Filed under: Marvellous Melbourne, Uncategorized | Tags: Chav, Melbourne, Oxford, Royal Ascot, The Oxford Murders
A few weeks ago, I was back in Oxford – my home before I moved to Melbourne about 4 years ago. The city of dreaming spires is still as beautiful as ever with punts gliding past, croquet being played on perfectly mown college lawns, church bells ringing and gargoyles looking down from many a bell tower and medieval cloister.
“This marvellous city can be stifling,” says Elijah Wood, a young American student, in a film called The Oxford Murders also starring John Hurt. I know just how he feels. Dripping with architectural, historic and other wonders, it’s easy to feel a bit stuck in Oxford – walled in. There’s plenty going on and the city offers plenty of wonderful parks and gardens to escape the hustle and bustle, but it lacks a certain vibe, a certain buzz.
Oxford comprises a curious mix of locals, students and tourists and, in truth, never the three do meet. Perhaps that’s why it lacks oomph and why I ran out of steam. Perhaps too much beauty, too many bell towers, too many walls and all surrounded by a busy ring road and situated in the low-lying (think damp and fog) Thames Basin.
Don’t get me wrong, I did have fun in Oxford and was lucky enough to have a bunch of wonderful friends and a terrific job as fundraiser at the local Wildlife Trust, but after five years, I was ready to move on to pastures new.
My first few months in Melbourne were tough but once I got going I found that it pretty much gave me a ticket to dream and to start afresh. Melbourne has an upbeat feel, a groovy vibe, a certain ‘go for it’ energy. Melbourne is never boring – whether you’re into books, fashion, jazz, comedy, food, horse racing, cricket, art, kite-surfing, wine-tasting, fashion or spending lazy days on the beach – it’s all on offer.
Combined with the Aussie ‘go for it’ attitude and ‘you’ll be right’, it’s the kind of place that allows you to reinvent yourself, have an adventure and see what happens. Forgive all the cliches, but there’s plenty of space in Australia to spread your wings and experiment. It’s a young, vibrant country – not so beholden to social convention and tradition as the UK.
But, it’s been fun revisiting all those British customs and traditions, all the pomp and dressing-up. Royal Ascot was on last week – and it was nicknamed Royal Chavscot (Chavs are akin to bogans (sp?!)) and their inadequate dress sense has ruffled upper class sartorial feathers). Dress code for the Royal Enclosure was tightened up this year following complaints that standards were slipping and hemlines rising.
Mini-skirts, midriff-baring tops, spaghetti straps and halter-neck dressed were all banned on the orders of the Queen’s representative, The Duke of Devonshire. Ladies were also advised that knickers should be worn, but not on show, and that streaky tans are a ‘total fashion faux pas.’ Race-going Melburnians – take heed.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: credit crunch, Cherie Blair, Royal wedding, Hello magazine
Ok, so I’ve been ‘rhapzodizing’ about England’s countryside, history – and I haven’t started on the food yet (why does it get such a bad press?) – but it’s not all sweetness and light in the land of Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches.
Since I arrived 3 weeks ago, the weather has been dire with only infrequent patches of sun and I’ve hardly had the chance to peel of the jeans and bare a leg. Over the Bank Holiday weekend at the end of May, many of the festivities such as the Hay Festival were miserable, rain-drenched, thundery affairs.
And just before the Bank Holiday, I read in The Independent that 18 million cars were due on the roads and more than 30 sets of engineering works were expected on the railways. Nothing changes…..
And if you do manage to pick a road that is not grid-locked with traffic, there’s the problem of soaring petrol and diesel prices to deal with. The cost of filling a Renault Espace with diesel now costs £23 more than it did a year ago.
Rising petrol and food prices are all part of the ‘Credit Crunch’: a much-used phrase in the press and everyday conversation. It’s probably biting harder in the North than in the affluent South East – in the small Nottinghamshire town of Retford, one shop was advertising a special 50% off ‘credit crunch ‘ sale. I have experienced severe bladder crunch at several railway stations. You can’t have a pee for less than 30p nowadays and so it’s bad luck if you don’t have the right change.
Terry Wogan is still hosting the Eurovision Song Contest – although apparently the voting is heavily rigged – and Cherie Blair has washed her dirty linen in public by publishing her memoirs with the me, me, me title of ‘Speaking for Myself.’ Broadcast on Book of the Week on Radio 4 (what were they thinking?), she reveals when and how baby Leo was conceived. She left her contraceptive equipment at home on a visit to Balmoral to avoid embarrassment. She goes on to explain that when the royal valets unpack ‘one’s’ suitcase, they lay out all ‘one’s’ belongings. But she and Tone nevertheless decided to rock the castle – as if we want to know…..
The papers have also been full of the dodgy deal made by Peter Phillips (Princess Anne’s son) and his Canadian bride, Autumn Kelly. They negotiated a £500,000 deal with Hello magazine to feature their wedding. Many think their sell-out to the airbrushed world of the celebrity magazine was very vulgar and that the Queen was an unwitting victim of the deal. Who knows – maybe the Queen is feeling the Credit Crunch and needed some extra funds!
Maybe I am looking at dear Old Blighty through rose-tinted, tourist spectacles, but I’m drinking in the history, the soft, lush, green….and damp countryside/
Less than 24-hours after landing, I am back in medieval Britain at Rufford Park in Nottinghamshire. Once a Cistercian Abbey and the inspiration for Wragby Hall in D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley, it is the perfect setting for the re-enactment of medieval life during the 12th to 15th centuries. The volunteers representing the Knights Hospitallers really look the part with their plump, pallid faces peeking out under their hooded garments.
Pease Pottage is bubbling in a cauldron, the apothecary’s stand is adorned with hops, comfrey and other herbs, women are combing wool, the blacksmith is smelting silver while others demonstrate how to use a maul – a mean piece of equipment comprising a long wooden pole inset with hobnails around the base. It was used to fend off marauders or to whack the legs of an approaching enemy horse. I take a photograph of a man easing himself into a suit of chain mail and watch while he flexes his bow in readiness for battle.
At the Harley Gallery, part of the Welbeck Estate and housed in the 5th Duke of Portland’s gasworks, I marvel at exhibits including the gloves worn by Charles I for his execution and the consecrated cup from which he drank his last communion.
Still in Nottinghamshire, we visit All Saints’ Church in the village of Babworth. Richard Clyfton, a separatist, was Rector here from 1585 to 1605 and was instrumental in starting the Pilgrim Movement.
From Nottinghamshire my parents and I travel to the River Test in Hampshire – it is one of the best fly-fishing rivers in England. Dad is the angler, but Mum and I are mere spectators and there for the birdlife, peace, tranquility and picnic lunches. We catch a glimpse of a kingfisher – a quick shot of turquoise and bronze – and swans with cygnets riding on their backs. Sedge warblers flit between the reeds, their song strident and metallic compared to the complex song (Dad compares it to Bach’s music) of the blackcap, which like the cuckoo, we hear but don’t see.
Buttercups stain our shoes yellow as we track Dad’s progress up and down the bank, squelching across ancient water meadows. Run by the John Lewis Partnership, the Leckford Estate has 14 beats and all are beautifully maintained with mown paths. Herons strut their stuff, orange-tipped butterflies flit about and wild irises grow on the banks. But we are here for the Mayfly, a creature that spends most of its life as a nymph at the bottom of the river before emerging in May for a brief 24-hours to mate, lay eggs and die. Like butterflies with long, dangling tails, once the Mayfly hatch, the trout start to rise and it’s time to do some serious fishing.
As we drive to and from our country Bed & Breakfast complete with springer spaniel and large, well-stocked garden, we pass through idyllic villages with thatched cottages, country gardens and 12th century churches with cemeteries full of crumbling, moss-covered tomb stones. The scenery reminds me of the picture on one of those old-fashioned shortbread tins, but it’s for real. To steal from Rupert Brooke, it has that stamp of Forever England.
