MORE BATHURST GEMS

It has been a tough decision whether to to make this blog entry about a little bit more of the magic that surrounds us here in Bathurst - or about a girl I met in 1962. Bathurst won - the anecdotes about that particular chic are just going to have to wait awhile. 

Cornelia Beer, (a little bit of a local Bathurst legend), recently started up a Whatsapp group called “Cleaning Bathurst”, and last week posted a very disturbing video of all the garbage that has been dumped in the bush on the eastern side of Pussyfoot Lane. As it happened, I, at almost the exact same time, and with no knowledge of Cornelia’s call to arms, posted a little something on the Bathurst Forum with a view to setting up a ‘watch’ group with a view to catching those who have been regularly dumping all kinds of plastic, bottles, cartons and a variety of other garbage along the Kowie road between Tekserve and Lara’s restaurant. 

Some of the garbage along Kowie Road

This is not litter …….. this is intentional dumping. Viktor from Tekserve immediately contacted me and we agreed to meet later in the week to figure out how to tackle this problem. I was unfortunately tied up to an extent where I simply could not find may way clear to make arrangements with Viktor…………. sorry Boet - but I will during this coming week. 

Theuns enthusing about our craziness to tackle this rubbish

Just about everyone - with drinks courtesy of Shangri-La

Blah, blah, blah ………… things began to happen and on the morning of Saturday the 23rd a group of about 10 adults and four children gathered to tackle the Kowie road mess, and within about two hours and 60 black bags later everything was spick and span and an interesting bond between the participants had formed....... one might call it 'friendship'. Henceforth to be know as the “Bottoms’ Up” group due to the amount of time spent bending over, we are hoping against hope that we can quickly grow the group to at least 30 or so volunteers in the very near future to help with the Pussyfoot Lane project which it is estimated is going to give up in the region of 350 bags of garbage. 

One very hard working young volunteer from up the road

Also, Stephen Forder has made contact with the owner of the ground in question with a view to strongly encouraging him to fence the property which lends itself beautifully to the scattering of litter and rubbish (as well as a seemingly perfect spot to hit the papsak), by all those foot soldiers who use Pussyfoot Lane as a daily thoroughfare between the Township (reference to and spelling of which is stubbornly absent from any search on the internet), and Shangri-La ……….. as also Kowie Road and access to Port Alfred.

Soooooooooo ……… all you ‘proud’ Bathurstians that promise, promise, promise - but don’t seem to pitch, please contact Cornelia on 0762180328 and make yourself available for the “Big One”.

ON A FAR MORE PLEASANT NOTE

On a far more pleasant note, we have just three kilometers from Bathurst to the Waters Meeting Nature Reserve, where, from the viewpoint just a hundred or so meters in from the entrance, one looks down over 'Horseshoe Bend’. This stunning view over the bend in the Kowie river which flows through the reserve and on to the Indian Ocean, where it has its river mouth at Port Alfred, is really very special and well worth a visit. The reserve also offers a few interesting hikes of varying difficulty, and has a number of very beautiful picnic/braai spots which are perfect for a family or group outing.

Horseshoe Bend

Following the river downstream

But perhaps more importantly, and what the majority of people who drive or walk down to the entrance to the reserve seem to miss, are the myriad of little gems along the way that truly make this a “country” experience. In this case it really isn’t about the destination, but rather the journey ………… take the time to smell the roses. Herewith a few pics of those of those gems: ENJOY!

Some of the gems you need to watch out for on your way to Waters Meeting

MAGIC HAPPENS

On Sunday 13th October Tim Parr and Penny Levi played at The Bistro in Bathurst. It was Tim’s second performance there in as many months, having previously appeared there with Dave Goldblum on the 18th August to a sellout crowd. This time there were unfortunately, and disappointingly, far fewer people ............. but those who did not attend will sadly never know what they missed. Tim (previously of the 80’s Rock Band EllaMental), and his partner on bass, Penny, provided us with almost three hours of Tim’s original songs hugely enhanced by his extremely extensive and satisfying ‘self-taught’ guitar accompaniment. 

Penny Levi and Tim Parr at the Bistro

The highlight of the evening for the exclusively Bathurstian audience however, was when he invited owner of the Bistro Anne Katz and husband Barry to join him and Penny on stage………. where, with no warning whatsoever, they suddenly launched into a rendition of Van Morrison’s 1970 hit, Moondance. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but a certain kind of magic happened - and it blew everyone who was there away. They then followed up with Annie and Barry’s  now almost signature rendition of ‘Dance me to the end of love’, always inclusive of their own very special sense of each other and Barry’s very soulful scat trombone which never ceases to surprise.

Penny, Anne, Barry and Tim

On both of Tim’s visits we were fortunate enough to have him stay with us at No.6 York Road, and this time round he and Penny decided to stay an extra night. We decided this would be the ideal opportunity for the two of them to get to know Anne and Barry better so Pat prepared a curry followed by her always special bread pudding and the evening got going.  Anne’s 14 year-old son Tainn joined us, much I am sure to his ultimate musical delight. He is learning to play guitar at the moment, and as the evening progressed Tim decided that they should all fetch their instruments and begin jamming. It is absolutely apparent that the man quite simply loves music and can never get enough.

Anne, Barry, Tainn, Pat, Penny and Tim on the deck at No.6 York Road - playing beautiful music and getting to know each other

Immediately another kind of magic began to unfold with five very relaxed musicians blending and metaphorically holding musical hands - Anne’s oh so soulful accordion  pushing out sounds reminiscent of various Grappelli violin solos seemed to lay a soft and welcoming bed for the three guitars to rest on, with Tim all the time coaching young Tainn along divergent paths to new sounds as they played. Sitting on the outside listening and watching, Pat and I felt extremely privileged to have been a part of the magic that surrounded us. Thanks you guys - all of you - we must be sure to do it again sometime.

REMINISCENCES OF ROB PIENAAR

Growing up at 28 Nicholson Street in Pretoria there was a huge Mulberry tree on the South West side of the house which, at this time of the year, would more often than not find me and my long-time friend and then neighbor Rob Pienaar high up in its branches literally stuffing ourselves with its sweet black fruit, and much to the consternation of our mothers, getting our clothes horribly stained with the unavoidable juice of the ripe fruit. 

A few days ago I was busy picking mulberries off the tree at the bottom of our Bathurst garden and was obliged to spend some quality time with Rob, casting my mind back and remembering those childhood days along with a great many others that we shared over the years. Rob is no longer with us, having taken leave of this mortal coil a little over a year ago, almost exactly two years to the day after he was diagnosed with incurable bone cancer.  

The last time that I saw Rob was about three weeks before that fateful diagnosis when we met at the Himeville Inn late on the evening of the 14th August 2016 with a view to tackling the Sani Pass the next day and spending a couple of days thereafter traveling through Lesotho before heading our separate ways back to the daily drudge.

Rob with his trusty Landy half way up the pass (Annie was behind the wheel going for her Sani ticket)

Earlier that year Rob, Peter Davidson, Sean Lance and Donald Kennedy had all very kindly made the trek to Cape Town to help me celebrate my 70th along with a whole bunch of other good people, and at my son Caradoc’s bequest Rob took up where he left off after his speech as my best man at our wedding almost 50 years earlier and said a few well chosen words littered with reminiscences. 

Annie, Rob and Pat at the 'Highest Pub in Africa'

Himeville and Lesotho were different. There, over a couple of extended dinners, and over lunch and drinks at the Highest Pub in Africa, we played prolonged games of “when we” - reminiscing about the times exploring the then wild and wooly stretch of river that is now Magnolia Dell - re-enacting the Tarzan legend until it literally became a part of our personas - dressing up as Knights of the Round Table and jousting with broom sticks until one of us inevitably got hurt, and jumping our bikes over barrel ramps - again until one of us had an accident and plasters had to be found. Nights when we would sneak out of our parents’ houses and go and play Tok-Tokkie, happily riling the neighbors to the point of having some of them appear at their doors with pistols.

We remembered when we each got our Fiat 850’s within a few days of each other sometime in ’67 or early ’68, and the camping trips we took with Pat and Laura up to the then newly opened Blyde Rivier Dam, the Canyon, and a host of other obscure but very beautiful Eastern Transvaal spots ……….. driving roads in those little cars that today we would think twice about doing in our respective 4x4’s.

We talked about our times in the UK - our trips down to Devon and Cornwall, the walks on the rocks and beaches around Polperro - the shows we took in and the pubs we visited during that period of our lives in London. A lot of great memories.

Then from around 1977 through to about 2013 ……………… nothing! We lost touch until fate had us searching for each other on social media and seemingly finding each other literally within hours of starting the search. The rest is recent history.

Rob visited us in Cape Town thereafter on a couple of occasions, and plans were made to get together for various overlanding trips, but somehow work always seemed to get in the way until we were able to hook up briefly for the Lesotho time together.

Our move to Bathurst in May of 2018 sparked a new barrage of plans for him to come down and visit a part of the world he had never seen, and it was at his funeral that Laura mentioned to me that he had apparently booked a flight to PE just a couple of days before his passing - confiding to her that his plan was to hire a car and surprise us before carrying on down to Stellenbosch for his Granddaughter’s christening. 

Alas - this was not to be. On Sunday the 9th September Rob’s sister Louise called me to tell me that Rob was gone. In his inimitable style he quietly unloaded his coil at his flat on the Thursday before. No notes, no names, no packdrill. I had spoken with him just a little over a week before and had been given no inkling of any intentions in this regard ………….. but we had often discussed the possibility of an exit action should things approach limits beyond our control. Well done Rob, I only hope that I am able to muster the kind of courage you have displayed when I reach that stage. Whichever road it is that you are travelling, ENJOY! I remember you oh so well.

THOMAS HARTLEY - HISTORICAL BATHURST

A few days ago Jon Pieters approached me with a bit of a challenge: To photograph the brackets, bolts and nuts that Thomas Hartley forged for the St.John’s Anglican Church rafters in 1834. These pictures are now displayed at the Singing Anvil in the Hobson and Co Smithy, Bathurst Agricultural Museum, along with a framed photograph of a very old moth-eaten photograph Thomas Hartley which I captured and spent a bit of time working on in Lightroom to get rid of as many of the raggedy bits as possible. Jon then took a few of these shots along to Amy Muir at the Workshop where she very kindly framed them for the Smithy free of charge. Jon has spent the best part of 15 years or so working on - and in - the Singing Anvil to ensure that this tradition survives as the art form which it undoubtedly is, and which today constitutes one of the most important elements of the Bathurst Agricultural Museum.

Herewith Some history provided by Jon on the East Cape Blacksmiths' facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/groups/1659733947626807/): 

In 1820 a young man by the name of Thomas Hartley came to South Africa with the British settlers. He opened a blacksmith shop on the premises where the Pig and Whistle Inn in Bathurst is now situated. The ‘built up’ original door and windows are still visible on the west outer wall of the building.

He also extracted teeth at the smithy.

When the longest yellow wood rafters in South Africa had to be installed in the St John's Anglican Church, Thomas Hartley forged the brackets, bolts and nuts for the assembling of the trusses.

Each bolt and nut had to be hand forged and are not universal as a nut will only fit on the bolt made for it.

As iron was not readily available in the colony at that time, iron billets were imported from England and the smith had to draw the metal out to the sizes needed for the specific purposes for which they were intended. Wagon tyre iron came in various thicknesses, widths and lengths, and this was also used in general forgings other than wagon wheel manufacturing.

Some photos of the brackets and the Church door handle that he made in 1834.

MUSSELS

At the end of this month it will be exactly 18 months since we moved to Bathurst from Cape Town.  Those of you who knew us in Cape Town will recall that barely a Spring Tide ever went by without me tootling down to Scarborough to pick mussels at low tide……………along with a fair number of limpets, which, ground down, have a very similar taste to Perlemoen (Abalone), and blended with chopped potato form a really great base for Boulliabaise, a dish I really love to do.  Well, it has been around 19 months since I last went mussel picking, but Sunday last’s Spring tide had me up all excited and off early to Kenton on Sea to remedy the situation. At middle beach I surprisingly had the rocks all to myself and spent a good twenty minutes fighting this new brown shelled species off of their chosen locations. Picking at Scarborough is definitely a whole lot easier …………. these guys here in the Eastern Cape simply don’t want to let go and you literally have to fight each and every one off its flat, peat-like, feeding bed ……….. also not a single limpet in sight. No bodder as Liam Kennedy likes to say ………. it was a very pleasant little interlude which will definitely be repeated again - and again - and again and ……………..That evening we had Jon and Yvonne and Tom and Alison around for a braai, and gave them all a few mussels in white wine with fresh mixed herbs as a starter which I think they all enjoyed ………. I know I did! All we have to do now is find a place close by where we can dig white mussels (clams), like we used to at the crayfish factory beach alongside Misty Cliffs all those years ago ………… a decent chowder would then be utterly complete.

Sunday's pickings at Kenton on Sea

Since I was twelve years old I have dreamt of visiting Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef, and some 61 years later have still not managed to get there. Jealousy is a damnable emotion, but really ………… what is one supposed to feel when one’s second son - Stoddard - calmly drops into our weekly telephone conversation that towards the end of this month, he, Nols and the kids are flying up to the Whitsunday Islands from Sydney to spend 9 or 10 days cruising with his old Hobie buddies Barry and Kim Boswell and their kids on Barry’s 45’ cruising catamaran. 

Not much I can really say, other than “Shit - you lucky, lucky buggers …………….. Enjoy! - and please send plenty of pics so that we can really get this emotion right up to the level it deserves.”

That’s it …………… not much else to be said at this point in time - I need to quietly retire somewhere to sulk in silence and get over all of this. Enjoy your next week or two.

MOEURS

On Thursday the 8th August we left Bathurst in a convoy of sorts with my brother-in-law Kevin and his good wife Sandy for a long weekend’s camping at Yellowsands on the Kwelera River a few kms north of East London. Kevin and Sandy had recently acquired a new Sherpa caravan which they wanted to put to the test, and we simply put clean bedding in the rooftop - and off we went. We chose to stay down on the river rather than up on the crowded terraces, and what an absolute pleasure it was. Very basic (the way we like it), but very clean, with great walks, the opportunity to learn to do a bit of basic fishing, and some great photo opportunities. The four day jaunt meant missing the Bathurst Country Affair which is an annual village highlight that pulls in people from all over to participate in a wide range of real country events while enjoying all the venues that the village has to offer in terms of food, drink and general merriment. I believe that this year it was an absolute blast.

The time on the river away from the non-stop pressure of trying to finish the house and get on with the contracts in hand ………….. our first break in 18 months ………… gave me the opportunity to reflect for a little while on the name of this blog, “Spirit of Place”, and the influences that originally brought me to define what I read, the places I visited and the people that I met in terms of the essential landscape values that this phrase evokes.

This reflection lead me back (as always), to Justine , whom Durrell’s narrator, Darley, loves and has a passionate affair with.  Justine was largely the success that it was  because of  the novel-within-the novel called Moeurs. 

Moeurs ("Mores") is another parallel and fictional novel by a former husband of Justines, which the narrator reads obsessively in his search for clues about Justine's past life. In doing so, he learns of her propensity for many lovers, her complex sexuality, and her perpetual angst. He also discovers a diary that is kept by Justine, and quotes long passages from it in telling her story. Conveniently, all the other main characters have read Mouers, too and as a device it allows Durrell to offer Justine’s early life as a discussion among the other characters. It also allows him add to her legend and her mystery, because we learn that this Arnauti never figured Justine out either. Here I could go on forever about the complexities of the Quartet, Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive and Clea …………… suffice to say for the moment that Justine changed me forever. 

Durrell quotes, “I dream of a book powerful enough to contain the elements of her—but it is not the sort of book to which we are accustomed these days. . . . I would set my own book free to dream.” (Durrell’s italics.) and with this phrase he hooked me ….. then - and now …………… he had me with that phrase, “I dream of a book.” I did. I still do. Here I should perhaps mention as an aside (if you are doubtful of Durrell’s credentials and contributions to English literature), that while the notes and thoughts about the novel Justine may have taken a few years to gel in his mind, he actually wrote the novel in five weeks, and his editor, one T.S.Eliot, chose not to change one single thing in the original manuscript prior to publication.

But I digress. At much the same time I was reading Justine and the rest of the Alexandria Quartet, I was also reading Jorge Luis Borges, an Argentinian short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator. His best known books are probably Fictions and The Aleph.  Published in the 1940s, they are compilations of short stories interconnected by common themes, including dreams, labyrinths, philosophy, libraries, mirrors, fictional writers, and mythology. His works have been considered by some critics to mark the beginning of the magic realist movement in 20th century.  The nature of his stories sparked something in me which would take up a great deal of my “thinking” time …………. I would play a ‘Borges’ trick on Durrell.

At the time that I was reading these books Durrell was living in Sommieres, France …………. a relatively short drive to Avignon (which he used as the base for his Quintet - the first book of which “Monsieur - The Prince of Darkness”, I had him inscribe for my eldest son Caradoc who was named for a character in another of his novels - The Revolt of Aphrodite).

Anyway - I had read that Durrell had a favorite haunt in Avignon ……….. a little backstreet bookshop where he would oft scour the shelves in search of inspiration. Wouldn’t it be simply the best practical joke ever if one day - while searching the shelves - he came across a copy of the book Mouers by Jacob Arnauti …………. the very book that he had invented as his vehicle for tracking Justine’s past in the Quartet. I spent a great many hours copying all of the excerpts from Mouers in the four novels, and then began filling in the blanks. The idea was to publish it on paper of the period and bind it in the manner in which books were bound at the time ………. scuff it and age it ………… and somewhere within the text leave some small reference as to the origination of the idea.  With all of this done there was only one problem …………. Arnauti wrote Mouers in French, and struggling through the early Seventies in London, and subsequently on the farm out near Ewelme in Oxfordshire with my young family, I simply had not the resources to hire a translator and get the whole publishing thing done. 

No matter - it gave me tremendous pleasure while it lasted, along with the opportunity to really get to know one of the english language’s greatest ever exponents.

YELLOWSANDS

CASTING A NET

CORMORANTS

REFLECTING LOGS

THE BULLS OF MINOS

So ………….. the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown has come and gone. Same old - same old …….. but it seems that our Bathurstian artists all did some quite nice turnover. While wandering through potter Richard Pullen’s display I noticed a few pieces that I had not seen in his Bathurst studio - some beautifully crafted Bulls that immediately took me back to my childhood when our African gardener, Johannes, would craft small clay bulls in a matter of minutes for me to play with ……………. and more recently, in 1973, when I had the good fortune to visit Knossos on Crete and become entranced by the legends of King Minos, the Labyrinth, the Centaur and the famed Bulls of Minos. 

One of Richard Pullen's Ceramic Bulls

4000 Year old fresco at Knossos

My then business partner, Howard, and I had been commissioned to design a hotel on Mirabello Bay close to Agios Nikolaos, and so we visited the island in November 1973. I initially spent about 10 days in Athens gleaning information re planning permissions construction methods, while at the same time enjoying the marvelous hospitality of one of Athens most respected citizens, Ersi Hatzimahali.  It was during the military junta of 1967–1974, commonly known as the Regime of the Colonels - or simply The Junta,  and Ersi had been banished to the basement of her beautiful home in Yperidou Street, Plaka …………… the Junta giving her the option of nominating what the house should be used for. She specified ‘Art Gallery’, but this never came to be and the house simply stood empty.

I had met Ersi very briefly some eighteen months before at the Andsell Gallery in Monmouth Street in London which belonged to a friend of mine, Stan Booth. I had been walking home to our flat in Grays Inn Road and popped in to say hi to Stan. The exhibit on display was a collection of paintings by Ersi, and I was immediately struck by light that emanated from each and every canvas - they reminded me immediately of both Miller and Durrell’s writings about Greece, but most specifically Miller’s Colossus of Maroussi. I mentioned this to Stan who was on the floor, and he asked if I would like to meet the artist who happened to be in his office. I went through with him and there was this very beautiful woman of about 50 with a mountain of red hair. He introduced us and I mentioned to her that her work was redolent of Durrell and Miller’s writings. She smiled and said simply that if I was ever in Greece I should visit her. That was the sum total of our meeting, and I had absolutely no idea that she was in fact a very central figure in the group of artists and poets around which the Colossus and a number of Durrell’s books were constructed. Katsimbalis (the Colossus of Maroussi), the poet, was a close friend of hers, and her son Socrates whom I later met and became friendly with, was the son of George Seferis (Seferiades), the famous Greek Poet and Diplomat.

Before going to Greece I mentioned to Stan during another visit to his gallery that I was going, and he asked if I remembered  Ersi - yes I did - she had left a few canvasses at the gallery, and would I mind very much dropping them off with her when I was there - of course - not a problem. 

And so I happened upon her house some time in November 1973. Knocking on the door the house sounded empty - a hollow echoing sort of sound. Behind me I heard a high pitched gabbling, and looking around I saw a little old lady all dressed in black in an upstairs window across the road. She was trying to tell me something in Greek, all the time pointing and directing me to what appeared to be a basement door. I signalled my thanks and went down and knocked. The door opened, and after a very brief hiatus - and after an equally brief introduction in London eighteen months before - this amazing woman smiles and says, “Aaah Neville - I knew you would come to visit me”. Then taking me by the hand she pulled me into a huge room totally filled with the clutter of a long and eventful life, and leading me through a veritable labyrinth walled by all manner of furniture and paintings and pots and pans, she stops first at a chess board with a game in progress and says, “Move”. It took me a minute to register before I did as instructed and made a move on the board ……….. then on to another game on a another board, “Move” - and then another, and another. As I recall she had about thirteen or so games on the go and each time someone visited they had to play a piece which she would then combat in her own time.

She explained to me what the Junta had done to her - how her entire Trust had been grabbed and how she had suddenly been left virtually penniless from around 1968. She began painting and working as a tour guide in order to survive - but the people of Athens also came to her aid, and she was able to eat free in any restaurant in the city - and with a guest if necessary. And so my free time was taken up with my own personal guide to Socrates Seat - to the Parthenon - to the Antiquities Museum and a number of other sites. And each time we were out she would lead me into a restaurant where she would be royally greeted and taken - with me in tow - into the kitchen where a long discussion about what was cooking - what the special of the day was etc., etc., before being shown to a table where we would be wined and dined as if she were truly royalty……… Pansela!…… For nothing!……..Amazing. And walking through the streets and alleyways of the Plaka with her - this really regal woman with her long, long red hair - I absolutely felt that I was in the company of royalty. Shopkeepers and stallholders would bow and greet her - others would wave and call greetings from across the road. It really was a very special experience.

When I returned from Crete the day before flying back to London we were sitting over a cup of Greek coffee ……………. she looked at me thoughtfully - deep into my eyes and said quietly, “Neville - don’t go back - leave your wife and come live with me on Santorini”. Shock! Horror! A shy smile - a shake of the head - thank you, but no I couldn’t do that. “Well then - at least delay your flight and come to dinner tomorrow night - Katsimbalis will be there.”

One of the abiding regrets in my life is that I couldn’t, and didn’t, delay that flight. 

HEREWITH A LITTLE BIT ABOUT THE LEGEND OF KING MINOS AND THE PALACE AT KNOSSOS

The Palace at Knossos

North Entrance to the Palace

Minos was the legendary ruler of Crete, the son of Zeus, who was the king of the gods, and of Europa, a Phoenician princess and the personification of the continent of Europe. The legends that surround his rule are the stuff of modern day super hero movies, and one really has to wonder whence they came.

According to the myths surrounding the early city of Knossos, King Minos hired the Athenian architect Daedelus to design his palace, and so cleverly was it constructed that no one who entered could find their way back out without a guide. Other versions however have it that it was not the palace that was designed this way but the Labyrinth within the palace which was built to house the half-man/half-bull ……… the Minotaur - offspring of Minos’ wife Pasiphae and a snow white bull that Poseidon had sent Minos for sacrifice.

Here the myths and legends become a little confused. Poseidon, who had been called upon by Minos to send him a bull from the sea for sacrifice in order to prove his divine right to rule Crete, became so angered by Minos’ failure to sacrifice the bull he had sent that he decided to punish him in two ways: he made the bull so mad and wild that no one could approach it, and he also asked Aphrodite, the goddess of love, to cause Minos’ wife Pasiphae to fall in love with the bull. Pasiphae then asked Daedalus to design and construct for her the body of a cow into which she could climb and then have sex with the bull……………….hence the Minotaur.

Ancient art - Bulls Horns - Echoes of Modern Art

Excavated rooms of the original Palace before reconstruction

In order to keep Daedelus from telling the secrets of the palace, Minos locked him and his son Icarus in a high tower at Knossos and kept them prisoner. Daedelus fashioned wings made of wax and bird's feathers for himself and his son, however, and escaped their prison ……. but Icarus, flying too close to the sun, melted his wings and fell to his death. The Minotaur, the monster-child of Minos' wife, thrived on human sacrifice and Minos demanded the tribute of the noblest youth of Athens to keep the beast fed. Theseus of Athens, with the help of Minos' daughter Ariadne, killed the Minotaur, freed the young people, and returned triumphant to Athens.

Having pursued Daedalus to Sicily Minos was killed by the daughters of king Cocalus who poured boiling water over him as he was taking a bath.

Under Minos’ rule, Knossos flourished through maritime trade as well as overland commerce with the other great cities of Crete, Kato Sakro (Phaestos) and Mallia. Knossos was destroyed and re-built at least twice. The first palace identified in modern times was built c. 1900 BCE on the ruins of a much older settlement. Based upon excavations done at the site, the first palace seems to have been massive in size with very thick walls. Ancient pottery found throughout Crete, at various sites, indicate that the island was not unified under a central culture at this time and so the walls of the palace were most likely constructed to their size and thickness for defensive purposes. As the writing of this period, so-called `Cretan Heiroglyphs', has not been deciphered, nothing is known about this time save what can be discerned through archaeological evidence.

This first palace was destroyed c. 1700 BCE and re-built on a grander, though less massive, scale. Great attention was paid to intricacy of architecture and design with less effort spent on defensive walls. As the pottery of this period shows a unity of culture throughout Crete, it has been determined that the culture of Knossos prevailed at this time and the island was a unified nation under a central government. This palace had four entrances, one from each direction, all leading to the central court. As the corridors within were dark and circuitous, it is thought that this gave rise to the story of the labyrinth of Minos. The throne room was particularly impressive. 

According to The British School at Athens, “Two double doors led into the Throne Room with gypsum benches on three sides and the magnificent throne in the centre of the north wall flanked by the reconstructed Griffin fresco.“ The scholars of the British School have also speculated that the throne room was not intended for the ruler but, rather, as the seat for the goddess who would receive supplicants and sacrifices there. This theory is based upon wall paintings and other evidence found at the site which suggest the king's  throne was most likely in the central court and the throne room was more ceremonial and religious in nature. The Snake Goddess of the Minoans was the supreme deity who may have been an early version of the Greek goddess Eurynome who danced with the serpent Ophion across the chaos of the primordial sea in the act of creation. Images and figures of the Snake Goddess (now at the Iraklion Museum) have been found at Knossos and elsewhere in Crete dating from this period. Further evidence of the goddess is the repetition of the motif of the double axe, most notably in the Hall of the Double Axes in the palace. There is no doubt that the double axe symbolized an important goddess of the Minoans but it is not clear whether it was the Snake Goddess or another.

The city of Knossos, and almost every other community centre on Crete, was destroyed by a combination of earthquake and the invading Mycenaeans c. 1450 BCE with only the palace spared. The eruption of the volcano on the nearby island of Thera (Santorini) in c.1600 or 1500 BCE has long been held a major factor in the destruction of the city and second palace. Recent scholarship, however, argues against this theory citing Mycenaean activity at the palace after 1450 BCE. The Mycenaean writing system, known as `Linear B', continues in Crete after the eruption of the Thera volcano and there is further evidence that  the Mycenaeans re-built the damaged palace. In fact, it appears that Knossos became an important base of operations and capital of the Mycenaeans until it was destroyed by fire and finally abandoned c. 1375 BCE. The date which traditionally marks the final end of the Minoan Civilization is 1200 BCE after which there is no evidence for the culture. Some scholars cite the final date as 1450 BCE with the Mycenaean invasion and others claim c.1375 or c.1300 BCE on account of the fire which destroyed both palace and city. However long the Minoans may have continued on the island, following the fire the ruins of the great metropolis were abandoned and left to decay.

Music!!!!

Virtually every step of my life can be measured in music - and I really am extremely fortunate to have lived through ….. and in many respects, been a part of, the 20th century musical revolution that began in the early nineteen fifties and which has extended unabated right up until now. I really do have a great many people to thank - musicians who have no knowledge whatsoever of who I am, but whose contributions helped shape my life, and I am quite certain, the lives of a great many millions of other people down through the years. I will call many of them to book as I go forward, and I feel sure that those of you who may read this will join me in both recognition and thanks for how their lyrics and compositions have signposted so many moments in our lives.

One of my most important milestones was hearing Elvis Presley sing for the first time. I could not have been more than about ten or eleven at the time, and it would have been something I heard on the radio ………..  but even as I began processing what I was hearing I think that I  subconsciously recognized the dawn of an era that would change the world as I knew it forever.

The early fifties were a drab and dull hangover of the post-war years for youth everywhere - there was little or no color in their dress, and certainly nothing at all that could be considered an ‘identity”. Then suddenly we had ‘That’s all-right Mama’, and the world would never be the same again. Quite suddenly youth everywhere had an identity - a sound, a look and an image that they could identify with - pink socks and blue suede shoes - stovepipe trousers - sideburns - ducktails ………….. and “Rock ’n Roll”. 

Initially it was all quite innocent, but with the objections of the older generation  came the belligerence and new found identity of the youth. Suddenly we had the Teddy Boys, the Ducktails ………… movie representation in the form of James Dean in ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ - and then (again quite suddenly), there was “Jailhouse Rock”, and our generation was in charge. The worlds’ youth would never look back - Elvis had given them an identity that would grow and expand under the tutelage of the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Elton John, Neil Diamond, Neil Young, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Simon and Garfunkel ………. and probably the most influential talent of them all, Bob Dylan. 

All of these people were our idols …… and many of them are still today. Bob Dylan has never written better music than  he has been doing for the last eight or so years. Neil Young has elevated himself to the position of “Protest Master” through the simple channels of honesty and commitment to the causes he has chosen to represent ….. Farm Aid - the Monsanto debacle - Impeach the President and so on and so forth ……….. all the time playing with his trains and working to convince Apple and the rest of the world of the worthlessness of MP4’s which only give us about 5% of the input that the musicians endeavor to impart in their music  ……… would that his system becomes the standard, we would simply be aware of so much more, as we were in the days of vinyl and great analogue sound systems.

I remember well the first time I really became aware of Van Morrison’s music. Pat and I were travelling through France in our little white VW Beetle on a pilgrimage of sorts. I was intent on visiting as many of the architect Le Corbusier’s buildings as I possibly could. He was my idol in so many respects - a complete man of sorts whose achievements in architecture, town planning and art had captured me since I first became aware of him during my initial  year studying architecture at the University of Pretoria.

We had hooked up with a friend, Lisa Woodsworth, who was living in a small apartment in Aix en Provence where she was studying French. Lisa was Canadian and the daughter of a past Canadian Ambassador to South Africa,  which was where we first happened upon her. As “free” a spirit as one was likely to meet in Europe in the early seventies, Lisa collected stray hippies like many people collect cats, and staying in her apartment for the seven or so days we were in Aix was an experience indeed. She was living with a lovely guy, Jean, at the time - an artist who apparently made a living of sorts painting murals in restaurants and cafes. At the time there were, if memory serves me correctly, three other guys living there, one of whom, a cherub faced little blonde youngster who couldn’t have been more than about seventeen, was absolutely besotted with Lisa, and who - with Jean’s apparent permission - slept each night on the floor at the foot of their bed. We unfortunately had to share the floor in the lounge with two other strays - one of which was a total sleazeball who after lights out each evening subjected us to the stroked nylon beat of his meat inside his sleeping bag which would increase exponentially in speed over a period of about 15 minutes and climax in a veritable drum roll of “Nylobeats” - then dead silence accompanied by a whimpering sigh of completion. 

This guy pretended to be everything he wasn’t, he simply latched onto everything discussed and built it into his persona. One evening we were talking about braais  (barbeques), back home in South Africa, and he started up about how he loved the outdoors and nature and exploring unknown places …….. I’d basically had enough of his bullshit so there and then I suggested to everyone that the following evening we all trek up the side of Mont St. Vittoire until we found a nice spot and there we would light a fire and have a braai. Everyone agreed it was a great idea and the next day Jean and I went out and bought a few chops and sausages for the braai before going down to the vegetable market where we collected the most amazing discarded salad leaves and vegetables (only the best was sold - the rest thrown away), which we took home, washed and used to prepare a salad for that evening and an amazing soup for the next day which we would enhance with the bones left over from the braai. 

That evening we left a little while before dark and tramped up the side of Cezanne’s famous mountain, finding an ideal little spot for our venture just before dark. As the light faded - and despite the fire, ‘Tjuk a Tjuk’ (the name Pat and I had given him - resembling the noise inside the nylon sleeping bag), began becoming quite fearful of the dark and  suggestive of a whole host of terrible things that might befall us if we did not get off the mountain immediately. We all laughed him down, which only made matters worse, and eventually I escorted him down to where the street lights permitted him a degree of solace and told him to go on home and keep his bullshit to himself in future.

But I digress ……… Van Morrison!  On our last evening in Aix Lisa announced that her, Jean, Pat and I had been invited to dinner at a friend of her’s apartment. This friend turned out to be one of the most beautiful women I had ever had the pleasure to meet. Dressed in the flowing fabrics of sixties and seventies hippiedom, not even the material excess could hide the sensuality she exuded, and her masses of deep red Henna-ed hair piled casually atop her head formed the perfect frame for - and only served to - accentuate the paleness and perfection of her parchmentlike skin and incredible bone structure. I was smitten. Not even the pointed stump of a severed forearm  could detract from this picture of  virtually perfect pulchritude. And all the time Morrison’s voice pervaded the space around us, wrapping her every movement and gesture in a cloak of inferred suggestion. We sat in a circle on the floor and she served us a simple curry and rice with all of the trimmings and copious amounts of wine, her disability never once seeming to present a hindrance of any kind, and often, waved almost as a baton, serving to accent whatever it was she was saying in a deep, husky, and very sexy french voice that we understood almost nothing of, yet which both Pat and I felt entirely included in. Funny how that sometimes happens …….?  Again, Morrison was all pervading throughout the evening …………… ‘Astral Weeks’ I think was the name of the album, which I bought immediately upon our return to London a few weeks later, and which I still enjoy as much today as at that first hearing in Aix.

When eventually we got up to leave and we hugged in gratitude, Lisa mentioned to her that we were moving on the following day, she hugged me aggressively, and what I thought was quite intimately, and said quite clearly in broken english for all to hear, “You cannot leave,  you have not made love to me yet.”

Ahhhhhhhh! Aix?

Pat wandering the streets of St.Paul de Vence - 1973

St.Paul de Vence security on an old wooden gate

Old wooden door detail - all pics taken with my old Pentax Spotmatic and (I think) Ilford stock