pompeii or hornblower and hotspur

Whilst rambling through Devon and Hampshire, we stopped at the ancient city of Portsmouth, the oldest continually used docklands in the world awash with the trawling dragnets of historical connections. The harbour town is far too well regaled with references to pursue every footnote and link (though the local historical societies must have very fulfilling hobbies), but just to trace the city to its semi-legendary foundation by a Norman nobleman called Jean de Gisors whom famously harrowed Henry II into kingship and was allegedly the founder of the Priory of Sion I think gives one an idea. And merrily, we roll along.
One lawless exclave established on a tip of Southsea, called Spice Island, just outside of the city gates and thus beyond the crown’s jurisdiction was a regular Island of the Donkey Boys from Pinocchio for its bustling and brisk business attentive to visiting sailors, but rather gentrified and respectable since the invention of the steam-engine began to depreciate the importance of the trade routes that clung so near the continent.  The strategic significance of Portsmouth (nicknamed Pompeii) and attraction, however, has not waned. The naval presence has receded into its present boundaries but the defensive walls and garrison chapel with the statue of Lord Nelson are very much still the typifying landmarks, but a relatively recent addition in the Spinnaker Tower (named after the distinctive steering sail and which is probably the closest we’ll get to the Burj Dubai—at least for the present) adds an impressive element to the skyline, being the highest viewing platform outside of London.
Afterwards, we stopped to wonder at the massive, medieval Arundel Castle, seat to the oldest surviving earldom, and line of Anne of Arundel, Baroness Baltimore, wife to the first governor of Maryland and the province of present day Newfoundland called Avalon, named after the old lands in Somersetshire where Glastonbury lay—as the perfect transition to our next little tour.

agent provocateur

The conservateur extraordinaire Messy Nessy Chic presents the history of the violent Paris Riots of May 1968, which brought France to the brink of civil war, through protest posters and other art work of the revolution. Although much studied, vividly remembered by contemporaries and very much in keeping with the times when waves of societal unrest swept across the globe, no one can cite a quick or definitive explanation why the revolts occurred. The movement was an amalgam of various leftists student organisations consisting of anarchists, Maoists and anti-capitalists occupied factories and financial institutions and at the height of the riots, convinced more than twenty percent of the working population of France to go on strike.
After the violence dissipated, which saw the president flee the country, matters seemed to return to normal—perhaps a little too quickly, and the protesters fell short of their stated goals of promoting equality and social justice with the old regime that they rallied against returning to office with what they considered a stronger mandate, not that the acts were all in vain. I wonder what people will make of our contemporary movements that are just as contemptible to some in a few decades. Be sure to visit the website to peruse the extensive gallery of protest posters and to learn a bit more about getting caught up in le Zeitgeist.

rear window

Via the always brilliant Nag on the Lake, we are invited to peek behind the curtains of the privacy-treasuring Norwegians, escorted by the private-eye of photographer Ole Marius Joergensen. Such haunted voyeurism that raises more questions than answers about identity and public-personæ and reminds us that the eerie spectre of being observed (or being the observer) isn’t just about the brute panopticon of total surveillance that spoils the surprise by not leaving much up to the imagination for nosy neighbours for whom the truth is immaterial against the excitement of constructing one’s own narrative. Such curiosity remains harmless, I think, until it becomes the official profile of another—or of the watcher.

hither and yon

Nearly eight years ago (and I must not forget my blogoversary), this little blog was created as a travelogue to document our adventures in Normandy and Brittany, crowned with a visit to otherworldly Mont Saint-Michel, a sight I could not believe actually existed until we spied it on the horizon.
A complementary destination, we discovered with a similar sense of wonder and disbelief, was to be found just across the Channel on our recent trip through England.
Saint Michael’s Mount, just off the coast from the town of Marazion, chartered since the Middle Ages and once wealthy from copper and tin deposits, is a tidal island—accessible by a footpath when the sea ebbs—whose summit has been adorned with various institutions since the eighth century, having hosted a Benedictine abbey, just like Mont Saint-Michel and inspired by the same apparition of the Archangel Michael appearing to local fishermen.

Though battered over the centuries by tsunamis and earthquakes and significantly smaller than its French counterpart, there was no shortage of exploration to do through the tiny village, harbour and the gardens that trellised upward towards the more recent castle and priory, which is still a royal seat and sometimes entertains distinguished guests.

theatre district and whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense pinafore

Just a few kilometres away from the westernmost reach of England at Land’s End—visited in the grey when a sudden fog came up but we wanted to cross all the way from East to West and weren’t being deterred by the weather—lies the cove of Porthcurno with the open-air amphitheatre hewn into the wave-rocked granite outcroppings.
The skies opened up suddenly and the sun returned to the Penzance peninsula and we stopped to explore the stage and arena seating of the Minack Theatre, the endowment of a local patron of the arts who recognised that the gully looking out to the sea who be a perfect venue for the community players to stage their performance of The Tempest.
From the first show in 1929 whose footlights were car headlights, the theatre has evolved into the beautiful sculpted gardens that attract many matinee-goers just to see the playhouse. I am unsure whether Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance was ever shown there but the location certainly provides the proper backdrop.
The comic-opera’s premiere rather took place on Broadway instead of their native London, interestingly, because America afforded no copyright protection and did not respect the intellectual property rights of foreign authors, and when HMS Pinafore debuted in the West End dozens of unscrupulous US companies “pirated” the performance with unsanctioned productions. Hoping to forestall further copy-catting, the duo figured that a New York inauguration might distinguish the genuine from the plagiaristic.