Of A Happy Easter

I hope you've all been enjoying as lovely an Easter weekend as I have! I'm at home for ten days of holiday at the moment, and have been indulging in some festive treats. I was very pleased to make the acquaintance of this little fellow yesterday, who is (almost) too cute to eat:

After a lovely Easter Sunday lunch at home with my mum and grandparents yesterday, today my mum and I made a trip up into the beautiful Peak District. Our destination was the charming estate village of Tissington in Derbyshire, about an hour's drive away, and a favourite place to visit when I'm at home. Crossing over the cattlegrid that marks the village boundary, it feels rather as if one has driven into a picture postcard. Pretty, grey-stoned cottages cluster at the head of the main street...

... a picturesque church perches atop a little hill ...

... and crowning it all is the stunning Tissington Hall, still privately owned by the Fitzherbert family, as it has been since the fifteenth century. The current Hall dates from 1609, and I can just imagine Sir W emerging from the gateway:

As we came into the village, Mum and I were pleased to spy signs directing us to a craft fair, and we wandered along past the duck pond towards the school house, which today was playing host to a variety of stalls selling hand-made gifts and local produce. Although I was tempted by a very cute little pair of turquoise and purple wrist warmers, I didn't actually buy anything, although it was fun to browse the tables and admire the workmanship on display. After exploring this unexpected little distraction, we were starting to feel rather peckish. Happily, the Hall's former coach house has been converted into a wonderful tea room...

... so we wandered back over the road to enjoy a lovely ploughman's lunch -- plates filled with delicious thick-cut ham from the village butcher, and yummy chunks of Stilton and Cheddar with a scrumptious home-made chutney for a bit of extra kick.

The Old Coach House was doing a good business, full of Bank Holiday visitors who were enjoying the Easter sunshine: walkers in their wax jackets and wellies with shiny-eyed dogs at their heels, and parents laughing with their children as they paddled together in the stream that runs through the village. This stream flows down the main street towards the pond, passing through the main well in the village on the way. There are six wells altogether in Tissington, and the village is known for its well dressing ceremony, which takes place every year in May. As you can see from these photos of the well dressing celebrations in 2000, the flower displays are often very intricate:

People come from far and wide to see the well dressing, and I remember going as a little girl, and loving the bright colours and beautiful floral pictures. Although there were no such works of art to admire today, the village was still looking very pretty, with its daffodils and snowdrops creeping through the grass. Sadly I still haven't got round to buying a new camera, so I can't share any photos of today's blooms, nor of the woolly little lambs who were frisking and gamboling in the fields across the wall!

Tissington is home to a couple of great little shops, but unfortunately neither of them was open today, which seemed like a bit of a missed opportunity. Normally I enjoy popping in for a look around the candle workshop, with its displays of beautiful wax creations, although as I have a couple at home already, it's probably no bad thing I couldn't be tempted by any more! I particularly like the hurricane candles, which have beautiful flowers trapped beneath the wax. With a little tea light popped inside, the effect is utterly charming. I have one quite similar to these two sitting just across from me in my bedroom as I type:

The other shop is a wonderful little treasure trove called Acanthus, which sells beautiful homewares, lighting, and gifts. I was rather disappointed not to be able to call in there today, but no doubt there'll be other opportunities!

All in all it was a lovely breath of fresh air, and I always enjoy the drive through Derbyshire, as the countryside starts becoming wilder and hills and peaks start appearing. After a rather hectic end to term, I was more than glad of a chance to blow the cobwebs away. I'll be sharing some more stories from the start of my break before long, but for the moment at least, Sir W may well say of me (to take a few words from his 1601 essay 'Of Natures pollicie') that I have:

'arriued at some good end of her trauailes'.

Of Amsterdam

I spent some time whilst getting dressed this morning admiring my bruises. I have a lovely big one on my right knee, a couple of smaller ones on my right shin, and a little one threatening to develop on my right arm. Not to mention the slight graze to my left knee. They say that pole dancing makes you feel like a new woman. Well, it certainly does, although in my case the woman is about ninety years old. I can barely raise my arms above my head, my upper body doesn't know what hit it, and my wrists are sore with the memory of clinging onto the pole for dear life with trembling hands. But my Monday evening's entree into the world of pole dancing was tremendous fun, and I simply can't wait for the next lesson! I'll be posting properly about the delights of my new interest next week, after session number two, when hopefully I'll begin to show slightly more mastery of the 'attitude', the 'dip and flick', and other wonderfully-named moves...

For now, however, I want to take you all back to the weekend before Christmas, when I took a trip to Amsterdam to visit a Dutch friend who's now working as a lawyer there. I'd never been to Amsterdam before, but had heard many good things about the city from friends. I was also looking forward to visiting my friend, as we hadn't seen each other since she left Oxford in the summer (she was also a graduate student at New College last year). My journey out to Amsterdam was smooth, as I left an Oxford lightly dusted with snow with little thought of what those wicked little flakes foretold. I had decided to take the Eurostar to Brussels, and the train to Amsterdam from there: a quick and easy journey. I was delayed for a couple of hours in Brussels, which was a pain, but -- looking back -- seemed like nothing! But this is getting ahead of myself...

I arrived at Amsterdam's central station to find my friend waiting for me, and once our excited greetings were over we made our way via tram (I always get excited by trams when I'm abroad!) across the already snowy streets to her lovely flat, which was looking nicely festive thanks to this cute little tree:

After we'd freshened up, we popped round the corner to Simpel, where we both enjoyed a delicious duck confit. The evening was spent eating, drinking, and chatting into the small hours: perfect.

Now, when this friend and I were both in Oxford together last year, she was my (now oft-lamented) wonderful shopping companion on some particularly successful trips to Bicester. Consequently, we were both looking forward to renewing our retail relationship in Amsterdam. We awoke on the Saturday morning to find the city even whiter than it had been the night before, but it would take more than a little snow to keep us away from the shops. So we pulled on hats (bemoaning the inevitable 'hat-hair' that would result) and gloves and headed out into the cold. Their icy decorations just made the lovely old houses lining the canals look even prettier...

... and we paused to admire some of the bridges criss-crossing the water, glad now of our warm head-gear:

My friend led me to the wonderful area of the city known as the Nine Streets, a beautiful grid of (yes, you guessed it) nine narrow streets which cross one another and the canal, and are lined with lovely boutiques, cafes, and other little shopping gems. I was particularly taken with the look of this cheesemongers...

... while the Christmas treats on sale in the bakeries we passed looked extremely tempting:

As good as all this food looked, however, we were both extremely excited to once again be trying on clothes together, and the old chemistry clicked into place immediately, as we both found would-be purchases in the very first shop we went into (after trying on half its contents, of course). Aware that spending all our money before we'd even seen what anywhere else had to offer (even though they were ON SALE), we reluctantly put the gorgeously-cute-purple-with-flowers-and-bows-yet-sophisticated-dress (me) and deliciously-warm-and-soft-and-pretty-and-loveliest-shade-of-green-ever-cardigan-wrap (my friend) back on their hangers. The very nice ladies in the shop, understanding our dilemma, offered to hold them for us while we had more of a look around. We enjoyed pottering around some of the other boutiques, trying on some other tempting bits and pieces, but by the time we sat down in a lovely cafe for a much-needed sandwich and hot drink, we had both become convinced of our Absolute Need for the aforementioned items and rushed back to claim what was obviously Rightfully Ours just as soon as we'd licked the last of our lunch from our fingers.

Day turned into evening, and we were charmed by the Christmas lights which sprang up all over:

I particularly fell in love with this little lot, leaping off the prow of one of the many barges along the canal, so that one might almost imagine it gliding up into the air after them:

We stopped off for a scrummy glass of gluhwein, to keep us going before our main meal, which was at fun and trendy restaurant Stout!. Apparently 'stout' in Dutch means 'naughty', and the restaurant enjoyed making the most of the potential for double jokes on this with the English captions like 'Proud to be Stout!' on the back of the waiters' and waitresses' t-shirts. The set-piece of the house is the tasting menu -- the Plateau Stout! -- which gives you ten little dishes for an incredibly reasonable €29.50 (€35 if you want dessert tasters too). Although my friend and I opted to choose from the normal menu, the tasting platters did look great, and were extremely popular with diners around us. I had plumped for beef, which was absolutely fantastic, and I'd definitely be keen to re-visit Stout! for some more of their quirky takes on classic dishes on my next trip to Amsterdam.

We rounded off the evening by meeting my friend's brother at the aptly named Bubbles & Wine champagne bar just off Dam Square, where we enjoyed wine 'flights' (three half glasses) of some delicious Spanish reds:

By this time, the temperature had plummeted to -10, so we were glad of a warming alcohol blanket as we headed homewards, managing to stop shaking just long enough to pose for a quick picture with our shopping bags on the deserted Dam Square (everywhere, from the shops, to the bars, was quiet that weekend, which was surprising when Christmas was almost upon us. Although not so surprising when one considered the weather, which was bitter enough to keep most sane-minded people indoors, however many festive party-pieces they had yet to buy):

By this time, we'd heard the reports of trains being stuck in the Channel Tunnel, and I could only thank my stars that I'd missed the misery of sixteen hours beneath the ocean (and by only a few hours!), but we weren't yet feeling unduly concerned, and went to bed dreaming happily of our purchases.

The next morning dawned whiter than ever, and the first whispers of real misgiving crept into my mind as I listened to tales of cancellations of trains and flights and grumpy passengers freezing as they waited to find out how they were going to get home for Christmas. Shelving such concerns for the time being, however, my friend and I set off on a merry walk to the Van Gogh Museum, a slippery twenty-minutes away from the flat.

On the way we passed a one-street version of the Red Light District, and I must admit that my only thought upon seeing all the ladies in their lingerie posing inside their light-lined windows was how very cold the sight of their scantily clad bodies made me feel with all the snow outside! The Museum itself was well-worth the icy walk, and I particularly appreciated seeing the paintings alongside Van Gogh's letters, as the journey from preliminary sketch (often contained within letters to friends and family) to final piece was fascinating to behold. It's made me even more eager to visit the forthcoming Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy, which I'm hoping to do soon after it opens later this month. As its title -- The Real Van Gogh: The Artist and his Letters -- suggests, it should provide a lot more of just what I found so interesting in Amsterdam.

When we'd had our culture fix, we headed into Amsterdam's main park, where we joined what seemed like half of the city's population, all out enjoying a Sunday in the snow, with toboggans and snowmen around every corner. I'd like to say we built these two with our own fair hands, but that would be a lie!

The park also provided my friend with the perfect opportunity to introduce me to a Dutch delicacy: raw herring. And, more importantly, to the traditional way of eating it:

Yum! And the day's culinary delights were far from over, as we stopped off at a nearby patisserie for some seriously delicious tea and cake before heading home:

That evening my friend made a yummy and traditional Dutch dish of sausage accompanied by mashed curly kale and potatoes, and we settled down to an evening of Oxford nostalgia with an episode of the ever- wonderful Inspector Morse.

I certainly needed both the comfort food and comfort TV, as by this point, I had had to well and truly face up to the fact that however I was going to get home, it wasn't going to be by train, as all international trains out of Amsterdam had been cancelled thanks to the blanket of snow now covering the country; in any case, even if I'd made it back to Brussels, the Eurostar was still in turmoil, with all services cancelled until further notice. After frantically checking flights, and then deciding against them (£400 for a single trip which would quite likely be cancelled anyway? I don't think so!), I was just beginning to wonder whether I'd be spending my first Christmas in the Netherlands when my friend suggested I could always take the boat. Yes, that's right: The Boat. A quick search revealed a ferry leaving from Hook van Holland at 2.30pm the next day. I would arrive in Harwich, a no doubt amiable enough spot of whose existence I was, until that moment, completely ignorant. I booked my passage.

My final morning dawned; we rushed to the window: it wasn't snowing! This at least boded well for my trip south to the port, as my real dread had been waking to find a heavy blizzard and all trains cancelled. After saying goodbye to my friend (already looking forward to another visit in the hopefully better weather of the summer!), I struck off into the snow. Buying my train ticket, I was instructed to go to the airport, and from there, catch whatever train I could going south, to Leiden, Rotterdam, or The Hague, with the hopes of being able to travel from there to Hook van Holland without too many changes inbetween. I caught the airport train at 9.30, imagining that five hours was surely enough time to make what was usually an hour and a half's journey. Arriving at the airport, I was cheered to see a train for Rotterdam due to leave in an hour's time, so settled down with a cup of coffee. An hour passed, but my train didn't come. Cancelled. But there was one due for Leiden twenty minutes later. Cancelled. This went on for two and a half hours. Just as I had become convinced that I would be spending Christmas in the airport, a train for Rotterdam drew up on the platform. As luck would have it a set of doors opened right in front of me and I was able to spring on and grab a seat (my flailing suitcase as I did so probably helping to keep other passengers nicely out of the way), rather than having to spend the journey standing like so many poor people, as what seemed like hundreds of travellers crammed themselves on. I congratulated myself on this, and turned to ask my neighbour if he knew how long the journey might take. He predicted that, in these conditions, it would be something like an hour and a half. An Hour And A Half. AN HOUR AND A HALF. My new-found optimism vanished as I realised that if this were the case, I would be lucky to make it to Rotterdam by 2.30, let alone to the boat. I sank back against the window, and resigned myself to the thought of hanging around a port for the afternoon whilst waiting for the nightboat, which was due to leave at 8pm. Giving myself up to Fate, I watched the white landscape go by.

Fate was, it seems, looking kindly upon me that day, for as we pulled into Schiedam Centraal, I happened to glance out of the window towards the adjoining platform. Imagine my JOY to behold a board informing me that a train to Hook van Holland was due to leave from that very station in only five minutes! I frantically scooped my things together, wriggled through the carriage, and jumped onto the platform, where I spent the next five minutes with my fingers crossed very tightly indeed. The train came, and the destination list inside informed me I should be at the port at 14.14. For the second time in ten minutes I risked my circulation by crossing my fingers more tightly together than ever.

I stumbled, breathless, to the check-in desk, together with a few other stragglers, at 2.25pm.

Stenaline kindly held the ferry back until 3, in order to give a few other late-comers chance to get on, and by the time we left, my breath had returned, my legs had stopped shaking, and I was ensconced on a reclining chair in the private lounge (well worth an extra €16!), with a glass of wine and some chocolate, ready to face the SEVEN AND A HALF HOUR journey across the grey sea. I raised my glass to my decision to make this the trip to finally get to grips with Forever Amber (I knew there was a reason I never got round to reading its 1000 pages when I lugged it all the way to first the Chalet, and then Greece last summer), and settled myself down to a thorough enjoyment of Amber's exploits, which kept me completely entertained (with the odd break for food) until we arrived at Harwich. I resisted the desire to fall on bended knee and kiss the soil of my native ground, and made my way to the train station. After half an hour standing about in the cold (but hey, I had totally got the hang of this whole waiting about on platforms thing), the train appeared, its magical destination of LONDON blazoned on the front. I finally rolled up in the capital at 11pm, jumped into a taxi, and made my way to the Dorchester, where I met a friend who had been following my progress via text message, and who gave me the exact welcome back I needed by buying me cocktails and listening to my woes.

What a journey! Still, the holiday was definitely worth it, and I can't wait to return to Amsterdam to visit my friend again, although -- pretty as it was -- I could quite happily live without seeing it in its coat of snow! There's no record of Sir W ever visiting Holland, but it seems like he would have enjoyed a trip there, as this extract from his 1600 essay 'Of Resolution' suggests he shared the received idea that the Dutch would have made good companions in one of his favourite activities, drinking:

'I will hauke with a faulkoner, hunt with hunters, talke of Husbandrie with the seruants of Thrift: bee amorous with the Italian, and drinke with the Dutch man'.

Of All Good Wishes

It's been such a long time since I last posted! December has been a wonderful, if chaotic month, but I wanted to tie up a couple of loose ends before beginning blogging properly again in the new year.

Firstly, I am ashamed that it has taken me so long to reveal my Persephone Secret Santa! I was so excited to take part in Book Psmith's project, but on the reveal date, December 15th, I was taking part in a pretend Christmas Day which a friend put on at his flat (champagne at 11am, full Christmas lunch, Pictionary, Gone With The Wind, walk to the pub, It's A Wonderful Life: bliss!) and didn't get chance to post. Since then I have been busy with end of year festivities in Oxford, followed by a trip to snowbound Amsterdam.

This was a wonderful visit which included Van Gogh, raw herrings, handbags, and an unexpected seven and a half hour boat ride back home across the cold seas... But it needs a post to itself, so I'll be blogging about my trip in due course.

But to return to my Persephone Secret Santa. My Santa turned out to be Simon of Stuck In A Book, which was particularly fortuitous as we are both based in Oxford. Consequently, Simon suggested we meet up for him to deliver my present, so I was very excited to be able to meet another blogger for real, as it were! We met up some time ago now, and I couldn't resist opening my present almost straight away, to find one of the Persephones I've most lusted after waiting for me: Tea for Mr Rochester by Frances Towers. I read it immediately, and it certainly didn't let me down. The stories are magical and eerie, finely drawn and cleverly done, and images from many of them have stayed with me. I hope to write a proper review shortly, and the book certainly deserves one. I enjoyed the book so much that, I decided to send it to my own Secret Santa recipient: Danielle of Leaning Towards the Sun, who has blogged about ithere: I hope she enjoys it as much as I did!

Thank you again, Simon, for such a wonderful gift, and to Stacy at Book Psmith for organising such a great event.

I am going back to Oxford on Wednesday, and from there to London on New Year's Eve to usher in 2010 in the company of some good friends. On New Year's Day, a few of us are going to see The Misanthrope at the Comedy Theatre, which seems to me a very good way to see in the new decade.

I'll be giving a full report on Keira Knightley's stage debut afterwards (although personally I am much more interested in seeing the excellent Damian Lewis on stage!).

I'll be back to blogging properly at the start of next week, after my return to Oxford, when I'll be filling you in on my end of year activities, and sharing some thoughts about what's occupying me as we move into 2010. In the meantime, I hope you all had a wonderful festive season, and that you have an enchanting New Year's Eve. A belated Merry Christmas, and all the best for 2010! I leave off today with some words from Sir W's 1601 essay 'Of Iustice', and hope that, although the season may be cold, it has also been one of

'Peace (the nourishing warmthe) by whose rayes, states stretch out their armes, and enioye a perpetuall summer'.

Of A Welsh Retreat

I spent last weekend staying with my aunt and her partner in South Wales, a wonderful wintry break. Much as I adore Oxford, it can become a (very pretty) claustrophobic bubble at times, and getting out into the Welsh countryside was a welcome retreat. My aunt has three dogs, who all require a lot of exercise, so I muffled up in layers upon layers and ventured outside to enjoy the autumnal scenery with them, which was lovely even in the rain which stereotypically poured down throughout most of my visit. The walks were a lot of fun, and I almost regretted not taking The Walking Boots with me so they could have another little outing. Almost. Sadly I forgot to take my camera, so I can't share the beautiful vistas, the fallen red leaves, the fern-lined streams, and the panting dogs and woolly wet sheep. Nor the rumbling log fire, glowing candles, cosy cushion-filled window seats, and delicious warming food, which all seemed so much more luxurious thanks to the rain-lashed windows and cold winds blowing outside our little nest.

My aunt's cottage is up the side of a hill, reached by a twisting lane which seems a lot longer, let me tell you, when you have to walk up it in the snow, because the car can't make it ... such journeys are one of the abiding memories of my childhood. Also clambering over the fence into the field which borders my aunt's garden, picking my way over to the cows' water trough, smashing the ice and scooping out a pail of water to take back to the house, so that we could actually flush the toilet when the cold weather had frozen all the pipes. This is also the aunt who used to take me camping as a child, so you can see it is really to her and her partner that I owed my ability to wow my fellow chaletites with my nonchalant (well, more nonchalant than they were expecting, anyway...) response to the Chalet's own basic conditions this summer. As I said, at least there I had a proper bed, rather than a tent floor!

I've been spending a busy week since returning from my trip, with lots of work and lots of socialising, which has been fun if a little exhausting, and has unfortunately left little time for blogging -- hence the late description of my Welsh break. I am summoning up the remains of my energy today however for a friend's birthday party tonight, which should be a lot of fun. Some old undergraduate friends are coming up for it, so I'm looking forward to seeing everyone and catching up on all their news. My friend lives in East Oxford too, so we're going to be exploring some of the restaurants and bars on this side of town -- I can't wait to get to know more about my new area! Talking of which, I must go and prepare for everyone's arrival: washing up, tidying, all those sorts of joyous activities. Thank goodness some frivolity will be returning this evening with the advent of a few cocktails and some good company! But although I am very excited about seeing my friends tonight, after such a busy week I've also been glad of a quiet morning today. I love spending time with other people, but I also need some time alone to recharge and refresh myself. This morning -- even with its chores -- is a good opportunity for that, meaning that today looks to be a perfect combination of reflection and revellry. For, as Sir W said in his 1601 essay 'Of Solitarinesse and Company':

'The vse of things makes things worth the vse, and company by the vse is an excellent instructour, and solitarines moderatly taken, makes vs fit for company'.

Of Catching Up

Well, that was a slightly longer break than I'd intended! I can't believe it's actually over a month since I last blogged, but life rather Got Too Much for a little while (and we also had the usual faff of setting up the internet -- why do these things always take SO LONG??). I had a great holiday in Rhodes: relaxing in the pool...

... enjoying the beautiful scenery ...

... and eating far too much Good Food ...

Although I think my favourite meal of the holiday has to have been the octopus which my half-brother caught (using a rather fearsome looking spear gun) in the bay which lay at the bottom of our garden. Not something I'm used to in Oxford! There's something so special about a lazy meal outdoors under a blistering blue sky, with the sea lapping away and the sound of cicadas on the breeze. Since I've been back I've tried my hand at recreating a few of the simpler dishes we ate there, although it's never quite the same at home. One of my favourites for a starter or a light lunch is rocket with figs and parma ham, drizzled with balsamic vinegar (admittedly all the better when the figs are from a tree at the bottom of the garden, perilously claimed by clambering along the rocks like a mountain goat, whilst trying not to be tripped up by the *actual* wild goats prancing about the hillside). Watching my dad whiz up some black olive tapenade also inspired me to have a go at making my own for the first time, which I did with the aid of Clotilde Dusoulier's wonderfully easy recipe from her delightful book Chocolate & Zucchini (based on her equally brilliant blog. I also highly recommend her foodie guide to Paris, which skirmishofwit and I used on our trip to the French capital last December).

I made the tapenade as part of a selection of canapes for Our Very First Dinner Party at the New House, and I must admit I'm rather proud to say it proved popular. Yes, that's right, I've moved in, and the house is slowly starting to feel like home. At the moment I'm just awaiting the arrival of a new double bed and a chest of drawers (the landlord obviously has No Conception of the amount of closet space a girl requires). And this morning my mum brought the last load of my stuff from home, so I now have my posters, my books, and all the various bits and pieces that really make a room feel like mine. All I need to do now is finish unpacking... I'm really enjoying settling in, both to the house and to the new area. Although it might sound silly to anyone who knows Oxford, and how small it is, relatively speaking, I barely knew St Clements at all (in fact, I'd rarely made the journey over the Magdalen Bridge...), so it feels quite exciting to have a new space to explore. I'm already starting to find new restaurants, and a new pub has just opened down the road which I'm looking forward to trying.

The past couple of weeks have been busy, with getting back to the swing of things in the library (today I was working in the New College Archives, transcribing a diary from the 1680s -- great fun!), but I've also managed to fit in a couple of trips to London. The weekend before last I went with friends to see A Streetcar Named Desire at the Donmar Warehouse. I was particularly excited about this, as I had actually tried to book tickets alongside my reservations for Life Is A Dream (Dominic West!! *swoon*) and Red, but it had sold out almost immediately -- perhaps due to the casting of Rachel Weisz as Blanche DuBois. So when a friend had a couple of tickets going spare for the penultimate performance, I was all too keen to snap one up. It was my first trip to the Donmar (previously I had only seen their Donmar Westend season at Wyndham's), and I really loved the theatre itself, so I'm looking forward to going back in November for more reasons than just Mr West's presence (*cough*). As for the play itself, I've never actually read it, nor seen the famous film version (although now I want to do both!), so in some ways I guess it was good to see it without too many preconceptions. On the whole, I thought it was a great production: the cast in general was excellent, and Rachel Weisz was both fragile and feisty as Blanche. I particularly liked Ruth Wilson as Stella. The one disappointment was Elliot Cowan as Stanley. Perhaps this is just my personal taste, but I didn't think he had nearly enough charisma or simply just raw sex appeal, and the scenes between him and Weisz were sadly flat: there was really no chemistry there to spark them into life, and the rape scene lacked the emotional punch it needed to deliver to the audience. This was the only downside, however, and on the whole I really enjoyed the performance. After the show (a matinee), we went to Bob Bob Ricard for a pre-dinner drink (I enjoyed my cocktail which I chose on the sole basis that it involved Earl Grey syrup!), which was atmospheric and wonderfully decorated, and we then went on to Vasco and Piero's for an excellent meal afterwards. Both of these places were new to me, but I'd definitely go back to either. We rounded the night off swaying along in Ain't Nothin' But: The Blues Bar, before catching the Oxford Tube home.

I was back in London last weekend, this time staying with skirmishofwit, for some more good food and excellent company. We and some friends enjoyed lovely Japanese and Italian restaurants in Hampstead, a relaxing stroll on the Heath (I was rather glad to be back to the type of walks which don't require The Boots), and even fitted in some retail therapy. When I turned 21 a couple of years ago, my mum took me to Florence for a city break. I had a wonderful time: I loved the city, and could have spent much longer there. One of my discoveries was the Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella. Tucked away behind an unprepossessing little door, one enters into a spectacular interior, a space which is beautiful in itself whilst also being filled with the most delicious bath products and perfumes. Founded in 1612 as a monastery, Santa Maria is a now must-visit for anyone at all interested in scent. While I was there I bought some of their honeysuckle perfume -- a delicate and unusual scent which is perfect for every day use. My bottle is now running low, so imagine my delight when I discovered recently that They Have A Branch In London. (Also in Paris, in case you're planning a trip). The London shop is on Walton St in South Kensington, itself definitely worth a visit, and another is shortly due to open near to the Royal Academy (yay!). Although the shop itself is not as beautiful as the Florentine original, the charm of the perfumes has not been diminished, and I was tempted by many (I liked the sound of Nostalgia, which claimed to have a hint of petrol -- one of my Favourite Smells Ever ... yes, I know, the strangeness of this has been commented upon -- but a spritz of it almost knocked me out. It was definitely more of a masculine scent -- in fact, on the right man, I think it would be superb. The trouble, of course, is finding the right man). In the end, however, although Tuberose was a strong contender (rather heavier, and definitely more of an evening scent -- maybe next time!), I remained loyal to my Caprifoglio and came away with another extremely pretty bottle to add to my collection:

Well, it's good to be back, and I shall Be A Better Blogger in future: or at least, like Sir W in the aptly named 'Of Resolution' (1600),

'I write thus, I thinke thus, and I hope to do thus'.

Of Alpine Books

Hmm, well, as you can see, 'tomorrow' turned into a few days - apologies about that! I spent last Friday in the British Library, looking at some manuscript commonplace books, which I hoped would be of use to my thesis. In the end they contained nothing too exciting, but I always love leafing through volumes such as these - the little manuscripts in which readers of the past noted down extracts from their own books, often under various themes such as 'vanity', 'fame', 'death', and the like, extrapolating little chunks of wisdom, or simply recording favourite passages for posterity. They are a wonderful record of Early Modern reading habits, and, like the annotations in the margins of old books, have a great gift for taking you back into the past, bringing you almost face to face with those ghostly readers. I stayed in London on Friday night, spending the evening at a flat-warming party for two friends - and hence blogging rather fell by the wayside. Then Saturday was spent journeying back to Oxford (rather earlier than I would have liked after the party of the night before...), packing up, and then travelling home to Staffordshire. My lease on my College room ran out last weekend, so everything has been bundled into bags and boxes and brought home until the lease on my new house begins in mid-September. It will be the first time that I have lived out of New College accommodation since starting there as an undergraduate five (five!) years ago, so I am tremendously excited. The last couple of days I have been at home, doing a million and one things, and preparing for tomorrow - when my mum, grandfather, and I are off to Greece. My father is Greek, and he and his second wife and their son - my fourteen year old half brother - live in Athens, but tomorrow we are going to see them at their house on Rhodes. We will be there for a week, so I am ashamed to say there will be yet another break in my blog - although things will be back to relative order after that, once I am safely tucked up in my new Oxford abode...

But I promised Books at the Chalet, and Books at the Chalet is what you shall have. The one very bad thing about books, at least when one is carrying them in a rucksack, is that they are Rather Heavy. I must admit that there were a few moments on my journey when I cursed myself for having packed quite such a load of them, but then, surely there are few things worse on a reading holiday than running out of reading... Not that I needed to have worried unduly, for it turned out that the Chalet itself housed a rather nice little library - or at least, several shelves in the salon, full of books which had been donated by Chaletites over the years. A few had been enjoyed rather too much by the mice to be of much use (the little creatures seem to have held strong opinions about the Shakespeare authorship question, having methodically nibbled out his name on the spine of the Collected Works...), but there was still a goodly number. You can see a glimpse of the Chalet library here:

The Chalet's library covered a wide range - there were plenty of books about the local region, of course, including Henriette d'Angerville's wonderful account of her petticoated ascent up Mont Blanc in 1838...

Much to my delight, there was also a wide selection of Golden Age mystery novels, and indeed of crime writing throughout the ages. I was very pleased to find one of the Dorothy L. Sayers I was yet to read - The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club - which whiled away a few happy hours on my birthday, as well as a Ngaio Marsh which was new to me - Grave Mistake. I also chanced upon Appleby Plays Chicken by Michael Innes, which I pulled off the shelf after being intrigued by the title, and the fact that the author's name was vaguely familiar to me. I then became hooked into reading thanks to the first line, which informed me not to expect too much excitement from a reading party ... how could I resist? Of course the Devon based reading party of Oxford undergraduates which Innes describes becomes fraught with all sorts of excitement - spies, murders, and cartons of pineapple juice, but it also reassured me that 'New College men don't do much in the blood-letting line', and indeed my own little reading party remained thankfully free of nerve-shredding chases or unexpected pot shots. 

Along with these, I even got in a bit of academic reading matter, borrowing Two Antiquaries: A Selection from the Correspondence of John Aubrey and Anthony Wood by Maurice Balme from my former tutor. Aubrey particularly is one of the seventeenth-century characters most dear to my heart, and his Brief Lives - anecdotal and amusing potted biographies of his contemporaries (many of them still well-known names) - are intensely enjoyable. His interests were - as with so many figures of the time - hugely wide-ranging, covering nascent science, archeology, history, literature, and more. Wood, too, is a curious figure, and their long correspondence makes interesting reading. Wood, incidentally, is the fourth narrator of Iain Pears' terrific novel An Instance of the Fingerpost. Set largely in Oxford in the late seventeenth-century (hmm, wonder why that appealed...), it's amazingly well plotted, and combines intelligence and solid research with great pacing, wonderful atmosphere and superb evocation of its historic period. Highly recommended. 

I also managed to fit in time to devour some of the books I had taken with me - although typically the one which had added the most weight to my backpack - Forever Amber - remained untouched (I shall be taking it to Greece with me instead). I adored Mariana, which has further convinced me that Persephone Books can do no wrong, and have finished reading the other grey cover which I took with me - The Fortnight in September - just a couple of days ago. I enjoyed that too, but will save my remarks on it until it is time for its discussion at the September meeting of the Oxford Persephone Reading Group, which I shall be attending for the first time this month. My holiday wild card - The Calligrapher - lived up to expectations in being an enjoyable bit of fluff with some funny lines and some added local (to me at least) colour with the references to Donne and various calligraphic hands (even my former tutor was intrigued enough to speed-read it). I very much enjoyed The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie - I thought Flavia was a great heroine and I look forward to reading more of her adventures. My last bit of rucksack reading was The Magic Toyshop - and what can I say, except now I understand what all the fuss was about! Surreal and disturbing, but full of flashes of fire and beauty - I loved it, and can't wait to read more Angela Carter. Apparently there is to be a production of The Magic Toyshop staged by students at the Oxford Playhouse next year; a friend of mine on the Chalet trip will be stage managing it, and borrowed my text to read with interest exactly what he will be working on. I am intrigued to see what they make of it - and await the recreation of the puppet theatre with great anticipation! It could, I think, be a truly spectacular evening.

But the most exciting literary moment of my trip came not from the depths of my much detested rucksack (it was so heavy that when I crouched down to pick something up that I'd dropped at the Metro station in Paris, I became nailed to the floor like a drunken snail ... luckily a gallant Frenchman was on hand to help me up again). Nor from the much thumbed volumes of the Chalet library - although the 'Chalet books' - the diary records of all the trips which have been kept by Chaletites over the past century - made absolutely fascinating reading, and I was thrilled to sign my name to this year's party list, and make my tiny impression in Chalet history. Rather, the great bibliographic thrills came from the Early Modern books which two of the party - one of the New College English tutors, and another man, who used to be a Junior Research Fellow at the College in the '80s - brought along. They brought their books together one morning and ran an informal seminar, or, rather, chatted to us about the things they loved:

We heard about books which had been to China and back, tossed about on stormy seventeenth-century seas; marvelled at the tale of a book which had crossed on the Mayflower to become part of an Englishman's home in the New World; wondered at Early Modern strategies to ward off the Plague (all get together in one room and not eat anything, apparently - no wonder the Black Death saw off so many. We decided we wouldn't pass on this suggestion as a way to cope with Swine Flu...). As you might imagine, I was in seventh heaven...:

And we were all exceptionally smug in the knowledge that neither Univ nor Balliol (the other two colleges with which we co-own the Chalet, and with which we have a 'friendly' rivalry), had never had such treasures at one of their so-called reading parties!

I need to carry on with my packing for Greece now - among which are a few more books! As well as Forever Amber, I'll be tucking my current read - The Lady and the Panda by Vicki Constantine Croke - into my carry-on. This is the amazing true-life tale of the American dress designer and socialite Ruth Harkness, who took over her dead husband's expedition to China in the 1930s to bring back a wild baby panda, and in doing so changed the course of wildlife conservation. I have only just begun it, but it looks to be a fascinating read, one which first came to my attention thanks to Deanna Raybourn's recommendation of it on her fabulous blog. Incidentally, if you are a fan of atmospheric historical murder mysteries with a bit of sizzling romance thrown in, Raybourn's Lady Julia Grey series is great fun (the first is Silent in the Grave, and let me tantalize you by saying it has one of the most brilliant opening lines I have read in a long time). Along with this, I'll be packing Matthew Lewis's 1796 succes de scandale, the Gothic shocker The Monk. I rather sheepishly noted, when picking it off my shelf today, that I bought my copy on 8 April 2005 (I record the date of purchase in all my books, along with my name - it it always rather nice to look back on), so opening its pages is an event long overdue. My ipod is loaded up with an audio book recording of Alexander McCall Smith's Corduroy Mansions, as well as Frances Osborne's The Bolter - a biography of Idina Sackville, the woman who inspired Nancy Mitford's character known by the same title. Hopefully all of this will keep me occupied on the beach!

Now, packing really does call, and, as Sir W announces in his 1600 essay 'Of Censuring', I must sadly say that, for the moment at least,  

'I haue done with bookes'.

Luckily Sir W returned to his favourite subject soon after this terrible proclamation, as, no doubt, shall I!

Of Alpine Life

I thought I would start off a couple of posts about my alpine trip with a little description of the daily routine at the Chalet. It is odd just how quickly I settled into it. It was a soothing kind of existence, cut off from phone and internet, with time to sit and read and muse, to talk if one wanted to talk, and to walk if one wanted to walk (admittedly I did more of the former than the latter...). The day generally began just before 8 (apart from for those hardier souls who would go off for day-long treks into the mountains, clutching water bottles and a loaf of bread, at six o'clock in the morning). We took it in turn each day to cook the evening meal, in pairs or threes (I was rather relieved when my turn came to be merely Chief Cutter-Upper for someone rather more skilled than I in catering for twelve people), and every morning the day's cooks would knock on the bedroom doors, leaving a jug of hot water to greet their still-sleeping companions. Hearing the knock, my room-mate or I would stumble from our sleeping bags, bring in the water, and then throw open the wooden shutters onto our balcony, admiring our morning view as we brushed our teeth:

It looked beautiful at dusk, too:

The bell would ring for breakfast, and we would all troop downstairs in various states of sleepy-headiness. Some amongst the group were obviously very much Morning People, laughing and chattering away across the bread, grapefruit and (when we had a particularly good cook) freshly baked muffins and cakes. Others groggily reached out wavering hands for the delicious smelling coffee pot, gratefully clutching at the hot cup and attempting to steam some sense into their brains. I was very much of the latter party. I am emphatically not a morning person, and I Don't Do Breakfast. I have been told time and time again how unhealthy this is, but I can't help it - if I try to eat too much, too quickly, in the mornings, the result is Bad Indeed. I used to have a pet hamster when I was younger, who, when she awoke, would stagger around for a few minutes, with her ears clamped flat down against her head, her eyes bleary, until she gradually came to full consciousness and her fluffy little ears would start perking up again. My ears are definitely down in the mornings. Nevertheless, I managed to brighten up enough by the end of breakfast to be cheerful enough when helping with the washing up (we got a very good relay system going of washer-upper, rinser, dryer(s), and putter-awayer) and not be too much of a kill-joy when the early birds amongst us started singing madrigals to speed up the dishes...

After breakfast, I would generally steel myself to face The Shower. This was something I had been rather dreading before I arrived at the Chalet, as in the notes we were told of an 'ingenious' shower arrangement, and I had noted an alarming vagueness on the subject when I tried to press people about what this actually meant. As it turned out, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared, although I must say my first shower back in Oxford felt rather luxurious in comparison (not something one would normally say about college accommodation showers!). The shower room was, when the Chalet was originally built, a Turkish Bath. Yes, a Turkish Bath. This, along with the maids and the requirement to wear a tie at dinner, is long gone. Now, there is a system by which one fills two large jugs with hot water, one with cold, climbs up a wooden stepladder, holding said jugs rather precariously, and deposits their contents one by one into a tub which is connected by a long pipe to the shower head. One then leaps under the shower, turns on the connection, and hopes that hair can be washed and body can be scrubbed before a) the water turns cold; or b) runs out entirely; whilst c) also keeping fingers crossed that the damn thing actually worked (it broke down at least three times across the ten days, but luckily one of our party was a brilliant handy-man in a crisis, who at various points ended up on the roof and in the middle of the septic tank ... more about these events another time. Priceless).

After grappling with the shower, which, incidentally, was reached through a door in the main salon so tiny that it suggested the Chalet's first inhabitants to have been hobbits, I would generally return upstairs to air my towels on the balcony and apply my make-up (I had made sure to get one of the few rooms with a mirror - priorities, priorities). The rest of the morning would be spent in the main sitting room - the salon - curled up under my shawl (a beautiful birthday present brought back from Florence by a friend), until the sunshine broke through enough to lure us all out into the garden, where we could sit and admire both the view and the Chalet itself. My room was the one at the far left-hand side of the balcony as you look at the photo below, with a lovely dual aspect across both mountains and garden. The salon is directly underneath.

On a few of the days, about half the party went out for a day-long walk, but generally speaking, everyone would spend at least the morning lounging around reading - either for work or pleasure - and the walking would commence in the afternoon. A lunch of the evening before's left-overs, along with ham, bread, cheese, and fruit would make an enjoyable break in the middle of the day. By this time the sun would be in full flame, and I would merrily skip upstairs, exchange my trousers for a little skirt, slather on the sunscreen, and while away another few hours reading in the sun, until the heat got too much for my head, and I was forced to retreat back into the cool of the salon, taking up residence once more on one of the sofas, and sipping copious amounts of tea.

On a couple of afternoons I did actually venture out for A Proper Walk, which consisted of me and a couple of other non-walkers huffing and puffing like little steam trains in the background while the others strode off into the distance, but I must admit that The Boots did their job and saw me across some rocky terrain to greet some beautiful views:

Most evenings, however, I would forgo any more strenuous activities in favour of the relatively gentle twenty minute stroll up to Le Prairion Hotel - or The Pav, as it is fondly known to the Chaletites. Those people who had been out walking for the day or afternoon would generally find their way back here before returning to the Chalet for a shower and dinner, and the Chaletites who had remained at base camp all day would usually make the trip up to the top for a pre-dinner stretch of the legs, and a bottle or two of the local Beer of Choice:

Personally I have never been able to like beer, however pretty the bottle, so stuck to Kir for my evening tipple - and sipping my delicious drink whilst admiring a double rainbow across the mountains is something that will stay with me for a very long time. This is where we would generally sit of an evening:

Looking out towards Mont Blanc (although the summit itself is hidden):

After this we would wend our way back down the mountain path to the Chalet, to enjoy whatever delights our wonderful cooks had concocted for us (and to see whether they had managed to find any inspired ways to use up the forty wheels of cheese left for us by the Univ chalet party...), before we decamped to the salon for some candle-lit conviviality before bed.

Tomorrow, I will blog a little about Books at the Chalet - both mine, and others... I shall leave you with a few words on the subject from Sir W's 1600 essay 'Of the Obseruation, and the Vse of Things', and you may be relieved to hear that, although the toilet system at the Chalet was somewhat primitive (ahem), we never quite had to resort to this:

'All kinde of bookes are profitable, except printed Bawdery; they abuse youth: but Pamphlets, and lying Stories, and News, and two penny Poets I would knowe them, but beware of beeing familiar with them. My custome is to read these, and presently to make vse of them, for they lie in my priuy, and when I come thither, and haue occasion to imploy it, I read them, halfe a side at once is my ordinary, which when I haue read, I vse in that kind, that waste paper is most subiect to, but to a cleanlier profit.'

Of Many Happy Returns

Just a brief post today to announce that I Am Back - and still all in one piece, having managed to avoid rolling down the mountain side, falling out of the cable car, or withering away from high heel withdrawal symptoms. The trip to the Chalet des Anglais was simply fantastic, and I will be using the next two or three blog entries to talk about it in detail, as there is far to much to share in one post. Suffice to say at the moment that I am a complete convert to alpine living and have even been persuaded that I may be able to try skiing in the area next year. Miracles, as they say, do happen!

For now, I will just share a picture of the delicious and wonderful birthday cake which my chalet companions baked for me - no mean achievement in the somewhat temperamental ovens:

It was certainly a birthday to remember, much of it spent lazing away in the brilliant sunshine (we were tremendously lucky with the weather across the entire trip) on the chalet's 'croquet lawn' (unfortunately now somewhat trampled by wild boar...) with a book (and I only have Good Things to report about my reading choices). There was plenty of pleasant conversation and much laughter, and an excellent birthday dinner after a pre-dinner Kir (or three) sipped whilst looking out toward the sunset over the mountains. Bliss!

I miss it all already, but after my ten days of beautiful scenery and alpine tranquility, mixed with some surprisingly good chalet cooking and a healthy (?) enjoyment of chalet wine, all topped off with some wonderful books and conversation, I feel rejuvenated; and have left my temporary home to come back to Oxford ready 'for the entertaining of all fortunes', as Sir W describes in his 1600 essay 'Of Aduise':

'I would allow a man to keepe the house no longer then till hee be able to flie, vntill his mind and body are able to carrie themselues without falling, not vntil hee bee past reeling, and staggering, for that abilitie we neuer haue: but in this time let bookes, and Aduise rectifie, and prepare vs fit for the entertaining of all fortunes.'