Barry in Europe

By way of posting about current travels for a moment, today I left Birmingham for the last time. It was quite a journey: 4 different trains and 11 hours between quitting my home in Lichfield and arrival, but I am back in Whitby. This is one amazing spot, possibly the best in all my travels (but there have been so many great places, it is hard to say). It is the kind of place to which I would make a beeline if I was to win LOTTO or find out that my father was actually Bill Gates or otherwise come into sufficient money to retire. I have just sat in the Board Inn, which overlooks the mouth of the River Esk, and watched the light fade from the day, Captain Cook in stark silhouette observing from the opposite bank. I don’t think I have seen a more beautiful thing. Then, the light gone, I climbed the 199 steps up to my hostel among the ruins of the ancient Abbey. Who could ask for more?

I should perhaps mention as a warning that there is full frontal nudity at the bottom of this post, so go there now or stop when I say.

When I last posted, I was speaking of Helsinki. I think the one thing that lingers in my memory apart from what I have already mentioned is the buskers I encountered on my Easter Sunday walk through the near deserted city. They were not your ordinary class of buskers: one was playing the double bass, another a couple of blocks along had a clarinet and the last had an instrument I do not know the name of. It was the size of a largish zylophone, and sounded like a zylophone but with extra features, as if combined with a small pipe organ. The pipes were to the front, and by hitting a key with his plonker, the musician would make them sound.

But I was only in Helsinki until early on Easter Monday. I caught the ferry back to Tallinn, had a last look at and coffee in my favourite bookshop and caught the train south. Although brightly coloured, that did not hide its Soviet origins and the interior accommodations were decidedly Spartan

The journey down was uneventful and unspectacular, trundling through a nondescript forested region for most of the way, broken only by the occasional factory around which a town clustered. I began to doubt my destination, which was driven by the fact that it is not possible to travel from Tallinn to Riga in one day unless one has an early start. When early came around I, of course, was in Finland. So I took some advice and people said that rather than stay in the border town of Valga, I should only go as far as Tartu. They were right.

Once again, I fell in love with a place. Tartu was also a Hanseatic town, important because it is on a river connecting two lakes, one of which borders Russia. There were several hundred barges in use, ferrying goods backwards and forwards. Sadly, they fell into disuse around the end of World War 1, and then the timbers were found to be important for other purposes and not even one survives. The extraordinary thing is that in the last few years, a group of people in Tartu has, working from old photos and descriptions and learning all the skills necessary, first made the tools necessary to hand build one of these barges and then they built one.

It was out when I went to look at it, but the photos show it to be more of a small sailing ship than what I would call a barge. The same group is presently getting ready to make a Viking ship. They also throw quite a Christmas party: a fellow in the hostel told me of going and getting fairly sizzled, then having to spend time in the sauna prior to a refreshing dip in the river. Not so bad, perhaps, until you know the river was frozen solid and the dip was by way of a hole cut in the ice.

As for Tartu, unlike Tallinn it has not undergone all sorts of upheavals and transformations and so it is a place of quite startling formal beauty. A key place is the University, which has been around since the early 17th century after establishment by the Swedes. There was a bit of a gap during the 18th century and it was re-established in its present buildings very early in the 1800’s, becoming very important in scientific and philosophic thinking.

People like this fellow

helped – he founded “descriptive and comparative embryology” (no, I don’t know either).
So, the University is probably the most beautiful of the buildings in Tartu





I had lunch in the main canteen, which is in this building

and has pieces like this inset into its walls
.

Behind is the city park, which I liked because it was a bit rugged and had a touch of the wild about it and it had a ruined Abbey


although to be fair, it could only be said to be half ruined as one end is still in use as a museum

One thing that really features in Tartu is its street art (the third one down does feature complete nudity). The first I really paid attention to was this conversation outside the Wilde Hotel

One is indeed Oscar, but the city is honouring the other, a fellow called Eduard Wilde. You have to like a place that has this outside its town hall, simply known as Two Students Kissing

But there is one piece which I walked past without really paying attention, and when I did I was slightly disturbed, not because they’re nude or right in the middle of the central square, but because this is a father and son, and the son is said to be a mere 18 months old!

The food situation did improve after the first Hesburger disaster, dramatically so. I liked this cafe

so much I visited a couple of times. On the Thursday night, I found a lot of places were dead empty or so packed, I couldn’t get any service – I sat in the oldest pub in Tallinn, a very cool underground space, for a full quarter of an hour with no acknowledgement, so moved on. The place I ended up dining was a fashionable restaurant, chosen because it was not quite empty but it was pleasingly full by the time I’d done with my pepper steak.

Friday night in Tallinn is less pleasant – by 8:00 I’d seen one fight and run into lots of drunks. The woman running the hostel summed it up: lots of English men, looking for the cheap drinks and beautiful women (and yes, they were, very much so).

Two other cafes I liked a lot. One was underground

.

The other was out of the Old Town, in a very new shopping mall, within a bookshop, a very cool bookshop as it happens, with such a wide selection of English fiction I felt compelled to buy a couple of books, along with some DVD’s. They had a different cafe on each floor, both making decent coffee and one doing proper meals, such as the very tasty lambsteak I had for lunch. Dunedin would be improved if it had a bookshop like this one.

The major part of Tallinn was built in the Soviet Era – they built half a dozen suburbs, apparently very planned and in the neoclassical style. I’d have liked the chance to go explore. In between those suburbs and the Old Town is the downtown area, a weird assortment of styles running from the medieval through 18th century wooden to early 20th century neoclassical to stark glass edifices, all cheek by jowl with each other.

I walked all over and around this building, I'm not even sure it is abuilding and not a monument


and still have no idea what it is about – it showed very few signs of life, although it had the city heliport and a pleasant fountain

A couple of its neighbours, I found amusing. The photo might be a bit small to reveal the sign on this old wreck

but it is apparently the contemporary art museum. I remain a bit disbelieving about the sign on this place and all.

Tarkovsky shot one of his movies here, Stalker, but I will have to wait till I get home to see if these are props: my nice bookshop didn’t have that on DVD but I found a copy on trademe.

I’d ventured out without a jacket, and was finding it a wee bit cool but not unpleasantly so, until I saw this

This is probably the nicest part of Tallinn outside the walls

Maybe I should have stayed in Tallinn for longer, because I really liked it. But the original plan had been to take a ferry back to Rostock in Germany, more of a short cruise than a ferry (it takes a couple of days) but it was going to cost a fortune, way more than I could think of spending. So I hopped on the ferry across to Helsinki. It was a bit like being in a floating night-club cum cocktail lounge - a bit odd at 9:00 in the morning.

You'd think by now I could read a map, but i got way off course on the way to the hostel but eventually made it. Quite a big place, and iunlike any I've been in so far had big rooms with just two people in each. Kind of nice. Wandering back into town, I found a nice cafe called Engels Cafe opposite this church

I sat and ate some wonderful meatballs and roast potatoes in a sauce which had fflavours I couldn't work out, a slight sourness and a hint of spice. I went for a general walk, but it was cold and I wasn't feeling 100% so it wasn't a very exciting day. Coming back into town for dinner, I caught the very end of the Easter Procession - they really make a show of it. There was some black and white film being shown, using the church as its screen. The steps were occupied by dancers and lots of candles, and somewhere there were some actors, acting out the resurrection, singing quite operatically as they did it.

Easter Sunday in Helsinki is quiet - almost everything is shut, all the shops, galleries and the like. There were cafes and bars, that was it. I think it was even colder than Saturday, so I didn't linger.

Since I knew I'd be travelling and not wanting to carry lots of books, I brought with me the first two volumes of The Forsyte Saga. Each is just under 900 pages, it is a trilogy of trilogies, so plenty to keep me going. I've seen it on TV of course, but never quite appreciated what a loathsome person Soames Forsyte is: his attitude to his wife is the same as to any other property, she's a chattel (or, at one point, an unnoccupied house ready for a tenant), yet he can't work out why she doesn't like him. The night he forces himself upon her is the end. The opposite strand of the Forsyte family is all kindness and sentiment, in Jolyon.

I was both relieved and a little queasy when I checked out the car in daylight: what had seemed to be a deep ridged scratch in the dark proved to be a line of birdshit. Eww! Leaving a bit after 8:00 it was a fairly slow drive to Southampton, lots of traffic making it so. I didn’t really panic until after I dropped the car off – only then did I realize it was due back at 10:00 and not 11:00. Makes a difference when you get to the Avis depot at 11:30.

Now the roundabout nature of my travels really took over – I caught a succession of trains to Norwich, where I stayed in a very pleasant Travelodge. I’m afraid I have little to say about Norwich, not because I didn’t like it, quite the contrary, it seemed very much like a place I’d enjoy, but because I was working quite hard – the deadline on my other project, although still months away, seems very close. So I got to see the shops near where I was staying, found a nice Italian place for dinner and that was about it.

Apart, of course, for my reason for being in Norwich in the first place. Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. I haven’t read as much Beckett as I should have, but enough to know the pleasure he gives me and Godot must be his best known work: it has been said to be the best play of the 20th century even though nothing happens, twice. Not only that, but the actors were a bit special as well: Patrick Stewart as Vladimir and Sir Ian McKellen as Estragon. I had tried to see this a bit closer to home, at Malvern, but it had long sold out when I tried. Same for other places, like Milton Keynes, so I was pretty pleased to get anything at all for Norwich, even though it meant lots of tripping about. This, by the way, is what my friend from last week was so envious about.

My only regret is that I was a fair way back from the stage, so the finer details of their facial expressions was a bit lost to me. I’m not sure why I didn’t use the small pair of binoculars the Theatre Royal had thought to provide each seat with. But the play was brilliant, much funnier than I expected, given that it is about two tramps waiting for someone never shows up (I’m not sure that anyone today would go to this play not knowing that) and who are amusing each other while they wait – a “tragicomic allegory of the human condition”. Suicide is not far away at times. Beckett said he introduces the other two characters just “to break up the monotony”. I do wonder about Lucky’s one speech – an extremely long and incoherent monologue: does he memorise the same “narrative” or make it up on the night?

Anyway, it certainly made me feel pleased I took the time out to go to Norwich, even though it meant a fairly early start on Wednesday, so I could get down to Stansted and catch my plane: Easter in Estonia was the plan, and it provide to be marvelous. Easyjet did the job, getting through Tallinn customs was a breeze and I was on a bus into town in no time.

As always seems to be the way, it took me a while to find my hostel, despite having a map in my hand and a larger one on a placard in front of me. Perhaps if I had just looked around – it took a drunk sitting at the bus stop to point out that the rather large building across the road gave a vital clue to finding what I was looking for.

The hostel was quite unlike any I have been in. It looks fairly normal from the outside

but inside, the hostel was basically a single living room – the beds were in the same space as the kitchen and the staff, who just kipped in whichever bed was spare. But it was warm and friendly.

The Lithuanian Embassy is directly opposite

This must be pretty old,

because they banned wooden buildings in the Old City a couple of centuries ago, because of worries with fire.

On my first night, I had a bit of a wander around the Old Town, had one of the worst burgers I have ever had (that’ll teach me for going to local competitors to McDonalds whenever I see one) and was beginning to wonder whether Tallinn was really the place for me. All doubts were dispelled over the next two days – my wanders had just taken me to the least interesting part of town.

It also revealed to me that there is a huge and fascinating bit of European history about which I know nothing. Tallinn wasn’t part of Estonia until the 20th century, didn’t have an Estonian Mayor until about 1916. The Danes were there first, then they sold it to the Hanseatic League, a German trading venture which prized Tallinn highly as a seaport - so it was basically a privately owned city and stayed that way until the mid 19th century. They put up buildings like this

The Swedes came along and established the Lower (Old) Town was Danish, under a town council. All was surrounded by a wall
.

Of course, Estonia was a bit of a football in the 20th century – the Russians took control, then the Germans, and then the Russians. It has only had independence since 1991 but is very much a place on the go.

I spent two days wandering, mostly in the Old Town, and could have easily spent another couple. Here is some of what I saw, as I wandered:

The main street into the centre of Old Town is lined with bars and boutique shops and thronged with people

It opens on to the Town Hall Square

in which the Town Hall looks like none other I have seen

The wikipedia page has a couple of nice panoamic images of Tallinn.

More next time.

Another of those crazy days in which I got off to an early start, so early that most in the hostel seemed to be still abed when I left, and yet it was late at night before I was done for the day. Another spin back to Lands End didn’t give it any more appeal, but a quick duck down a side road and the day was off to a good start.

Sennen is the first harbour north of Lands End, tucked in under here

and tiny

Nice beach – I stopped and had breakfast so I could watch it for a while

Then it was back past the hostel and into St Just to look around during the day – it is like a small Dolgellau

But with added bonus of a Welsh amphitheatre, which has been here since the 12th century

As you head up the coast of Wales, you go through its mining district, silver mainly (plus, I think, tin). The Levant mine was actually on a cliff face and under the sea. Little remains today, however

There is still a fully functional mine, in the hands of the National Heritage Trust – I did pop in and wandered around the outside a bit, but I found the Levant more interesting.

The land round here is a bit wild

So too are the roads – very narrow in parts, with drivers like me taking it easy but the locals, not so much. At one point I had to back over to let someone past so far that I was sure I felt the car come into contact with the stone wall, typically concealed behind a benign layer of foliage.

The entire town of Zennor, where some famous poet came to live (I hope he liked long walks in the countryside!)

and suddenly I was in St Ives, a town which presents a few challenges to those seeking to drive through – this is the road

I was pretty much convinced that I had inadvertently driven into a pedestrian zone (I’m sure it is possible) but someone was following me, and then there was a car park.

St Ives is a very pleasant spot – it has a lovely waterfront




and quaint narrow streets, full of shops selling ice creams (I was warned to watch for the seagulls when I bought one) pasties (it is Cornwall after all – have to say that I prefer the Birmingham version, Balti chicken), nicnacs and gewgaws. Importantly, I found one selling the local beer – the Admiral Ale by the St Austell’s Brewery won the best ale in the world competition last year (it was tasty).

I really did try to take a look at Penzance, you can’t go to Cornwall and not go to Penzance, but I got caught up in a mess of narrow one way streets and was spat out at the south beach

so decided to press on.

Next stop was Newquay (on the north coast), another town with a weird system of one ways, so I again got lost, but did get out to its main beach

People may have heard of Rick Stein, he’s been on our screens pursuing fishy dishes. He owns half of Padstow, which is along the coast from Newquay. Since his fish and chip shop opened as I drove into town, I decided to join the queue (yes, there was a queue to get into a fish and chip shop – luckily it didn’t last)

for a cod and chips. Not that special, really.

Padstow has a tranquil little harbour

.

I had one more essential stop to make, so I gobbled my dinner and headed off, still along the north coast of south Wales. I feel quite special, parking my car here

(possibly not that recognisable, although this bit of beach has been on our TV’s quite a bit). Maybe if we look at it from another angle

or pan around
.

This is Port Isaac, but perhaps better known as Portwen, the home of one Doc Martin. Even if it hadn’t been famous (in some quarters), Port Isaac was well worth a visit, despite another set of narrow streets (I drove in one


and had no idea how to get out again, until I watched some people leave – straight out the way you come in).

It is lovely




so I decided to hell with it and went to the pub for a reflective pint. I had hoped to sit on the balcony on which Doc Martin had so many embarrassing moments, but it seems to have been built special for the show: the only balcony I could find was a terrible small concrete thing, one table deep with a grill work. No worries, the sun was out, the beer was good and I was happy.

So, it was near dark already before I headed off to Exeter, where I was booked into the YHA. Nice hostel, but I have no idea about Exeter (and I so wanted to see the narrowest street) – I did try driving into town, but my first finding of the hostel was a complete fluke, so I wasn’t sure I could repeat it. I did check the car for scratches – there was a horrible ridged silver gash. Expensive!

I don’t know what happened. I had about 200 miles to go, I left Bournemouth good and early and yet it was well after dark before I arrived. Traffic wasn’t bad and the sun was shining

yet the drive took more than 12 hours! Of course, meandering up every side road and gawking at various things does slow one down. First stop of any substance was just outside Weymouth

not sure how it happened but instead of making progress

I was curious to see Cheshil Beach, after Ian McEwan named his novel in its honour. All I knew was that it had a few pebbles


but it is unusual in another way

Those pebbles provide a challenge to those wishing to take a gentle stroll along the beach, particularly if you’re trying to go up or down. The noise made was curious as well, a kind of crash to start with, then a lingering scrunching rattling.

After a coffee at a very tempting looking restaurant, it was already noon and time to go – I had a date with a pic’n’mix bin. One of the major victims of the recession has been Woolworths, probably the most iconic and longest established (over 100 years) brands to go (well, there are a bunch of empty shops still around). In Dorchester, however, the manager decided that wasn’t good enough – her branch was making a steady profit, her community was behind her, her workers all saw Woollies as their family, so she re-opened her branch. This hit the press big time, and there was even a TV documentary on her last week I happened to see; she’s one of my heroes of the recession, and seemed like a lovely person to boot. So, I headed for Dorchester, which is about 20 miles north. Here’s her shop


The place was humming, and I did see the manager, had this weird impulse go shake her hand or hug her or something – luckily she left the premises before I got myself arrested. So I bought a gallon of pic’n’mix and had some lunch. Dorchester is just a solid sort of market town, but it has a nice church


Next stop was Lyme Regis – now this is town which knows how to be a beach resort! It has the beach

with plenty of bars and cafes fronting on to it


There are even pebbles for those who feel a need

Pity about the homeless guys

Lyme Regis is a town with a looong history - it is recorded in the Domesday Book (1086) and gained its Royal charter in 1253. It is still a nice town, one of the more genteel along the Jurassic coast:


and in between was a glorious garden

I must confess that I don’t know where this is, somewhere not far from Lyme Regis, and it might even be Beer (Devon) but it seemed peaceful


Ah, it is Beer, a fairly small town, a full 139 miles from my destination according to the marvels of google maps. I think the pub in Beer has one of the lamest sort of punning names I have ever come across - Barrell O' Beer. It was so warm I had to have an ice cream then, since the time had crept on to being well after 5:00, I basically tramped it.

Even so it was around 9:30 before I got to the hostel at Lands End (down a one way mile long track behind a farm).

Lands End itself was closed – no loss, there is a big building that obscures any sort of view, and the building doesn’t seem to have changed since I saw it twenty years ago. It was tacky and new then, now it is tacky and old.

So, dinner was a bit of a step down from last night – a mile the other side of the hostel is the stone town of St Just. All I could get to eat at 9:45 was Chinese takeways, so I sat with them and a beer in the near freezing cold at a picnic table and dined al fresco (the picnic table reminded me strongly of Massey, as I spent half my life at a picnic table there). But the Star Inn

was still going strong, so I went in and had a nice St Austell’s ale as a nightcap.