Adventures in the Countryside

My city boy batteries needed recharging with some country air, so this weekend Patsy123 and I decided to test out the possibilities of free bus travel with our Old Codgers Travel Pass.

I'd received an invitation to Christina Mingard's exhibition in this year's Art Tour, so I wondered how easy it would be to get there by bus. I've known Christina for quite a few years now and it's always a pleasure to meet up with her again and to see her latest work. We decided that on Sunday we'd make a day of it (or at least a long afternoon) and do a short walk from Christina's house in Bardon Mill up to Vindolanda, close by Hadrian's Wall.

I should have known that public transport would be unable to come through with the goods properly. We ran into problems at Hexham, where the Stagecoach bus had broken down. Incredibly, they have no depot at the Hexham end of the Carlisle to Hexham run and so had to send for a replacement from Carlisle. The driver had no advice about when he'd asked for another bus or how long the replacement would take - "How long's a piece of string?" was his helpful remark, so we had no idea whether it might be advisable to go for the train to Bardon Mill.

As it turned out, we had to hang about the bus station, pacing up and down, trying to avoid standing on the pieces of gum (unsuccessfully), for an hour before the replacement arrived. To give him his due, the driver made the 15 minute trip from Hexham to Bardon Mill in a much shorter time.

We had a good chat with Christina and admired her new series of flower pictures. I'd had my reservations about how they might look, because the invitation card bore an image of red flowers with green foliage - my favourite colour combination - but they were lovely.

After a cup of tea and accepting a kind bottle of Ambre Solaire to protect us from the amazingly hot sun, we set off on our walk. The delay in Hexham meant we had to do the circuit (Bardon Mill to Vindolanda, via Chinely Burn) much quicker than I'd have liked. I've never been up by the Chinely Burn before and it turned out to be a really nice bit of the countryside. There are great pavements of fractured rock in the stream which I'd like to draw sometime, and sudden picturesque views with huge old oaks.



Low Fogrigg (Oil pastel, 8 x 9.5 ins)

No time to take in Vindolanda, either (I've not visited for at least twenty years), but round by Kingcairn Hill on the lonnen that runs down from the Military Road to Henshaw. Deep set, the lonnen has a great profusion of wild flowers in its banks - honeysuckle, briar rose and foxglove, as well as a lot my memory of 'A' level Botany no longer identifies.

Fearful of missing the return bus, we actually got back to Bardon Mill with enough time to have a cool drink with Christina in the painting shelter her husband Paul has built for her in the back garden. She pointed out to me the various views she's often painted and privately I commended her on finding colours within what I could only see as monotonous green.

Christina suggested to me that it would be a Good Thing if I were to up sticks and move out to the Tyne Valley where I could take advantage of the Art Tour, and for a while Patsy123 and I fantasised about the possibility. Then we got the (one an hour, except on Sundays when it's one every three hours) bus back to Hexham. Only to be held up by road works at Haydon Bridge and so miss the connection to Newcastle. The pint of Last Lion of Britain in the County Hotel while we waited for the next Newcastle bus, didn't make me change my mind that I'm better off in town with my once every 15 minutes bus service.

But I think we might go back to Bardon Mill this summer, if only to return the bottle of Ambre Solaire.

Back to School

I took another break from the palette on Friday night. It was the opening of the MFA show at the University which proved, at least on a first inspection, to be pretty interesting (not least because a friend is represented in it). I'll go back when it's quieter and I have more time.

While I was between conversations with people I knew, I met a Taiwanese PhD student who was keen to talk about her painting. Turned out she has a show coming up at the gallery I'm going to talk to on Monday about a group show.

She pressed an invitation on me and asked if I liked the work shown. It's always difficult on these occasions to say "No, I hate it," but luckily I didn't have to.

"Yes, I do" I said, "I'm a figurative painter myself."

Which was the cue for her to explain her work to me.. One of the images was of a monochrome painting obviously derived from a television image of Elvis Presley. Very grainy and blurred, but obviously Elvis.

"My work is about reality and our perception of it," she said. "We know it's Elvis but it doesn't look like him."

On the front of the card was a painting in full colour of a branch of a bush, again photographically derived..

"What is this stuff?" she asked, rhetorically, pointing to some blurred.foliage in the background. "It doesn't look like leaves, but we read it as leaves. What is the reality issue here?"

Luckily, I don't think she wanted an answer, just someone to bounce her ideas off in an excited manner.

It wasn't until she'd gone to give out more invitations that I was able to take a more relaxed look at the images on the card. One question she hadn't asked me. Did I think they were good paintings? By which I mean, did I find them aesthetically pleasing? And the answer has to be "No." They looked like they might be well enough crafted, but the compositions weren't good.

But then, who gives a toss for outmoded aesthetics these days, eh?

Too much thinking and not enough emoting, I'm afraid.

Later, in the Trent House, I sat with a couple of the Fine Art Department's former staff (secretary and technician), both now retired. Over a pint or three we reminisced about the lacklustre attempts at education made by some of the less talented tutors.

Ee, it was like Old Farts Heaven.

A Night Out with Mrs Sums

I haven't been getting out much. Apart from nipping up to the shops for a few food essentials, like "Manager's Special" fino sherry, I've been hard at work on the next set of pictures.

I have to get six to eight pictures done by 27th August. At the present count, I'm two short, but yesterday I made the stretchers, stretched the canvases and primed them. Three of the pictures are finished, bar some tweaking, three are well on the way, and I have ideas for the two new canvases.

So basically, I'm not worried about meeting my target., But it does mean I'm not getting out much.

Last night, however, Mrs Sums and the Architect invited me out to the cinema. Actually, to be accurate, Mrs Sums invited me out to the cinema. It became clear later that this was to keep the Architect happy because he was less than enthusiastic about the movie. He's more of a Star Trek: Nemesis or Spiderman 2 kind of guy and the movie we were going to see was Japanese Story.

Somehow, any mention of this film passed me by, despite its critical acclaim. The Tyneside Cinema thought it its public duty to let the local populace have another bite of the cherry. Would that the multiplexes operated this kind of policy.

I wasn't sure what to expect. The film concerns the relationship between a bluff Australian female geologist and a reserved Japanese business man and how it deepens to become something more profound as they drive through the desolate Pilbara region of Western Australia.

It's a road movie and a love story and just as you think that's as much as you're going to be given, it twists itself into another dimension, concerning itself with the nature of obligation and grief.

Toni Collette, as the geologist, gets to work her way - splendidly - through the whole gamut of emotions and rather overshadows Gotaro Tsunashima, who gets to play mostly handsome and reserved (but very engagingly)

It's not the film I'd have chosen to go to see, so thanks to Mrs Sums for that, because it's a hell of a good movie. Thanks also to the projectionist for switching off his radio before someone got up to brain him.

And the pint of Ossian in the Bacchus afterwards went down well, and cheered the Architect up, too.

There's an excellent long review of the movie here.

Blokeish Behaviour

The funeral on Saturday went with a real swing. I exaggerate, of course, but frankly I don't think there were too many people there who found the passing unexpected. The younger son had even opted for a fresh Spring approach of light grey strides and a striped Tie of Many Colours. Me? I put my earring in and spent some time talking art bollocks to various interested parties. There was a distinct lack of alcohol at the reception afterwards, perhaps because it was so early in the morning, but the buffet was more than adequate. As I left, I was invited to take a doggy bag, but the awful vision of the noxious couple of freeloaders described in Raised by Chaffinches came to mind, and I declined.

After that, it was into town to see buddies. In the relative calm of Fitzgeralds, I found Buddy K, Big Dave, Will Barrow and the Frootbat, well into a round. I say "relative calm," but in the Toon, all things are relative. Throughout the afternoon, groups of drinkers came and went, with varying amounts of noise. There were the usual gaggles of Fat Slags, giggling and snorting, their tattoos and navel rings on display between the skimpy bits of expensive cloth. Some were accompanied by more sedate blokes, dressed in their finest old jeans with their shirt tails hanging out. Mostly shaven-headed, they exuded Cool, as they puffed on their fags and followed on behind their impressive beer-bellies.

By the time we'd had several disagreeable pints of anything but the even more disagreeable Workie Ticket, and the Frootbat had destroyed the reputation of Islam yet again, we were joined by the women, Suzie Sue and the Apologist. They were carrying a four foot clipped yew tree, which went down well in the pub, and continued to be a source of local entertainment for the remainder of the evening. Almost as entertaining as the Apologist's new uppypusher bra, judging by Big Dave's reactions.

Diabetes and rumbling stomachs called for food, so leaving the Frootbat, we went off to Marco Polo's, where the tree was again well-received. Apart from the chairs, which seemed to be designed for the nursery and paid no heed to the concept of the human back, we had a good time, oiling the wheels of conversation with red and white wine. No, not red-and-white. Red. And white.

What else was there to do after that, but hit the Quayside and sink a few sambuccas at the Pitcher & Piano. Multiple sambuccas have become something of a tradition with Suzie Sue, but I guess I'm coming to the conclusion that one is probably enough. I think she was pleased to have her tree photographed there, though, but tried her best to be out of shot. I assured her that modern cameras would easily have included her with the tree.

"I hate to think that when I'm in my flat," said Buddy K, "that the Pitcher & Piano will be my local." I could appreciate that, so suggested that it might be worthwhile checking out the pubs downriver by the Ouseburn. The Tyne proved a blessing. It's one of those pubs I've never been in before, because in the days when I used to drink round there, it was an S & N pub with no real ale, but now it's excellent. Real ale aplenty, good bluesy music and a lot of live bands playing there several nights a week. My only reservation was that, dressed as I was for the funeral, I did feel a little out of place. I'd have felt better with a woolly hat and a dog on a piece of string.

By then we were euphoric. Scrambling about on muddy shrub-shrouded steps in a fine drizzle, we climbed up to the Free Trade Inn. Which was even better than the Tyne. Good beer, wonderful nicotine yellow walls which any interior designer would give his matching shirt and tie for, and a gents toilet covered in the most eloquent and original graffiti. "When the doors of perception have been cleaned, then we shall see the truth!" "These would be glass doors then?"

On Sunday, I did nothing.

Hurrah!

Big Dave and Buddy K are in town. They've brought Buddy K's wife up to see the Sting concert at the Arena in Newcastle, but it's been cancelled (sore throat). This does not prevent the blokes going out on the town, however, so a quick meal and I'm off to an unspecified pub. I guess this is what mobile phones were invented for. Expect nothing sensible from me tonight.

And tomorrow I have to ease myself out of my pit and get suited up for a funeral at 10.30. Sometimes all your boats come in at once.

A Proper Saturday

Saturday continued: met Patsy123 in town and picked up my pictures from the framers. Also took in a long-delayed canvas, now rolled up, to be restretched and framed for the Man with the Talent. Ran into the Man with the Talent and the three of us spent some time in the Bacchus drinking something unexpectedly pleasant from the Federation Brewery.

More importantly, however, I managed to get the two Proper Boxes I wanted! Proper Records produce some absolutely wonderful boxed sets of old jazz and blues. For a long time I've wanted to replace my old Duke Ellington vinyl and now I have, with Duke Ellington: Masterpieces 1926 - 1949.

Three or four years ago, I went to a party at CJ's with the then Mrs Zip. It was a themed party and to enter into the spirit of the thing I took along my Charlie Records compilation of Billie Holiday. One of the guys there (whom I'd never met before) asked me if he could borrow it to tape because his compilation didn't have "Strange Fruit" on it. I usually make a point of refusing on the grounds that such loans tend to become permanent, but Mrs Zip was making noises about my being mean at the time, so I relented. And where am I now? Without my Charlie Records compilation or Mrs Zip! Don't you just hate it when that happens? But Saturday saw everything turn out fine again. In addition to the Ellington, I got Billie Holiday: The Lady Sings. (which also has "Strange Fruit"). Woohoo.

Each box contains four CDs and a pretty informative 50-odd page booklet, and I got them at HMV under their "2 for £20" deal. Eight CDs for 20 quid - can't grumble at that.

Angel of the North

I'm knackered. The Scottish trip took it out of me and Sunday I spent walking in the sunshine with Patsy123 to the Angel of the North. She's not seen it before, at least not close to. I have, of course, but it's always worth a look. I still think it's probably not good sculpture, but it's certainly achieved iconic status, and that's not all bad. More interesting than the big man, however, are the people who come to look at him. This time there was a long procession of big bellies eating ice cream. Several of the big bellies were carried on the short fat stumpy legs of American women, so that's to be expected, but an awful lot more were wobbling on the fronts of local Geordies. What's becoming of people here? Too much popcorn, beer and burgers, I guess.

Anyway, they all took their turn at standing with arms outstretched in ludicrous parody of the metal man, then sat on his feet and had their photos taken there. Gormley would be thrilled to see how popular his creation has become. There was even a family from Africa, dressed in really great yellow baggy outfits who were genuinely pleased to let Patsy123 take their photo altogether with their camera. They didn't have big bellies.

After all that fun, there was nothing left for it but to walk in the continuing sunshine to the Ravensworth Arms. There I was forced to try out all three of the guest beers, brewed by the North Yorkshire Brewing Company. It's a hard job, but Mr Zip is up to the task, and the beers were not found wanting. But the long walk back to Stately Zip Manor and the subsequent bottle of Baron de Barbon rioja took their toll.

Said goodnight to Patsy123 and fell sound asleep in the armchair. Woke up at 5 o'clock with a stiff neck and tumbled into bed. Plans for blogging put on hold.