, that made wine originally part of ancient religious ritual; it continues today in the Eucharist. As viticulture spread West people began to celebrate wine’s heavenly qualities and its blood association with libations and religious orgies, either creating a specific wine divinity or extending the responsibilities of an existing deity to include the grape vine. Robert Graves in The White Goddess tells us that the vine was sacred to Osiris and that the golden vine was one of the principal ornaments of the temple of Jerusalem.

When the vine cult reached Greece during the last period of the Bronze Age (1600 and 1100 BC), it came complete with its own God, Dionysus, his mystic history linked to the spread of the vine-cult. Dionysus had no contemporary apostles to record his past life and arrival in Greece but by all accounts he was a foreigner, almost certainly from Thrace (an area now comprising south eastern Bulgaria, Northern Greece and European Turkey).

The Greeks took to wine like ducks to water, excited by the fact that it superseded all previous intoxicants. Possibly on account of climate and certainly because of their skill in producing totally airtight amphorae, they became master winemakers with the vintages of Lesbos and Chios the most highly prized. The Pramnian from Lesbos, mentioned by Homer in The Iliad, became the most famous wine of antiquity and, like most other Greek wines, it was sweet, thick and tangy (from the resin smeared on the inside of the vats) and drunk diluted with water. Dionysus has long departed and no great wines are produced in Greece today, but if you can force down a glass of the omnipresent Retsina it will provide a clue to the taste of those ancient wines.

There were life-style adjustments to accommodate the new cult of the vine, for wine is a civilising agent and set the Greeks apart from the beer drinking barbarians, a thought endorsed thousands of years later by Martin Luther when he said ‘Beer is made by man, wine by God’. Symposia, (cheese and wine parties) became common while everyone, in a gruesome fore-runner of the ‘Trivia Night’, played Kottabos, a game where reposing diners flicked the lees in their wine cups at a target (a small statue on top of a bronze standard) while uttering the name of their lover.

As the importance of wine grew, not least because of its value as an export, so grew the profile and following of the Wine God. Hesiod, writing between 750 and 650 BC provided much needed details of the God’s origins, claiming Dionysus to be the son of Zeus and Semele, the daughter of Cadmus, King of Thebes, making him the only Olympian with a mortal mother. Semele’s death was quite spectacular; persuaded by Hera, the jealous wife of Zeus, to demand the true identity of her lover, she was allowed a brief glimpse of the God before being consumed in his divine fire while, in the same instance, Dionysus was snatched to safety by his father. As a son of Zeus he became the half-brother of Hermes, the God of silk scarves and expensive costume jewellery. Not destined to remain in Olympus Dionysus roamed Earth teaching oenology and good humour for his other name was Charidotes, Giver of Charm.

Eternally youthful, dressed in panther skin, crowned with vine leaves and grape bunches Dionysus carries the thyrsus, a wand bound with ivy and grape vines and topped with a pine cone, which he wields like a bandmaster’s baton as he leads his thiasus, his inebriated, dancing retinue, lead by goat-footed Satyrs under the leadership of purple-faced Silenus, his mentor and the model for every drunken lecher from Gargantua to Falstaff and followed by a rabble of dancing, intoxicated Maenads. Wine is best enjoyed in company.

The worship of Dionysus followed the classic theme of seasonal death and rebirth, the God most active in springtime when the trees and vines burst into life and the whole world is intoxicated by desire. The Dionysian Mysteries used wine, dance and music to liberate the participants from the prison of everyday pre-occupation. Not much has changed in three thousand years except that the celebrations are now continuous and secular. The Wine God was popular because his religion embraced those marginalised by Greek society – slaves, foreigners and women. The dances and ceremonies performed by masked Maenads are believed to be the first birth signs of drama as an art form.

Dionysus was the God of Wine and Wine-making, of Religious Ecstasy, of Fertility (Priapus was a son), of Pleasure and, latterly of the Theatre; but he was not the God of Drunkenness, which was the lot of Silenus. The Greeks were well aware that the dangers of denial were equalled by the dangers of excess. In this piece of dialogue from ‘Semele or Dionysus’, a 375 BC play by Eubulus, , Dionysus says:

Three bowls do I mix for the temperate: one to health, which they empty first; the second to love and pleasure; the third to sleep. When this bowl is drunk up, wise guests go home. The fourth bowl is ours no longer, but belongs to violence; the fifth to uproar; the sixth to drunken revel; the seventh to black eyes; the eighth is the policeman’s; the ninth belongs to biliousness; and the tenth to madness and the hurling of furniture.[17]


It was only a matter of time before the wine cult spread North from the Greek settlements among the coastal towns of Southern Italy and eventually Dionysus moved to Rome and changed his name to Bacchus. The Romans proved even better wine-makers than the Greeks whose wine soon went out of fashion after the first of the great Italian vintages, the Opimian which appeared in 121 BC, followed shortly after by the Falernian. By the time Augustus began ruling the Empire in 27BC vines were growing in the North of Italy and Rhaetic, the ancestor of Soave, became the Emperor’s favourite wine. In Rome the Dionysian orgies became the Bacchanalia, which unfortunately got out of hand because they are known from measures taken by the Roman senate to repress them in the third century BC.

There are no longer any temples dedicated to Bacchus, no statues to touch in the Forum, although he is still visible in the World’s major art museums in the form of paintings by Titian, Velazquez, Delacroix, Poussin and Caravaggio. Most representations of Bacchus record the moment he came upon Ariadne, abandoned by Theseus on Naxos, made her his wife and set her among the stars.

I can understand the economy of having a God of Everything but He is far too serious, much too busy to assist in those minor, instinctive, every day issues which seem important to us at the time. And so it is Bacchus that we turn to when opening a bottle of 86 Sassicaia, praying that the cork stays firm, that the wine has not lost its freshness and that it cements the conviviality of good company.

Although he may have briefly pointed the tip of his thyrsus in the direction of Bordeaux and the Cote D’Or, The God of Wine is the God of Italian wine. I feel he is at home in the organised pandemonium of his adoptive home, more comfortable among its trailing vines than between the clipped and manicured rows of French vines or in the soulless wineries of the New World.

When pleasantly astounded by the unexpected we say ‘O My God!’; the Italians still say what they have always said, ‘Per Bacco!’



Stephen Fryday

September 19th

Monday is always a bad day for me as I suffer from post-natal depression, or rather, I have been subject to mild and occasional attacks of what I prefer to call accidie for as long as I can remember. Depression is a clinical condition treatable with medication and psychotherapy; accidie (or acedia) is the debilitating effect of ennui, treatable by exposure to excitement or a cold shower. Accidie is transitory, temporal; depression can be lasting, sometimes permanent. Depression sufferers are often unaware of the cause of their misery; those afflicted with accidie know exactly what drives their mental lethargy – boredom, melancholia induced by reflection on the human condition, nostalgia for a real or imagined past and lovesickness.

It was at school while studying the perennially lovesick Elizabethan lyricists that I first heard the term mentioned, a master using it to describe the despair over unrequited love included in the verse and drama of John Lyly, Sir Thomas Wyatt, John Ford, Thomas Nashe, William Shakespeare and others. From the mid 16th century and well into the 17th melancholia was a full-blown epidemic. Some scholars point to the war with Spain and an uncertain political and religious climate but, more likely, melancholy, along with a lean and pale demeanour, was a fashion of the time and helped set off a well-cut ensemble of cloak, tights and doublet in lamp black. Much of its popularity can be attributed to the tradition that Aristotle claimed melancholy to be the most desirable human condition, providing intellectual powers. This lasting concept was largely based on Cicero’s writing  ‘Aristotle says that all geniuses are melancholic’ and reinforced by Plutarch’s  ‘Aristotle, declaring that the great natures are melancholic, such as Socrates, Plato and Hercules, records that Lysander too…..was afflicted with melancholy’.

The term, accidie, originally from the Greek akedia – lack of care (for life and one’s self), has long been out of fashion as doctors invent new terms for the endless varieties of mental illness they identify. It first arose in the 4th century CE when early Christian monks, hermits and ascetics followed the example of Anthony the Great and set up cenobitic communities in Egypt’s Nitrian desert.  Among the Desert Fathers, as they are known, some failed to adhere to the stringent asceticism and solitary life, neglecting their religious duties, generally ‘letting themselves go’ and becoming the first sufferers of accidie, a sin listed   among Evagrius Ponticus’ 8 patterns of evil thought compiled in 275CE. Two centuries later Pope Gregory I combined Evragius’ sins of sorrow (depression) and accidie (sloth) to give us our standard list of Seven Deadly Sins. Knowingly or not, he had, rightly, eliminated depression as a sin.

Whereas depression, aka the Black Dog (an expression associated with Winston Churchill but already in use in the 18th century), is a most dreadful illness, accidie has its supporters. ‘Melancholy’, wrote Victor Hugo, ‘is the pleasure of being sad’. ‘Depression’ added Susan Sontag ‘is melancholy minus its charm’. Beaudelaire, an accidie sufferer if ever there was one, tells us that he ‘can barley conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy’. Hamlet suffered from accidie. Some say Sherlock Holmes was bi-polar, but he definitely suffered from boredom, as did Graham Greene. The English author has been labelled as manic-depressive, but Paul Theroux, who knew Greene, describes him as ‘an authentic melancholic’ in his article for the New York Times, ‘Damned Old Graham Greene’. Greene’s ennui was such that he rarely spent more than a few weeks in one place, constantly moving between his properties in Antibes, Capri and Paris. Sex as well as travel, rescued him from the old ennui, and he maintained a wife, a stable of mistresses as well as paying the odd visit to a prostitute, a habit likened by a friend to ‘paying someone to let you beat them at tennis’.

The actor George Sanders was another victim. Famous for Shere Khan’s patrician drawl in The Jungle Book, George ended it all by swallowing 5 bottles of Nembutal in a hotel on the Costa Brava. He was 65 and world-weary in spite of marrying BOTH Zsa Zsa AND Magda, two thirds of the notoriously glamorous Gabor sisters. ‘Dear World’, he wrote in a suicide note, ‘I am leaving you because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck!’

September 20th

It must have been sometime between 8 and 8.15 when I woke up. I always have a good stretch on waking but this time I was startled when my left hand encountered another body in the bed, which was a surprise because Honeybee is usually well gone by 8 am. Imagine my shock when I found the body belonged to none other than Scarlett Johansson, wearing nothing but diamond studs in each earlobe and a dash of Mitsouko behind each ear; not even a small residue of polish on a toe-nail. Shock gave way to puzzlement as I began wondering how she had got in; I‘m fairly sure I never gave her a key. ‘How?’ I asked. ‘Under the flower pot’ she replied. Of course, she would have known that’s where keys are kept from her considerable film experience. Most people only know the public Scarlett, the Hollywood Star twice voted ‘Sexiest Woman Alive’ by Esquire magazine. Here with me she can do what she enjoys best, curling up on the couch in one of my old sweaters, watching the footy with a Tim Tam and cup of tea. I next remember waking up again around 11. Scarlett had gone, leaving not so much as a faint whiff of Mitsouko on the pillow. Lying there I realised I had narrowly escaped a very unpleasant scene. If Honeybee had decided to go in late to the office there would have been hell to pay. I spent an hour cleaning up, searching for dyed blonde hairs and stray items of La Perla underwear, but all was clean. Then I moved the spare house key from under the flower pot and hid it under the watering can. That should put a stop to Scarlett’s dangerous games!

September 21sti

Have just finished reading ‘Good Sense vs Doom and Gloom’ a review in the Financial Review of Johan Norberg’s book ’10 Reasons to Look Forward to the Future’. Being occasionally despondent as I contemplate the inevitability of decay, I am always interested in some hopeful news.  So what is Mr Norberg offering to cheer us up? Life, he says, is getting better, a fact not generally understood because journalists find calamities more sensational reporting than good news. Poverty, worldwide, he says, is diminishing with only 10% of humanity subsisting on less than $2 per day; 68% of the world’s population now has modern sanitation; better nutrition and the spread of education has raised the IQ level in America to an average of 118. So why, I ask, are so many Americans trying to elect Donald Trump to the White House? Violence, it seems, is down, the homicide rate among hunter-gatherer societies being 500 times what it is in Europe today, probably thanks to the CCTV camera. This is a mathematician’s view of the world. Norberg ignores the rise of greed and selfishness that came hand in hand with increased prosperity; the proliferation of retirement villages for abandoned parents; the decline in human contact as the virtual eclipses the real world. In her book ‘Acedia & Me’, Kathleen Norris sums up pretty well why many do not believe in a better future. Advertising ploys, she says, engender dissatisfaction with our highly structured, multi-tasking lives. We are oversaturated with data but receive little real information. ‘In this hyped-up world, broadcast and internet news media have emerged as acedia’s (indifference’s) perfect vehicles, demanding that we care, all at once, about a suicide bombing, a celebrity divorce and the latest advance in nanotechnology.’

The future’s not what it used to be.

September 22nd

Saw such a good film on TCM, ‘This Time for Keeps’, made in 1947 and starring Jimmy Durante and Esther Williams, the ‘Million Dollar Mermaid’.  Esther carved gracefully through the water without the aid of the oxen shoulders developed by today’s aquatic stars and still managed to look ravishing in a bathing costume that covered only slightly less than a burkini. There are stories that she and Johnny Weissmuller once dated – what swimming champions they might have produced! Once his career as Tarzan and Jungle Jim was over, Johnny, winner of 5 Olympic gold medals, could be found greeting punters at the door of Caesars Palace in Las Vegas in the company of that great boxing champion, Joe Louis. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of battle!

Now, back to the film and a word on its very impressive location. I’d never heard of Mackinac and had to resort to Google to learn that it was an island in Lake Huron, a beautiful holiday resort, its centrepiece a stunning Victorian Hotel with a veranda like the keyboard of a giant grand piano. It’s also in Michigan, a state which doesn’t normally get a good press, being often depicted in permanent winter, the natives in caps with flaps, speaking slowly with Swedish accents while shovelling snow from their shop fronts; solitary men sitting on camp stools fishing through holes in the ice. It sounds like the sort of climate that would produce a hefty number of accidie sufferers. But no, in her book ‘The Geography of Melancholy, Tara Isabel Burton tells us that it’s not nature but cities that evoke melancholy. The countryside may alter its complexion as seasons change but it remains basically in situ. Nature attracts Romantic poets like Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron and Coleridge whereas the melancholia sufferers are urban writers like Beaudelaire, Graham Greene and the late, lamented Jeffrey Bernard who wrote the Low Life column in The Spectator. After his death in 1997, a collection of his articles was published under the splendid title ‘Reach for the Ground – The Downhill Struggle of Jeffrey Bernard’, a catalogue of the writer’s drunken but insightful meanderings in that one time capital of melancholia – London’s Soho. Cities alter permanently each day; what you loved about your neighbourhood in your youth almost certainly will not be there in fifty years’ time, not even if it’s a 12th century monastery if you live in Aleppo. I’m not sure about this argument, I’m pretty sure I could find some writers who felt aliens in the bush. I would agree that there are certain cities that induce melancholy. I can think of Perth (Australia), Eboli (Italy) and Ashford (England). Lille (France) used to be sad but has cheered up recently. Burton cites Lisbon, a city that even has a word, ‘saudade’, to describe nostalgia for its past, a sadness that apparently finds expression in fado. Istanbul, the author claims, is depressed over losing its former greatness and, like Portugal, has a name (huzun) for this sense of loss. Big mistake of course, changing the name; Constantinople had a much more solid ring to it. I cannot say I found Trieste depressing although I admit the name does sound a bit like the French word for sad. We are off to Tasmania next week; must remember to pack the Prozac.

September 23rd

A ferry ride into the city aboard the good ship Sirius. Broad of beam, she bustles around Sydney harbour in her cream and olive livery. It’s not a lively crowd she ferries from Neutral Bay to Circular Quay, mostly people quietly on their way to work; men and women in dark suits concerned with interest rates and the unexpected downturn in sales, talking only into cell-phones.  Sirius’s workmates join her as we nose into her No 4 berth; Golden Grove, Lady Northcote, Friendship, all names of ships of the First Fleet, names that won’t be forgotten in 100 years (unlike those of Olympic swimmers) their origins lost in time, but still powerful enough to form part of the great litany of ships whose names alone are a history lesson. Argos, Nina and Pinta, Lusitania, The Pelican, Kon Tiki. Once a famous name like Cutty Sark would help sell a brand of whiskey; now ships are named after products, forcing sailors to winch up spinnakers bearing the names of radio stations or software companies. Damn shame.

September 24th

A bottle of really heavy Australian wine last night has left me very slightly hungover this morning. Ah, the wrath of grapes! My suffering, however, was nothing like the hangover described by Sir William Connor writing under the pseudonym ‘Cassandra’ for the London Daily Mirror between 1935 and 1967, the Golden Age of the Press, the days before Dirty Digger Murdoch replaced bona fide journalists with hacks and hackers.

 A hangover is when your tongue tastes like a tram driver’s glove. Your boots seem to be steaming and your eyes burn in their sockets like gooseberries. Your stomach spins slowly on its axis and your head gently swells and contracts like a jelly in a tideway. Voices sound far off and your hands tremble like those of a centenarian condemned to death. Slight movements make you sweat, even as you shiver from the deadly cold that is within you. Bright lights hurt your eyes, and jeering, gibbering people from the night before seem to whisper in your ears, and then fade with mocking, horrible laughter into silence. The finger-nails are brittle and your skin hangs on you like an old second-hand suit. Your feet appear to be swollen, and walking is like wading through a swamp of lumpy, thick custard. Your throat is cracked and parched like the bottom of an old saucepan that has boiled dry. The next moment the symptoms change, and your mouth is stuffed with warm cotton wool. When you brush your hair you are certain that there is no top to your skull, and your brain stands naked and throbbing in the stabbing air. Your back aches and feels as though someone is nailing a placard to your shoulder blades. Knee joints have turned to dish water and eyelids are made of sheets of lead lined with sandpaper. When you lean on a table it sways gently and you know for certain that you are at sea. Should you step off a kerb you stumble, for it is a yard deep and the gutter yawns like a wide, quaking trench. You have no sense of touch and your fingertips feel with all the acuteness of decayed firewood smeared with putty. The nostrils dilate and smell the evil air. You believe that you are in a horrible dream but when you wake up you know that it will all be true. Your teeth have been filed to stumps and are about to be unscrewed one by one from your aching jaw. You want to sleep, but when you close your eyes you are dizzy, and you heel over like a water-logged barrel crammed with old, sodden cabbage stalks in the Grand Junction Canal. When you read your eyes follow each letter to try to spell the words, but in vain – no message reaches you empty, sullen brain. Should you look at a simple thing like a tree, it will appear that the bark is gradually crawling upwards. Lights flash and crackle before you and innumerable little brown dwarfs start tapping just below the base of your skull with tiny, dainty hammers made of compressed rubber.

O Death, where is thy sting?

September 25th

And Lo, it was the Sabbath, and I was sent forth unto the laundry to fetch a bottle of wine for it was the Feast of the Father and our firstborn was coming to lunch. And he came not alone, saying ‘Behold, this is my new companion and her name is Dizzi, which meaneth she that causeth men’s heads to turn’. Verily I say unto you she was a peach, but I was silent on the matter lest I be named cad. And our firstborn laid a gift at my feet and it was a set of Philips Screwdrivers from Bunnings and the price-tag showed they had cost $2.85. I waxed wrathful, saying ‘Is it not written “Honour thy Father and thy Mother”? Are you not clothed by Armani? Do you not drive a Series 3 BMW?’ And our firstborn wept with remorse and my wife comforted him, cursing me and saying ‘Verily, thou art an abomination among men, you know not of the financial burdens that beset our son.’ What man can compete with a woman who serveth up the honey and when she handeth out the vinegar, who can equal her? And we sat at the table and it was laden with the good things of Mosman, with corn and bread and meat in abundance. And I said ‘Is this not a standing rib roast which costeth an arm and a leg? I would have been pleased with a shoulder of lamb from Coles.’ And my wife answered ‘Go thy way, O Simple One! Know ye not by now that of all manner of mannah a standing rib roast is our son’s favourite?’ And I replied saying ‘Is this not MY day? Are we not celebrating the Day of the Father?’ And then the Heavens erupted and there was much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. And afterwards there was silence for seven days and seven nights.