Travelling in Costume — at Christmas!

This blog, as you will notice from the header, is supposed to be about writing and travel. That’s been challenging over the last few years due to Covid restrictions. Especially in Australia, some parts particularly, we’ve been very limited in travel, or even leaving the house. It’s been very isolating.

I’ve been busy writing, I published two group anthologies while Sydney was in lockdown from late June 2021 to early October 2021, when there was ‘early release’ for those who have been double-vaccinated. I’m not going to discuss the rights and wrongs of the government directives. It just is, and merely sets the scene for what now follows.

I love to sing. I especially love close harmony, but that becomes increasingly challenging when ‘close’ conflicts with the need for social distance. I belong to two choirs which each give me something different, musically. One sings modern arrangements in a barbershop style while the other performs music from past centuries in multiple languages.

I’ve written earlier about my links with historical clothing. When we went into the latest, longest lockdown in Sydney, it was just after my attendance at Blacktown Medieval Fayre. I felt dissatisfied with my attempt at costume and resolved to do more. I wrote about this in Down the Rabbit Hole. https://wordpress.com/post/helenjarmstrong.home.blog/1529

First I repaired the medieval clothing of other family members who are regular historical reenactors. That gave me the confidence to try more.

Dressing/road-testing the new kirtle, about to go for a short walk in the neighbourhood.

St Birgitte coif. The band is sewn from an old, torn chambray shirt.

The coif, being worn. It hides a multitude of hair-colouring sins.

During the early part of the lockdown, I hand-sewed a 13^th century kirtle (think, Maid Marian). Then I think I went a bit crazy. I had some old, worn fitted sheets with ‘dead’ elastic. I spread them out on the lawn in a desperate attempt to keep involved with life and hopefully say hi to any passing jogger. Cutting out fabric, I hand-sewed several chemises, learning more in the process. A coif or two as well, using an old torn shirt and a ripped sheet. I found myself binge-watching historical videos and clothing history sewing videos while I stitched. As I adapted the discarded fabric in my life, I channelled my inner Scarlett o’Hara (remember those green velvet curtains at Tara?). One way or another, as God was my witness, I would never be costume-less again.

As we began to come out of lockdown, our Renaissance choir (ROH Ensemble) was able to rehearse once more (under very strict conditions). I showed photos of what I had been making, and sat at rehearsal finishing the hand-stitching on another St Birgitte coif.

“Would you make me a ruff?” one male chorister asked.

I thought about it. That would be stretching my skills. “I’ll have to find out more,” I told him.

More binge-watching. The information was frustratingly scarce. The process seemed frustratingly tedious and painstaking. The more I studied, the more I realised that ruffs, while worn by ‘ordinary folk’, were very much a status symbol because of the effort (and therefore expense) involved in their making.

I was determined to try, however. One video looked more useful.

The first day we were allowed to leave our local government area, we went to visit our daughter. She gave me an old cot sheet which I carefully unpicked. “While you’re sewing costumes,” she remarked, “Master Six wants to be able to dress up as a Tudor prince.”

Okay, another request for a ruff. And a Tudor cap. My to-do list was rapidly growing.

I visited a neighbour with whom I do a lot of community sewing. In her basement I rapidly machine-sewed a number of quick projects. Using her rotary cutter and very careful measurement, I cut the old cot sheet into as many lengths of 10-cm-wide strips as I could, then carefully machine-hemmed one side. The video had said there was no need to hem the other side. I’ve since found this is bad advice…

Finished ruff. For now… that curve is because I had to sew it to the band at an angle, because of the fraying.

As Bernadette Banner (noted dress historian and prolific YouTuber) so often says, “there is no such thing as true historical accuracy.” All we can do is study the past and try to extrapolate how it was done, and hope we can get as close as possible.

Back at home I sat and hand-stitched some more. I developed a technique of hand-stitching a ruff that let me carry it around in my pocket, so I could take it out and sew a little more wherever I was. I was almost manic in my zeal, when our choir director told us that we had two gigs in the city. We needed costumes! She was determined to improve the historical accuracy and the look of how the choir presented.

In our Renaissance choir, the look is very individual. We do not look like each other. Often, we’re not always from the same time period, our brief is medieval and Renaissance. I had originally planned for my own costume to be 13^th century, but now I was sewing a ruff, that put my costume in the Elizabethan period. Late Tudor.

At my neighbour’s place again, I raided her stash of upholstery samples and made some pockets. These were worn in medieval and Tudor times either under an over-dress or on the outside. When you hear the child’s nursery rhyme, “Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it”, it is referring to these old-style pockets which tied around the waist. According to reports, some women would even carry live chickens to market in their pockets. I figured I could use one to carry my medieval mobile phone and my medieval Opal card (public transport card). I sewed a couple more for other women in the choir.

I went shopping. Cautiously, wearing my mask and keeping my distance. Maybe I could make another dress… then I saw some lace, and some braid. I scurried home with my treasures. And did more sewing.

Kirtle with braid – it took exactly six metres. Trying to turn a 13th century costume into something that COULD be 16th century.

Another friend bought himself a new costume. There was nothing wrong with the old one, but he wanted a change. Unfortunately, it needed work. So that pulled me away. He also needed a Tudor cap, and in my fabric stash I found some royal blue corduroy and fuschia taffeta. An old music folder contributed some stiffening for the brim. It was brilliant. Sadly, too small (hopefully, it will fit Tudor-prince-loving grandson). So I started over, using two layers of plastic drawer liner as stiffener. This time — too big.

The lining and the outer layer — these are the same. We just tuck one inside the other and stitch together.

Finished Tudor cap. This first one (too small) had to be finished in green bias binding,
I was only able to use what I had in he house. No shopping permitted.

My other choir, Endeavour Harmony Chorus, was also booked to perform in the city, on the first night of the Sydney City Christmas program, which was very exciting. Getting the costumes organised was a lot easier for a choir where everyone dresses the same. The City of Sydney was providing t-shirts for us.

The City of Sydney also offered t-shirts to ROH Ensemble but our director graciously declined. It would have looked so wrong with a ruff.

Ready to travel, in costume. My character back-story is seamstress. Of course!

On the day our Renaissance choir performed Christmas carols in the city, we did our best to travel in as a group. With Covid restrictions still in place, there was nowhere sufficient, or with enough time, for us to fully change into our costumes so we travelled in to the city by train already in medieval and Renaissance costume. People were carefully not looking at us.

On Sydney’s public transport we still need to wear masks. Next to the performance area a hotel gave access to two toilet cubicles and a warm-up space. The hotel required QR check-in, proof of double vaccination and masks. But as performers, we also needed to put on some make-up. Masks make a big mess with lipstick, especially.

We managed. We managed it well, I think.

Post performance. Will the rain hold off? Note the pocket. I also carried my musical instrument in there.

Endeavour Harmony Chorus has now performed twice this year in this Christmas tree space, and each choir has one more performance to go in the city. It’s been exciting, challenging (fitting in song sets in between the large city clock striking every quarter hour, and an over-enthusiastic programming of the giant musical Christmas tree). On our next Renaissance performance, apparently a nearby cathedral has brought in bell-ringers from around the state, and they will be enthusiastically pealing bells while we sing of Christmas. In costume.

It’s different. But it’s wonderful to sing again, and to be out and about. What a Christmas gift!

After our next performance in Renaissance costume, I’m taking the ruff apart. It needs more work to ‘floof’ it out a bit more. However, each time I do something or make something, I get better.

Tired after a busy day. Returning home on the train. The ruff didn’t come through too badly, but it needs more work.

I have a long way to go, but it will be a fun time getting there!

Last night one of the other sewer choristers gave me three boxes of fabric for costumes… *sigh*

An old doona cover. I’m thinking maybe red underskirt, brocade overskirt and boned brocade stomacher…

Venice in July

Venice is art, music and history, with a big helping of mystery and surprise.

As Sydney comes out of yet another, and the longest so far, Covid lockdown, we’re starting to look around at travel opportunities again. I saw an ad land in my in box, a hotel deal for Venice, right next to Piazza San Marco. It looked expensive, so I looked up the place we’d stayed in. Much cheaper, actually comparable to a hotel in an inexpensive Australian country town. Oh, the memories!

Everything Venice — the sea, the damage it does, and the means to get around. Venice, 2018.

A good friend had been booked to go to Venice for her first-ever trip before Covid hit. I sent her some photos and the name of our hotel in case she’s interested. It’s time to plan our travel again.

I thought back to when we planned our own trip. Venice had been on our own bucket list after so many books we’d read which were set in that unique city. But we could only squeeze it in during July.

‘Don’t do it!’ we were told, far too late. ‘Venice is nice, although a bit overrated. But in the height of summer, in the heat, the stench is terrible!’

We were making our way across Europe in 2018 and visiting places along the way. We’d been homebodies for most of our lives, armchair travellers only. The world has so many special places we wanted to see, and our trip was bookended by people we needed to visit. But many other more seasoned travellers were trying to mould our itinerary to their own preferences. But we’d booked. Couldn’t back out. When you’ve been stuck at home most of your life, the chance to visit places like Venice, ever, were just too enticing. Even in the heat of July.

From Greece we flew to Rome and joined a tour which also included three days in Venice. In early July the summer heat was intense. Rome with its free-flowing water at various fountains and faucets was more refreshing than we’d expected.

We were travelling by train. Some people might turn their noses up, but not us. And the Italian train service, the Frecciarossa (‘red arrow’) at 300 km/hr is almost as fast as a plane, with the added bonus of scenery out the windows closer to hand. There were other benefits to Frecciarossa — wifi on board, USB and plug-in power, a call button system similar to airline seats and comfort. Good food, too. And for me, plenty of time to write. The plug-in power meant no chance of flat battery on my laptop interfering with my creativity.

Our first view of Venice, as the train crossed the lagoon.

Despite the comfort we were out of our seats to watch as the train slid across the bridge of the Venice lagoon. We could only see a tantalising glimpse of Venice, as if it was a treasure held loosely in a closed hand. Then we were indoors at the railway terminal (ferrovia, or ‘iron way’) for Venezia Santa Lucia. Just the name was exciting and romantic.

From the *ferrovia*, the steps of the railway station.

For the tour, hotel transfer was included. But for Venice, don’t expect a minibus or even a minicab. We got met, and then we walked. Not far, however. But as we left the ferrovia, we just had to stop and gasp. Venice! Grand Canal! Opposite was Chiesa San Simeon. We had to shake ourselves and hurry to catch up with our bags which were in danger of disappearing around a bend in the path. But our guide had paused, smiling. ‘You will enjoy our beautiful city, I think,’ he said, ‘after we have checked you in to your hotel.’

The foyer of Abbazia Hotel, Venice. 2018

In centuries past, this was the dining hall and a monk would give readings from this lectern during meals.

The heat of the day outside was instantly cooled in the high vaulted ceilings of out hotel, Abbazia. It is a former monastery converted to a hotel and was only a few minutes’ walk from the railway station. We were early for check-in and also had to register with our tour guide, but even indoors there was so much to explore.

When we finally saw our room, it was a lot larger and less spartan than a monk’s cell. It wasn’t huge, but it was large enough for a huge TV directly above a large, black bathtub. I kid you not — there was a bathtub in the bedroom. We discovered the separate bathroom with some relief. Taking to the other tour members, it appeared each room was distinctively different, and we were the only ones with such a tub.

The bathtub under the TV, at the end of the bed. The rest of the bathroom is on the other side of that wall.

Looking back the other way. The chandelier was Murano hand-blown glass. There was a white one in the bathroom.

As with so many other cities, we headed out the door as fast as we could. While we had tours organised for the next day, our afternoon and evening was free. So we crossed bridges, we walked, we window-shopped and just goggled at it all. Towards the end of the day we saw smartly-dressed Venetians gathering for a drink in a bar before heading home. Many of them chose to lean against a counter outside, sipping their Aperol Spritz. Having walked so much, we decided to sit inside. Despite the coolness after the scorching heat outside, there were very few people indoors. Our choosing seats marked us as tourists (assuming our clothing and accents didn’t do that already). I think the price went up too, for table service, but our feet needed a break.

Aperol Spritz on the Grand Canal, Venice 2018

Food franchises around the world. *sigh* Venice, 2018

For the Star Trek fans, spot the Venetian borg. Venice, 2018.

We walked further and found a small supermarket. I needed my supplies of lactose-free milk (‘latte sensa lattiosa’). On the way back to the hotel we were distracted constantly, by Venetian masks, flags, shop windows full of exotic blown glass and a confectionery store specialising in nougat. Bliss!

The next day began with a vaporetto taking our small tour group to Piazza San Marco, where we toured the church then explored the Doge’s Palace. This included a demonstration of glass blowing, as gondolieri plied their trade past the windows. We succumbed to temptation and bought a set of tumblers, to be shipped home.

Looking doen to the courtyard of the Doge’s Palace. Note the round fountain in the centre.

Such opulence! Looking down the Grand Staircase to the courtyard. Venice, 2018.

The last view of Venice as the prisoner is taken to the dungeons gave this enclosed bridge the name, ‘Bridge of Sighs’. Venice 2018

Bridge of Sighs from the outside, seen from another room in the Doge’s Palace. Venice 2018

Beautiful blown glass, a touch of Cappadocia in Venice 2018.

Impoverished by the purchase, we were glad lunch had been included in our tour as we were taken to Burano Island to see an even more colourful side of Venice.

Burano Island. Lots of colour and curtains instead of flyscreen doors. Venice 2018.

Flowers, colour and wafting curtains on Burano Island. Can there be any more romance? Venice, 2018.

Mystery, music and temptation. Venice, 2018.

Yours truly, Burano island. Venice 2018.

One thing I was very aware of, was people everywhere. In such a picturesque place, it is difficult to get a photo that doesn’t have other people in it. Unless we were out of the way, exploring quiet, dark, dank alleys, we were around other people.

The next day was ours alone. We bought 24 hour passes on the waterbus and just took ourselves where we wanted to go. We saw more of the normal daily life of Venetians, rather than the tourist trail. The tiny alleys, little curved bridges, steps everywhere. So easy to get lost, but when every blind alley is showing something new, nobody cares.

We looked at the prices of gondola rides, then looked at the challenges of getting into one of the things. We decided to pass. Maybe if I was forty years younger and forty kilos lighter (and forty thousand Euros richer) I’d have had a go. We watched them glide by without a regret.

I think it was something like 60 Euro for half an hour. We passed.

The view from the top of the bridge (previous pic). The open area to the right is the ferrovia piazza – the railway station square and building. In thre foreground to the right is the waterbus terminal for Ferrovia. Grand Canal, Venice, 2018.

On our way back from Piazza San Marco, we saw a notice for a music performance. A small string orchestra, performing classical music. We booked tickets and returned later that evening, just on sunset, to the palazzo near Ponte Rialto. The tide was high, lapping the base of the bridge and I was determined to paddle.

High tide lapping at the doors. Venice 2018.

The water was pleasantly warm. Venice 2018.

The music performance was divine. A splendid way to spend our last evening in Venezia. The performers were all in Renaissance costume which also fascinated me, with my own involvement in various events requiring medieval or Renaissance clothing.

As the waterbus took us back to our stop at Ferrovia, so close to our hotel, we could see by the moonlight and the city lights that the tide was even higher. A combination of sinking sands and rising sea levels will be the death knell of this city, but for now it lives on, a delightful, fascinating place to visit.

And the ‘nasty smells in July’ of Venice? All we could smell was the clean salt smell of the ocean, overlaid with various aromas of cinnamon, chocolate and fried onions.

I long to go back.

The Ultimate Ingredient

Bees foraging in the wild herbs, Greece.

I’d never much cared for Greek Salad before we visited Greece in 1990.

Theatre of Dinoysus, Athens. The dark dots are packaged cushions, for more comfortable seating for an evening performance.

But just over the road from our hotel in Athens, where polished tables with dusty chairs were shaded by huge-leafed trees in the park, we had to revise our opinion. A TV was perched at one end of the row of tables, while old men sat with coffee or retsina, flicking worry beads rhythmically as they watched US sitcoms subtitled in Arabic and dubbed in Greek. The picture wavered every time a bus passed, running over the cable leading to the TV from the kitchen across the street. The waiter brought our salads, dodging buses. We were tired and jet-lagged, and our appetites didn’t anticipate much of worth. But oh! The bliss of full-flavoured tomatoes, soaked in greenish-gold olive oil, with crunchy sweet cucumbers and feta from the mountains! Sprinkled over all was a wild mixture of herbs, hauntingly familiar yet unique. The heavy bread was drying out fast in the Athenian summer heat, but that only made it more suitable to mop the juices from our fingers, plates and bowls. An old man at the next table raised his glass to us with a smile and “Stin ygeiá sas!” (“to your good health!”) nodding in approval at our enjoyment. Suddenly we belonged, and everything seemed so right. The heat, the dust, the barefoot children playing in the fountain — it all was part of our enjoyment of this welcoming city.

A tired, jet-lagged Miss Eight, with her grandma, on the first day in Athens, at the taverna in the park. Athens, 1990.

“The Runner”, artwork in Omonia Square, Athens, 1990.

Later, on our tour on the Greek mainland, we wandered among tall, golden, fluted columns and admired archaic carvings, floating marble draperies against lapis lazuli sea. Each evening we were introduced to some wonderful Greek salads, even better than our first taste in Athens. I took mental notes of the best meals, to try and remember which ingredients made them so special.

A perfect Greek salad in the perfect setting. Paros, Greece, 2018.

Finally in our flat on Crete it was my turn to prepare this wonderful summer meal from memory, using locally bought ingredients. Each morning we’d slip out the door an hour after sunrise and shop with the local people for fresh produce. After breakfasting on home-made yoghurt and local honey, with fresh crusty bread still warm from the baker, I could be found in the kitchen cutting up tomatoes, cucumbers, onion and red capsicum, and putting it all into a bowl with olives and feta. We’d leave the salad to marinate in wine vinegar and olive oil, while we went out for the morning. But the salad, tasty as it was, was missing something. Without the sprinkle of dried herbs, I couldn’t re-create some of our most memorable meals.

We stopped for the view of the gorge, and smelt the wild herbs, crushed under the car’s wheels. Crete, 1990.

However, on one of our drives up into the hills, when we stopped to admire the stark contrast of craggy mountains against the perfect blue sea, I smelt a familiar but elusive fragrance. The herbs! Our car’s wheels had crushed the very plant, growing wild, that would provide the finishing touch to our lunch. I searched, following my nose, until I saw an insignificant little bush just behind the back tyre. Widening my gaze, I realised that the whole hillside was covered with the same low-growing, purple-flowered plant. Stooping low, I picked a sprig, instantly releasing that wonderful, heady fragrance, redolent of oregano and thyme with a hint of mint. The tiny flower distinctively identified the plant as a member of Labiatae, a non-poisonous plant family, but I could identify it no further. Picking a small bunch of these wild herbs, I laid the harvest on the car shelf under the dash and we got underway again. The air was so hot and dry, that the herbs were crisply brittle in a very short time. I sympathised with the plants, as I swigged the last warm dregs from my water bottle.

Spili, Crete, 1990. The village is perched on the side of the mountain, wild mint grew from cracks in the buildings.

We were driving into the mountains, ever higher, winding over impossibly narrow roads. Suddenly as if by magic, a tiny village appeared, with terraced houses clinging precariously to the hillside. The road took a sharp bend to the right as we parked beside the domed, white-painted village church. This place was special — water was plentiful, where the rest of Greece was in drought. This was Spili, where an ancient Venetian fountain channelled delicious spring water from the mountain side, through lion faces of stone.

Spili’s Venetian fountain, ice-cold on a hot day. Crete, 1990.
My husband dunking his head, Miss Eight beside him, and my parents-in-law filling water bottles.

Miss Three and Master Six, cooling off and drinking their fill.

Dripping wet children. Spili, Crete, 1990.

We hurried to the fountain eagerly, filling our water bottles with the deliciously pure spring water, wetting our faces and shirts deliberately in the process. Master Six put his face under one of the lion’s heads, Miss Three had to be lifted so she could put her starfish fingers inside the lion’s mouth with a little squeal of mock terror. I was reminded of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. The water gushed with force, chilled from its journey through rock strata. Down in the square below, a fountain splashed, fed by the overflow from the spring.

The water flowed from Venetian lions which gushed into troughs wrapping around the square. Spili, Crete, 1990.

We were cool at last, refreshed and no longer thirsty. Reluctantly moving on from this miraculous oasis, we passed rustic shops selling the basic staples of this village – raki, bread, fresh vegetables, coffee. I saw herbs smelling similar to the ones I had picked, but with a larger leaf. Stumbling through the Greek alphabet, I realised the plant was wild oregano; but unlike any oregano I’d met before. The flavour was stronger, wilder, more complete.

Weeds grew plentifully on the side of the road. I bent down and picked a large sprig of mint growing through cracked cement. It married wonderfully with the scent of wild oregano which now filled the car on our return.

The worry beads I’d just purchased lay glinting up at me from my lap. Three sets for three people. One set for my neighbour – pure brass, glistening gold. The next for my dear friend, so full of life – ruby red, creamy lustre, interspersed with brass. The last set were Mediterranean blue, winking up at me like a mermaid’s eyes. They are with me now, reminding me of magical places.

Worry beads, komboloi, bought in Spili, Crete, in 1990. Still precious.

The meal was complete that day. We discovered that the final ingredient in a country salad is the country itself. By the time we reached Rethymnon that evening, the mint and the unknown herbs were crisp. My fingers easily crumbled the wild mountain herbs into a jar, with the aromatic combination sprinkled over fresh feta providing a finishing touch to our salads. The spring water from Spili filled our glasses as we drank to this wonderful place.

Wild thyme in flower at an old Venetian fort. Palaorchora, Crete, 2018.

For many years I thought that mysterious plant was Greek oregano, which will substitute well but it wasn’t the wild herb I’d picked on that Cretan hillside. It wasn’t until our return to Crete in 2018 that we saw hillsides covered with cushions of wild thyme, in flower. That was it!

Milking the sheep and goats up in the mountain village. Crete, 2018.

In 2018 we bought a jar of thyme honey from a roadside stall near Elafonisi. Drizzled over home-made yogurt, made from sheep and goats that we’d actually met personally (although they weren’t really into conversation) we had some wonderful but simple breakfasts. But our love of a good Greek salad — ah, they can never be beaten!

Down the Rabbit Hole…

In Sydney, Australia, thanks to Covid and the outbreak of the delta strain, we’ve been stuck in isolation for nine weeks so far, with the prospect of another nine to go, at least.

What’s a writer to do?

The excitement of a medieval faire — Skill-at-Arms at Ironfest, Lithgow 2017. That’s a kirtle the lady warrior is wearing.

On 22 May, a few weeks before the lockdown, we went to Blacktown Medieval Fayre. We went with my friend, the director of the Renaissance choir, and we wore costumes from our choir performances, blending in totally. However, as is often the case, I felt my dress was a little too modern, I felt a bit of a medieval fake. Once again, I resolved to do some sewing. I bought a hat, a capuchon with a long liripipe, it looked easy to sew another like it. But I also knew that there are many ways to wear a capuchon. Very exciting! The capuchon was very much headwear for all weathers. it could be worn over the face in cold, wet weather, or rolled back in warmer weather. And to be different, it could also be worn upside down, in much the same way as a baseball cap these days is deliberately worn backwards.

I spent some time looking at displays with relevance to my Scottish ghost story, where my protagonists have to live off the land in an effort to survive harsh conditions.

Woodwork, medieval-style. Making a leg for a stool. Blacktown Medieval Fayre, 2021.

There have been some things about my fifteenth century Scottish ghost story that have been bugging me. Did they have chimneys in farm cottages in Scotland in the fifteenth century? What about clothing?

I had thought I’d had it right, but going back over my manuscript, I realised that some details were too modern. But, of course, the more I researched, the more I found that was peripheral to my area of study.

Family selfie at Blacktown Medieval Fayre, 2021. Myself, hubby and hairy older son (a Templar).

With nothing else to do (other than edit two anthologies, neither of which can be launched during lockdown anyway) I explored everything and discovered some wonderful personalities in the process.

I can now also make an egg fried rice that Uncle Roger would acclaim. But that’s another story entirely.

They say write what you know. So when we went into lockdown, I knew there was no time like total isolation in the present to immerse myself in the past via the internet and YouTube and really get to grips with all the life skills I might need in order to survive a fifteenth century Scottish winter.

While looking up exactly how to wear a capuchon (would my protagonist have worn one, perhaps?) I found other videos only peripherally connected to my area of study. But outside the house, the days were short and cold, so I snuggled under heavy clothes and studied on. Meanwhile I grabbed the medieval costumes of family members that were sadly in need of repair, and got to work with needle and thread.

One video I found which I went back to, was Elin Abrahamsson and how to sew a medieval kirtle. Worth a try.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRvzUQ8v9Ss

Along the way I learned that hand-sewing could actually be very strong. In medieval times and even later in the Renaissance, clothing was kept carefully, what people wore was a reflection of their status and, unless you were nobility, people made their own clothes. How hard could it be?

I rummaged through my fabric stash. Hmm. Not much there. Shops closed, so no trips to Spotlight. I rang a friend who has a larger fabric stash and asked for help. We did a Covid-safe fabric hand over, and I found some heavy cotton fabric, a sort of tan-coloured canvas.

The instructions on the video were simple — don’t waste fabric. Rectangles and triangles. You measure how high you are, how round you are, work out how much hem you want and calculate it out. Then mark it on the fabric with chalk and a ruler, then cut it out.

I got out the sewing machine. The only place I could set it up in our crowded house was the driveway, on a sunny day. Hubby hung a sail overhead and I did my best. I really tried. But the sewing machine needs to be serviced. Again, not possible in lockdown.

Sketching in the desired neckline with a pencil.

I had to sew by hand. With one sewing needle left and no matching thread, again I had to make do. I chose a thread colour as close as possible in tone, but darker. I sat and hand-stitched long seams in every spare minute. Watching TV or looking over my husband’s shoulder while he fell down the same rabbit hole as me. We started with Vikings, worked our way through Queen Victoria’s cuisine (there was a lot of it) then worked our way back again. As I worked my way through the Tudors I noticed some detail on various styles of headwear worn by the women. I’d had plans to make one of those box-style headwear things worn by various wives of Henry VIII until I found out how they’re put together. That’s a big NOPE from me. You needed a dresser, a seamstress and a large packet of pins just to get dressed each morning. Nothing elaborate for me. After the dress I’m going to sew myself a light linen coif, the small white cap that all people wore on their heads, men and women. Underclothing, on body and on head, was necessary in order to keep the more expensive outer wear clean and in good condition.

Hand-stitching while I wait in the car for my son to get his Covid shot. It was a wait of several hours each time.

In lockdown we have had strict limits on where we could go. One exception (and I rang officials to check) was getting vaccinated. On the day my son had to get his first Covid vaccine, he had to go into inner Sydney. Public transport would not be a good idea, so I drove him. Of course I stayed in the car, listened to the car radio and sewed the seams on my kirtle. He got needlework done on him (Covid vaccination) while I did my own needlework. Travelling there and back was strange, driving on empty roads which normally would be choked with traffic. We shopped for groceries on the way home and it was his turn to wait in the car. Only one person per household permitted to shop. One person per day.

Back at home, after some long study of the Plantagenets (the Henrys, with a few Richards and a John thrown in) my husband was working his way through Scottish history, notably the border rievers. It felt oddly familiar to be hand-stitching a kirtle while watching a docudrama about Rob Roy. The dress I was sewing looked like the ones in the video.

Hand-felled inside seams for added strength.

Attaching sleeves. Again, pin while wearing and adjust fit individually.

One thing I learned through this whole process was that history is so often about the rulers, the leaders, the manipulators. Whereas I am writing about the ordinary people, the day-to-day lives of the majority. I felt glad to immerse myself in the process of sewing my own dress.

The finished kirtle. Finished except for ornamental trim.

Kirtle with capuchon. Our friend thought I had dressed as St Benedict. Apparently it was the right day…

I’ve now started to go back through my novel (the Scottish ghost story from the fifteenth century) and refine the details on clothing and lifestyle. When I mention the young woman mending her brother’s undershift by the fire, I want people to feel the scorch of the fire on their faces, hear the crackle, see the flash of firelight on needle and smell the burning peat. Writing has to be immersive, if the reader’s experience is to similarly be so.

With inside seams finished, I sewed the hem of the dress during a Zoom writers meeting this afternoon. When we went outside to photograph the dress, an old friend was walking his dog past our fence. He didn’t bat an eyelid when he saw me in kirtle and capuchon. Perhaps he was questioning my sanity, after so many weeks of lockdown. We chatted from a safe distance while we got ready to take our photos.

Of course, the dress project is not finished. There’s still another nine weeks to go, at least, in this lockdown. And now it’s time to trim the dress. I’m going to have a go at tablet weaving. But first, that coif…

Cité de Carcassonne – Fairytale Fortress

I’ve written about Carcassonne, France, in the past but it definitely bears a longer examination.

Our travel agent, knowing I have difficulty walking, had booked our accommodation ‘within the walls’. We had learned in previous city stays that while this can be more expensive, we save a lot on cab fares, energy and time, a very precious commodity.

We turned off the autoroute onto a lesser road which wound through vineyards and small villages. The sat nav only showed roads, no topography, so when we turned the corner to see the glowing confection of castle towers on top of the hill we were blown away. After seeing so many ruins with just a suggestion that once there was a functioning castle there, here was the Real Deal.

Carcassonne when first seen. It doesn’t look real. France, 2019.

After leaving our car in a tourist car park, we walked in through the big Double D gatehouse of the city walls. The castle is another enclosure inside, with a lot of quaint, historic buildings jettied out over the street.

Jeff, pointing to the many-layered main city gate.
The square holes in the wall above would have held the supporting beams for the timber battlements.

Multi-walled defences — outside the Cité de Carcassonne, France, 2019.

Inside the first wall, another fortress wall. They could keep out anything in Carcassonne.
Note the timber hoarding on the first tower along from the gate, to the right.

A relief map of the double-walled Cité de Carcassonne. The palace itself is at the top of the image, the cathedral to the left. And yes, that is a Roman amphitheatre. They were here too.

Medieval building with jettied upper storey. The former cathedral is just beyond, the car is outside our hotel.
Carcassonne, France, 2019.

The altar of the old cathedral, now Basilica St-Nazaire. Just beautiful.

There were multiple walls, multiple large gates and giant doors on our way into the inner sanctum. It was another scorching hot day and we were exhausted and sweaty by the time we got to the Hotel de la Cité, beside the old cathedral, now called Basilica Ste-Nazaire.

The hotel was a slice of medieval heaven. Air-conditioned (not a medieval thing but very welcome) with the benefit of thick stone walls, we felt cooler immediately inside the front door. We were handed a glass of iced water each, with a slice of lemon. Even before they asked our names for the register!

I had carried a few loose bags of precious things (computer bag, handbag etc) which the hotel reception minded while we went back to our car. Absolutely no parking inside, so we had a parking space allocated outside the walls, with a transfer minibus.

The town of Carcassonne, outside the walls. Our hire car was down there somewhere.

Coming back in by minibus was quite an experience. The walls of the gates were so close we could have touched them. I could see streaks of various car paints on them from drivers less skilled than ours. There were officials guarding the gates from unauthorised vehicle access. The difficulty was made greater by a right angle within the entrance, so you couldn’t simply drive straight through.

The view from the window of our room in *Hotel de la Cité*. The front door of Basilica Sainte-Nazaire.

Once inside, we were within the walls of the old city but still outside the castle itself. The area inside the walls is much smaller than for other old cities we visited (such as Avignon) but still allowed for a number of shops and the former cathedral.

Up on the walls. We entered via the castle. In the background is the former cathedral.

We’d arrived just after midday so we had plenty of time to explore. I’ve already described our exploration of the castle towers and city walls, but suffice it to say, we were having a ball. So many features of castles that I needed to better understand for my writing, things I had only seen as ruins in so many areas, were here restored to glory. In fact, Carcassonne never fell to arms: only once, to siege in 1209 during a time when the city was controlled by the Cathars. That siege was led by Simon de Montfort, who was perhaps the greatest, most capable knight and tactician of his time. It would have taken someone of his capability to even have a chance. The city was forced to surrender due to lack of food getting through. The people were allowed to leave, but with no possessions and clad only in their underwear. Reports say “in their shirts” but this is a reference to the undershirts, or shifts, that people wore next to their skin as underclothing. Simon de Montfort, of course, was rewarded with stewardship of Carcassonne and promptly began making his own improvements to its fortifications.

From around C13, close-up of knight’s effigy on a tomb. inside the palace, Carcassonne, France.

Inside the castle. Now open to the sky, this would have been two levels that we see here, a large fireplace on the first floor directly in front with two bench seats by a window to its left. The square blocks would be where a floor once was.
Above is a guard walk. The large windows indicate an outlook of relative safety.

We began our walk of the castle walls and learned, too late, that it was a one way path. Up stairs, down other stairs, up more stairs. Walking along the battlements, looking at the places in the outer walls where the temporary wooden hoardings were erected, hung off the top of the stone walls, to give defenders an even greater advantage to drop projectiles onto attackers below. Carcassonne was the first castle to ever do this, and to great effect.

Section of timber hoarding or battlement, which hung out from the outer wall of the castle. As if it needed even more defence!

Contrary to popular opinion, they did not drop boiling oil through the murder holes and macchiolations. Oil would have been too precious to waste. However, burning hot sand would be just as effective at getting inside maille or between plates of armour. Stripping off scalding hot metal to save blistering skin would have been equally fatal, with defending archers just waiting for that opportunity.

On top of the walls. Beautiful stonework.

The archer’s eye view, covering the gate below.

A view through arrow-loop to the inside of the city walls, just in case the enemy got this far.

The top of a lookout tower, facing outwards.

Guarding the approaches. “None shall pass!”

Never forget, this is rich wine country.

I could sympathise with the attacking soldiers being rained with burning sand, as the heat climbed higher into the afternoon, and no way back. The walls of Carcassonne are double-layered, with strong defences in between. Any enemy soldier making it that far wouldn’t have stood a chance.

We did wonder, as we clambered up yet another long, spiral staircase, at how ladies in long, layered skirts would ever get back down. The towers were well-supplied with garderobes, those long-drop toilets handing off the side wall. Something else to drop on attackers… but at least there would be no need to head downstairs to find a loo.

We were almost at the heatstroke stage by late afternoon when we got back to the hotel pool. A quick swim to cool off, then we explored the former cathedral.

Seen from up on the walls — our hotel courtyard. So near, yet so far…

The view of the Pyrenees in the distance.

A saunter around the old city, and a sunset dinner with the Pyrenees on the horizon as a backdrop. Oh, I could have stayed for so much longer! My mind kept going back to Hilaire Belloc’s poem, Tarantella.

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?

Costumes were available for sale everywhere. I did check the price of this kirtle and cloak. Out of my league!

Next morning we were driven back to our car, in the car park outside the walls. Sad to leave, but off to our next adventure in ancient walled cities of France.

As I write this, we’re in lockdown in much of Australia and, unable to sally forth from my own ivory tower, I’ve been going down various rabbit-holes familiarising myself with history, losing myself in the past. My own fiction writing is currently involving various aspects of medieval life, and so it has been productive research.

More to follow…

Knossos — Journey to the Past

Our three children (then) stand beside the symbolic bull horns at the Palace of Knossos. 1989.
This area was not accessible to tourists when we returned in 2018.

The sacred bull — this perfect sculpture dates back to Minoan times. Iraklion Museum, Crete, 2018.

As a child I loved reading mythology stories. Let’s face it, I loved reading everything. A magazine I subscribed to as a child had a lot of general information and science articles in it but the centre spread was always a favourite — a beautifully-illustrated episode of Greek mythology. In the years I subscribed to this magazine, I kept every issue in a binder and read and re-read them until they were virtually memorised. I can still ‘see’, in my mind’s eye, the story of Calypso weeping as Odysseus announces he must leave and continue his journey home to Ithaca.

The classic Minoan Greek key, the flower at the centre of the eternal spiral. Knossos, Crete, 1989.

Other myths were covered too, such as Norse mythology, Celtic mythology and tales such as “East of the sun, west of the moon.”

As I grew older I included more detailed studies of mythology in my leisure reading. I was finding that the more I studied science, the more my brain seemed to demand an equal portion of pure entertainment. Cramming for an exam would lead to an increase in displacement activity of trivia being involuntarily memorised.

As a result, when we first travelled to Greece over thirty years ago, we booked into whatever we could afford in tours of mythical places. We had three small children in tow, who had to be considered. My health was not good and back then I walked with crutches. So we planned to take our time. It was Jeff’s father who especially wanted us to visit his friends on Crete that had prompted the trip, but you don’t go that far from Australia without having a good look around while you’re there.

Three storeys down, natural light in the Palace of Knossos. My children were 8, 6 and almost 4.
This area was closed off in 2018.

It was while we were sitting with the children in the grounds of the Minoan palace of Knossos, eating the sandwiches we’d brought with us, that the germ of a story idea took root. I could feel the history and pre-history of the place and all those stories of the people who had lived there whirled around in my head. When I started to write fiction some years later, among my first stories were the ones from our travels.

The alabaster throne, Palace of Knossos, Crete, 1989. This was thoroughly walled off in 2018.

Alabaster throne room, 2018. In 1989 we were able to go down the stairs below this level.

The stairs leading down from the throne room. Note the small drainage ditch at the top of the steps. I had to reach past the barricade to the throne room to take this photo in 2018. Inaccessible.

In the next room to the alabaster throne, our son on this wooden throne wonders what being a king would have felt like.
Knossos, Crete, 1989.

The wooden throne, 2018. The alabaster throne is in the closed-in room to the left. Knossos, 2018.

When we returned in 2018, our aim was to visit the children and grandchildren of my father-in-law’s old friends. But on the way, I had places I wanted to re-visit and other places to add to my list. My Greek mythology stories have grown in depth and volume, and I wanted to feel those places again, to ‘talk’ to my characters and get them to show me around.

And, of course, as happens when we travel, more stories emerge to tell themselves. They tug at my sleeves for attention, jogging my elbow and putting words in my head that they demand be noted down.

These places are real. Mythology is built on their past, on their truths. These people lived, laughed and loved. And this time, we went into their lives, and the evidence of their lives, in much more detail.

Knossos was a focus for us. Our hotel was across the road from the Heraklion Museum where so many of the treasures of Minoan Crete have been preserved.

Minoan Crete is so much more than mythology. This was an ancient civilisation, advanced and capable, a world centre for trade. All world trade was routed through Knossos. The treasures of Mohenjo-Daro, the spices of the east, even amber from northern Europe. Irish gold has been found in Minoan Crete. This was the hub of the world in its day. The stories tell of the people, and the archaeology confirms so much more. The paintings, the mosaics, the decorations on pottery and the jewellery show a great deal of their lives, as well as the similarity of the culture with other parts of the world at the time.

It’s not just pretty trinkets. The palace of Knossos had a drainage system that flushed every time it rained. The efficiency of design meant that things just worked. And they worked well.

Looking down to a lower level. The drainage channel is clearly visible. Similar channels ran down the sides of each staircase. Knossos, Crete, 1989. This area is now completely inaccessible to tourists.

From the second floor. We walked down there thirty years earlier. Not any more. The site is fragile and needs to be preserved.

Steps where once we walked. Photo from 2018. Knossos, Crete.

The hill of Knossos was first settled, it is believed, 10,000 years ago in Neolithic times. The area is volcanically active and earthquake damage was one of the facts of life. But damaged buildings were generally rebuilt, bigger and better. With the wealth of the world concentrated in this one place, they could afford it.

The Queen’s Chambers. Photo taken in 2018 through a barricade. In 1989 we walked in here and through those doors. I believe it was the door to the right that led to an alabaster bathtub.

The alabaster bathtub that we photographed just off the Queen’s Chambers, 1989. Knossos, Crete.

Fragments of restoration dating from the days of Arthur Evans. Tantalising. Knossos, 2018.

The symbol of the labrys, the double-bladed axe that gave rise to the story of “labyrinth”. Knossos, Crete, 2018.

Samples of labrys, the bronze double-bladed axe typical of Minoan Greece and Knossos in particular. Iraklion Museum, 2018.

Another perfect bull sculpture, alabaster this time, with a range of decorated vessels. Iraklion Museum, 2018.

Above the throne room. Looking every bit 30 years older! Knossos, 2018.

In Iraklion Museum, a wooden model of the Palace of Knossos s it would have looked in its prime. 2018.

The end of the Minoan civilisation came less than a generation after the 1500 BCE eruption of the volcano at Thera, now known as Santorini. That eruption produced an ash fall over months which itself didn’t impact Crete much. But when that volcano blew itself apart, there would have been a towering tsunami washing back and forth across the Mediterranean.

The palace of Knossos was badly damaged, but it still limped along for a few years. However, it owed its wealth to its position in world trade, and when all your trading partners have been badly impacted by the destruction, economic and political power imbalances can kill an economy faster than physical destruction. Invading Myceneans, more warlike, would have opportunistically plundered what they could. By 1100 BCE Knossos was abandoned.

To visit Knossos today is to view a snapshot in time, in fragments. Much of the palace is a pancaked ruin, but Arthur Evans reconstructed segments of the palace to his own vision. He got some of it right, but the main treasures are in the museum these days, while archaeologists work to ensure that what we see in the reconstructions of the palace are as close as possible to what we understand the reality to have been. However, Evans’ work itself has become history and is, ironically, protected.

A glimpse into the past — peering into the scale mode of the Minoan Palace of Knossos, looking through a tiny window along an ancient corridor. Where did it lead? What were their lives like? Iraklion Museum, Crete, 2018.

The Joker is Wild…

When we visit a city we’ve never been to before, we like to take a half-day city tour. In London in 2018 we opted to do a hop-on, hop-off tour on the Big Red Bus.

The weather was blisteringly hot, even for us heat-hardened Aussies. Hyde Park looked like a freshly-mown wheat field, with yellow stubble. Green Park was brown. The lawn at Buckingham Palace was being watered, at blazing midday. The British are not accustomed to the damage that can be done to a garden when each droplet of water becomes a burning lens, intensifying the sun.

Green Park, London. Not so green in the extreme dry heat.

We opted to sit up the front on the top open deck. Some of these buses have plug-in ear buds which help you listen to the tour which is generally automated. Still informative, but if you stay on for a second loop, you’ve already heard it all.

On this run, however, we had a young man with a microphone. With his delightful Irish accent, he told us his name was Declan. And, as we discovered, Declan could be a very naughty boy…

He was, however, a mine of information. He told us all about Nelson’s Column, he showed us Buckingham Palace from the back and the side (buses do not drive past the front) and told us all about the Americans wanting to buy “London Bridge” but in reality, they wanted the iconic (and not for sale) Tower Bridge. Somewhere in the US is a nondescript small bridge which used to be in London and was called London Bridge. Declan was sitting there with us on the top deck, dark hair ruffled by the faint breeze and impish smile at the ready.

As we came past the Houses of Parliament, with the iconic clock, Big Ben, still mothballed, silent and mid-restoration, Declan grabbed his mobile phone and held it to the microphone. “Watch this,” he said. “The people on the street. Let’s blow their minds.”

From the phone we heard a recording of the Big Ben chimes, now amplified through the bus PA system via Declan’s hand-held microphone. Declan giggled while on the street heads snapped round to stare in bewilderment at the huge clock, assuring themselves that it was still wrapped in padding and plastic, looking like another environmental plastic-wrapped art installation by Christo.

Houses of Parliament, from the top of the bus. Declan with his microphone.

Big Ben, under restoration, still encased in scaffolding.

As we went past Waterloo, Declan told us about Philip Astley, who was the founder of the modern circus. Astley was a very skilled equestrian who noticed that trick riding was very much enjoyed by crowds. “A problem,” Declan explained, “was that if the riders were riding along a straight track, the audience never really got to fully appreciate the skill of the riders. So he devised a round track, which initially he called his Circle. It changed a bit as he refined the idea, and became known as ‘Astley’s Amphitheatre’. He brought in other acts to keep the crowds entertained while the next main riding act was getting ready. Acrobats, tightrope walkers and — a clown. Philip Astley was the founder of the modern circus.”

Declan went on to explain earnestly that Philip Astley had actually built his first arena in 1768 on land given to him by King George III, in gratitude for Astley saving the king’s life in a hushed-up assassination attempt. “Years later the king asked Astley, ‘Why, at a time when I was so unpopular, did you intervene to save my life?’

‘Well, Your Majesty, you need to know — I’m never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you…’”

At this point there were groans on the bus and Declan laughed in response. He had just successfully rick-rolled a busload of tourists! [For those unaware of this world-wide ‘game’, the aim is to get people to unknowingly listen to or somehow be exposed to some form of Rick Astley’s 1987 song, “Never Gonna Give You Up.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rickrolling%5D

I had to take it further. I posted some photos on Facebook, as I had done every day, so family and friends could follow our adventures. I included Declan’s story. In doing so, I had turned my post into another rick-roll. My son posted in reply, “Dammit, mum!”

Next day we spent an amazing day exploring the Tower of London. As we left in the mid-afternoon, we decided to catch the Big Red Bus back to our hotel. And who should we see leaning against a pole outside the bus, but — Declan! He greeted us (our hats were distinctive — another story, another time).

A raven at the Tower of London complaining about the hot weather.

I had to tell him. “I shared your story about Philip Astley with my family in Australia via Facebook,” I said, “and I got ’em. Got ’em good.”

Declan laughed so hard he had to hold onto the pole to stop himself from falling.

We made his day.

Baby, it’s cold outside…

I work from home, when we’re not travelling. I write stories, I edit other people’s work and I help them get published. My preferred work station is actually on my bed. I have everything I need to hand, and the drive for coffee gives me exercise as I have to walk to the other end of the house to get to the kitchen. Even when we travel, I often end up settling on the bed in the hotel, perhaps wrapped in a fluffy hotel bathrobe, while I write. On past trips I’ve edited other people’s writing and been able to email the files back at the next wifi point. But for the moment, we’re home. And in Sydney in winter, that brings problems.

Another of my work stations. Writing and editing is a potentially portable occupation.

In Sydney, Australia, we have an arrogant attitude to the cold. We try to deny it. In colder cities such as Canberra or Melbourne, buildings are routinely heated in winter, cars are heated and people dress for their indoor comfortable environment, with perhaps a hat, coat and scarf for those dashes from the car park to work.

Not in Sydney. Here, when winter arrives we pile on the layers and shiver. Indoor heating? Maybe for some.

At my “work station” – the bedroom office on a cold winter’s day.

When I was a kid, our mother would respond to complaints of feeling cold with, “Just put on another pullover.”

The trouble with Sydney, is that spring, summer and autumn are generally either pleasantly warm or scorching hot. Winter slides in slowly, sneaks up on us and then slams into us, ambushing us with grey skies and icy weather.

Yesterday was claimed to be the coldest Sydney day for thirty-five years. I could well believe it. I had to go out a few times and dressed accordingly — thermal leggings, thermal under-shirt, long scarf and padded jacket. For evening wear I added my kangaroo-skin aviator’s cap. And ugg boots, of course. Knee-high ones. [Note: when an Aussie refers to “ugg boots”, we use lower case because for us, they are a standard item of clothing, not a brand name. Never a brand name.] I had to turn sideways to go through the door.

While summer in Sydney is swimsuit, sarong and thongs (aka flip-flops for people who need more than one syllable to describe footwear), the metamorphosis into winter can be a rude shock.

Yesterday was cold, barely 10 C. Yes, I know many of you will think we’re wimps to complain about something as warm as 10 C, but I’ve known seasoned, snow-hardened Europeans reduced to shivering wrecks in a Sydney winter. Jeff worked with a woman who had been born and raised in Siberia, who told him, “I have never been so cold in my life, as in a Sydney winter.”
There’s something about Sydney cold that feels worse than you would expect.

Our house is not heated. Last night the bed was piled with blankets, I wore multiple layers and only just felt warm enough. Hubby Jeff, on the other hand, who normally sleeps through winter in lightweight cotton, was clearly suffering. Whenever I reached over to check, he felt cool to the touch. He slept through but was not quite whimpering in his sleep.

This morning I smugly suggested that perhaps it is time to change the bed to winter mode. That means a down doona (or duvet).

Normally when we change our bed, we take advantage of the Sydney sunshine. We strip the bed in the morning, load the washing machine, put the washing on the line to dry then put it back on the bed that afternoon. The feel and smell of sun-dried sheets is pure heaven.

But not in an icy Sydney winter, not with snow in the Blue Mountains an hour’s drive to the west (snow all up the Great Dividing Range, right into Queensland, we’ve been told).

We stripped the bed, pulled out a spare bottom fitted sheet and only found one, other than the one we had just put in the wash. The fresh sheet had dead elastic. The fabric is in good condition, but the elastic was as limp as week-old celery.

“No worries,” said Jeff. “We’ve got a new set of sheets here.” He opened the pack of deep blue sheets.

“They look the same colour as the disposable hospital gowns they give you when you’re getting X-rays,” I remarked.

Jeff pulled out the sheets from the bag. “Hmm, they feel like it too.”

I felt the sheets, held them up to the light. “You don’t need to take off your shoes and socks to work out the thread count,” I commented. “These are hessian grade.”
The fabric felt stiff and scratchy. We chose soft pillow cases made of old, worn cotton. The scratchy deep blue pillow cases will be uncomfortable against cold cheeks, so they’re consigned to an under-pillow. And new sheets are on our shopping list.

But the bed is made, the doona is installed and I think we’ll be warm tonight.

Portable Scenery and ‘The Birds’ Revisited

When my kids were little, they were into performing arts. As part of this, they were extras on both television and movie sets. Extras are little more than portable scenery.

When they were under age, as the parent I got to tag along too. I was even in a couple of student-made short films. But for the first time, I’m on my own professional film shoot.

Below – the best-fed convicts in the colony. My daughter and son having breakfast after coming out of costume and make-up on the set of Mary Bryant, a mini-series with Granada and Network 10.

A capable stiltwalker, my daughter Rosemary taking a break between takes on the set of The Black Balloon (2008).

The meeting point is in a park, but parking has to be on a side street somewhere. I get to the area early and use the extra time driving around finding a parking spot. Then, at last, hopefully not too far away, there’s a row of parking spaces under an avenue of trees. Score!

With fifteen minutes to go, there’s no time to read a book in the car. I have to find the check-in tent. And it’s raining. Getting dark. I still have to tow my cabin bag loaded with costume options through the broken concrete of the inner suburb streets, and get to the check-in tent with five minutes to spare. About twenty people sit around the edges of the tent, shivering and trying to stay out of the rain. The film set itself is a building adjacent. One by one we go into the back of the building and have our wardrobe efforts assessed by a team. I opened my bag to show my choices.

“Gorge. Fab.”

Time is so limited, it seems, that even words have to be truncated.

Although they’re happy with what I’m wearing, they find something they like better and I pull on another t-shirt, adding a layer of a light, filmy shirt which gives minimal protection from the cold. I quickly wrap myself in my warm coat for the time being, and head back to the waiting tent in the rain.

Several chapters of my book later, we’re moved inside to the edge of the set, while around us they arrange lights and tripods.

Film set on the sidelines

Filming is a lot of adrenalin for a very short time, and a lot of boredom the rest of the time. We’re moved here, or there, depending on the camera angles being planned. In between we mustn’t talk above an occasional whisper because sound levels are being sorted.

“Is anyone prepared to wear some face paint?” a make-up person asks. I volunteer, along with two others. We have to put it on ourselves (because of, well, Covid). I take my inspiration from designs on the set and put designs on both cheeks.

Rehearse. Practice. Shoot. Move. Rehearse. Practice. Shoot. Move. And wait every so often for the planes to pass, inner city location means plane noise is an issue.

Finally we’re finished with. Filming moves out of the building again, but without us extras. Thankfully the rain has stopped, so after a quick, whispered goodbye to the others, I trundle my bag back to the car. While trundling, I turn my phone on again and ring Jeff, to check in. It’s a dark, inner-city street and I’m a woman walking alone, with luggage. As a result we’re still chatting when I get back to the car. There’s a bit of leaf drop and what looks like small figs on top of my car from the kerb side, but when I get round to the drivers side, Jeff is worried to hear me say, “Oh, my God!”

Sacred Ibis, also known as Bin Chicken. Photo by Samantha O’Regan

My car looks like ‘The Birds’ scene in Mel Brooks’ film High Anxiety, a comedy tribute to Hitchcock horror films. Generous coffee-coloured dollops of creamy goo are splashed over the roof and windows. Now I understand why those parking spots were vacant — after a day spent foraging in every rubbish bin loaded with fast food discards, Sydney’s entire population of Sacred Ibis (deservedly labelled bin chickens) have roosted in the trees above my car, freely relieving themselves. I open the driver’s door and long strings of the stuff drip down inside the car. I rummage in my coat pocket for some spare napkins from a café I’d visited at some time in the past. Good — a large, cloth-like napkin. I use it to wipe the top of the door frame to reduce drips but all that happens is the guano is smeared over a wider area. The napkin rapidly clogs with stuff that is the consistency of hand cream but twice as greasy. What to do with the napkin? Normally I would dispose of it thoughtfully, in a bin. That would be the ultimate in recycling, I thought. Put in the bin, a napkin coated in bin chicken guano, for the incontinent bin chickens to then ingest and complete the cycle.

No bin.

For once I have no bin bag in my car, and no spare hand to forage for a container. So I dispose of the napkin thoughtfully by dropping it in the gutter. Well, I thought about it first. It’s biodegradable. I feel bad, but when I think about the condition of the napkin, not too bad.

I climb into my car, now feeling surrounded by giant bird boogers. That’s when I notice that my windscreen is also covered with slime. And no more napkin.

I turn on my wipers. It takes multiple passes of the washer fluid and wipers, but I finally have a space to see through, enough to drive. I need to get out from under those trees and, equally important, get out of a dark inner-city back street.

I ring Jeff back. “I’ve got the car driveable, but there’s a blob of what looks like clear jelly, now, across the middle of the windscreen.”

“Do you need fuel?” he asks. “Get to a servo [service station, or fuel supply centre, for those who don’t speak Australian] and top up your tank, then try to squeegee the windscreen. You’ve got to get that stuff off, it eats the car duco.”

Then I remember my next problem. I’m still wearing my feral street grunge, and covered in face paint. Turning up late at night to a remote one-man-staffed servo looking like I do — awkward.

Gotta clean up my face before the late night servo stop.

At the next stop light I rummage in my bag for the bottle of water the film crew gave each of us. Then, in the pocket of the door, I find another napkin. I splash some water on the napkin and scrub at my face, checking in the rear-view mirror to see if I have managed to do a better job on my face than I managed on the car.

The servo is moderately busy. My face is maybe looking grubby, but otherwise passes muster. I fill up the car, thanking my stars that the filler cap was not also coated with slime, then head in to pay the bill.

Back at the car, still at the pump, I grab the servo’s squeegee and deal with the windscreen. It took a lot of effort, but it finally looks good. Now the back window. Bleah. More time. A car pulls in, waiting for me to move off the pump, but I have to finish what I’ve started. They wait, then back up and move to another pump. I can feel the glares.

It takes me about ten minutes, but I still only manage to remove some of the biggest blobs. What I thought were small figs on the roof of the car — more ghastly guano.

I look at the bucket of water. It now looks like a milkshake cup that has been badly rinsed. White bits float through the mix, with a scum of creamy stuff on top. I tip out the bucket into the garden bed beside the servo driveway, refill the bucket and rinse the squeegee as best as I can.

On the rest of the drive home, I contemplate the especially high fat content of the bin chicken diet in the inner city. It reminds me of films I have seen of hagfish creating buckets of slime when agitated. Not much in this world will cause me to heave, but I have just added bin chicken excretions to hagfish slime on my list of stomach triggers.

Next morning and we can see the whole mess remaining. It’s beyond the capability of a car wash. Jeff pulls on his overalls and gets to work. It takes nearly two hours’ solid work with a gurney but my car is clean at last.

He’s going to need a hot shower, a change of clothes and a hot cup of tea.

I really love my husband.

Art for Art’s Sake

Autumn and another trip to Canberra. We haven’t been to Canberra to see the grandkids there since Christmas. “The last time we drove out of Canberra,” I reminded Jeff, “we saw a queue of cars stopped at the Covid checkpoint trying to come in.”

No checkpoint today, so we sailed through. It’s the Anzac Day weekend, and for Canberra, it’s a three-day weekend.

Viewing art can sometimes be challenging. No social distancing on this day! Photo taken in the Louvre, Paris, 2018

Autumn foliage glowed all the way down to Canberra. Colours blended in orchards from gold to crimson to burgundy, a foil against the dark evergreen of the pine plantations. Cotoneaster berries grew wild along the highway close to Canberra, red and orange dots in profusion.

All week we’d been trying to book the Botticelli to Van Gogh art exhibition, and finally had to log on at the Mackie VC roadside rest stop, using our phone’s wifi to book tickets for six of us. It was also a handy halfway point for us to share the salad we’d brought with us. We managed to get tickets for 3.30 pm entry, which would give us only ninety minutes before the Gallery closed at 5 pm. But with two lively grandkids in our party, we felt that ninety minutes was likely to be the limit anyway. Would they be interested?

This art exhibition is a rare opportunity to see major world works of art which are normally held in the National Gallery, London. From the exhibition website, on display in the National Gallery of Australia, Canberra are “paintings by some of Europe’s most revered artists, including Botticelli, Titian, Rembrandt, Vermeer, El Greco, Velázquez, Goya, Turner, Constable, Van Dyck, Gainsborough, Renoir, Cézanne, Monet, Gauguin and Van Gogh.”

We arrived early to ensure parking. On Saturday, parking under the National Gallery of Australia was free. Miss Nine had chosen a skirt depicting Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” painting, and a shirt with a sunflower theme. Fangirl much? Master Seven was dressed neatly, an achievement in itself. My daughter and son-in-law made up the party.

Very early on, the kids remembered when we had brought them here before. We worked out that we’d brought them to an exhibition of Treasures of Versailles in February 2017. The children would have been six, and four. Yet they remembered. Wow! Maybe bringing the kids to an art exhibition like this was not so crazy after all.

Inside the first big room, the children gravitated to a wall of paintings. “Is that Picasso?” asked Master Seven, “and that one too?” pointing to two of the paintings on display.
I had to look. It wasn’t Picasso, but clearly had been influenced by that style.

The children moved as rapidly as I had expected they would, from sculpture to painting to photography. Miss Nine was enthralled by some fashion design pieces by Jenny Kee and Linda Jackson of Flamingo Park, an Australian fashion house from the 1970s.

We made our way to the special exhibition and quickly noticed the crowds. Even though we’d had to book a time-slot to keep numbers controlled for Covid reasons, we felt hemmed in enough to put on our masks. But we and the children both, then embarked on a journey of delight and discovery. I was so excited, I forgot to take photographs to begin with, which is why there is no photograph here on Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait at the age of 34, painted in 1640. Miss Nine and I just gazed at the painting in awe and delight. The artist gazed out at us from the canvas, wisps of ginger hair curling from under his cap and nose slightly reddened from the cold. It was almost a challenge. “Try and tell me I lack talent. I am a great painter, and by this work you shall know it.”

At times there were queues to go into this room or that. We’d install one member of the group to mind a place, while the rest of us took turns inspecting the rest of the room. So much delight! So much to see!

I am not an art critic, nor am I an art scholar. But great art speaks not just to the scholars but to the ordinary people. There were subtleties that I noticed in some of the paintings, for example, which I discussed with the family, including the children. Some of the art works had comments directed specifically at children. “Find how many dogs are in this painting,” one said. “Would you like to cuddle a lamb?” was the question posed on The Infant St John with a Lamb.

The Art Gallery website had said to allow an hour to view the exhibition. We could have stayed all day. Even the children were able to sustain interest, although the slow pace of the queues frustrated them.

Monet’s works stopped us again. Master Seven was taken with the waterlilies, and Miss Nine with the painting showing the curved Japanese bridge.“We’ve been there,” I told her, and asked her to take a photo of us in front of the painting.

A glorious painting, with wonderful memories.

Then we saw the painting we’d all come to see. Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh. Let me just say, posters and photos cannot do this justice. The painting seems to glow with a life of its own. As we moved around it, the colours seemed to shimmer and change. It is a brilliant study in shades of yellow, more shades than we could ever expect to exist.

No photograph can do this justice. It just glows.

We had less than half an hour before the Gallery closed, and there was still one room we’d been told to see. “You must see the pumpkin room,” a good friend had told us. “The children will love it.”
So with Master Seven now getting restless, I took the children outside the exhibition and into the rest of the gallery. We had to hurry past some wonderful art works I’d have loved to linger with. We joined another queue outside a yellow room with black dots. When we finally got our turn, we only had a couple of minutes. Inside the room was a large cube made of mirrors, which reflected the yellow and black in a full immersion experience. And on the other side, away from the doorway we’d entered into this artwork, was a small window into the mirrored cube. The children peered in and saw what appeared to be yellow glass pumpkins, reflected in every direction away to infinity. Our faces were in a small square which also repeated to infinity.

Miss Nine and Master Seven experiencing art at an immersion level.

Pumpkins to infinity. For Pratchett fans, it reminds me of Desiderata’s magic wand, which keeps re-setting itself to pumpkins.

We had ten minutes left. We walked back past Blue Poles by Jackson Pollock, a controversial artwork purchased for $1.3 million in 1973 by the Whitlam government. Now valued at up to $350 million, this purchase has been vindicated, even though for non-art experts like myself it still is an enigma.

*Blue Poles* by Jackson Pollock. I believe bicycles played a part in its creation.

Master Seven saw a large Monet Waterlilies canvas and immediately identified it as being “like that painting of the flowers and the green bridge.” Just then we met up with the rest of our party — Jeff, with our daughter and her husband. As we headed to the elevator from this floor, we passed some small sculptures reminiscent of The Skywhale hot air balloon designed by Piccinini for Canberra’s centenary in 2013. It is now owned by the National Gallery of Australia. Film of this amazing hot-air balloon surrounded the walls. It looks like a very realistic whale, but with five pendulous breasts on each side. It’s a controversial and thought-provoking work, dubbed by some as “Moby Tit”.

The last thing we saw as we left, was a painting that was a blend of influences. One of Andy Wharhol’s images of Marilyn Monroe had been grafted onto Van Gogh’s Sunflowers by Martin Sharp and Tim Lewis. Cheeky. Irreverent, maybe. Sharp himself saw it as homage to the influence of both Andy Wharhol and Vincent van Gogh.

Over dinner on the lakeside we discussed art between us, adults and children, all as equals. Art is for the people. Art is designed to give you something to think about.

There is more to art than meets the eye.