From British trains to Roman cities, civilisation can be a precarious thing

When I started working in Europe in the mid-‘90s, my employer awarded me a “hardship bonus” for living in England. It wasn’t nearly as much as colleagues posted to what we then called “3rd World” nations, but it had been a welcome gift when I had wanted to come here in the first place. 

That was back in the days of generously-funded ex-pat packages, and I worked for a company confident in its belief that living anywhere outside of the USA was a sacrifice that deserved compensation. They had some points. The UK was a different world back then. Shops weren’t open in evenings or Sundays (with no Amazon or delivery as an alternative). Customer service rarely rose above grudging resentment. Retail options and value for money were so bad that not only did I do all my clothes shopping in the States, but I regularly imported groceries, too. The internet was still in its infancy, so you were essentially cut off from American news, sport and entertainment. Decent dining out was expensive and limited. Worst of all, it was difficult to exercise your God-given American right to get in a car, drive smoothly from point A to B and quickly find free parking a stone’s throw from your destination. You were often expected to walk long distances or, even worse, crowd with others into public transportation.

I hadn’t thought about that for decades. Then I hit two weeks in a row of public transport meltdown at Waterloo Station and wondered if maybe those HR wonks at corporate HQ back then had a point.

Fires on the line featured in both cases, on consecutive Tuesdays. Though fairly small and quickly extinguished, both incidents shut down all trains for hours. Problems were exacerbated by our current extended heat wave (which Midwestern Americans would see as gloriously mild late-Spring weather). British infrastructure is designed to operate in a narrow band of climactic clemency; pushing beyond it in either direction generally wrecks havoc. I understand these things happen; my issue was with the complete lack of official guidance. Information boards offered the most basic news: there'd been a fire and trains were delayed. No estimated time for renewal of service. No suggestions of alternative ways home. On the second Tuesday, there wasn't a uniformed employee in sight. On the first, there'd been a few but they were almost as useless as the notice boards. In a world of ubiquitous, instant communication, you'd figure a crisis management team would at least have news online, right? Wrong. Network Rail's journey planner had the same basic warning of disruption, while South Western Railways was completely silent. Allowing their Twitter feed to be taken over by hundreds of angry commuters tagging them in rage. 

The comments, many dripping with hysterical sarcasm, were fine entertainment while you were waiting. That is, of course, if you could even get a web page to load. Mobile reception is notoriously dodgy at Waterloo and with thousands of stranded commuters looking for answers and killing time, it was on its knees. It all just added to the environment of general chaos. The Brits are famously patient in the face of adversity, but nerves were fraying. 

On the second Tuesday it did, ironically, define the lesson of the day. Civilisation is a thin and worryingly unstable veneer. 

We'd stayed in London past our usual 16:45 dash for Hampshire for a members' lecture at the British Museum. The Inaccessible Roman Empire toured us around the Eastern and Southern swathe of the Mediterranean that current conflicts now make mostly a no-go area. It was once one of the richest parts of the Roman empire. From Syria around to Tunisia, this crescent was packed with dignified cities, luxurious villas, exquisite mosaics; many in fairly good condition until recently. Sam Moorhead, a British Museum specialist on ancient coins and an archeologist who's dug at many of these sites, offered a bucket list of fascinating locations any ancient history buff would be keen to explore. Many of them are relatively unknown to the Western world and would have offered gloriously uncrowded experiences. (Like my magical 2007 excursion to Dougga in the Tunisian hinterlands, described here.)

The past decade, however, has been cataclysmic for Rome's legacy. Conflict has not only played a direct role in destroying these sites ... most famously Daesh's attacks on Palmyra ... but created an environment of anarchy that's allowed the twin evils of neglect and looting to take over.

Apamaea in Syria is a disturbingly vivid case in point. Once famous for having the longest intact colonnade of any ancient Roman site, it's now a poster-child for looting. The photo says it all. On the left, the mostly-unexcavated site in farm fields at the start of the civil war. The right is three years later, now pockmarked by holes in a near-industrial level of looting. The war wasn't even into its worst years yet, said Moorhead. As soon as authority was looking the other way, the floodgates of abuse opened.

Dura-Europos was another revelation of riches. The border town (with the Parthian empire) was made wealthy by trade routes, then destroyed and abandoned in ancient conflicts. In its last siege, however, defenders had piled mud against house walls to enhance their defences. A thousand years later, excavations revealed vivid wall paintings in one of history's oldest synagogues, and churches. These include the oldest painting of Christ in the world. Who knows if their still there, Moorhead pondered sadly.

Our journey continued through the horrors of Palmyra, the devastation of Hatra, and the more benign neglect in Libya. Though nobody there is purposefully destroying anything, and there's enough national pride in the monuments to prevent looting, a failed state's lack of funding means dangerous neglect. The astonishingly beautiful seaside theatre at Sabratha, for example, risks crumbling into dust as rising sea levels send destructive salt seeping up its columns.

All of this led to fascinating discussions, from the role of 3D printing (we can re-create some of this stuff, but should we?) to the ethics of hanging on to artefacts from these places taken to Europe in the colonial era to what the West can and should do to help with protection. Translating current guidebooks into Arabic was one fascinating suggestion. It turns out that many of these sites, so venerated by Western scholars, are little known by their locals. Tunisia is in better shape, Moorhead argued, because there's more understanding of the cultural value of its heritage sites. So the people themselves are banding together to protect them.

That's a noble aspiration. But the whole day was a reminder that it takes peace, comfort and stability to allow civilisation. Later that night, when I was tired, grumpy and desperate to get home, I probably would have happily traded a Jacobean drinking glass or a medieval floor tile to Hampshire. Hell, we have lots of those. If the world was crumbling around me and my life was at risk, liberating a Gainsborough or two in exchange for survival may not be noble, but it's understandable. Civilisation is a luxury. Let's hope the British train network can get its act together and do its bit to make it possible.

Monet wins me over to a new appreciation with architecture

Monet is my guilty art historical secret. I'm not a fan.

Maybe familiarity does breed contempt. The Art Institute of Chicago, to which we made an annual pilgrimage when I was growing up, has one of the largest collections of Monet's work outside of France. There were so many of them that everything in the museum seemed more exotic than those damned haystacks. Back home in St. Louis, the art museum where my mother worked boasted one of his huge water lily paintings. Mom liked it so much she wallpapered our bathroom in something very much like it. Just one of scores of modern lifts from the Impressionist's work, of course, from advertising to fridge magnets, fabric to wrapping paper, Monet's pretty, inoffensive, perfect-above-any-sofa dabs of colour are everywhere.

Thus I was completely ambivalent when the National Gallery started making a big deal about its Monet & Architecture show. I could take it or leave it. In the midst of a busy summer, it would probably be the latter. And then I ended up with a few hours to spare on a day off before meeting friends in Chinatown for lunch. Given the media fervor and the heavy advertising, I doubted I'd get tickets, but thought I'd try.

Surprise No. 1: I walked straight in. Surprise No. 2: I loved it.

The architecture hook isn’t just a gimmick. It’s a fabulous way to take a fresh look at someone you think you know well. Architecture gives Monet’s scenes a focal point and a structural complexity his landscapes often lack. His frequent choice of a lonely building in a wider, unpopulated landscape sparks a thoughtful contemplation far more profound than the insipid (IMHO) cheerfulness of his portraits. He’s still playing around with the changing effects of the day’s light across a repeated subject, but to my eye the results are so much more dramatic … and worthy of prolonged study … when you’re looking at Rouen Cathedral or Thames river scenes. There also seems to be a wider range of styles here, from his “classic” loose, pastel-coloured brushwork to much more traditional street scenes with sharp detail and dark corners.

Most astonishing is the final room. Monet was born to paint Venice. There’s no other city so perfectly suited to his mastery over water, light and the interplay between the two. The nine canvasses hanging together here are almost worth the price of admission alone. (More on that hefty pricing later.) Standing in this room is like submerging yourself in a dreamy alternative reality. These are the latest paintings here; Venice was Monet’s last trip before age, failing eyesight and overstretched finances kept him at home. So we’re also seeing the culmination of 40+ years and hundreds of paintings' worth of experience. The version of his Palazzo Contarini hanging here … on loan from a private collection so little known … is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Not just paintings. Things. In the whole wide world. All turquoise and purple twilight, water dancing with mesmerising movement, the shadows imbued with the melancholy of an exquisite beauty sinking past her glory days with a gentle grace.

From the earliest paintings here (the first on display came off Monet’s brush 44 years before Contarini), it’s the combinations of architecture, light and water that takes us into masterpiece territory. Early village scenes are surprisingly dark and heavy-handed. They’re of a certain genre type still for sale on railings in Monmarte, worth attention if only because they’re so counter to what you think of as Monet. In the canvases from his home village of Vetheuil you can observe him starting to play with light, particularly in one scene where you can see his use of a subtle white outline behind the church tower to give a halo-like effect that makes it pop from the canvas.

But it’s a View of Amsterdam that’s the first in the show to proclaim brilliance. A building of green and subtle salmon pink, bright sunshine dappling the leaves of the trees, a canal reflecting it all back in a merry glitter. That contrast between that painting and the rest of its fellows in the first gallery remained for me throughout the show: whether lonely houses on windswept headlands, suburban villas or the Houses of Parliament, the most miraculous stuff here combines architecture with water.
This may also be a factor of Monet’s own development. Every time I checked the date of something I really liked, it tended to be from later in his career. The show is organised by subject rather than date … the village and the picturesque; the city and the modern, the monument and the mysterious … so you get a wonderful sense of the variety of styles Monet worked in, but it’s much harder work to piece together a chronological progression of his style.

That variety, however, is one of the strengths of this exhibit. I came away with much more respect for Monet’s diversity and willingness to experiment. And for his influence over other artists. Gustave Caillebotte must have seen Monet’s The Pont Neuf (1871) before painting his own much more famous Paris Street: Rainy Day (1877). The treatment of the rain, the colours and mood are an exact copy. American impressionist Childe Hassan’s The Avenue in the Rain (1917), in the White House’s collection and often chosen by presidents to hang in the oval office, is a striking riff on Monet’s The Rue Montorgueil, Paris, on The National Holiday of 30 June, 1878.

My biggest complaint about this exhibition is its price. Since the government abolished admissions fees, museums rely on blockbuster shows for critical operating budget. That's reality. But a £20 admission is enough to screen out all but the very enthusiastic, and makes sure shows like this are primarily the preserve of the well-funded middle classes. This is not a pricing strategy to encourage anyone to try new things. Even with the ability to comfortably spend that on my own enlightenment, I was offended that the audio guide was another £5. (I skipped it.) If you’re going to push exhibition admission into special event pricing, National Gallery, then learn something from the Queen's Gallery and throw in the guide with admission. 

It all reflects the National Gallery's resolutely traditional view of the world. Paintings hang in a straight line on walls. No music. No lighting. No interesting display techniques. And, god forbid, no photography. Little wonder I was amongst the youngest of the crowd wandering the galleries. I suspect that Monet, dabbling with innovation until the end, could have connected easily with digital natives. As interpreted and priced by the National Gallery, however, I fear he has little chance.

Longborough's Dutchman is a perfect introduction to Wagner; if only more could see it

I've written before about how the intimacy of Longborough Festival Opera's 500-seat theatre transforms the dynamics of a performance. When even the worst seat is a stone's throw from the stage, you pick nuances of facial expression and production design lost in a bigger theatre, and the music flows over you in waves.

Who does Senta really love? It takes death to tell for sure. Photo: LFO

Never, in my experience, has the intimacy effect worked with more power than at last weekend's performance of Der Fliegende Holländer (The Flying Dutchman). I'd seen it only once on stage before, at the Royal Opera House in London, and while my review of that performance attests to my appreciation for both the story and the music, I found Longborough's version vastly better in terms of characterisation, emotional punch and drama. Most significantly, the ROH version set the scene in a grim, almost dystopian world where anyone would do anything to escape ... making our heroine's actions more understandable. Here, Senta's home town is a cosy Scandinavian place full of friendly people, hospitality and hygge. There's no need to run. In fact, the home town boy who loves her while she fantasises about the Dutchman is very much a man to stay for. Sung and acted admirably by Jonathan Stoughton, young Erik tore at Senta's allegiances and gave us a proper love triangle with far more emotional complexity than I could pick up from the upper reaches of the Royal Opera House.

Senta's character blazed with passion, brought to life by the impressive voice of Longborough newcomer Kirstin Sharpin. In fact, there were times her powerful delivery seemed too big and bold for such a small venue ... but it was only the second performance and she's no doubt getting used to the place. I'd certainly put a good wager on her showing up as Brunhilde somewhere in Longborough's upcoming ring cycle. Simon Thorpe as the haunted lead took us credibly from doom to hope and back again in his classically Wagnerian bass. I particularly loved the staging at the end where ... unlike the traditional conclusion of the Dutchman sailing away while Senta throws herself into the sea ... he returns to take the dying girl in his arms, torn between the tragedy of her end and wonder that she's broken his curse. Just as important for this production, however, was the chorus. It was probably the biggest I can remember for any opera here and brought every scene they were in to glowing life. Particularly excellent was the party near the end, where they're trying to convince the Dutchman's cursed crew to join them. In a particularly clever twist, rather than turning up the outsiders are only heard over an old radio, adding to the spookiness of the ghost story while letting the whole chorus bulk out the stage as revelling townspeople.

Photo: LFO

This was an approachable, well-paced, highly-entertaining Dutchman that would have been ideal for any first-timers who wanted to dip their toes into Wagnerian waters. This being Wagner at Longborough, however it's unlikely that any but serious fans managed to get the limited tickets. But it's a nice thought. I live in hope that someday some communications or tech company will sponsor a web broadcast of Longborough productions like this, so a broader audience could partake of the magic.

The rest of the weekend brought other flashes of delight. We're still looking for a new regular place to lodge since the owners of Windy Ridge, our beloved old bolthole, decided to stop doing B&B. This weekend we decided to check out Stow-on-the-Wold, the closest town to the opera. It's a very different vibe from the pastoral country places we've been staying, but there are advantages to that. Primarily a wide range of pubs, restaurants and shops within easy walking distance. Rather than worry about prepping the opera picnic in advance we could just wander local delis to assemble goodies. Stow also has one of England's best clusters of high-end antique shops. While I couldn't afford most of what I admired, it's good to know where I can to turn once I win the lottery and need to kit out my new manor house in a hurry.

All of Stow's businesses are housed within classic Cotswold stone architecture that makes this one of the most picturesque towns in England. And, frankly, calling it a town is a bit grand. There's a large market square, one other main street, and if you venture much beyond that you're back into countryside.  It's also remarkably dog friendly, allowing us to have our boys with us for breakfasts, dinners and pubbage.

With such a broad choice it's not easy to pick a dining spot. Lured by the words "wood fired oven" and "St. Louis-style ribs" we chose The Sheep. The classic Cotswold architecture outside might say old world, but the interior design screams hip modern bistro with a long bar, premium cocktails and that oven on prominent display. It was a beautiful evening so we ended up in an exterior courtyard where a live band did a cheerful and highly proficient delivery of most of the classic covers you'd want at your wedding disco. Plenty of people were on their feet dancing. Who knew the sleepy Cotswolds could deliver such a Friday night party?

And then, much to my surprise, I was not disappointed by the ribs. I was delighted. A full rack, trimmed as St. Louis style should be (with plenty of meat left on the bones), slow-barbecued to extreme, smoky tenderness and slathered in sweet and spicy tomato sauce. Blindfolded, nobody from my home town could have identified these as "foreign". (Given that the Brits have really only started to take barbecue seriously in the past decade, that's staying a lot.)

This dinner and its musical accompaniment is a strong argument for moving our regular accommodation to Stow. But the hunt continues, and there are two more Longborough weekends ahead to offer comparative experiences. Stay tuned for more.