Of Being Back In Time

Last Thursday, I went back in time. Really. Well, so nearly really that it actually felt like I'd stepped back a few decades, to a time when men wore smart hats over brill-creamed hair and women wouldn't step outside without a pair of gloves and a swipe of lipstick. In other words, I took a trip on a steam train along the Severn Valley Railway. The SVR runs sixteen miles, from Kidderminster in Worcestershire to Bridgnorth in Shropshire, passing through some absolutely stunning countryside along the way. Several years ago, during a camping trip to Norfolk, I went on the Wells and Walsingham Light Railway:

As you can see, it's very cute, but although I remember this baby steam train being a lot of fun, it doesn't have proper carriages, so hardly has the same power to transport one back in time like the SVR, which really made me feel like I was one of The Railway Children. If I'd been wearing red flannel petticoats, believe me, I'd have been tempted to tear them off and start waving them as flags.

Managing to restrain my impulses to follow Jenny Agutter's example and attempt some impromtu sephamore, I sedately followed my mother into the first class carriage (at £3 each way for the upgrade, it was well worth it to have a proper little compartment all to ourselves!) and settled down to enjoy the ride. A red-faced, white-bearded guard came and checked our tickets, offered us a toffee (this never normally happens to me on trains!) and we were off into the beautiful countryside, the rhythmic chug and puff of the train signalling our passage.

The SVR has several station stops between Kidderminster and Bridgnorth, but although some of them sounded tempting, we had decided to travel straight through, so that we could enjoy a leisurely lunch in the Shropshire town, and, as the weather was so good (it was a glorious, warm day with bright blue skies and hardly any clouds), a little stroll around after our meal. Nevertheless, we enjoyed peering out of the carriage at the towns and villages, fields and woods as we passed by...

I also found out what it really means to be smutty, as I wiped the little dabs of flakey soot from my hands after they flew in through the window as I stared out!

Apart from the lovely vistas (sadly I still had no camera, hence the reliance on stock photos from the SVR website), we were also thrilled by the variety of wildlife that was prancing around outside. From partridges to pheasants, lambs to galloping horses, we saw it all. And I mean all. There were even elephants, a couple of rhinos, and a herd of reindeer. I kid thee not. Well, we did pass by the West Midland Safari Park, after all...!

The journey to Bridgnorth took about an hour, but it seemed no time at all before we arrived at the station:

Here, however, it looked like our journey might end, with dreams of lunch and sunlit strolls being catapulted out of our minds thanks to a sudden confrontation with a Rather Large suspension bridge. As some of you might remember, I have a little problem called vertigo, and I could tell at a glance that this bridge and I were not going to be friends. A little fingerpost pointed across the bridge proclaiming 'Bridgnorth Town Centre', and the rest of the train's passengers were trouping merrily across. I, however, cowered against the wall and felt slightly foolish as I wondered whether I would ever manage to join them. From my position against the stones, however, with the quick eye of a vertigo sufferer (it makes you very fast at figuring out alternate routes, or, rather, escape routes!), I had already noticed the line of cars next to the platform. They had definitely not come across the scarily high footbridge, so I knew there must be another way across. I started to feel a bit more hopeful. My optimism was rewarded when my mum returned from a scouting expedition with a charming young porter, who led us towards a nice gentle path out of the little railway carpark and down the hill to the main road below, with no sudden drops or vertiginous bridges in sight. I breathed a sigh of relief, and we set off.

Although we were keen to explore the pretty town, the call of our stomachs was stronger, and our first stop was lunch at a nice little brasserie on the High Street. Suitably replenished, we set off to admire the local sights, such as the Town Hall on stilts...

... and the beautiful church hidden away down a winding little lane:

As we pottered around, my eye was caught (naturally) by a sign for a vintage clothing and accessories shop called The Looking Glass. Venturing inside, we found a veritable treasure trove of vintage and reproduction clothing ranging from the 1920s through to the 1970s, as well as some contemporary hats, gloves, and jewellery. My eye was immediately caught by some stunning reproduction 1920s dresses hanging outside the one little changing room. Long, thin, and black, they were intricately beaded with silver decorations in the most fantastic patterns. Some of the most spectacular designs were influenced by the Art Deco craze for Egyptian style designs that came after the dramatic discoveries of the archaeological expeditions of the 1920s and '30s. The reproduction dresses were beautiful, and had been hand-made in India by families using traditional techniques, and sold under Fair Trade contracts to ensure they were being produced ethically. Mindful of the upcoming white tie New College Ball in June, I tried some on. They were gorgeous, and made me feel as if I'd stepped straight out of a Poirot novel. I was deeply tempted. But which one to choose? Time was ticking by and we needed to be back at the station to catch the steam train back to Kidderminster. I ummed and aahed and tried three dresses on again in a bid to make my mind up (decision making is not always my strongest point). Just as I was considering trying the first dress on for the third time, the lovely lady whose shop it was re-emerged from the back of the shop where she had been rummaging through the rails, clutching a shimmering bundle of taffeta. 'I don't want to confuse you even further', she said, 'but I couldn't resist showing you this one'. I took the dress from her hands and slipped it on. Instantly, I knew it. It was too big, but still, I knew. I had found my dress. I won't describe it now, apart from to say it's an original evening gown from the 1930s, and -- of course -- that I think it's very beautiful. But a proper description (with photos!) will have to wait until the ball itself. I'm not always a great fan of vintage clothes, but I must say that with this dress I'm glad to have my mind changed. I'm ridiculously excited about getting the alterations done and trying it on again, and even more excited about wearing it to the ball itself. And it's fitting, perhaps, that a 1950s steam train should lead me even further back in time to a 1930s dress! I really hadn't had any idea of finding the dress in Bridgnorth, and had actually been planning to slog around the London shops to try to find something. Such unlooked for treasures are always extra-special, and I am at one with Sir W in his 1600 essay 'Of Censuring' when he says that:

'I like them the better because vnexpected'.

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 Becoming A Chalet Girl

Today is the day! My friend and I have a taxi coming to collect us at 4pm to take us to Oxford railway station, where we'll meet another friend, and travel on together to London. Then it's a skip along the tube line to St Pancras International to catch the Eurostar, and the holiday will really begin! We change trains at Paris, and then settle onto our transport for the rest of the journey - a sleeper train down through France to St-Gervais-les-Bains. I have never been on a sleeper train before so am wildly excited. We arrive tomorrow morning, just after nine, when we'll jump onto a cable car and make our way up into the mountains towards our final destination: Le Chalet des Anglais:

The chalet is part owned by three Oxford colleges - New College, University College, and Balliol. Every summer each of them takes two groups of students - a mixture of undergrads and graduates (a couple of Fellows go too) - for breaks of about ten days. This year, I'm going on the first of the New College trips. I have always thought the chalet trips sounded romantic, like an old-fashioned reading party from days of yore. And yet, I've never braved one of them before. Partly because of the rather basic conditions - there is no electricity, and what is described as an 'ingenious' shower arrangement in the pre-trip notes ... although I think that's probably all rather fun once you get used to it, and I'm hoping to dredge up some memories from the many camping trips I went on as a child to remind myself that Getting Back To Nature can actually be great fun. At least here I'll have a proper bed, and hopefully the chalet won't get blown down in the night, as happened on one particularly memorable campsite... But the main reason I've never dared venture into the Alps before is because I Have Vertigo. And I'm going to spend ten days on a mountain. Hmm. When I say I have vertigo, I mean it - I can't sit anywhere but the stalls at the theatre, I cling onto people for dear life and shut my eyes if I have to cross a bridge over the Thames, and I regularly freak out at unexpected drops and stairwells. I'm fine if I'm behind glass (I was able to go up almost to the top of the Rockefeller Center on a recent trip to New York, as long as I stayed behind the massive picture windows and didn't actually venture out onto the roof), so the cable car doesn't faze me, but afterwards... Therefore, I am more than a little nervous about the idea of being up a mountain for over a week. But I have been assured by people who know me, know my vertigo, and know the chalet, that I Will Be Fine, that the slopes around the chalet are actually very gentle and wooded, and as long as I don't trot off along particular walks with a precipice at the end of them, All Will Be Well. Hmm, we'll see! I'm hoping perhaps it will at least offer a kind of immersion therapy, and who knows, perhaps I'll come back a changed woman, singing the praises of alpine life. Or a gibbering wreck.

We go for ten days, and there'll be about twelve of us there. A couple of people I know very well, some just to say hello to, and the rest not at all, so it should be an interesting experience. Hopefully I won't end the ten days with a deep desire to throw them all (or myself) off the side of the mountain - at least I have all my lovely new books to read if I need to escape for a while! There are also going to be several alumni staying at a hotel a short distance away (a hotel! At least I can run away there if the need for creature comforts becomes too much to bear!), as this year is the 100th anniversary of the chalet itself, and several old members have been invited to join the party. I'm looking forward to meeting them, and to hearing how things have changed (or not) in the past decades. Apparently one of these guests is a great bibliophile, and has an amazingly extensive collection of sixteenth and seventeenth century rare books, some of which he is (brave man) going to bring with him. The undergraduate tutor who taught me for the Early Modern period is also going to be one of the party, and is going to bring some of his collection too - so it looks like I won't get too many withdrawal symptoms from dusty old books while I'm away, although I can see myself becoming absolutely green with envy as they show off their treasures! 

I spent the morning packing my borrowed rucksack, which now seems to weigh as much as a small car. Luckily the walk from the cable car to the chalet is, I am told, a very gentle fifteen minute downhill stroll ... I am hoping this is not one of those fifteen minute strolls that turns out to be an hour's hard hike... Still, despite the thought of this, and of having to wear The Boots for ten days solid, I am actually now getting really tremendously excited about the whole affair. New College has the reputation for being the most relaxed and fun-loving of the three college trips (well, of course!) - probably due to the fact that they order in vast quantities of wine at the beginning of the stay... While I am away I shall also be turning 23 - it will certainly be a birthday like I've never experienced before. I wonder if I'll get a cake?

Obviously I won't have internet access while I am away, so the blog will resume normal service once I'm back - hopefully with some suitably frivolous alpine frolics to share. In the meantime, despite my nerves about my forthcoming adventure, I will leave you - as Sir W sweetly put it in his 1600 essay 'Of Affection' - with

'a pacient farewell, without disturbance or feare.'

Au revoir!