Singing in the city

After all my recent talk of the delights of Island living, this week I’ve hardly been here. Last weekend I was in London to sing at the Royal Albert Hall with my choir as part of the Really Big Chorus

I have to admit to being a little sentimental about the Albert Hall, as this is where Tom and I met years ago. That time, we were up in the gallery, listening to Mahler #2; this time I was down on the stage, singing Jenkins’ ‘Gods of Olympus’

It was great to have the opportunity to sing in a such a grand venue. The sound of 1300 voices ringing round the hall was a little heart-thumping. Add to that the full orchestra and killer percussion section, and we made a pretty dramatic sound.

So I’ve heard no pounding waves on the beach this week, but more pounding kettle drums in the midst of the city; both more enjoyable in their sharp contrast.

The trials of Island living

Yesterday we reluctantly watched the Red Funnel ferry depart without us, and with it, our plans to see James Yorkston & The Athletes’ 10th Anniversary performance of Moving Up Country. A midday mechanical failure on one of the ships was still causing chaos in East Cowes by late afternoon and our ferry was so delayed we couldn’t make it to the gig that I was so excited about.

The ferry’s aren’t having a good time of it, what with this plus last week’s festival traffic chaos. And so ensues the usual rants about what a ‘nightmare’ it is being ‘trapped’ on an island, beholden to unpredictable and expensive boat travel, and in need of a fixed link. The woman behind me in the queue yesterday was keen to tell everyone that she’d lived on the Isle of Wight for “five impossible years” and now she was moving away and couldn’t wait to leave. I’m sure she’ll be far happier Up Mainland.

But, for me these few ferry fiascos don’t come near to the more common travel trials of motorway traffic, noisy aeroplane flight paths, and trains stuffed full of commuters. I’d rather miss the odd gig, and console myself with a walk along the beach, or a beer on the seafront. Half the charm of this place is its slow pace, haphazard muddles and ‘behind the times’ inefficiencies. Maddening and comforting in equal measure.

A little piece of June

reading Amitav Ghosh’s River of Smoke. Lost in a world of ships, opium and rare plants in nineteenth century China.

listening to James Yorkston (and excited to see him again at tomorrow’s gig)

buying too many books. Must stop book browsing and start reading. New Oxfam bookstore opening in town does not help!

loving holiday planning! Off to the Lake District for the first time. Guide book gives the Eskdale Valley full marks for hiking, scenery and beer. Count me in, whatever the weather..

Book stacks

This June weather may not be inspiring the usual barbecues and beers, but I am enjoying these rainy days to get lost in books. I visited the British Library the other day, admired the King’s Library several storeys high, and wandered the main atrium filled with the noisy bustle of shuffled papers, stirred teacups and tapping keys.

Across the hall, I was lost in a far more ancient world of parchment and quill. In the dimly lit ‘Treasures’ exhibition I peered at the notebooks of Austen, Coleridge, Carter and Wilde and marvelled at the studied carefulness of their solitary work. The room was a heady mix of ancient maps, sacred texts, and mighty tomes. I love this collection of minds, these ideas bound in paper, filled with boundless possibilities.

You can keep your Kindle; these sheets of paper is where my heart lies.

Not quite in my element

I stole some time in the country on my lunch break today, sat with my sandwich on the side of the bridleway. I thought about how I’d rather be under that tree, in muddy jeans, than perched on the side in my smart clothes.
I’d always rather be outdoors and too often am stuck the wrong side of the fence. But, I’m making plans to change that and in the meantime must be happy to have these stolen moments on the edge.