The Angel of Malaga

At risk of repeating some information I may have shared with you before on this blog, but the mood to write is upon me, so apologies in advance!

During the first few months after FR and I met - maybe I told you what a whirlwind start our relationship had? We met on 10th March 1996 and on 27th March, also 1996, he moved in with me...

And to continue - we began talking about moving to Spain to live together. I was lucky enough to be allowed to take a year's leave of absence, so we could see how things went without burning all bridges back again - not an option the second time we did the same thing! We purchased a valient (and as it turned out, illegal..another story) Nissan Patrol monster, packed up our belongings, topped off with a precariously balanced wicker chair, and set off. We were heading for Malaga. For two reasons. The first was that FR said the weather was very stable and temperate all year round. (Although the storms of January 1997 and the extreme heat wave in early June put paid to that particular 'fact'...) The second was that he had a friend - a trumpet player - who lived there and who played in the Malaga Philharmonic Orchestra. His name was Angel. I was impressed.

Our journey to Spain got off to a fairly inauspicious start and I actually entered the country in an ambulance. With hindsight, I know that the occasional but incredibly severe pains I had experienced over the previous three or four years stemmed from gallstones. Before I met FR, I had been treated for a suspected ulcer and told it was probably stress....neither of which was true. But the pains stopped and I forgot about them. However, as we drove through France, around Bordeaux, our picnic consisted of some amazing saussison and bread, which we ate en route. Soon after, I guess the combination of the rather fatty saussion, the long journey and perhaps a touch of tension/excitement/stress activiated my gallstones and I had an attack...I don't know if there's a medical term for it but the only way I can describe the pain is in a series of expletives. It can feel like a heart attack (I am assuming...) and like there's an intense pressure on the whole chest area, leaving me rolling around and moaning and groaning.

I tried really hard to hide it from FR but after a bit of moaning and a lot of huffing and puffing, he obviously began to get very worried. I pressed him to keep going as I knew that it would eventually stop and that there was nothing much anyone could do and also that his French didn't always reach French ears in an understandable manner....I was in too much pain to have to speak to anyone.
However, as we approached the border between France and Spain, he had obviously formulated a plan and just we crossed into Spain, he screeched up to a portacabin that was occupied by the Red Cross and explained that I was in severe pain and needed help. I was so bad by this time that I couldn't even speak much English, but I remember being bundled into an ambulance and hearing a siren. It was about 1am. We had arrived in Spain. Not quite as anticipated.

FR did a sterling job following the ambulance through the streets as we headed for San Sebastian. I remember being hooked up to a drip and various things being asked of me. And then being left with FR for seemed like quite a long time. As as suddenly as the pain started, it stopped. I suppose it's the stones that cause a blockage and that when they move or pass through, the relief is immediate. FR tried to find a nurse or a doctor but it was very quiet everywhere - 4am - and so I removed the drip and we ran away to continue our adventure.

And after stopping a few days in Valladolid, we continued our journey to Malaga. FR had spoken to Angel, (sadly, it's pronounced ANN-hel, including a bit of throat phlegm on the 'hel'....the Spanish 'g' is never pleasant.) and he and his wife and young son had offered to put us up for a few days. We had no map that I remember and only the name of the little village where they lived. We began asking for directions far too soon - on the wrong side of Malaga to be exact - and almost everyone answered 'Pa' rriba' - which means, more or less - 'Straight on'. Of course, we eventually found them and spent a couple of days in their tiny little house, very grateful for some sort of base. Over the next couple of days, we managed to find an apartment to rent in a neighbouring village and Angel and Rosa were our first visitors.

We saw quite a bit of them over the next 10 months or so that we lived in Malaga. They moved house during this time and I remember helping to move them into their new apartment in the centre of the city. Angel also managed to get FR hired to join the Malaga Philharmonic for a concert where lots of additional brass was needed. I remember that the programme included Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf' and the concert was absolutely wonderful. FR got well paid too and as this was almost at the very end of our time in Malaga, it was very special indeed. Good old Angel was what we said.

And then we left. FR kept in touch for a good many years but then as sometimes happens, we lost contact.

After the fantastic concert we went to in Granada a few months ago, I have been keeping my eyes open for another and couldn't resist booking for one in Malaga, which included one of my favourite symphonies - Sibelius' 2nd. I didn't actually think about Angel when I bought the tickets but as time is rushing by and we suddenly found it time to set off on the 2 hour drive to Malaga...I wondered if we'd get the chance to speak to him again.

By the time we found a parking space, we were pretty familiar again with the narrow streets in Malaga's historic centre! I remember driving the Nissan Patrol around them and feeling the wheels scraping on both sides of the little pavements! Most of the area has been pedestranised but bizarrely, there's an underground carpark right in the middle of it all! And that's where we ended up - inching our way through the Saturday night crowds of young and old, some in pushchairs and wheelchairs, all ignoring our car as we followed the 'P' signs....with increasing concern. However, at the end, there was a car park that was packed as though it were a ferry and where you had to leave your car keys so that the attendants could shuffle them around during the evening to get some people out and more people in. Very strange!

The theatre was in one little square and I just managed to capture this photo before my phone batteries died....sad face. We had time to have a little wander around the main square, la Plaza de la Merced, and see the Picasso Museum, which I confess I have never been in. Ruy has - he came on a school trip last year and was pointing out all the places they visited. I think they must have spend the day running from one place to another!

We also listened to some great street musicians - a really cool guitarist and saxophone player - and I visited the shop in the main square where I once used to sell my cards. Well, I think I may have sold two or three....

And then it was time to go into the concert.







We were sitting really high up in the third level and the orchestra was a long, long way away. Two trumpeters came out - FR recognised one from when he played 19 years ago but the other didn't look like Angel but as there were only two of them, maybe it was. The first piece was Mendelssohn's 'Hebrides Overture' and whilst the clarinets and woodwind were brilliant, the trumpets left much to be desired. Particularly the one that we weren't absolutely sure wasn't Angel....surely it wasn't.

Then we had a Mozart symphony which we all agreed was OK but not his best. Number 35, the 'Haffner' but again, the trumpets were unimpressive. The star of the orchestra for me was the timpanist. He hovered over his pans (is that what they are called?) like a giant spider as he turned his elbows out and seemed to have overly long arms. He was fascinating to watch and when he'd done his bit, he would sit down with a very theatrical flouncing of his tails.

During the interval, I stayed in my seat chatting to the lady next to me who was an interesting old bird. Travelling alone, probably in her 70s, from Canada. She looked like a frail little thing but I really admired her as she was staying alone in Malaga, learning Spanish and had obviously been travelling around a fair bit. Hope I have her spirit in twenty years time!!

Then a lone trumpeter walked onto the stage and sat down. Now this time, I clearly recognised Angel. Funny how I hadn't been sure in the first half.... No doubt about it now it really was him, but FR was nowhere around for me to mention it (nor, for that, were any of my children...our family having a tendency to scatter at the first opportunity!) And then, Angel walked OFF the stage. As I found out later, FR had gone backstage and asked to speak to him, so someone called Angel from the stage. Apparently his face was a picture when he saw FR! I do wish I'd been there!

The Sibelius was excellent. I studied it as part of my 'A' level music and so I knew it pretty well. I have a great fondness for Sibelius, who seems to me to convey the vastness of his homeland, Finland, so well - although apparently the piece was inspired by Mozart's 'Don Giovanni' - but I simply don't hear that! I see mountains and fjords and snow-covered trees....but either way, it's a very uplifting and emotional piece. And Mateo loved it. I am still pondering Ruy's response that he liked the last movement best....

And afterwards, in the Christmas lights of Malaga, we all met up with Angel and Rosa and their son, Alvaro, who had been only two years old the last time we saw him and who is now studying piano at the Conservatory of Malaga. And Angel was just as warm and funny and full of jokes as he had been all those years ago - only this time, I could understand him. I had to confess that when we first met and I had nodded and smiled at all he said to me, I hadn't a clue what he was actually saying! What was strange was that once again, as happened to me in England last month, the years seemed to fly away behind me and we were all chatting away as though a lot of time hadn't passed and we'd just bumped into each other in town...even Mateo and Alvaro struck up an easy conversation as if they too were meeting old friends. I look forward to them coming to visit in the not too distant future!

And did I say, Angel plays the trumpet....well, like an angel!

Angels in Malaga. Lots of them!

Beauty, the Beast and the Teapot

For those of you who are Facebook friends, you will know already that this week has been very important.

Two years ago, Romy's school did a performance of 'The Lion King' for the end of term and they did it in the local theatre. It is still talked about now with respect, admiration and awe. This year, the school decided they would do 'Beauty and the Beast' and as far as I remember, they held auditions for the various main parts either at the end of last year or early this year. And Romy auditioned for the part of Mrs. Potts and she got it. She was rather nervous about auditioning and she had to learn quite a few lines of dialogue and sing the well-known song from the show. But she did it.

Then all went quiet for a while before the parents were summoned to a meeting - in February, I think - to discuss costume-making. I was a bit worried as sewing is definitely not my forte! I was even more shocked to discover the hall was full to bursting with parents, mainly mums, and to find out that there would be 155 children in the play! The chaos of that meeting gave me a few negative feelings about the undertaking but was relatively relieved to discover that as Romy was a main character, I wouldn't have to make her costume.

Then towards the beginning of April, I was summoned to another meeting. This time with Puri, one of the Infant school teachers, who said I was to make the dress that Romy would wear under her teapot costume and she showed me a still from a performance of the play that had been put on in Madrid. It was a high necked, frilly white satin blouse and a long white satin skirt. Not a dress. Puri said I could buy the material and a lady who lived in the Calle Columbia would make it for me.

Now, my granny was a tailor - not a Taylor though - and my mum always made lovely dresses for my sister and me when we were little. My sister is an incredibly good seamstress and had a flair for design as well. My needlework teacher, who despaired at my dreadful attempts at school, couldn't believe Judy was my sister when she came to the school a few years after me. I never finished anything and nothing ever looked right either. I do own a sewing machine but it never worked properly and without instructions, I could never remember how to thread the thing. And I admit, it frightened me somewhat.

But I decided I would make Romy's costume myself. It was a learning opportunity and there was plenty of time to get it right.

Good job there was plenty of time!

Thinking a dress would be too difficult, I decided to make a skirt and a blouse and I began straight away by making a blouse in 'draft' (I don't even know what this would be called) using some old material and a pattern from a friend. It was too small. So I decided to make the skirt and at the market, I found some lovely, off-white satiny material that wasn't too heavy and I successfully made a skirt. It was very full and a bit bulky. I admit, but I'd made it. I went back to the market the following week to get some more material for the blouse....and they didn't have any more.

Undaunted, I bought some white satin, which is what I had been told to buy anyway, thinking to see which looked best. And I went home and made a blouse which wasn't too bad. It took me some time to make it and by the time I had finished, I could almost remember how to thread the machine without looking at the pictures in my instruction book! Almost.



But as you can see from the photo, it didn't look too good with the skirt. I wasn't happy. And there was too much material everywhere.




So I went to every shop in Alcala to try and find some more cream satin to match the skirt. Why I didn't think it would be easier just to buy some more white satin, I'm not sure....but I didn't. I couldn't find any anywhere that was just the same, so I returned to the market and bought some cream satin, that was thicker and not as nice as the original stuff but which at least was a similar colour, And quite expensive as I remember.

I decided to make a simpler style blouse and laid Romy on top of my material and drew round her.
Then I cut this out with a bit to spare and then, with great speed and confidence, I sewed it up and tried it on her. It wasn't an absolutely perfect fit, but it wasn't bad at all. Spurred on at this success, I decided to take the skirt in and have it more fitted. A doddle. I could now thread the machine and run a seam up in mili-seconds. And soon, I'd sewn the trimmings on and finished both the skirt and the top successfully - and look how beautiful my daughter looks in them!

I was quite happy when I took these in to school at the next meeting. And I was ready to offer my help if anyone needed it...but I was told that first, I should buy 4 metres of a slightly spongy material that had a satiny top layer - I'm sure it has a name but I don't know what in either Spanish or English- in the same creamy colour as Romy's costume. I was so glad I hadn't made it white! And then I had to bring it into school and they would show me the pattern and how to turn it into the teapot.
It slowly began to dawn on me that I was going to have to make the teapot part as well....

The next few weeks saw me backwards and forwards at school as we all groped our way blindly round the plan for making a teapot costume. Puri had her ideas but as I began to put them into practice, I could see they were flawed....there was a moment when I'd followed all her instructions but was left with something that was definitely never going to be a teapot! A bit of back-tracking and I discovered how to make the shape we were looking for. Oh gosh, and sewing the thing together, adding whalebone round the middle, trying to sew the wavy ribbon around the centre was SO difficult and of course, impossible to do with the machine and I couldn't get so much thick material to go through. I sewed until my fingers bled, then I had to tape them up and sew some more....

But in the end, I finished it and the beastly teapot began to look pretty good!

The school secretary had made Romy a teapot lid hat, which was fantastic and Puri made the spout 'arm' - and although this picture is rather out of focus, I think you have to agree, we did a sterling job between us. (I tried to persuade Romy to take her pink socks off for the photo but she was having none of it - she had some lovely cream and gold shoes for the performances, which matched beautifully.)






All that was left was to go and see the show.



And oh what a show!!!

For three nights, the children of Jose Garnica Salazar put on a spectacle that deserved to be seen by everyone. Hearts and souls were poured into the acting, the dancing, the acrobatics, the singing and just being part of a wonderful, wonderful show. It was very cleverly staged and the children acted brilliantly with the songs being performed to a playback tape from the film version. They had such confidence and energy and there was something for all ages to take part in. The town has a very successful acrosports group and there are several champions of Spain at different age groups. Many of the girls are at the school and they performed some very impressive routines during the show. The townsfolk scenes were lively and colourful and the Gaston character was impressively swaggery and confident for a young boy of possibly 12 years old.
There were plates, forks, spoons, can-can dancers, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers as well as a candlestick, a clock, a feather duster, a chipped cup, some amazing wolves in the forest, and touchingly, children in wheelchairs taking their part too. There were tiny children in spectacular costumes doing dance routines - and of course a teapot, an animated and charming Belle and the Beast  - and his alter ego, the Prince.

I managed to sneak in on the first night after I'd finished work and arrived before Romy had done her main part. All the songs were mimed by the children - all except Romy who was singing live. She has a nice voice, without doubt, but I wasn't prepared for how lovely and unafraid she was when she sang. And when we went to see it all together on the last night, she had gained in confidence and sang her little heart out to the most amazing applause at the end. She very nearly brought the house down.

Here are some photos from the play - I do apologise for the quality, it was so difficult to get some good shots but you can get a feel for the amazing work everyone has done.

With the wolves in the forest - aren't they fantastic!

Some of the characters in the castle - including Mrs Potts!

Lumiere, out of focus, but a lovely wardrobe and a brilliant Beast, bottom centre. Don't miss Chip, the cup on the trolley!

Another out of focus one, but with Belle on the chair.

Action shot as the acrosport girls arrive

...and the spoons, forks, plates and can-can girls join them

Lumiere, Belle, Mrs. Potts and Chip - now in human form. Just look at the costumes!

This is when the townsfolk come to storm the castle...

I took some video as well but you must forgive the awful quality. My recording is really poor as I was up in the balcony but I have to share these clips. The first one is a great little scene when the townsfolk come, with Gaston, in the red boots, to try and storm the castle and get Belle back. But they weren't prepared for the resistance!



And here is the jolly good fun scene, with lots of action on stage.



And here is Romy singing at the end of the show on the first night. It's not the very best she sang but it's the best recording I was able to make. You can't see my tears!


 And I am so happy because my mother in law was able to come down to see the show. It's a long journey from Valladolid, but she was utterly swept away by it all. Everyone in Alcala was, I think. And at the end, it was really rather special to hug the teachers and staff from the school and feel so very much a part of it all. Sadly, my mum wasn't able to come - she would have loved it too.

But the very best part of all was the pure pleasure that Romy and her school friends got from doing the shows - all the hard work paid off and they really did enjoy every minute.
Such a great experience for them.

SO - we've had a roller-coaster of a week. How has yours been?

A musical interlude

On Wednesday this week and quite by chance, FR noticed that there would be a piano recital here in Alcala la Real on Thursday evening and he thought it would be a good idea to go.

I have to say, it was definitely one of his better ideas!

The pianists were two had reached the second round, but not the semi-final, stage of the big competition that was ongoing in Jaen. This is the 57th year of this international and very prestigious competition, though I'd never heard of it before. There were 19 pianists at this stage and I think it is an excellent idea that the 13 that didn't reach the finals spent the next few days doing recitals in local towns in the province. These included concerts in Ubeda, Linares, Baeza, Huelma and our own town, where they came to the beautiful old building that is home to the 'Pep Ventura' Music Conservatory, part of the local museum.




We went with Ruy and Romy, and as we waited in a rather small recital hall with children aged between about 8 and 15, plus a few parents and some of the teachers, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. As it turned out, we were in for a real surprise. The two young pianists - one Russian, one Japanese - played Prokofiev's 4th Sonata - quite a heavy work - and Ravel's 'Gaspar de la Nuit', a notoriously difficult piece, respectively and both pianists held us spellbound. I was really impressed with both of them and staggered at the level of their performances. These were two who hadn't reached the semi-finals....
I also had quite a cathartic moment when the Japanese pianist returned without too much encouragement to give us an encore. He played a Chopin Etude which I knew exceedingly well, it being a piece my ex used to play a lot. I honestly don't think I've listened to a live piano recital in the last 20 years since we split up and I couldn't quite contain the huge emotions it created in me. I cry very easily at music, always have, but this felt to come from very deep down. I hasten to add, I don't miss the ex at all but I do miss hearing him play - possibly more than I realised. It was a very powerful moment. Afterwards, I was able to speak to both musicians, though the Russian said his Spanish was better than his English, and to tell them how wonderful they were. I came home quite on a cloud.

And still on the cloud, I did a bit of research about the competition and found that the final was to be held the next day in Jaen. However, all the tickets had been sold...but a bit more digging uncovered the information that the winner of the competition would play a concert in Granada on the Saturday. It didn't take too much persuasion for FR to book us some of the very last tickets available. It is quite to our shame that thus far, we haven't taken our children to a 'proper' concert but this felt like the perfect time to put that right.

So we set off on Saturday evening, parked at the Alhambra, as you do and mooched down through the beautiful old streets next to this glorious Moorish palace to the Manuel de Falla Concert Hall.

It's not a bad setting to go and listen to music....

View towards an incredible hotel (centre) where my friends Denise and Jim stayed
when they were visiting last year.

Walking towards the concert hall - gorgeous colours as the sun starts to set

View of Granada

Lovely courtyard and yes, that 'man' in denim top left is Mateo....
(Our family is rather like a group of cats...they all wander off in different directions
as soon as they're given a second of freedom!)

As for the concert - well, the winner of the competition was a 16 year old girl from Canada, Anastasia Rizikov and she was going to play Chopin's 2nd Piano Concerto. Only 16 - and the winner not just of the competition but also the two additional prizes for the best interpretation of Spanish music and also for contemporary music. We had a feeling she must be good.

I was so unprepared for the confidence and absolute mastery she had of the instrument. She was a consummate performer, showing not the slightest amount of nerves but communicating an excitement at playing. I don't think there would be anything she couldn't play and she deserved the fantastic response that brought her back to perform two encores,

You can't see much on this photo as I just wildly pointed and clicked just before she left for the last time - she's the little figure at the front in a red dress!

Here she is at the ripe old age of 12 - and if you check her out on YouTube, you can see why she's been performing since she was 7. Truly incredible talent. I can't imagine the hours of work she's put in and how incredibly musically mature she is. Maybe some people are just born to play the piano...

The rest of the concert was also lovely and we heard a modern piece, which I quite enjoyed for its orchestration but which didn't appeal too much to the younger members of the family...but they were impressed when, at the end, the composer left his seat in the audience to take a bow. And then, to finish, we had the glorious and uplifting Schubert 5th Symphony. The orchestra was excellent and the conductor, Paul Mann, a real pleasure to watch. (We were behind the orchestra and so had a really good view.) As we left, Mateo thanked me for 'forcing' him to go....he absolutely loved it. (I didn't force him really, but I told him not to make any other arrangements for the evening and it just so happened his friend was in town that day...visiting from Granada, ironically.)

And what could be better? Well, Romy's come home with the desire to start playing our electric piano and she spent several hours yesterday willing to listen to and follow my instructions and by the end of the day, had mastered the scale of C, both hands and two easy duets that we played together. I am delighted.

Note to self....MORE MUSIC PLEASE!!!

In the 70s...

For many reasons this last week or so, I should be feeling very, very young. This is despite having had a birthday which proves I have clocked up well over 50 orbits around the third rock from the sun (as Mateo might put it). I'll tell you why in a moment...

It's definitely summertime here. It's very hot. The living is rather easy as long as you know how to manage the day. It has been around 38 degrees centigrade today ( that's just topping 100 degrees in  fahrenheit) and all jobs where we have to venture out have to been done before the heat of the day really kicks in and definitely before about 2 o'clock. And then, we have to come inside our nice cool house, batten down the hatches and chill out indoors, with windows closed against the heat until around 8pm. And then the children go outside and have water fights until it goes dark and we continue with whatever jobs we have to do that require going outside. We are eating lots of watermelons, drinking gallons of water and enjoying tzatziki, couscous and gazpacho most days for lunch.

I know that England is due a heatwave right now and that temperatures are well up in the high 70 degrees fahrenheit - 24 degrees centigrade -  in some parts. And that brings me to my blast from the past.

Who remembers the heatwave of summer 1976? It was a wonderful summer for me as I was in the Lower Sixth at school - which then meant the year with no exams - a teenager with a fantastic group of friends and lots of amazing parties. And that summer before I went into the Upper Sixth and my last year at school really was a hazy, lazy one.

By pure coincidence, my children - and Mateo in particular - have a strong preference for music from the 70s and our days are ringing to the sounds of Queen, Supertramp, Camel, Deep Purple, Led Zepplin and Pink Floyd. It's an absolute joy to me! Although much of my youth was spent playing in orchestras and that I am serious lover of orchestral music, the progressive rock bands of the 70s were more than just a backdrop to the parties I went to. I really love this stuff and am delighted that Mateo has found it for himself and taken it so much to heart.

Whilst a lot of rock music is loud and the vocals are often high and 'tense', it's not all inaccessible stuff - just try a moment or two of this extract from 'The Snow Goose' by Camel - it still gives me goosebumps when I listen to it...stick with it until the wind quartet starts! An excellent live performance all round.




Ah yes, takes me back!

And in addition to finding a shared love of music from the 70s, our new television - via YouTube - has been providing us with a lot of laughs as Ruy and Romy have been indulging their great pleasure in watching old episodes of 'Dad's Army' of all things!

I thought I had probably seen every single one of these programmes, either at the time of their original screening, which I watched with my Granny and Grandpa on the evenings when my parents were out working in the fish and chip shop we had when I was young. And if not then, surely I had seen all the repeats during the 80s and 90s...but no, there have still be a few gems that I hadn't seen before and today has had me sniggering and laughing at the Home Guard playing a cricket match against the ARP wardens. It's been a useful starting point for a history lesson too - at one point, Romy asked if Hitler was an American...

Life in the 70s was great fun as I remember it in general. For me, there was a freedom as I grew up and a feeling that the world was my oyster. There were grants to go to University and I never doubted that was what I would do. There were Saturday jobs for teenagers in the shops in Bradford city centre. I had friends with cars and we went all over and did all sorts of things - including things that we probably shouldn't have done. There were also strikes and black outs and racism; there was Edward Heath and James Callaghan; David Bowie and Bay City Rollers and Disco; there was a lot of hair and some bizarre fashions - and towards the end of the 70s, in the year I went to University in London, there was Margaret Thatcher, Arthur Scargill and the miners.

What do you remember?

Anticipation ..and frustration

...sometimes lead to an interesting combination!!

I am very excited because my mum is coming to stay this week. We've been looking forward to the event for a good month or so. I even got carried away and prepared to go and meet her a day early...silly me.

I thought I'd write a little post about anticipation and wanted to use a piece of music that sums up that wonderful, increasingly exciting feeling that is anticipation. For me, Handel's Zadok the Priest does it for me every time - it just gets that 'P' Spot.

So off I poddled to YouTube to find the best version - of the ones available, I liked the one by the Academy of Ancient Music, with Kings College Choir, conducted by Stephen Cleobury*. But I couldn't embed it. Nor the one by Yehudi Menuhin ....or for that matter anyone else at all no matter what I did. I was met by frustration after frustration as the message came up that the content belonged to EMI and could only be seen on YouTube.

So I searched more widely and was rewarded by this lovely Flashmob version that Classic FM arranged to celebrate its 20th birthday - in a supermarket. Whilst it really doesn't convey the sense of 'anticipation' that I had intended to deliver, it is quite charming and well done under the circumstances.

Hope you will bear with me on this one and see that I too have done my best under difficult circumstances! 

And now I'm away to enjoy quality time with my mum - when I've worked out exactly when I need to meet her at the airport! 

*You can hear this version on YouTube here

A most unusual orchestra

Grand old man: Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958) conducts the Halle Orchestra in rehearsal in 1956.

From a very early age, I loved classical music - orchestral music, chamber music, (proper music) - and my weekends were spent rehearsing with two different orchestras that I had joined when I was 13. One was the Bradford Symphony Orchestra, rehearsing on a Saturday morning with a mixture of young and older musicians.
It was with some of them that I went to the Subscription Concerts, performed by the Halle Orchestra at St. George's Hall in Bradford, shown here in it's Victorian glory.


We heard some truly wonderful music played at these concerts and I have kept all my programmes - over a three year period - in an old-fashioned scrapbook, which is currently in a barn in Leon. The concerts were usually on either a Friday or a Saturday evening - sometimes, oh joy, on both! Usually, I went with my friends, Anne and Elaine, and we sat up high in the 'gods' and waved at friends below us, opposite us and to the side of us - no one was higher though!

The Halle isn't the unusual orchestra of my title though.

This is the second orchestra I rehearsed with between the age of 13 and 18. It really was the most unusual group of musicians who rehearsed at the unlikely - but oh-so-appropriately named - Oddfellow's Hall in Cleckheaton. (I tried to find a reference to this on Google, but so far haven't managed to - probably no longer exists.)

I was first taken by my then clarinet teacher, Jack Whitaker, who was probably about 70 when I first met him and the most bandy-legged person I had ever seen - but he could really play the clarinet. He and a group of older men (and I mean, older than him!) met every Sunday morning to play through music together. There were never more than 12 or 13 of us in total and the numbers dwindled as time went by. The Hall had the most amazing and wide library of orchestral music and each week, the two excellent violinists, Alfred and David, took turns to chose and then conduct a selection of different pieces whilst the other played. Alfred had a wonderful, generous tone when he played and he conducted with elegance, whereas David was less sophisticated and probably less technically brilliant but his phrasing and control won me over immediately. He was a more demanding conductor too!

Stanley played a very reliable 2nd Violin and to be fair, Stanley was probably no more than 40 years old at the time - though his wide handlebar moustache, swept-back sandy hair, and chest-high trousers gave him  the air of a WWII pilot - he seemed incredibly old-fashioned to me. Occasionally we were joined by a cellist - an excellent player - whose name I don't remember but whose face I can still see in my mind's eye. He wasn't a well man and I suspect he died within the first year of my going to rehearsals, though no one specifically told me and I was too shy to ask. When he didn't come, George filled in. George filled in a lot - more of which later.

Getting to rehearsals required an early start and a lift from one of my parents to a meeting point in Queensbury. From there, I travelled with Mr Whitaker to the outskirts of Cleckheaton where we would stop and collect Herbert the Bass. I then had to sit in the back of the car with a double bass across me - the end of which poked out of the window by a foot or more. Mr. Whitaker wasn't the best of drivers - bless him, he was getting on a bit - and the first time he hit another car with the end that stuck out, it almost broke my  jaw. In time, I learned to keep a very vigilant eye open and sit at a safer angle behind the neck of the instrument.

The rehearsal room was up a flight of steps and I always followed Mr Whitaker and Herbert and the bass up these steps with some apprehension as there was much wheezing and several halts for breath. Then we'd enter the room to see who was still alive from the week previous. Despite being only 13, I was aware of the incredible energy these strange old men gave out - many must have been in the First World War, almost all in the Second, had lived most of their lives already, yet were still full of life; laughing and joking in the broadest of Yorkshire dialects which I often did not understand.

Herbert the Bass positioned himself on the piano - he didn't have a stool, so he perched on the closed keyboard - to play. George the Trombone was one of my favourites and he'd almost always request that we played 'T Derx Pidgins Sweet' - almost never granted until one day, the music was brought out and I discovered that this piece of ballet music was actually called 'Les Deux Pigeons' by Messanger. George always had three music stands in front of him, playing the trombone, 'cello and any other bass part that was required in our small ensemble.

We were blessed with two trumpeters - Herbert the Trumpet, a cheeky octogenarian, who liked to amuse me by tap dancing on the old wooden floors. Then, next to him was the rather bad-tempered Ted, an excellent trumpeter who I much later learned was riddled with cancer. He smoked all the time - as did George and David. Herbert the Trumpet had a pipe.

We sat next to the trumpets, Mr Whitaker playing first and me second clarinet. I played very quietly, especially if we had to transpose - sometimes from Bflat to A and sometimes into C - which required us to play different notes to the ones that were written - or fill in the flute part. Absolutely fantastic training for a young musician. I don't think it mattered that I couldn't be heard too much - it was the exposure to so much varied music that was such a good experience for me.

I sat next to Eric the Oboe - a man with such a dreadful stammer that I dreaded having to converse with him at first - though as time went on, I remember us chatting quite normally as both of us found a way round expressing our thoughts and ideas. He smoked too. The air was thick with smoke.

We would almost always start with an Overture - be it Beethoven, Weber, Rossini, Mozart or even Tchaikovsky - and then do at least one symphony in the 'first' half. Then, changing conductors, we'd sometimes do another symphony or a tone poem or a selection from a ballet or opera - in particular, I loved Bizet's 'Carmen Suite' and Ralph Vaughan William's 'The Wasps'. I think my favourite of all was Mozart's Symphony No. 39 as the clarinets have so many wonderful little passages to play - often in thirds - and in my lessons, Mr Whitaker and I would practice these, so on Sunday mornings, I could play out with confidence. I used to be able to sing the whole of the symphony from beginning to end, just the second clarinet part!

Here is the third movement - listen out for the clarinets in the trio - I used to love playing the supporting, lower-registered arpeggios, but in later years, particularly if David was conducting, he would play the whole of the third movement again and make me play the solo.





Occasionally, very occasionally, Alfred's daughter would come to play flute with us. She was older than my mum but I was always rather resentful of her presence. Being painfully shy at the time, in my early teens, I loved my old men with a passion but couldn't express myself very well to them, very often doing little more than blushing and smiling at their jokes and banter, but Alfred's daughter came and made them laugh. I preferred it when she didn't come.

I must have truly loved going. I rarely missed a week in five years despite having to get up early on a Sunday to go and travelling with the increasingly scary driving of Mr Whitaker and I have never been an early riser. These were special musicians and I learned over the years that many of them had in fact been in service together; David and Alfred had played in a British Army orchestra and Alfred, later played professionally. David had, in fact been a wire-drawer - a skilled job but not one that would normally be conducive to violin playing, I suspect.

If we'd lived then in the world of technology as we do now, I would have been able to record some of our Sunday morning rehearsals for posterity. As it is, I suspect even young Stanley is long gone and Alfred's daughter too, so I am the only vessel left who witnessed and took part in those hours and hours of wonderful music making.

I can hear it now as clearly as ever.

My neighbour is a saint.

Actually, I should say, my neighbour HAS a saint - or rather a picture depicting a saint - one whose name I am unable to tell you but who may, or may not be connected to the saint of the day. Living in a very Catholic part of a Catholic country, we are treated to the celebration of a great number of Saint's Days. Today it is the day of San José - St. Joseph - the husband of Mary and, a little ironically, also the day that Spain (and Portugal and Italy) celebrates Father's Day.

Here in Alcala la Real, a Saint's Day is a good one to get the bands out on the streets - it is the purpose that practice is done every week, after all! We had intended going out this evening to listen and see the bands marching around the town. 

But we didn't need to. 

Unbeknown to us, the couple who live just across the street from us have been harbouring a saint in their front room for the past 11 months. Chosen by lottery from over 600 people in the town, the couple took responsibility for maintaining a picture surrounded by a huge, heavy and ornate silver frame. 

This takes up the greater part of their living room and they have kept it polished and decorated with fresh flowers since last April. Any member of the public who wants access to pray can have it and are welcomed into the house for the purpose. And because this saint is here, so all the bands of the town come around to play to it.

Which is why we didn't have to go anywhere to hear them. 

So far, five different bands have marched either up the road or down the road and stopped outside our kitchen. 

It's been both beautiful and bizarre. And quite loud.

At one point, I pan upwards - and was surprised not to find La Mota all lit up as usual. Caught out!

The 'P' Spot

This also works.....

 
A strange thing happened to me this week. I nipped onto one of my favourite blogs, Knitsofacto, where there is always so much to enjoy in the form of words, pictures and lovely ideas. On this particualar day, the post was about "wool, flax, cotton, steel" and the most beautiful little bit of embroidery I've ever seen. (Do come back again, won't you?)  And as I was looking at it, the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck began to stand on end and I felt tears pricking my eyes and a lump coming to my throat.

And thanks to Annie on Knitsofacto, I have finally been able to name the thing I've always known I had but didn't know what it was called. It is, as you may have guessed from the title of this post - my 'P' Spot. Annie - your beautiful piece of embroidery on that wonderful material and the immaculate photograph you published was......PERFECT. You hit my 'perfect' spot!

I've always had a tendency to moments of strong emotion, mainly when listening to music. So many pieces set me a tingle all over - too many to mention all of them - though I did mention a few in an earlier blog, where I called my reaction a 'frisson'.

This same rush of a sensation - a physical sensation - I remember feeling from a very early age. It can be brought on by any number of things...( and yes, I think I'm very lucky!)

At one of my primary schools, I sat next to a girl, who had the strange name of Jane Graves, who was, as I remember, rather prim and unfriendly but who had the most perfect handwriting - I would sit and watch her making letters and words with absolute fascination. It may be that she would have been friendly to me if I hadn't watched her writing so obsessively. Jane's writing made me tingle.

By happy coincidence, as I reached secondary school, my best friend was an excellent artist - indeed, she now makes the most amazing works of art in the form of cakes - check her cakes at Scattercake - and I was able to take my penmanship-worship to a higher stage. Just to see her pick up a pen, pencil or brush set me off - she held her instrument of work in a way that was just right. Touched the 'P' spot for me every time.

Other things that have, in their time, been judged as perfect according to my in-built system include the sight of Torvill and Dean skating the Paso Doble at the 1984 Olympics. As I was neither very patriotic nor into ice dancing, I can only assume they too hit my 'P' spot as I found myself in tears every time I saw them in this particular performance - and checking it out on YouTube, it still has the same effect!




Looking out across the Sierra Nevada does it to me too - you may have noticed how I love these mountains from previous posts - they are perfect. The film, 'A Room with a View' is positively stuffed with little 'P' spots ('p') for me - the images of Florence and Tuscany and Kent, the sound of Kiri Te Kanawa's beautiful singing and the immaculate timing of many of the lines - particularly Daniel Defoe's cringeworthy Cecil! I adore watching the film and it never fails to deliver the expected quota of tingles.

And of course, music. From Mozart's Requiem, which, in it's entirety probably has the most 'P' spot hits for me; to the third of Richard Strauss's 'Four Last Songs'; to the amazing chord progression that David Willcocks puts in the last verse of 'Oh, Come All Ye Faithful' (chords leading up to 'Word of the Father'...) - I have a whole catalogue of pieces, tunes, chords and moments that sum up what the word 'perfection' means to me. Most of them are, like the Willcocks piece, just a short series of chord progressions or a change of key or a particularly well-hit note.

Here are just a very few moments in no particular order any more would be pure indulgence: I hope you enjoy them too.

'Beim Schlafengeh' - from 'Four Last Songs' by Richard Strauss, sung by Gundula Janowitz

'Prelude and Fugue No.1 in C Major ' by J.S Bach, played by Friedrich Gulda

'Cello Suite No.1' by J.S. Bach, played by Yo Yo Ma (don't listen beyond the music!)

'Caruso (Te voglio bene assai)' by Lucio Dalla, sung by Pavarotti (and basically anything this man sings sets me off but this is just amazing.)

'Misereri' by Gregori Allegri, sung by the University of Nottingham Music Society with a divine solo soprano


And I think you might listen to this too 'Perfect Day' with Lou Reed and co. Listen out for Heather Small at 1'34 and 3'15, Courtney Pine at 2'40 and Tom Jones at 3'26 and think of me! (Beware, there are some awful noises at the very beginning...)



Hope there are a few 'P' spotters out there.  Do share - let's set the world wide web a-tremble.

Noche de lumbre

The turning of the calendar wheel; the passing of time; celebrations - pagan, Celtic, Christian and secular.
Many of these share common dates and the beginning of February is one such time.


Here in Spain, the 1st February is traditionally a night to light fires - lumbres - and here in Alcalá la Real, on a bitterly cold evening, the glow and warmth from many fires was both welcome and uplifting. We were invited to join the fire at the iglesia La Consolación, the biggest in our town, by our neighbour, Manuel. So at around 8pm, we wrapped up warm and made the short walk to the church, where the fire was already burning brightly.
In addition to lots of lovely olive wood, the fire was regularly stoked with piles of rosemary, which as well as crackling dramatically, gave off the most wonderful smelly smoke!

There were piles of 'patatas fritas' - which are fried potatoes and can be either what we call 'chips' (and hot) or 'crisps' (and cold) - I say this because in Spain, 'chips' are crisps, but I reckon this is because Spanish people struggle so hard to say 'crisps'. It's something I get my students to say and it creases me up to see them struggling with the 'sps' sounds - it's alien to them and their mouths contort amazingly in the attempt to bring unfamiliar consonants together. That and 'wasps'... I guess I am easily amused.

Where was I? Ah yes, crisps and other crunchy snacks were laid out on a table along with many bottles of wine, each with special 'pouring' top on - which we had to lift high above our heads and pour the wine into our mouths - saves on providing glasses or cups and no need to share germs! Made the wine taste even better, too, in my opinion.

As we stood, as close to the fire as we dared, we were offered slices of chorizo and salsichon made from the recently deceased pigs - killed during late Autumn at numerous local 'matanzas'. Very welcome and of excellent quality.

Then we heard a familiar sound - Manuel's piano accordian. And I have to say, in a crowded place, with only snatches of the tune wafting through lively conversation, one could almost imagine that Manuel could actually play his instrument - it added a certain something to the evening's enjoyment. A good thing, that is.

And after about an hour, mellow from wine and the glow of the fire, we poddled back in good spirits to our home and agreed that life was good and February was definitely a month for celebrating this fact.


A PS. The next day, I was teaching a couple of English people who live in the next town south from here - Montefrio - and they had not known of the tradition of lighting fires. They live out in the country and heard a loud explosion - so loud, they went out to investigate and were horrified to see what seemed like their neighbour's house on fire! They were so relieved a couple of moments later when two big fireworks went shooting up into the sky and some more, firework-related explosions.

PPS - I wrote about this celebration on my blog last year, together with the one of 2 February, - it has a little more information if you're interested.

Well, well, well

This is a most strange sensation. As far as blogging is concerned, I appear to have - like the proverbial well - dried up!

I so missed writing my blog whilst away in England. All the usual blogger things were happening to me during our stay there - such as thinking up titles, putting into words what I was seeing and doing, turning a single little event into a storyline, mentally adding little comments to the photos that we did (or didn't!) take...but now I'm back...nothing!

It's all gone - evaporated, perhaps, in the warm sunshine in which we are currently basking here in my adopted home - but gone nevertheless. I'm sure it will return. I'm sure it will.

For now, I leave you with this little treasure which is how it feels to be back in Spain - Andalucia. And all I want to do is listen to it over and over. Over and out.

Packing a lot in..

Diary entry.
9.00 : Packed picnic, washed hair, nagged Mateo to have a shower; wondered why he didn't look much better afterwards and discovered he'd inadvertently washed his hair in conditioner. May need to nag tomorrow too.

10.30: Left home to go see a house - for me the second time; for FR the third and for the children, the first. Hmmm. Loved it the first time but today...not sure. No more on this subject for now - no decisions 'til after Christmas.

12.00: Set off from said house to go to beach. Forgot camera - so annoying!  Weather stunning - warm and sunny. Hard to believe it's the middle of December!

2.00: Kids and Darwin going crazy on deserted beach, south of Malaga airport. Children playing some strange, undisclosed game that involves wearing jumpers on heads and collapsing into the sand every so often. FR and I wandering up and down collecting interesting shells, following tracks left by seagulls in the near pristine sand (why did I forget my camera!) and feeding a tiny little sparrow that joined our picnic.

5.00: Braved IKEA. Had expected a heaving mass, this being last Saturday before Christmas Eve, but was relatively peaceful. Spent more than intended but at least found a potato peeler that works! (How do the Spanish manage to peel their potatoes with the truly crappy selection of peelers they have in the local shops??)

6.30: After hotdogs (for the kids only - why do they like them?) headed home feeling sleepy and slightly sunburnt!

8.00: Arrived home. Made more rice pudding as the one I made earlier in the week went down very well.

9.30: Went to catch the last part of the Messiah performed by the local choir and a small orchestra from Granada, in the wonderful setting of the Iglesia de Consolacion in Alcala la Real.Church was full to overflowing. So glad I went. Came out most uplifted - and nice to stop for a drink with a friend on the way home.

11.30: Came home to a peaceful, lamp and candlelit house with all children tucked up in bed, tummies full of rice pudding and toes still full of sand (probably!)

Feathers, breath and voices

I've just read 'Strong Words' on a fellow blogger's post and had the pleasure of listening to an excerpt from the Messiah which has sent me spiralling back into nostalgia and thoughts of 'when I was young'.

I had a Methodist upbringing in the loosest sense - meaning I went with my grandparents to a Methodist Chapel every Sunday, where I thought the Vicar was the most wonderful man and whose words I hung on every week. I would be about 9 or 10 and when I hear his voice in my head, he has a strong Welsh accent, though at the time, I had no idea why he sounded different from everyone else around in our little Yorkshire village.

The chapel was quite small and the congregation sat facing the Vicar, the organ and the choir. My grandpa was in the choir and he had a very loud penetrating  tenor voice. I cannot for the life of me remember how many people were in the choir altogether - not that many - but I remember an equally penetrating soprano called Mrs Francis. To the congregation, particularly to me and my sister, it seemed as though my grandpa and Mrs Francis were engaged in a weekly battle as to who could sing the loudest. My grandpa's singing style - whilst in tune and note perfect - was comical to watch as he was a head back, adam's apple-wobbling tenor. He also sniffed quite a lot, occasionally pulling out a large, clean white hanky to mop as well. He was totally oblivious to everything apart from his singing and he did enjoy himself.

My granny didn't sing, though she did play the piano - famously as the pianist at the local cinema when the movies were silent. She didn't sing in the choir because she was very deaf. Which also meant she didn't hear my grandpa's singing. Small mercies.

My mum sings and plays and singing with an excellent choir, The Tatton Singers, in Knutsford is one of her greatest pleasure. At Christmas and family get-togethers we would always sing, attempting the Messiah most years - with a glut of altos, my grandpa holding his own on tenor and various others delivering the 'tune'. We never had a reliable bass but we managed without. It was Perpetua's post that reminded me of all this. It also reminded me of a lovely period in my life after I'd finished my degree.

I was living in London and looking for a temporary job over the summer. A friend ran a music shop in Soho and promised to try and help. I was delighted to get a phone call from Ted Perry, who had a record company called Hyperion - then a family-run business with a growing reputation for quality productions. It was just after they had produced the now very famous 'A Feather on the Breath of God' album with the voices of Emma Kirkby and the Gothic Singers. If you have never heard it, it's worth having a little moment with these beautiful, pure, clear voices which reach back over the centuries to when Hildegard of Bingen wrote this down

I was invited to join the team to provide page-turning duties for recording pianists as and when required and in the months that followed, I can lay claim to having made around eight records (I don't know if they were CDs) - including working with Roger Vignoles and The Songmaker's Almanac.
My nostalgia kicked in when I heard the first few notes of 'Comfort Ye' (or 'Come for Tea' as we used to say) from the Messiah. Anthony Rolfe Johnson, who used to sing with The Songmaker's Almanac and was on a couple of 'my' records (or should that be the other way round?) had possibly the most wonderful tenor voice in my opinion. Not for the big Pavarotti-type arias, but for the things I love, like Handel, Bach - oh, and Britten. He sang 'Les Illuminations' one year at the Proms and I was in heaven. He died sadly of Alzheimer's disease last year. Anyway, I have a recording of the Messiah with Anthony singing which is my all time favourite. I could only find a couple of recordings on YouTube but this one captures the quality I like so much about his voice - to me, it's very intimate and personal, though I'm not sure if that's because I was lucky to be so close to him during the recordings made by the Songmaker's Almanac all those years ago.

In addition to this being one of the best little part time jobs anyone who loves music could possibly have, we made the recordings in a fantastic place - the Art Worker's Guild, in Queen's Square, London - AND I was invited to the company's Christmas party that year - probably 1983 - held in this wonderful Georgian building. I was terribly nervous about going as it was full of the famous musical names of the era but the champagne flowed very freely and rather a lot of it was going into me so by the end of the evening, I was accosting people and telling them I was the page-turner, who were they?  I'm not going to drop names here...sadly I guess many will be dead now. But it was a wonderful evening even though I remember it with a touch of embarrassment and certainly don't remember getting home afterwards!

I haven't taken the time in recent years to listen to the Messiah but you can bet your life that I will be doing this year - probably more than once. I'm grateful to Perpetua for yet another lovely post and especially one that has taken me on my own little trip down memory lane.

Blubbin' in the sun

San Juan, with houses built into and around it - part of the community

On Sunday evening, I walked up the hill to the church near La Mota - La Iglesia de San Juan - where the local residents and many more from Alcala la Real came to see the Cristo de la Salud brought out for a procession around the steep and narrow streets.

We'd been awoken early in the morning by a series of loud explosions. At first I thought it was guns and possibly the start of some important hunting season but as I took Darwin out, there were more loud bangs, with the telltale signs of firework explosions - little white clouds in an otherwise immaculately blue sky. My neighbour informed me that there would be a procession that evening as she manically swept up leaves, bits of paper, dust and anything else that just happened to be on the little pathway down from the park. She sweeps and cleans all day; every day. (She is Manuel's wife - Manuel of the accordian playing - and I am unable to fix her name in my head but it could, for the sake of this tale be 'Inmaculada' as it's a common enough name around here.) Cesar tells me that when he talks to Manuel, Manuel tells him his wife is mad. When I speak to the wife, she tells me that her husband is mad. The other evening, Cesar was out having his late night cigarette (disgusting habit) outside, where he met the son of these two mad folk. He was on his little motorbike and had a plastic bag dangling over the handle. In it was a live crayfish. The son, also called Manuel, was not sober and also very cross because his father had brought home the crayfish earlier and now he, the son, was going to have to take it all the way back to the river to set if free again, otherwise it would die. It was about 2 o'clock in the morning....They are a clean, musical, caring family. Mad as hatters all of them.




Anyhow, I was told that the procession would start at 7.30 so I strolled up the hill for around that time. And of course, I was much too early. Much.

Putting the finishing touches

And the crowds begin to gather

 It must have been well after 9 before the statue was hoisted upon the shoulders of the twenty or so men who then carried it around the area, followed by quite a large, loud band. The trumpeters blast their tunes shrilly; the drums follow an insistent, repetative rhythm and the trombones and saxophones are invariably slightly out of tune. I couldn't help thinking that it's such a shame that the bands never play anything really fun or even pleasant.




And later on that same evening, I came home and did some reading of my favourite blogs, including one written by my friend Andy Simcox whose latest entry included a clip of a brass band playing in his local park. As the weather is always unpredictable in northern England - well, England all over - the band had in its repertoire, 'Singin' in the Rain' and as I listened to this little clip and heard those lovely mellow euphonium sounds; trumpets that played loudly - and softly - introducing subtlety and humour; drums providing something other than insistent repetition; harmony, melody, counterpart....well, I admit it, I wept. For me, listening to this long-established but by no means famous band, brought me an overwhelming nostalgia. I spent most of the years of my youth playing in orchestras and bands and then rediscovered the pleasure in my thirties when I started playing again. There is a joy - a pure joy - in making music together with like-minded people that I find difficult to put into words but that probably means more to me, despite my lack of any real talent, than most other things in the world. There's the pleasure of the little perfect musical phrase - it might be played in any section of the band or the orchestra - and in every rehearsal, you wait for it, anticipation building, until the moment arrives and that particular mix of interval, tone and tempo sets off a delightful set of goosebumps. From Mozart's Requiem to Grainger's Country Gardens , (played here by the Yorkshire Wind Orchestra, of which I was once a grateful member (3rd clarinet, second stand), an orchestra otherwise full of wonderful musicians including many good friends) I have enjoyed many a frisson of delight and you cannot beat a good frisson! Music has always done this to me and one day, I will document my very best frissons because I do like to share.

Anyway, here is a link to the music recorded by Andy in his local park in Sheffield...it's more than a million miles away from how bands play here in Spain but it transported me 'home' immediately and provided me with several little frissons throughout! (Love the strong local accent you can hear from time to time.)

Thanks Andy!

An evening with Manuel and his accordian

The other evening, Cesar was cleaning the car outside the house - clearly something he has missed doing for the past six months - when Manuel, our neighbour, came out for a chat. Manuel of the piano accordian.

In a very short space of time, during which Cesar had informed him of our own musical backgrounds and interests, he'd popped into his house to fetch one of his four accordians and without further ado, joined us in our new home for a little concert.

Bless him, at times, his right and left hands were working in friendly collaboration but often, the concentration required to play the 'tune' with the right hand meant that the left hand was required to automatically continue the 'squeeze' action which produces the sound  and to somewhat randomly press the chord buttons.



I confess to struggling with my emotions - I wanted to so much to laugh in pure abandon, so wonderfully bizarre and surreal was the music - but actually, we were all very touched by his pleasure in playing for us; his pride in his skills - self taught - and his genuine love of the instrument.

Then he let us all have a turn and we all managed to produce similar mashed sounds - it's really quite difficult to combine three different actions.  The tune is played by the right hand, like a piano - easy enough - but to get a sound, you have to pull and push the two parts of the accordian, the squeeze box bit - in and out at the same time as keeping the tune going. To get the chord accompaniment (the bit I think Manuel needs to work on...) you have to press the appropriate button with the left hand - and whilst on their own, the chords sounded magnificent, it takes a while to find which chord to change to in order to match the tune.

We had such a fun evening - I do hope he comes again. I think he might.

Weddings - Royal and (un)Common

I was taken by surprise earlier this week when someone told me that the Royal Wedding was on Friday. Not living in England can have so many advantages. No big build up, no planning of street parties, no TV and tabloid excesses here.... well, unless you count the Real Madrid vs. Barcelona games that have been played for the past two Wednesday evenings. (Madrid won the first game, Barca the second - from the enthusiastic response on the streets on the first Wednesday, I'd take a guess that the people around here are Madrid fans...I had no strong feelings either way.)

Nor have I ever been enthusiastic about the royal family - I find them a comical bunch and if we are all accidents of birth, I don't believe that to be born 'royal' is a blessing. In this age of 'celebrity' and people watching, there is little difference between being royal or being Elton John, Victoria Beckham or Tara Palmer-Tomkinsons...a few names I pick not at random, but because they were all at the wedding...WHY!!??

How do I know? Well, I had assumed that it wouldn't be on Spanish TV and so gave the matter no further thought, but on the Thursday evening, a TV programme we were watching announced that coverage of the wedding would start the next morning at 10.15. I thought I might give it a quick glance if I got time.

And next day, after I'd taken the children to school, done a bit of shopping and collected a parcel from the Correos (Post Office) I sat down with a coffee and put the television on.

I watched it all. I watched until I had to go and fetch my children from school. Three and a half hours. And at the end, I was quite exhausted and emotional. How could that be?

A friend and fellow blogger, Andy, wrote about his 'confused relationship with royalty' following the wedding. He's a reflective sort who thinks about things and likes to understand what makes him, and others, tick. I started to leave a comment but found I was writing rather a lot - aha, blog material of my own, I thought. So I cut my reply short and said that I'd write more here on my own blog. And it's made me do a little reflecting - very different in style to Andy's thoughts - I haven't tried to understand my feelings about the Royal Family but I have thought a bit about what made the wedding so emotional for me and the choices we make.

What moved me to tears (and would have done whether I was watching a wedding or not) was the wonderful, truly heavenly music that was sung and played throughout the ceremony - from Parry's 'I was glad' - an inspired choice to walk up the aisle to - to modern pieces written by Sir Peter Maxwell Davies and John Rutter; and the lovely hymns, 'Love Divine All Loves Excelling' and 'Jerusalem'. I can't say too much more or I'll become too emotional to write. Music does that to me and always has - and to hear it in such a setting with such wonderful voices - well, I was a blubbering wreck. I was so glad I was alone because I know that very few people would understand that it was not - absolutely not - anything to do with the young couple who were getting married. I guess there was too much going on in their heads to really hear the music properly. There was such an overwhelming Englishness to it too, which brought out a relatively dormant patriotic streak in me too...an unexpected emotion.

I did think about William's parents - Charles and Diana - as he and Kate were saying their vows and I hoped that this wedding would not turn out to be such a sham. What we have learned from the press, their own words and subsequent actions about the relationships between Charles, Diana and Camilla casts such a cynical shadow over that particular occasion. I thought about it and it made me rather sad and a bit cross.

And who wouldn't think about their own wedding? I did. Cesar and I married in a beautiful little romanic (and romantic) church in a village near where his parents live. We already had our two boys and had intended to have civil ceremony in Santander the summer of 2002, but it proved too bureaucratic to organise in time. Enter Don Mariano - priest in said village and good friend of Cesar's mother - who waived all complications aside, cut red and purple tape and performed the ceremony with relish and minimal fuss. The only proviso was that I had to be baptised a Catholic as I came into the church, which meant my little walk up the aisle left a dripping trail of holy water behind me (and a less than elegant hair-do!)

Our wedding took place during our summer holiday and to take full advantage of this, we'd driven down from England, through the Channel Tunnel and camped a couple of times overnight in France before arriving in Spain. I brought the wedding cake made by my mum, in a tupperware box, with us which I had to monitor for ant invasion at all times; it must have been giving out a very tempting scent! We sat on a beach one afternoon - I remember it had been overcast but I'd slathered the boys in factor 40 suncream, wiping the excess on my hands casually down each of my own arms. By the following morning, it was clear that the sun had been rather strong after all and I had burnt quite badly including blisters on my shoulders, although I did have rather fetching 'go-faster' white stripes down each arm, where the factor 40 had worked very effectively. The wedding was two days away!

But as usual, I am digressing more than I intended.

Ours was a wedding that was small and intimate and without any music at all - there was no organ in the church, no time to organise an alternative so we had none. Don Mariano sang a bit, I think. And everyone applauded at the end. Which was nice.

Afterwards, we had just the best party ever and I cherish those memories - of my dad dancing in the garden, of Cesar's father singing flamenco-style at the restaurant and how the wedding cake survived and looked wonderful in spite of its long and unusual journey!

So my reflections were not about royalty after all but about the 'personalness' of weddings . Very few people go into marriage lightly - most of us consider it a serious step; most of us want our wedding day to go perfectly. This 'Royal Wedding' was without fault in its timing, its presentation, its organisation and its visual and aural impact. Ours was a lovely,comical, rather impromptu and unaccompanied affair. But the focus of the bride and groom on each other - and the lovely trust and confidence they showed in each other - gave the whole thing an intimacy that struck the chords for me. It really did seem as though there was no one else there - never mind 2 billion pairs of eyes - just them. And that's how I felt at our wedding. I was 'aware' of everyone else; I remember Mateo falling off the pew with a bang on his head; I remember seeing Ruy (just 8 months old) in a different pair of arms every few minutes as he was passed around from one relative to the next but it didn't really matter. Mostly, I remember Cesar and I getting married.
Nothing common about our wedding - we felt like royalty. (Strange, that.)

I am sure that the royalty-loving British public would have made a far bigger outcry if William and Kate had (somehow) married in secret, or away from the public eye than the anti-royalists seem to have done at the public event.

And did they have a choice? Apparently, they made a lot of choices about their wedding. And if they did, then I applaud their choice of music more than their choice of guests.

So, on reflection, I was very emotionally moved by the Royal Wedding. But, it was, without doubt, for the chords that touched me personally  - and not any romantic notion of fairy tale weddings.

I don't know if I speak for anyone else on this one.