Sitting on the roof top terrace of Kaiya House ...

Sitting on the roof top terrace at night, we relax and talk about our adventures in Kerala - 

Cool breezes stir the coconut palms - auto rickshaws carry excited travellers to the cliff top cafés - 

At night you can see the stars like bright lamps over the teeming vivid streets - 

During the daytime, I sit here dreamily, sipping mango juice - 

In this house, we feel happy and calm, ready for new sights and new sensations - 

Early morning walk along Varkala beach ...

We wake up at five in morning, to walk to the beach - it's still dark - tiny eateries are peopled with slight figures, eating dhal -

We walk past the empty cafés lining the cliffs - no Europeans are as yet buying gee gaws -

Beyond the lurid hotels, we pass through coconut groves, down to the sea -

Fishing boats made of pale wood are launched into the surf - I see a sliver of a crescent moon -

By six thirty it's light - dolphins appear - kites spiral upwards over the palms - stray dogs follow us - 

Young gods and beautiful girls ride the waves on their surf boards - nearby, skinny brown fishermen heave in a net, shouting for us to join in, to pull upon their salty rope ...

Varkala

12.40

Monday January 27 2014

Drinking latte in Varkala ...

We are sitting in the New Kerala Cafe, overlooking Varkala Beach - I've not seen so many Europeans for what seems an age - 

Warm waves swirled over the sand - Debra had already warned us - there are weird rip tides there - 

Indian boys stared at the pale beauties with their new henna tattoos -

I felt a little sad leaving Marco's house - termites have eaten so many of my books -

Sunday 26 January 2014

19.39

 Varkala 

Swimming at the beach near Marc's

The auto rickshaw takes us to the beach in under ten minutes - the spindly vehicle zig zags through the village, grazing bright blue lorries, vivid green buses driven by Mad Max fans, gaffers wearing  dhotis, skinny boys upon bicycles which are the merest cobwebs of rust - 

The breakers crash upon the steeply shelving beach with a soft roar - glossy black birds, like crows, walk upon the warm fine sand - coconut palms and trees with feathery, wispy, branches line the shore - high prowed dark fishing boats are drawn up at the top of the beach -

The Arabian Sea is as warm as a lazy lolloping bath - we bob up and down in the swell - waves crash over our heads and shoulders - glassy foaming necklaces are cast around our necks -

Marco's beach

Noon

Saturday 25 January 2014

At Marc's house

I'm sitting in a dimly lit room - high above my head is a ceiling made of dark wood -  the air is stirred by a ceiling fan - I study The Hindu - a headline says Army gives itself clear chit in Pathribal case - 

Through the window, I can see coconut palms and wild vivid greenery - the window shutters are thrown open - delicate caged birds are singing -  I can smell wood smoke from the kitchen fire - 

Marc's house

11 o'clock in the morning

24 February 2014

At the Crowne Plaza

Anne drove like a diva - she could have driven Walker in Point Blank to yet one more heartless apartment - 

We left Havant about half past four in the afternoon - darkness fell upon the A3 - brutish lorries tried to tailgate us - Anne's steely nerve sustained me - 

The M 25 was relatively empty - the blue motorway signs were magical symbols - The West - Basingstoke - 

Soon, we were skirting Heathrow - the landing lights of the jets flashed their mysterious messages - 

The Crowne Plaza is like a dormitory for a space port - slim Asian girls with bright red lips emerge from the Crew Lounge - the spooky corridors could be in The Overlook - any moment, perhaps, I might see pale twins -

Crowne Plaza Hotel, Heathrow

20.40

Leaving East Stoke ...

Early this morning, Anne had an e-mail from Marc about the Kerala Express - if you go to the station, you must take your courage in your hands - 

I stood under the leafless apple tree - I could still see the moon, low in the brave blue of the sky - swans were motionless on the flooded water meadows - 

I stared at the pine trees, bordering the churchyard - bright sunshine had replaced the rain - 

The boot of the red Peugeot was filled with our cases - we set off at ten o'clock for my parents' house - on the motorway, we learned that Sophie had got her visa at last - 

As I overtook a sluggish Vauxhall Vectra, I thought fondly of our valley, of our gentle town - but a desire to breathe spice scented air, to see exotic landscapes, also filled my soul - 

Placing books in my suitcase ...

I packed my suitcase last night - Ken says they'll be lots of time to talk or read once we're at Doctor Baggi's - wrapped up in my shirts are two books - one is Stefan Zweig's The World of Yesterday - I've read almost half of it - when I'm turning the pages, I can hear his wise sorrowful voice - 

The other book is John Cowper Powys' Autobiography - I read The Brazen Head last year, whilst staying with Anne's sister, Jane - I would sit in her beautiful garden, hearing the calls to prayer - Jane once asked me what the book was about - I found it impossible to describe - all I knew was that I had encountered wonders - 

Our flight to Kochi takes off from Heathrow - I can feel already, the electric thrill of airports, zinging in my veins - 

The Wing Commander's House ...

Every year I look forward for Purbeck Arts Week - you can visit artists in their studios, peruse catalogues in louche galleries, handle sculptures carved out of pale driftwood - 

Sophie charms the artists - she drifts, smiling, around the Saxon Church hung with tapestries - the eccentric weaver warms to her - she's wearing a beautiful jacket of worn tweed - 

One year, we went inside Manor House, in South Street, opposite The Black Bear - Pesvner says it has an outstandingly elaborately carved and shaped doorway - the lead roof of the house is dated 1702 - laurel trees, with dark gleaming leaves, screen the facade - I imagine an antiquary hiding there, in the attics, scribbling secrets in his journal - 

But when Sophie and I walked through the high ceilinged rooms, we met instead a fine boned woman, the wife of the artist - he was a former Spitfire pilot, gentle, hawk eyed, fragile - 

We tiptoed on Turkish carpets - it felt as though we were passing through a dream - I can remember the painter's smile, calm, enigmatic, his delicate hands - but all else is a smoky memory - when I try to recall the paintings I saw, it is as though I am looking through mottled glass - 

I passed by Manor House this morning - some of the laurel trees had been felled - I wondered what had happened to the artist and his wife - a sweet pang of melancholy speared my heart - 

The museum of bright shadows at Langton Matravers ...

Last December, I found myself in Langton Matravers, a village of silent stone cottages, high on a chalk ridge - I parked the red Peugeot opposite the locked church - a few hundred yards downhill was The Ship Inn -

I'd once called in there with Andy, after one of our walks along the coastal path - we'd braved salty icy gales from Winspit to Dancing Ledge - we'd then headed inland, crossing Priest's Way, over stony fields - it had started to hail - inside the frowsty pub, I'd snarfed a steaming pasty - Andy had told me stories about the young Kuwaiti elite, driving their powerful cars at night - they'd race each other along the expressways circling Kuwait City, new lords of creation -

Now Andy has moved out of The Tower - I had been shamefully negligent in not keeping in touch with him - standing in the porch of the church, I thought, for a moment, of all those people who had been close to me, and who I'd let drift away - I heard their voices, whispering shared stories -

Behind the church, I found a a small one storey building, with lichened roof tiles - it was a museum - I tried to peer through the windows, but inside all I could see was darkness - a notice told me that the museum was closed until April -

I imagined the curator, RJS, sitting motionless amongst obscure artifacts - perhaps he curated lost friendships - there, in the dark, were bright shadows, still glowing, still precious -

Chimera New Forest Ale, visions of Arcadia, flying to bird land ...

Tessa and Charlie stayed with us last week end - Anne and I shared yesterday one of the bottled ales Charlie had brought with him - we had a bumper each of Chimera New Forest Ale - I fell into a reverie whilst I was drinking this clear marvellous elixir - I imagined that I was walking through a grove of ancient olive trees - broken statuary was wreathed with ivy - I could hear the sweet music of a flute - 

I opened my eyes, and I was in East Stoke again - I read the erudite label on the emptied bottle - floral, grassy, aroma - cleansing citrus notes - 

Charlie said brewing beer had all the fascination and calculation of science, together with the mystery of Art - 

A year or so ago, Charlie and a friend had brewed some choice ale - they buried a score of bottles in a pit, outside Salisbury - there, under moss and pine needles, the ale had matured - recently, they'd dug up their ale hoard - they'd savoured the rare brew, sipping it from bottles still chilly from the dark earth - 

I thought of the beer I'd brewed, in plastic beer spheres, when we lived in Kent - the beer was always cloudy - I would feel giddy and strange when I'd gulped two or three beakers - it was as though I'd become a shaman, ready to fly with my soul to a hidden melting world - 

The yellow Morris Minor, remembering Puccini ...

When I was a teacher at Seaford Head School, I got to know the Head of Music - he lived in a house in Lewes which had three floors - his was a cultured, disordered, household - one room on the third floor was full of heaps of clothes, waiting to be ironed - 

Chris told me he was a Puccini man - small busts of the composer decorated the mantle piece - he'd made his pilgrimage to Lucca - 

So I discovered a glorious unknown world - I'd listen, rapt, to the aria Tre sbirre una carrozza - I'd shiver, wide eyed, overcome by the beauty and cruelty of Turandot - my eyes would brim with tears when I heard Callas sing O mio babbino caro - 

Chris told us that Elspeth had done a runner - I'd only seen her a few times before she bolted - I've a vivid memory of a dark haired woman, shapely, elusive, darting up the stairs -  

Chris drove a Morris Minor Traveller - sometimes he'd give me a lift from Lewes to school - he'd remove crumpled sheets of music from the front passenger seat - I'd sit there, in my dark suit, planning lessons for the mad boys - 

We'd drive through the outskirts of Seaford, past the bland houses - Chris would sit hunched over the steering wheel - I'd breathe the strange damp air inside the Morris Traveller - Chris never said much more about Elspeth - 

We saw a yellow Morris Minor in a Sainsbury's car park - I thought of Chris, and of his bolting wife - I imagined her, sitting in the car, reading a letter, smiling her unsettling smile - 

At the Forest Gate Cafe ...

A chandalier, fashioned from a bicycle wheel, was suspended from the ceiling of the Forest Gate Cafe - charming toddlers gazed at creatives sipping cappuccinos - slender mothers ordered sparkling mineral water - youths nurtured their beards - 

We sat for an hour or so in a booklined space, towards the rear of the cafe - there were sofas and shelves of Penguins - I discovered some Faber paperback editions of the Alexandrian Quartet - I remembered my literary seduction by Lawrence Durrell - it was like being dazed by too many Horses' Necks - I was disconcerted by a picture of a cyclist - 

Sophie found a Ladybird Ugly Duckling - she and Paul were very fond of ducks - I hoped that this might prove to be a good omen - 

We talked about the flat and structural surveys - Sophie and Paul were excellent company - I felt, all around me, the presence of the vast city -

Next door was a mini cab office - tired black dudes watched the clock - 

A gentle Bangladeshi drove us back to Bethnal Green - he was very happy with his Toyota Prius - he'd bought it second hand from a man in Tiptree - he had another job in the post room of The Sun - we chatted as we zig zagged through tricksy traffic - 

Every day - it gets more difficult - Tescos, Morrisons - the prices go up - 

West Ham Cemetery, epiphanies, James Joyce and the haggard, inconstant,splashes of beauty ...

I can remember, when I was a bookish innocent, taking to walking in St Anne's Cemetery, off Forton Road, in Gosport - I was drawn to the broken angels, the shuttered Chapel of Rest, the orderly white gravestones of servicemen - my soul was full of a melancholy yearning I could not define or measure -

We'd just started reading Portrait of the Artist - it was a revelation - I'd never read anything that spoke so directly to me - I can picture our shy young teacher, pacing around the steamy classroom - 

I still have the foxed Penguin Modern Classic - I started reading Ulysses that summer, sitting upon the warm rattling pebbles of Stokes Bay - 

All of this came back to me, when Paul showed us West Ham Cemetery - we'd just looked over the flat in Forest Gate - 

There, before us, were the poignant headstones, the sad trees, the headless seraph - rain chilled our faces - I sheltered under a Yew tree - 

I thought of all my epiphanies, of a phrase which now haunted me - the haggard, inconstant, splashes of beauty - 

The glass bottle at Studland, marvels we are meant to find ...

Some years ago, we found a small glass bottle in the garden, next to the entrance to a rabbit's burrow - the glass of the bottle was a bluish green - I imagined this small bottle, unearthed by a delving paw, kicked out into the sunlight - 

We placed the bottle upon our mantle piece, amongst shells, pine coins and foreign coins - on one side of the bottle is the legend, Eiffel Tower Lemonade - 

This Saturday, walking along the beach at Studland, proud in my new gum boots, I saw something sparkling upon the sand, glinting in the icy glassy foam - 

It was a heavy glass bottle, full of sea water and dark fragments of sea weed - a small glass ball, caught by the pinched neck of the bottle, acted as a stopper - I poured out the sea water as we splashed through the waves - 

We made our way towards Bramble Bay - there were no naturists in the dunes - a woman passed us, making use of walking poles - we avoided making eye contact with questing pit bulls from Bournemouth - 

Later, I washed out the bottle at home, delighting in its weight and mystery - 

Perhaps, every day, I thought, we passed by marvels we were meant to find -  

The Railway Man at The Rex

Yesterday, we saw the Railway Man at The Rex - it was the premiere of the film nationally - I'd read a review earlier that day, whilst my dad sighed over The World of Yesterday - 

West Street, outside the quirky cinema, was full of discrete new cars, beaded with rain drops - a gentle queue filled the foyer - Anne said - all of the great and good of Wareham are here -

Colin Firth played Eric Lomax, Nicole Kidman, Eric's second wife, Patti - 

Almost all of Anne's book group were sitting in our row - Anne hotly refuted my observation that Colin Firth looked jowly - 

I enjoyed the film, but I felt that it made me into a voyeur, watching a visceral spectacle - each moment was suffused with anguish, then tenderness -

I winced when I saw the savage beatings, shuddered when I saw the young Eric writhing and howling - I felt full of pity for the half naked emaciated men, tormented by the Japanese guards -

Later, after the film, there was a Q & A with Andy Paterson - his mother in law had lived in Coombe Keynes - he was wearing a silky suit, and he radiated charisma - he spoke very well, but I still felt that my emotions had been shamefully played with - 

In the Ladies loo, a woman asked Anne - didn't they treat them horribly? - Anne answered - yes, but the American dropped two atom bombs on their cities - 

Seeking a nest in Forest Gate ...

We'd just seen the flat in Forest Gate - Natalie from Foxons had shown us round - I'd heard cautionary stories about Foxons from Jay, over brimmers of Rioja, but Natalie seemed straight forward and pleasant enough - she spoke courteously to the Polish tenants - she'd answered Anne's searching questions as best as she was able - she'd arrived early in her sleek European car - 

Forest Gate, said Paul, was coming up - Cross Rail was on its way - artisan bread was for sale in the shops near the tube station - Anne had read somewhere that Forest Gate would be the new Hoxton - 

We called in for tonics at The Forest Tavern - I felt immediately at home inside this calm space, with its distressed walls and dream pop on the juke box - I glanced at the menu - perhaps one day I would try the Game Terrine - 

We sat, with our tonics, our minds fizzing with plans - I thought of the post cards from Lublin I'd seen in the flat, the words of the Polish wife - so, you seek to make a nest for your daughter -

The night cafe on the way to Trafalgar Square on New Years Eve ...

On our way to Trafalgar Square on New Years Eve, we stopped for a cappuccino - the cafe shone with a feverish light -every surface sparkled - mirrors reflected a hyperreal interior - everything I saw pulsed with meaning - 

Two young couples sat next to us - they were speaking Italian - the girls had dark hair and bold, shapely, bodies - their boys were lean, with slim brown wrists - 

Behind the counter, a man cut slivers from a cylinder of glistening meat - there were photographs of celebrities upon the walls - a platinum blonde looked over her shoulder - a young god smouldered - 

We'd been let through crowd barriers to enter this world - I thought of paintings of night cafés I'd seen - 

What would Hopper, or Van Gogh, make of this place, I wondered - 

I could see the haunting image, even then - the strange light, the figures picked out against the darkness - 

Dreams of Limehouse ...

I had often wanted to visit Limehouse - it has featured in some of my more unsettling dreams - 

There, in those moonlit dreamscapes, I see the dripping walls of Thameside warehouses - gas jets flare in blind alleys - Nayland Smith is being stalked by Dacoits - Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a lascar, slips into an opium den - a cursed Elizabethan sailor broods within a slave ship - I hear soul stirring shanties in candle lit dens - one of Walsingham's agents takes a wherry for Deptford - 

But before we walked down Narrow Street, we had cappuccinos and croissants in Cafe Vesuvio - young mothers sat with their children - they'd just come from the gym, with their swim wear and badminton rackets - they were sinewy glossy sirens - their beautiful apartments overlooked the river - their husbands hunted numbers in glass towers -

Looking upstream, from Victoria Wharf, I saw Sci Fi ziggurats, glinting in the January sun - I vowed to ascend The Shard - a Thames Clipper churned the turbulent river - 

Yet Narrow Street still reminded me of my dreams - there were the warehouses, with their mysterious facades - there was the sad shell of a Victorian tavern - above me the vapour trail of a jet marked the sky - there, flickering in the air, whispering or singing to me, were all the ghosts who'd filled my Limehouse dreams -