News from Nowhere

In Newcastle yesterday for the reading group, I intended just to walk straught to the library, no diversions: but as I walked up Pink Lane, my eye was snagged by bright colours off the my right, and I found myself in Forth Lane, now the Forth Lane Gallery (what the organisers say about it).

I didn't exactly wish I had my camera with me, because I was already carrying a very heavy book: but next time...

We have in the past attended tastings organised by the Wine Society, but not recently. This is a self-perpetuating state of affairs, because the Wine Society tries to tailor its mailings to your interests, which means that if you fail to respond too many times, you fall off the circulation list, and may not realise that offers are still being made, but not to you. So it was just luck that I was pottering around the Society's website, muttering about how the tastings within reach were never the interesting ones, when I came across a dinner in Newcastle, tasting the wines of Domaine Jones in the company of the winemaker, Katie Jones herself. We had already sampled these wines: we had been tempted by a mixed half-dozen which the Wine Society had called 'Katie Jones' Locker', and indulged ourselves in a Christmas treat - in fact, we drank one of them with our Christmas dinner. It was short notice, but we could do it; it would be fun to revisit the wines, it's always interesting to hear the winemaker's side of the story, we'd never managed more than a cup of coffee at Blackfriars, and that was long ago. life owed us a treat for an anniversary which we weren't going to be able to celebrate on the day... What's more, we wouldn't have to rush away to catch the last train back to Durham: our winnings from the quiz at February's Crime Festival included an overnight stay at a Newcastle city centre hotel, an anonymous business-type slabe of glass, but close to where we wanted to be.

Tuesday morning was blood samples and dental check-ups (routine, but not fun) and Tuesday afternoon was work, so it felt particularly like getting away to be heading for the station in the late afternoon sunshine. The hotel was even better situated than we had expected: we emerged from the metro under the skirts of St James Park and there it was, looming above us - and when we were ready to set out, it was just through the Chinatown arch and along Stowell Street to Blackfriars. Arriving at the restaurant was the only point I thought was mishandled: we and other guests were left to mill about until we could find restaurant staff to direct us, and then we were sent into a bar and invited to buy additional drinks, an invitation which most of us declined. We didn't have long to wait until someone came and fetched us, and we all trouped round to the banqueting room, where we were greeted with glasses of fizz (Crémant de Limoux, and apparently from a magnum, though since it was ready poured I wouldn't have known). We were invited to seat ourselves at the two long tables, and when durham_rambler played the deafness card, we were sent to the head of the table next to the speaker. Since she moved to somewhere more central to speak while she was showing her slides, it wasn't entirely justified, but it gave us a chance to chat over dinner, which was fun.

( Dinner with Katie Jones )



No fantastic discoveries, then, but all in all a very happy evening. And when we left Blackfriars, we discovered that short though the walk from our hotel had been, there was an even shorter way back: we just followed the city wall and it took us to the road crossing.

Yesterday morning was cold but bright, and we decided to walk to the restaurant for our lunch date. The shortest way (also the way with most steps) is through the park:



The headless statue is a bit of a mystery, as no-one knows where it came from or who it represents - but that's another story.

Today we went into Newcastle for the annual Open Studios event in the Ouseburn. I managed to buy one or two Christmas presents - not many, but at least I have now started the Christmas shopping. S. joined us, and we had much to talk about, as it has been too long since we saw her. We lunched at the City Farm, and I took this photograph from their doorstep:



It wasn't until I saw the two photo together that I realised: it's all about the trees!

From Sunday morning, when we discovered there was no heat in the house, to Tuesday evening, when I came home to cautiously returning warmth, ten days, during which I have posted about nothing but plumbing. But that's not the only thing I've been doing.

( Sunday was jam-packed )

Monday was eaten up by getting quotes to replace the boiler. On Tuesday D. arrived bearing fan heaters and firewood, and we made an open fire. On Wednesday we took him to the pub quiz, and had a sociable evening (and our team won, which is not unusual, and dates back well before durham_rambler and me joining the team). On Friday we cleared the dining room table, and had a proper dinner party, which was fun.

D. left us on Saturday morning, and in the evening durham_rambler and I braved the winds and the water to drive to Barnard Castle to hear Martin Simpson, who was playing at the Witham. In fact our journey wasn't too bad, though anyone coming from the west would have had a hard time, and the audience was much diminished - pity, because it was a great show. I could (very easily) have done without the enthusiasts in the row in front of us repeatedly calling out requests for Buckets of Rain (funny the first time, but not that funny). Good to hear a couple of Dylan songs making their way back into the repertoire, especially North Country Blues, very topical. I still yearn for that album of Dylan songs Martin Simpson never made.

The main excitement of Sunday was watching the final two episodes of Doctor Who; from which you may infer that it wasn't a very exciting day. On Monday we were up early to welcome the builders, and on Tuesday we spent the day at the planning appeal over the County Hospital site, which I may or may not post about at greater length: I'd quite like to know how it turns out before I do. After which I went to the Graphic Novels Reading Group, and we all went out for a Christmas meal afterwards. Which brings us round to where I came in.

Last weekend was Open Studios time in Newcastle's Ouseburn, and S. invited us to join her for Sunday brunch and to visit some studios thereafter. So we didn't spend as much time for hitting the studios or walking around the Ouseburn as we have done in some previous years, but on the plus side we had a delicious brunch with S., with the full cooked breakfast and ricotta pancakes and blueberries, and bread - well, OK, the bread was of my baking, and I think I have finally cracked Emily Dickinson's rye/cornmeal loaf - and conversation. And durham_rambler and I managed to visit the Mushroom Works before breakfast, where I bought some Christmas presents. I was interested to chat with Jane Frazer: her website shows some of the pieces I liked, her woven mesh and photo pieces, but not the long, loosely knitted strips holding a sequence of tiny pebbles. You could do something similar with my collection of fragments of blue-and-white pottery, I said, and yes, she said, she could...



After breakfast we went back to the other end of the Ouseburn - the river runs in a culvert under the monument in the photograph - and wandered through the various studios, and it was all agreeable enough but nothing particularly exciting. The things I liked were by people whose work I already knew I liked, there were no new discoveries.

On Tuesday we went into Newcastle again, for the North East Labour History Society's 'First Tuesday' talk, because it was about William Morris's visit to the North East during the Northumberland Miners' Strike. The speaker said that Morris had only visited Newcastle upon two occasions, and I could nit-pick and say that he travelled through Newcastle on his way to Iceland. But I won't, because it was a good talk, setting one small event in context, in Morris's life and thought, and in the history of the North East, and opening up to lively discussion afterwards.

It took place at the Newcastle Irish Centre, which is on the border of Chinatown, so afterwards we went down Stowell Street in search of Chinese food. We chose the Royal Emperor very nearly at random, and were well pleased. The charming young waiters looked after us, and took pains to serve us quickly so that we could reclaim our car from the car park before it closed. We had both chosen the a stir fry of scallops and broccoli for the main course, and briefly I regretted this - but once I tasted it, I knew I wouldn't have wanted to share it: the broccoli green and crunchy, the scallops milky sweet, the fresh heat of the slivers of ginger.

And since it is now December, we had Christmas music throughout.

Last weekend was the annual open studios event in the Ouseburn, Newcastle's "creative quarter" where derelict warehouses have gradually been converted into artists' and designers' studios (not to mention Seven Stories). There must be a limit to how far it can grow, how many paintings and pots, how much hand-made furniture and architectural glass the city can sustain: but new studios keep opening, so apparently we're not there yet. Many of the studios and workshops are extremely smart, yet the area retains an air of semi-dereliction: there's a lot of mural art, mostly rather well done.

We were meeting friends, and since Gail had arrived early and gone for coffee at the City Farm, we started our visit there, enjoying the sunshine, and the golden foliage, and the giraffes and other livestock (there was a very fluffy Shetland pony). The photo is taken from one of the Lime Street studios, though.

Our first stop was Northern Print, where there was much to like (although mostly I had already liked it last year), then Lime Street, where much the same applied. I liked Zoe Garner's glass work, especially the piece illustrated on the home page of her website, vertical rods of differing lengths, each somehow glowing at the tip - in fact it may be a theme of the day that I liked the glass, since another artist who stood out for me was Effie Burns, who has been casting romescu cauliflowers in glass (her website shows mainly much larger work, though the strawberry is rather fine).

Up in the attic I was interested to see Stevie Ronnie's photographs of his recent trip to the arctic, but unsatisfied by them. Perhaps when he's written something about it... The first time I met Stevie, he talked about Gontran De Poncins' book Kabloona about life in the arctic, and I reminded him of this - at which he fetched out the book and we both enthused over it. Much of the current work he was showing was book sculpture, which tends to make me uneasy. Here's an example of the sort of thing (though not one I've seen): "A poem, composed in a new form which utilises the structures of rope, has been twisted into a paper rope and mounted onto a salvaged Arctic weather balloon winch" - which makes a pretty object, but how do you read the poem? I liked some little pictures which had been made by tracing the outlines of geographical features from Google maps, then cutting them out of coloured paper: Kielder reservoir, Seaham harbour, the line of Newcastle's city wall... They made pleasing, almost abstract shapes.

We hadn't planned to eat at the Cluny - in fact, we had actively planned not to eat at the Cluny - but although the Open Studios didn't seem very busy, it was still standing room only at the Ship, and we tumbled back into the Cluny almost by default. We won't do it again: they have succumbed to the tyranny of the Sunday roast, and weren't doing it very well. I enjoyed the beer, but it's not a place to eat. Gentrification still has a little way to go, clearly.



That's all, folks.

gillpolack paid us a visit as part of her study tour in England and France.

When I talk about LJ to someone who doesn't use it, I'm always careful to explain that the 'friends' label is misleading, think of it as a kind of reading list. At least LJ tries to avoid the pitfalls of the dreaded FaceBook (which allows you to treat as a friend everyone you - or one of your friends - has ever met, and to be astonished when they don't act in a friendly manner). And so on.

So Gillian and I have been 'friends' for some time now, and this is the first time we've ever met. durham_rambler was worried we wouldn't recognise each other at the station, but I was confident we'd each look like our LJ icons (I recognised nineweaving as a picture of the Pleiades, didn't I?). And I was right; she looks just like her icon, and very like one of my cousins (especially when she smiles) and besides, she was the only person to get out of the right carriage on the train. Instant familiarity - and the main difference between conversation on LJ and conversation in real life is how much faster we can talk IRL.

We headed for the Cathedral, and walked across Kingsgate Bridge to the accompaniment of faint and drifting brass, one last manifestation of the Brass Festival and, at the low key level at which we engaged with it, an entirely pleasing one. We paid our respects to Bede, as you must, and avoided the parties of youngsters photographing each other in the cloisters (which are part of Hogwarts school) and admired the energy with which the rain was hurtling down, and ate soup in the refecrory which is now a restaurant, and eventually came home soaking wet and were just beginning to dry out when desperance arrived with his portable kitchen, and there was much unwrapping of gifts and admiration of interesting Australian herbs and goodies.

Dinner was excellent, but since desperance was cooking you didn't need me to tell you that. The wines I had chosen complemented the food as well as I had hoped, which was less of a certainty. There was spinach soup with lamb meatballs, classic middle eastern flavours but with an almost oriental hot-sour spicing in the stock (it's probably entirely authentic, but it was still a fusion of different associations for me), with which we drank Three Choirs rosé (plenty of fruit to stand up to the lamb and the spicing, but a good dry edge). The main course was a very rich duck fesenjan, with delicious Persian rice (with carrots and apricots and steamed until a beautiful buttery crust forms, and then turned out and topped with barberries and pistachios and actually that rice would be a meal in itself and there is still some in the fridge for tomorrow, hooray!) which was easy, once I had established that there was indeed a bottle of the Madiran left: duck means southwest France to me. We had a cheese course, because visitors from elsewhere must be introduced to our regional cheeses (and besides I love cheese) with a bottle of French malbec which Helen had given us. Dessert was a rice pudding (due to a communications breakdown, it was very nearly two rice puddings, but durham_rambler spotted what was going on, and disaster was avoided, and there was mild, cool, creamy rice pudding to accompany gillpolack's luscious walnut muscat. I've been drinking another glass of the muscat while I type this, and since the glass is now empty, the post must be nearly finished, too - the meal was rounded off with conversation into the small hours, and I'm ready for another early night.

Yesterday morning we all trooped into Newcastle and saw the sights there: the vallum crossing in Benwell and a scrap of the Wall, the Lit & Phil, the Vampire Rabbit, the Tyne Bridge, the Castle - when I write the list like that, it looks as if we had quite a busy morning, and I suppose we did, though there was also lots more talking (and some more rain). And then we put Gillian on her train back to York, where she continues to cause havoc, and returned to our several homes and works.

We spent Sunday in Newcastle; the various artists' studios in the Ouseburn valley were holding their annual open weekend, and we went to have a look round.

There seem to be more studios to visit each year; this year for the first time, we didn't have the energy even to try to see everyrhing. I enjoyed Roger Tye's glass triffids, and some of Jim Edwards' cityscapes (the ones with the right balance of blue - a view of the Fish Quay, for example), some of Amanda Rabey's paintings looked like illustrations for a story I'd like to read. I bought two small Christmas presents, and had a slice of very fine almond cake in the café upstairs at Cobalt ("a studio group in progress"). But, as Gail said, "I was hoping to fall in love with something, and I haven't!" - not necessarily to buy anything substantial, but at least to wish I could.

I had an agreeable flirtation at Northern Print with Jo Bourne's Winter Walk. And I had a 'might have been' moment at the very end of our tour, the last space in 36 Lime Street, with the promise of a drink and a sit down at the Cluny dangling like a carrot in front of us: a strange little collection by Catriona Jones entitled The Architecture of Dressmaking: "The images show invented tools and imagined spaces created by a guild of architectural dressmakers in the garment district of New York." and I'm sorry now that I didn't give it more time.

The best thing of all was the Ouseburn itself - the area, not the waterway, (though the waterway has its charms). The warehouses and industrail buildings which line the valley of the Ouseburn as it flows down into the Tyne are a curious mixture of the derelict and the lavishly converted. Walking from Northern Print's gleaming new gallery to xsite architecture I heard myself ask "But where is the money coming from?" Gail agreed it was a good question and then, a moment later "Don't tread on that dead rat!" Walls covered in graffiti and topped with coils of wire glowed in the winter sunlight, hoardings advertise industrial services and development opportunities.