A Weekend in Bristol

Bristol

It’s been a very long time since I was in Bristol for pleasure, so this weekend has been making up for lost time.

Our hotel was not many minutes away from Temple Meads station. On Friday afternoon we did a quick walk about to get our bearings and see if there were any acceptable eateries within easy striking distance. We weren’t disappointed. We saw two and decided to plump for the one furthest from the hotel as Saturday’s weather was going to be iffy, to say the least.

The Firehouse Rotisserie in Anchor Square was busy when we arrived (living in London, one is spoiled by the general easy availability of restaurants). Fortunately, we only had to wait a few minutes before a table was free. Our meal, consisting of two starters, two main courses, one desert, a bottle of wine and a bottle of sparkling water came to a little under £75.00. It was of good quality, though food critics might criticise it for lacking all kinds of cleverness and sophistication. It did what is supposed to do, restore the consumer.

Saturday morning looked as bleak as the forecast threatened it would be. I had decided, come hell or high water, we were going to go to the Clifton Suspension Bridge that day. We followed a map and our noses, walking uphill most of the time. Some of it was quite steep. I remember walking on the bridge twice when I was younger. One occasion would probably have been before we went to Aden. I remember it was cold and misty. I peered over the edge and looked down at the road far below. The traffic was smaller than my dinky cars. On the bridge there was a machine that printed out what ever you wanted on a strip of metal. I typed in my name very carefully, it had to be done very carefully! In those days I was Timothy, never Tim. Those extra four letters meant I had even more brain work and concentration to do, and the cold with the wind and damp and mist all around, gosh, it was even harder still! I imagine that strip of metal is now rotting away in some landfill site.

We crossed the bridge and went into the little information centre and tourist knick knack shop. We bought some mementos and chatted with the staff. We decided it was time to get a move on as the weather was turning decidedly nasty earlier than forecast. As we descended, the rain became heavier. We managed to find ourselves at Constitution Hill, a road better descended than ascended in any weather by pedestrians. We were within striking distance of the hotel (in other words about 15-20 minutes), which was a relief as our clothes were getting wetter faster.

So we were obliged to lunch at the hotel. As we had our (very expensive) hotel bar snack a screen was lowered to reveal Bath vs Gloucester was taking place. The weather was improving, so I knew I wouldn’t see all the game, not that I was that worried, after all I had come to Bristol not to sit in front of a screen watching rugby. In the first two minutes there was a punch up and one player on each side was given a yellow card. Sorry. What went on the pitch was as bad as any drunken brawl outside a pub. Those involved in that kind of situation would find themselves arrested, in the cells and hauled up before the magistrate. There is no place in rugby for this kind of behaviour and the sooner these “professionals” are treated as what they are when they behave in a fight on a rugby pitch as out of control yobs, the sooner the better. A couple of them doing community service or behind bars would be a salutary lesson to the whole lot of them. A few moments later a soft try by Bath exposing a wide empty space which should not have existed in Gloucester’s defence made me more decided that I wasn’t wanting to watch any more. A pity really, since the team went on to win!

So off we trundled to have a look at Bristol cathedral. It’s not as impressive as any of the Three Choirs cathedrals, but what made the visit most worthwhile was an art exhibition by local school children (a lot of A level students). Now it is never fair to pick out individuals for praise, but some of the images worked very well for me. Influences of recent and living painters such as Francis Bacon, Lucien Freud and David Hockney were apparent, and cubism was also apparent. This is apparently an annual event, and if you are in Bristol the exhibition closes at the end February. It is worth a look, who knows, the next Francis Bacon, Lucien Freud or David Hockney may be among those you see, though hopefully not the next Damien Hirst or Tracey Emin. Just to put my cards on the table!


As the cathedral was not awash with light late in the afternoon, I snapped a few of the images at ISO1600 so the rendition is not perfect (and sadly some suffer from slow shutter speeds and camera shake), but I hope it gives you a flavour of the variety and ability.

I like this image from Martha Hayes. A reflection but not a reflection. The colours are striking. 

A haunting image of aging by Ed Ashby-Hayter.

Again I like the colours, and shades of David Hockney in the swimming pool from Sophie Morris

Kate Carroll's harbour image reminded me of a pleasant stay at St. Ives.  

I love the unusual angle Adelaide Jewell used here. 

Shades of Caravaggio by Ocean Critchley-Clark. Teenagers have more recent experience of being dissolute than us oldies!

Ryan Son's painting captures the diversity of urban train travellers.

Gorgeous swirls and colours from Dong Jae Hoang ...

... and also from Claire Laruelle (I can't read the name so well on the shaky photo). 

We got back to the hotel and snoozed for more than just a few minutes. As a result we were later going out than we intended. Our first choice of eatery was packed, no table until 9.45, the next was busy until 10.00, but it had a less formal dining option which we took. We had the same amount of courses and drinks as the previous day, but this time the bill came to just over £50.00. If you are not too fussy about where to eat you could do a lot worse than eat downstairs at Riverstation. I would gladly eat there again. This is just one happy customer's opinion.

Sunday morning arrived and we breakfasted, packed and checked out. Today was what I hoped would be the highlight of the trip, the S.S. Great Britain. At £12.50 per adult the entrance fee is steep, but it does entitle you to visit as many times as you wish in a year and, if you are a U.K. tax payer, you can let them reclaim the tax.

Believe me it is worth it. To look after the ship is not an easy task. Parts are rotting away and are being looked after in a controlled environment. The ship has been restored and the museum one visits before boarding her is not a cheap option either. There was so much to see that I was quite overwhelmed by it all. You cannot visit Bristol and not see the Great Britain. She is an example of the genius of one of my all time heroes, Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Travelling by rail from Paddington to Temple Meads, exploring the Clifton Suspension Bridge and the S.S. Great Britain constitute three legacies of his genius. Words fail me to describe how wonderful the time spent at the Great Britain, and those who know me, know that a failure to find words is not a characteristic of mine!

We lunched very poorly at a chain eatery, the first time we experienced a major culinary disappointment all weekend. A brief walk, then back to the hotel to pick up the luggage and I am just finishing this diary entry at breakneck speed as we go through Hayes and Harlington, We must be well ahead of schedule as it is only just gone 17.30 and we are due to arrive at Paddington at 18.05. It is illogical we should now be proceeding at a snail’s  pace. We have now come to a full stop. Seven minutes later, we resume on our way. Welcome to the 21st century, where the train’s progress into the London terminus is surely slower than in Brunel’s time. Can’t they get a sensible timetable in place? If the Italians can (who are supposedly not able to organise anything in popular mythology) why can’t we? 

Aden: Thanks to my unknown readers

At the moment I have no more Aden material, and I would like to thank those of you who have followed me for all or part of the journey. Now I have finished everything and had time to reflect, here a re she musings arising from my Aden blogging.

Blogging on this website provides me as the blogger with statistics. Some are useful. Some are interesting, such as the ability to know where visitors to the blog have come from. This includes some ghastly search engines in Russia which are not really that. I wish I could eradicate these from my figures. 

Nevertheless, on the plus side I am flattered by the large number of visits from the UK, which is really my target audience as I imagine most people interested in my life in Aden would be there.

However, I am very curious about the handful of visits from the Yemen. Here's hoping the interest is from ordinary individuals like myself and not any state or commercial organisation. If it is anther "man in the street", whoever you are (singular or plural) thank you for being intrigued enough to visit my blog. I wish you and your country peace and stability, especially given the recent turmoil. If you are from Aden, then my wishes are more heartfelt still.

My nomadic childhood has left me with more than one place that I think of as "home". In the 50s I grew up in Singapore and Hong Kong, where being surrounded by ethnic Chinese and Malay was a normal everyday experience. On my first return visit to both places after 30 years absence I felt strangely at home. Its not easy to explain to somebody who grew up in the same place how normal it feels to go back somewhere and feel more comfortable as part of a minority of the population. Home is many places to me. Singapore, Hong Kong, Aden, Gloucester, Cottesmore are all my very early homes in my time of childhood and innocence. I have a bond with them all. 

I fear I have lost my opportunity to visit Aden, given the current political and religious turmoil in the world. I cannot adequately express how much I would love to see Ma'alla, Steamer Point, Elephant Bay, Crater and Khormaksar again and see how much has changed or stayed the same. Youtube has been useful, but not all the videos posted are very good. Too many of modern Aden are more about the persons in the video than the place, but such is the vanity of humans! 

I regret very much not returning to Aden before the recent religious divisions between Islam and the rest of the world surfaced. I feel my presence would not be welcome in certain parts of the world, but I do not mean that all Islamic countries are forbidding to me. For instance, when I was in Penang I felt most welcome by the locals I came in contact with. One abiding memory is of school children saying "Welcome to Malaysia" to us. I understand they would have been encouraged to do this, but a child's generosity of spirit is a precious gift, which more adults could do worse than try to rediscover within themselves. Given a less than happy previous experience in Kuala Lumpur, the people of Penang more than adequately made up for that experience.

However, after that digression I shall return to the topic of religious division. To me it feels as negative and pointless as the Protestant and Catholic divisions in European history, or the Christian behaviour of the Middle Ages which effected a superiority it did not deserve. Then the Arab or Moorish culture was far more advanced than the so-called Western civilisation. One only needs to visit Granada and see the palace of the Alhambra and the gardens of the Generalife to realise how more advanced that society was compared with the regressiveness of the regime of "los reyes catolicos". In my blog about Crater I commented on the Cisterns of Tawila. To this day I still think they are a marvel. I can still remember how awesome (I use that word not in its modern guise) it was as I walked around. You really need to be ignorant or blind to reason not to acknowledge the cleverness of mind and sophistication of a society that brought them into being.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in my case, my absence from Aden has made me realise how lucky I have been to revisit Hong Kong and Singapore more than once. The memories I have of Aden are mainly positive, but the negative memories were due to the British presence outstaying its welcome. I am sure had I been a native of an occupied country my feelings would not have been too dissimilar. Whether I would express my displeasure I don't know. I thank my lucky stars I can express my opinions, which was not always an option open to the Adeni.

Aden: Random Memories 18: Envoi

Childhood is a special part of one’s life. For so many lucky people, it consists of growing up with the same people in the same area.

For a tiny number of us, it meant uprooting ourselves on a regular basis, friendships were never made to last in perpetuity, and possibly most of our friends of that time are forgotten.

Were we unlucky? We saw the true technicolour world that was nothing more than fuzzy black and white images on tiny television screens watched behind drawn curtains. We smelt the stench and perfumes. We lived, not necessarily comfortably nor in near proximity, with the local population. We saw another world, and yet remained in an antiseptic bubble that made us little more than an outpost of the Home Counties.

And yet, and yet, and yet, we lived a life that nobody else could live. We could climb extinct volcanoes and swim with the angel fish in the ocean. Would I change my life for that of somebody who hardly ever had the opportunity to travel anywhere when it was expensive and reserved mainly for the rich?

You know the answer.

© 2012 Gwailo54

Aden: Random Memories 17e: The Return of The Natives: Attention all shipping

We boarded the ship for the very last time. There was the final party to look forward to and the possibility that if the weather in Biscay was rough, more seasickness to look forward to.

The politically incorrect design for the children's party dinner menu.

The final party is a dim and distant memory. It was a jolly affair. I am sure we had to wear party hats and probably play games, but I can’t really remember a thing about it.

Our cabin was next to the wireless room. We heard all kinds of signals. I presume they were incoming. Then one magical day a voice announced “And now the shipping forecast...” the litany commenced. We were nearly home. Ever since then, at the sound of the opening words, there is an eternal 9 year old who knows a major change in his life is imminent.

Thankfully Biscay was calm. We sailed across tranquilly. Eventually, one cold foggy morning we woke, the Caledonia motionless, in Liverpool. We went through the immigration formalities. A customs man was fussing over our boxes. My mother kept telling him she had bought the Braun food mixer in Aden, and all he wanted to know about was the camphor wood chest which we had had since Singapore. Consequently we went through customs without having to undergo the Spanish Inquisition, which is more than can be sad for a family we had befriended on the ship. Their boxes were all being emptied out and every item scrutinised. I felt so sorry for them.

© 2012 Gwailo54

Aden: Random Memories 17d: The Return of The Natives: The Mediterranean & Gibraltar

The Mediterranean

We didn’t stop off anywhere before we reached Gibraltar, so not much happened of any excitement or interest after we left Egypt. We swam in the ship’s pool, but this was full of sea water, not quite what I expected. There were funny games like quoits and organised games where the grownups behaved like children, well worse than children actually, no self respecting child would behave like that in public!

Then there was a change in the weather. It was rainy and dark, the ship rocked and rolled. Breakfast was picked at rather than eaten. Not many people were on deck or in any part of the ship. Eventually the motion of the ship got the better of me. I was tucked up in bed feeling very sorry for myself, no that my parents seemed that much better!

Gibraltar

The weather cooled as we went west. One cold morning we awoke to find ourselves in the harbour at Gibraltar. It was a cold version of Aden. Typically British symbols were to be found among palm trees and other exotica, not that it was that exotic for me, it was everyday. But the cold was horrible.

We did all the things tourist have to do when time is limited. We were like the hordes of Americans in Aden who disembarked from the cruise ships swarming all over the place to visit this and that. We mocked them. The irony was lost on me until now.

A child sees the world through uncomprehending eyes. Adults want to make everything difficult and in Gibraltar I saw a thing called “the border”. There was this guy called Franco who lived on the other side and he decided he didn’t like something or other and had closed the border. Nobody could get in our out by land. The only way was by sea or by air. 

Yes, the airport at Gibraltar. We had to wait until a plane had landed or taken off (I don’t remember which) before we could cross the road which went across the runway. That was quite unusual and exciting to see.

We also had to go up to see the apes. Their keeper gave us Maltesers and bits of banana to feed the apes. They would approach us and force open our hands and snatch the food we had. It was every monkey for him or her self. My mother took her turn, and was immediately surrounded by the creatures. Then one sat on her head. Cameras were lifted and click, my mother became a memory for others by accidental humiliation.

© 2012 Gwailo54

Aden: Random Memories 17c: The Return of The Natives: Egypt

I was told the ship was going to go through the Suez Canal, but we were going to disembark at Port Suez and go to Cairo. I felt slightly cheated that I wasn’t going to see the famous canal, but we were going to have an adventure and rejoin the ship at Port Said.

We got into the small boat that took us ashore, and already on board was a Gilly-Gilly man, or an Arab magician. His repertoire consisted mainly of regurgitating small chicks out of his mouth, removing them from a child’s ear and even, horrors of horrors, from out of my shorts! I have no idea how it got there for him to find it there. I didn’t even felt it inside my shorts.

We were ferried in a coach to Cairo across a flat landscape. It made little impact on me. Somewhere along the journey we were introduced to our Egyptian guide. He was probably called something easy for us to remember, a ‘typical’ Arabic name like Abdul or Mohammed. I can still hear him, especially the clear high pitch of his voice, calling us when he wanted us to gather together, “Memphis party, this way please.” Our round badges identified us, a picture of the Sphinx with Memphis written above it on the edge. In some of the boring parts of the journey he entertained us with comments like “I learned English from an American. See you later alligator!”

We followed a river, it was the Nile. It wasn’t blue or white, but a muddy brown. Nobody had taught us about the Muddy Brown Nile in history or geography. The city was vast, bustling, so much humanity. We were ferried to the Cairo museum. There we saw the treasures of the boy king Tutankhamen. Egyptian funeral rites were explained and shown to us. The famous mask for his mummified body was on show. It was a vast display.

No visit to Cairo would be complete without a trip to see the pyramids and the Sphinx. Our coach took us to the end of a road and we had the option to travel to the pyramids by camel or by donkey. I had already experienced riding a camel. I chose the donkey, not that it was more comfortable.

Nothing had prepared me for the majesty of the monuments. We were regaled with facts and history, part of which rattles about in my head and pops up from time to time. Alabaster was a word I heard a lot. So much was made of alabaster, covered in alabaster. They made such a fuss about telling us about alabaster, yet it seemed to be as commonplace as water as it was used so much.

We also went inside a mosque in Cairo, which I cannot recall but it was vast. We wore sacking over our feet as we walked around. It was a most stunning building. Yet again in my young life, I was facing something from another culture. Instead of a practical construction like the tanks at Crater, this time it was a religious building that could stand up against the cathedrals of Christendom.

© 2012 Gwailo54

Aden: Random Memories 17b: The Return of The Natives: All Aboard!

There is little I can remember of our departure. We boarded the R.M.S. Caledonia, room B19 (as described on the ticket) and eventually sailed away. I stood at the stern of the ship looking at the flame at Little Aden. It was bright even against the clear blue sky. Slowly, inexorably, it shrank until I could see it no more. I quietly said ‘Good-bye’.

I was going back a place that I didn’t really know, a country that was called home, with which I had some connection, and there were people called family friends and relatives, “aunts” who sent me postal orders for my birthday and Christmas.

We weren’t even going back to Innsworth, my father had a posting to a place called Cottesmore in England’s smallest county. Possibly, for the first time, the unknown was staring me in the face and I didn’t particularly want to meet it.

Kids being kids, regrets and sadness and any negative emotions receded and there was something exciting to look forward to. We would sail through the Red Sea. Would we pass where Moses and the tribes of Israel walked across and Pharaoh’s army was drowned? Would it be apparent where this was? My idle curiosity was soon diverted elsewhere and I wasn’t really bothered about it.

The weather was still more or less the same as when we left Aden, so although we had already travelled a long way we were still enjoying warm weather with bright sunshine all day long. Hardly a cloud was in the sky.

Postcard: ANCHOR LINE R.M.S. CALEDONIA LEAVING BOMBAY

from an original painting by James Burnie

(Please note there is no name on the ship. I have seen on the web an identical postcard for on of her sister ships, so the company didn't have to print three sets, one for each ship, the other two being the Cilicia and Circassia) 

© 2012 Gwailo54