(See also PCs 242 and 244)

Maybe a common thread of these tales of forbidden love is two powerful families? As a teenager I loved the ‘forbidden love’ stories from the English author Noel Barber (1909-1988). Nothing better than to sit in a summer’s garden and read ‘Tanamera’ based in Singapore, ‘A Woman of Cairo’ based, surprisingly, in Egypt (!) or ‘A Farewell to France’. Barber had started his first novel when in his seventies, after a career as a leading foreign correspondent for the Daily Mail.  

One of the classical romances, Tristan & Isolde, is the tale of a princess who, pledged to marry a king, instead becomes involved with his nephew.  Tristan travels to Ireland to bring back Isolde for his uncle, King Mark of Cornwall. On the C12th ferry back to England they drink a love potion, which ensures that Isolde, although married to Mark, still has the hots for Tristan! The ménage à trois continues until the love potion wears off! Richard Wagner wrote the opera of the same name in 1859 – well, not quite the same; the ampersand became ‘und’! 

Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (1847) is among the most dramatic of romantic tragedies in literature and deserves a mention here. I have never read it but a flash of some film version enters my brain, as does Kate Bush’s melodic song. Some story about Heathcliff and Cathy, right? Societal constraints and personal pride prevent Cathy from being with Heathcliff and she eventually marries another man. Heathcliff remains bitter through the rest of his life.

Then I go on Google and read a synopsis of the story, which started: “Many people, generally those who have never read the book (that’s me!), consider Wuthering Heights to be a straightforward, if intense, love story — Romeo and Juliet on the Yorkshire Moors. But this is a mistake. Really the story is one of revenge.”

So replace the warmth and sun of Verona with wild, windy and wet Yorkshire? To be honest, the synopsis was confusing, complicated and incomprehensible. The names of the main characters come and go like horses on a merry-go-round, at speed and in a hurry. Kate Bush’s lyrics from her 1978 song went like this:

“Bad dreams in the night, They told me I was going to lose the fight, Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering, Wuthering Heights!”

“Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy. I’ve come home, I’m so cold. Let me in your window.”

It follows the life of Heathcliff, a mysterious gypsy-like person, from childhood to his death in his late thirties. Heathcliff is raised in his adopted family and then runs away when the young woman he loves decides to marry another. He returns later, rich and educated, and sets about gaining his revenge on the two families. In ‘This Charming Man’, a novel by Marian Keyes, Dad scornfully remarks: “Gothic bollocks! Doesn’t anyone remember that Heathcliff was a psychopath. He killed Isabel’s dog.’” It’s a view!

When Edward VIII, crowned King on 20 January 1936 in London, fell in love with American divorcée Wallis Simpson the affair shocked the nation – due to strong opposition from the church and government over their proposed marriage. Edward chose to abdicate the throne: “I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as king as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love.’ His abdication in December 1936 forced his brother George, not a very healthy individual, to become king. George died in 1952 at the young age of 56 and his wife Elizabeth forever blamed Edward – or more likely Wallis Simpson! The couple married and settled in France. Recently it’s been revealed that both had Nazi associations and the Germans planned to re-install him as King after they successfully invaded the UK (Note 1)

Then we know the current Prince of Wales continued to see his mistress Camilla née Shand even when she was married to Andrew Parker Bowles and he was married to Princess Diana. Their lives came full circle when, after their respective divorces, they eventually married in 2005.

Elizabeth Barrett (1806 – 1861) was an accomplished and respected poet in poor health when Robert Browning wrote to her “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrrett.” They courted in secret because of her family’s disapproval. She wrote: “I am not of a cold nature and cannot be treated coldly. When cold water is thrown upon a hot iron the iron hisses.” When they married in 1846 her father disinherited her and the couple moved to Florence, Italy where, fifteen years later, she would die in Browning’s arms. Elizabeth’s work had a major influence on writers such as poets Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson. If you need to understand the strength of her writing, read Sonnet 43 published in 1845 – “How Do I Love Thee?”  

There is an ancient love story which has left a mark on the history of Portugal: the tale of forbidden love between Infante (the Crown Prince) Pedro and Inês (pronounced Inaish) de Castro, lady-in-waiting to his wife Constance. Although he was married, the Infante would have secret romantic meetings with Inês in the gardens of Quinta das Lágrimas. When Constance died in 1345, Pedro and Inês lived as a married couple, a decision which angered his father King Afonso IV, who was strongly opposed the relationship, as did the court and the population.

Pedro and Inês lived at Santa Clara Palace, in Coimbra, with their three children for many years. However, King Afonso IV, who was constantly under pressure because of the growing disapproval of the union within the court, decided to order the murder of Inês de Castro in January 1355. Deranged by pain, Pedro led an uprising against the King and would never forgive his father for murdering his lover. When he finally took the crown in 1357, Pedro ordered the arrest and execution of Inês’ murderers by ripping their hearts out. This action earned him the title of “the Cruel”.

Later, after swearing that he had secretly married Inês de Castro, King Pedro demanded that she be recognized as Queen of Portugal. In April 1360, he ordered the body of Inês to be moved from Coimbra to the Royal Monastery of Alcobaça, where two magnificent tombs were built so that he could rest next to his eternal lover forever. Thus, the most overwhelming Portuguese love story would be immortalized in stone.

Richard 22^nd October 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Coincidentally Romeo & Juliet was in the papers on 21^st July this year. In these ultra-sensitive times, The Globe Theatre in London apparently issued a warning to those wanting to watch the play, as it contained themes which some might find disturbing! Go figure!

Note 1 See Widowland by CJ Carey

A deserted Trafalgar Square in London

It stopped …. dead in its tracks, as it were (!) ….. commuting ……. as the pandemic locked societies’ workers down. For months individuals used to travelling some distance to work found themselves in, for instance, their spare bedroom, trying to sort out the intermittent connection on Zoom. Gradually Working From Home (WFH) became the new norm and now, as the restrictions ease, there seems to be a need to prize out ex-commuters from their cosy WFH existence and get them back into the real office.

I stood on the wet platform at Fleet railway station, leaning forward to get my first glimpse of the 0722 that would take me into London Waterloo. My position on the asphalt ensured that when the train stopped the carriage door would be directly in front of me, to reach out, open and climb into my usual seat. Those who don’t regularly commute (Note 1) by train will decry the numbness of the habit but it made all the difference – a front or rear facing seat – smoking or non-smoking ….. ah! The choices!

Up until this point in my life I had never had a commute of more than a few miles, in some cases a few yards. Now I had joined the great daily migration into the UK’s capital city, for a role in the MOD’s Procurement Executive in Fleetbank House, just off Fleet Street. From the steps out of Waterloo Station to my desk was about 16 minutes, a wiggly walk south of the river then over Blackfriars Bridge and up.

There is no ‘commute’ when at boarding school, or indeed at the Royal Military Academy. My first posting was to a regiment stationed on the outskirts of Devizes. The commute was simply falling out of bed in my room in a wooden hut, putting my uniform on and walking down the hill to the barracks and work; the first task was ‘stables parade’!

In Lippstadt in Germany it was a sleepy walk across Sűdstrasse to breakfast in the Officers Mess, then back into the barracks; 300 yards maximum (we hadn’t changed to the metric system at that time!)

My first real commute, ie using a car, was from an Army married quarter in Harnham, a suburb on the southern edge of the City of Salisbury, to the headquarters of the UK Land Forces where I had a staff job. This took the time it takes to smoke one cigarette!

After Staff College and my MOD appointment, I was posted to Bulford, just north of Salisbury, to be Battery Commander of an Air Defence unit. For domestic reasons, I declined the offer of an Army Married quarter and commuted from my Fleet house, a total distance of some 68 miles. I found out that I could access the M3 motorway through a utilities-only entrance for Fleet Services, so very soon settled into a smooth drive on first the motorway, then the A303. I left home early so was in the barracks about 0745. I had an old dark blue VW Beetle I had bought specifically for the task, but its rusty bodywork meant that when it rained the foot-well filled up with water. I spent my last four months of Army service teaching at the Royal School of Artillery, another mile along the A303; it was the coldest January on record and the water in the foot-well froze!

My sales role at Short Brothers’ London office started in 1986; often the commute was not into the Berkley Square offices but out to Heathrow to catch the British Midland 0700 flight to Belfast’s Aldergrove Airport and a head office Sales Meeting or to some European capital city on a sales trip. I drove from my Rowledge Village home to Farnham Station and caught the train. When my Honda Accord died and I had no way of getting to the station, for three months I caught a coach which came through the village at 0613 and eventually arrived at Hyde Park Corner ay 0840; from there I walked along Piccadilly towards the office. The coach’s interior was poorly lit so reading was difficult; absolute nightmare!

A move to Clapham Common introduced me to the joys of the London Underground’s Northern Line; on a normal day the tube was too warm, on a summer’s day, almost unbearable!  After arriving in Waterloo and walking over the pedestrian bridge, I passed through the Horse Guards Arch, usually getting a salute from the guardsman (Note 2), on up through St James’ Park and into Berkeley Square.

When I first started working for Morgan & Banks, the walk from Charing Cross underground station was up to Trafalgar Square, turn north and up to the bottom of St Martin’s Lane. Two years later an office move found me on the north side of Waterloo Bridge, opposite Somerset House.

Working for myself and running The Yellow Palette gave me my shortest commute – upstairs to the converted loft and my desk – measured in metres as opposed to kilometres!

I read recently that those who used to work in an office after commuting some distance are now restricting their ‘working week’ to three days and are known as TWaTs (Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursdays). (Note 3)

And today? The ‘traffic update’ on the radio about queues on the M25, or train disruption due to leaves on the railway lines is mentally acknowledged and dismissed. More tea vicar?

Richard 15^th October 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS My Australian connections gave me insight into the most delightful commute, by ferry across Sydney Harbour to Circular Quay.

Note 1 The term commute actually involves traveling ‘some’ distance between one’s home and place of work on a regular basis, so I am stretching this to mentions short walks!

Note 2 Those of us lucky enough to have undergone some form of military training developed a ‘military bearing’, a certain way of walking, confident and with ‘head in the back of the collar’. Recognised by those on sentry duty at Horseguards even!

Note 3 Twat is a very derogatory term for a stupid or annoying person. It’s also vulgar slang for a vagina. I have no idea why it has such polar-opposite meanings.

This is the second collection of words or phrases or passages that I have amassed. I hope you find them interesting, informative, thoughtful and amusing in equal or unequal measure.

Philip Ayrton-Grime had been our Queen’s vet for many decades. On his retirement they were having a glass of sherry. “Do you find” asked the Queen “that you begin to forget names and faces as we get older?” “Absolutely!” your majesty, Philip replied. The Queen sighed: “Fortunately everybody seems to know who I am.”

Jeffrey Archer quoted the following in one of his novels: “If it flies, floats or fucks, rent it!” and attributed it to Sir James Goldsmith (1933 – 1997). Goldsmith, a very successful businessman, was loved and hated in equal measure.

His three marriages produced six children including Jemina, who was married to the Pakistani Imran Khan (1995-2004), and Zac who was ennobled in 2020. His mistress gave birth to two more; at one point Goldsmith lived in a house with his wife in one wing and his mistress in another. This colourful character died of pancreatic cancer at the early age of 64. 

In the Offshore Sailing world the name Ellen MacArthur is instantly recognisable, particularly for her record-breaking solo circumnavigation in 2005 on the trimaran B&Q. Subsequently she founded the Ellen MacArthur Cancer Trust (The EMCT); its aim is to provide an adventurous outlet for teenagers in their remission from cancer. In my capacity as a business coach I provided some pro bono assistance to the CEO.

She spoke at the Southampton Boat Show in 1998: “I don’t know where my motivation comes from …… but one thing I’ve learnt over the past year is that if deep down in your heart you have a goal, you CAN achieve it. Getting to that stage has pushed me hard, harder than I ever imagined, but I have experienced moments more rewarding and more beautiful than in my wildest dreams. Yes, it’s true; luck does play a part in it. But if you believe, and are determined, you can build your own luck … and realize that the vision is really NOT so far away.”

Albert Einstein is often quoted and he had a great wit: “Two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity; and I am not sure about the universe.”

The late American author Philip Roth wrote some interesting books, among them ‘The Human Stain’ (Note 2), ‘Goodbye Columbus’ and ‘Portnoy’s Complaint’.

He never shied away from writing how it is: “We leave a stain, we leave a trail, we leave an imprint, impurity, cruelty, abuse, error, excrement, semen – there’s no other way to be here. The truth about us is endless …… as are the lies.”

Some writers are delightfully descriptive; I know it adds to my enjoyment of their stories:

“The warmth of the day lingered in the still of the night”. Claire Frances, who first came to prominence as a 1977 Round-The-World yacht skipper, has written some good novels.

“Oslo was at this hour hers, like sharing a stolen hour from a secret lover. The hills to the east lay in shadows, those to the west bathed in a soft light. The buildings in the city centre were black silhouettes like a cemetery at sunrise. A few glass buildings were lit up like silver coloured fish beneath the dark surface of the water.” Jo Nesbo author

“The sea looked like a colourful quilt of sunshine and clouds.” I love this, can imagine narrowing my eyes against the reflection of the sun off the choppy water, and the thousand colourful patches.

A limerick is a short and fun four or five line poem with a distinctive rhythm, popularised by Edward Lear (1812 – 1888).

“There was a young man from Forfar, (Note 1)

Who caught the three three for Forfar,

For he said: “I believe I will leave

far before the four four for Forfar.”

In my business coaching days, I would always summarise a meeting with a client with a follow-up letter, often appending some phrase or saying at the bottom. Sounds a little corny, but I hoped that my client would read, mark and inwardly digest the words, for they had a message! I often used these words spoken by Brutus from Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar’: “There is a time in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.  Omitted, all the voyage of one’s life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea am I now afloat, and I must take the current when it serves or lose my venture.”

Love: having written about doomed love in my PCs entitled ‘What is This Thing Called Love?” (1&2), I reflect that writing about love is bound to be hugely coloured by one’s own experiences. Some authors are good at describing sex and all its attendant emotions, others gloss over it.

Dolly Alderton, the Sunday Times Columnist would, I had imagined, have been good, but in her book Ghosts she seemed rather shy of graphic descriptions!! When fictional Nina falls in love with Max it’s very bland. Then Max disappears …… ghosting is a new phenomenon in the complex world of human relationships. Maybe she had given her all in her autobiographical “Everything I know About Love” – which is a fun and revealing book.

I am grateful to Meg Mason for this description, from Sorry & Bliss; Martha, after the first two attempts at physical contact, thought: “The third time, it felt like we had been melted down and made into another thing. We lay for so long afterwards, facing each other in the dark, not talking, our breath in the same pattern, our stomachs touching. We went to sleep that way and woke up that way. It was the happiest I have ever felt.” Sexy huh?

Louis de Berniere, author of ‘Captain Corelli’s Mandolin’, ‘Birds Without Wings’ and others

From his book ‘The Autumn of the Ace’

“Nothing is or is not as it seems
As we are, so you shall be,
As you are, so were we,
As dancing motes of golden dust
We whirled within our beam of light,
And then became, but always were,
This dust that falls from dreams.”

…….. this dust that falls from dreams ……. (to be continued)

Richard 8th October 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Forfar is a town in Scotland about 20kms north of Dundee, on the east coast

Note 2 The Human Stain was made into a film starring Anthony Hopkins and Nicole Kidman

There’s a well-known saying that a picture paints a thousand words (note 1) ……. and my weekly post’s word-count is generally about that. By way of illustration, we could certainly write a 1000 words about this …….

I have selected 50 photographs from those that accompanied the last fifty postcards; visible only for my Facebook followers. For my newer readers who might want to read some of the back catalogue, I sense it’s quite a daunting task, although a look at the summary PCs (PCs 100 and 200) might help you make a selection. Having increased the posts to one a week, I hear chums say it’s easy to ‘get behind’ but actually most are about 7 minutes to read, so with a good cup of coffee ……..

Of these twelve months’ worth, there’s obviously very little written about travelling, apart from PC 241, but there are six about sailing experiences! I hope those of you who sail, or who would like to, found these more interesting than those of you for whom the idea of getting cold and wet and feeling sick is akin to standing in a cold shower ripping up £5 notes. (Note 2)

I have tried not to get too morose about Covid, which has been with us for the last year and more. Recently a good friend told Celina how 34 out of 60 participants in some equestrian get-together, all double-vaccinated, later came out with Covid symptoms. We still need to be sensible in how we go about our lives. One possible outcome of the pandemic and the wet blanket that it drapes across our normal activities was explored in PC 233 ‘Am I Obese?’ Suffice to say it was a little wake-up call and the wobble has reduced significantly!

I pulled together a lot of other individuals’ comments about this and that in ‘Collections’ (PC 247) and there are two more in a similar vein to come. ‘What is This Thing Called Love’ looked at love affairs that were doomed. The more I read the more I found, so there is another part to this trio to come; a departure from my normal stand-alone scribbles.   

PC 234 ‘No buts …. no butts’ exploring the disposal of the cigarette butt would, I thought, have produced a similar number of comments as PC 47 on Loo Paper, but I was disappointed. “The disposal of the butt was always an issue, but everyone was ignorant of the problem. The cigarette filter is 99% cellulose acetate which is a plastic. We have changed our thinking about plastic bags and about plastic straws and now we need to focus on how we get rid of our butts. ………Discarding your cigarette stub has been described as “The Last Acceptable form of Littering”. Let’s all try to make this completely unacceptable and a rare event, like not wearing your seat belt or drinking and then driving. So no “But ….”; just “No Butts!”

You may recall PC 208 Wills & Pens and how both my witnesses for a new Will signing expressed surprise at my option of a fountain pen for them to complete their task? In the newspaper just last week I read that one in ten (10%!) people in Britain admit to not having written anything by hand in the past year – meaning they haven’t picked up a pencil, biro or fountain pen, not that they were dipping a finger into some inkwell. A quarter of those aged between 18 and 24 said they never used cursive script to write a letter or postcard yet half of those surveyed loved receiving handwritten letters! (Note 3)

Often my little brain thinks of something which might develop into a topic for a postcard and I dump these thoughts into Notes on my iPhone or onto Word on my laptop and collect them together: examples in this ‘fifty’ are ‘Ephemera’ 221, ‘Thinking Out loud’ 228, ‘Observations’ number 230 and ‘Chewing The Fat’ 206.

Most of the time I feel fairly apolitical, getting irritated about the issue and not its political colour. Here, in the aftermath of the awful 2017 Grenfell Tower fire, when 72 people were burned to death, the current government is lacking the grip needed to sort out the resultant building scandal. (See Generosity in Government PC 235). In last Sunday’s Times a headline ‘Building Bosses’ Profits Dwarf Fire Safety Cash’ suggested that the CEOs of the ten biggest property developers paid themselves £708 million in dividends, shares and pay over the last three years, £65 million more than they have allocated to fix the dangerous homes they have built. Doesn’t sound fair does it? Mind you, as the inquiry into the fire uncovers more shoddy standards and compromises, the truth, hopefully, will out! (Shakespeare – The Merchant of Venice’.).

Talking of truth, that word has been under the microscope a little in the last year and I tried to pull some of the issues together in ‘Truth, the Whole Truth (PC226). In my last paragraph I wrote: ‘What is striking are these new ideas about what is true, what is your truth or my truth and what isn’t; to use a playing card analogy, that a ‘lived experience’ can trump ‘hard evidence and intellectual analysis’. One person’s version of past events can be rather different – summed up nicely by the statement from The Queen – “recollections may vary”.’

I had some fun with ‘They Go Together ….’ (PCs 39 & 40) and I hope you found them amusing to read?

Richard 1^st October 2021

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1Reportedly first used by Frederick R. Barnard in Printer’s Ink  in December 1921, while commenting that graphics can tell a story as effectively as a large amount of descriptive text.

Note 2 This was the oft-reported figure, although with inflation I suspect it’s gone up to £20 or more?

Note 3 Just like another news item the other day that reported 96% of those who live here in the UK can’t swim 100 m ….. or tread water for 2 minutes! Shock horror! And we an island nation.

If you engage in an adventurous sport over many years, there are bound to be some occasions more memorably dangerous than others; and I am not writing about Tiddlywinks or Darts here! In PC 215 (January 2021) I described a near disaster off the Minquiers; in PCs 209 & 211 (December 2020) I wrote about drama off Arromanches and in PC 231 (May 2021) about grounding on the beach at Dhekelia in Cyprus.

Here’s another! In May 1969 I found myself one of the crew of St Barbara II, a 42ft Rebel sloop belonging to the Royal Artillery Yacht Club, for the RORC North Sea Race. This 180 nautical mile course ran from Harwich to a large buoy off the Belgium coast …..

……. then back up to the widest part of East Anglia before a run across the North Sea to Scheveningen and into Rotterdam, a course like a Z, from behind!

I knew two of the crew and we met the others in Harwich on the 14^th May, a Wednesday evening. We stowed food and our gear and repaired to a restaurant for supper. The forecast for the 0800 hours Thursday start was overcast and cool, with occasional rain; blustery would sum it up!

The following morning we crossed the start-line in company with another thirty or so other yachts; three hours later there were few to be seen, as each skipper adopted their own course. From memory we were probably averaging five knots so the race would take us at least 36 hours. We rounded the mark off the coast of Belgium before sunset and headed back north towards East Anglia. After a long night we tacked around a lightship and by dawn were on the last leg, a long beat towards Holland.

The yacht seemed comfortable with a large foresail and full mainsail, but it was constantly wet on deck with spray and rain. Jon, Mark and I came off duty, somewhat damp on the outside and with general sweatiness inside, with the 0800 Watch Change, We gave control of the deck to James, the mate, and his two crew. My berth was the port-side bunk, requiring a degree of agility to get into at the same time maintaining my balance. The skipper was in his bunk, reading.

It happened about thirty minutes later; someone on deck noticed a line of clouds on the horizon a mile or so away. I can hear the next few minutes in my head as if it was yesterday.

“Skipper? There looks like a squall coming (note 1); might be a bit too much wind for the Genoa. What do you want to do? Shall we change down?”(Ed. To the next smaller sail, capable of coping with a stronger wind.)

“OK! James. Keep her on the same bearing and I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I don’t think we have a minute. We need to act now!” The last word was shouted to impart a degree of urgency. 

I leaned out of my bunk to see the skipper putting his oilskins back on before going on deck. Suddenly there was a screaming sound as the line squall hit us, the yacht lurched and fell over on its port side.

Not St Barbara but something like this!

I looked up to see Jon trying to hang on in his bunk, which was now almost directly above me. The skipper was on the cabin sole and seawater was pouring in through the open companionway. On deck there were shouts:

‘Let go the mainsheet!’

‘Let the foresail fly!’

‘You OK Simon?’ (who’s lying sideways against the guardrails, half drowned!)

The rain was cold and vicious and everyone on deck was being thrashed by it. St Barbara II shuddered like a racehorse trying to rid itself of large flies and gradually came upright (Note 2).

Immediate actions like these are well practised and the crew on deck were all hooked on with safety harnesses, but no life jackets (Note 3). No one had gone overboard. The genoa was in shreds, the main undamaged; the wind speed indicator had stopped at 65knots. Several things happened in tandem. The foresail was changed and hoisted; the ripped genoa bundled below to be put into a sail bag; the bilge pumps started; the chart position fixed; the kettle put on; equipment checked. We got under way again, back in the race. And everyone probably had a cigarette!

Some hours later we crossed the finishing line at Scheveningen and made our way into Rotterdam Harbour.

Sailing can be dangerous but experience and training can mitigate injury and damage. Writing about the knockdown in the North Sea has reminded me of some personal damage. Generally I have managed to miss the main boom on its inadvertent swings across a yacht, learned that watches and signet rings are potential hazards and fingers don’t need to be wrapped around a winch at the same time as a rope.

Many years ago after a weekend sailing on The Solent, we returned the chartered yacht to its marina. As always, the clearing up and cleaning, both above and below decks, got underway. The yacht had a forward hatch, about 35cms square, able to be locked with a small gap or fully opened with the hatch cover lying on the deck.

Whilst some of the crew were cleaning below, I was sorting out and tidying away the halyards around the base of the mast, before fresh water was used to scrub the deck. With a brush in one hand and the end of the hose in the other, I was working my way from amidships backwards towards the bow.

I stepped back without looking. My foot fell into nothing. The next thing I knew was that my bum was on the deck and my right leg down the hatch. In getting into this position I had managed to scrape a large amount of skin from the inside of my thigh. Arnica, Savlon and rest …… fortunately my balls were OK!

It’s good to have adventures!

Richard 24^th September 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1A line squall is identifiable as a mass of dark low cloud strung out across the horizon; visible beneath are curtains of heavy rain, as though someone had pulled out a plug. The surface of the sea below the clouds is invariably rough.

Note 2 Yachts with a deep keel will always self-right, providing the wind doesn’t have anything to push against, like a sail; in this instance the crew needed to let both the main and genoa sheets fly!

Note 3 Back then life jackets were bulky and cumbersome to wear. Only in dire emergency would the skipper tell the crew to wear them. Their design has come a long way – fortunately!

I gather that many years ago Celina’s brother and sister-in-law didn’t have a large wedding and subsequent reception. Time to make amends as the significance of the months of August and September 2021 is not lost on the Rocha Miranda family; in the space of 25 days my brother-in-law Carlos celebrated his 60^th, my mother-in-law celebrated her 80th and sister-in-law Camila her 40th. We mark decades of years past in our lives as if these are more important than other anniversaries – not so; although always time for a party …… even in Covid times.

Sintra on the red splodge, Estoril on the blue dot!

Up in the hills around Sintra lies the Tivoli Palacio de Seteais hotel, a perfect place for one. The Palacio de Seteais was built between 1783 and 1787 for the Dutch consul Daniel Gildemeester. Various additions were made during the next 150 years, enlarging the original building and laying out new gardens and orchards. In 1946 it was bought by the Portuguese government and it’s been a hotel since 1954.  

In Britain we have thousands of these great mansions built in the C18th and C19th. We refer to them as stately homes, grand expressions of the architecture of the time and now recognise some of them as monuments to unequal privilege and wealth. The same can be found in many European countries and Portugal is no exception. In the UK the National Trust and English Heritage, two charities, now own a huge number, allowing their members to make their own judgments and observations.

The name Tivoli (note 1) takes me back to Denmark as the Tivoli Gardens, smack bang in the centre of Copenhagen, offers places to eat, places to drink and places to have fun. One hundred and seventy eight years after it opened, its 20 acre site is in the Top Ten of the city’s tourist attractions.

The Tivoli Palacio de Seteais sits on a hill overlooking Sintra (see PC 130): in the distance is the Atlantic Ocean. Fortunately it’s warm and sunny when we arrive as the town has a reputation of being cool. In fact it developed as the place for the Portuguese Royal family to escape to in the summer months, their equivalent of Simla in India. The duty manager Paulo meets us and takes us through the COVID registration; either proof of two vaccinations or a negative test is acceptable! We unpack in Room 12 and head off to the pool as we have a few hours before the Hundred Party starts.

          Francisquinha has come too; well, not to the pool! She knows she’s not allowed to join the party but she didn’t want to be left behind in Estoril and she understands about room service, cable TV and the minibar.

The Hundred Year couple, Carlos & Camila

The programme says drinks and canapés on an outside terrace, starting at five thirty …… but the hosts are still 30 minutes away! Someone’s shirt got a burn mark on it and there’s panic. Being a pedant for punctuality I roll my eyes to heaven but have mentally added an allowance of 45 minutes before I expect anyone to arrive. By 1830 the terrace has live music, waiters, drinks, canapés and six people; most of the 50 guests have arrived by 1900.

Waiters offer, musicians play, people chat, catch up; laughter ripples and mingles with the music as the sun makes its slow descent in the western sky. A few guests dance in a somewhat desultory manner, more to acknowledge the efforts of the combo, to thank them for their efforts. Two guests show off their musical skills.

          It’s obvious that the hotel management want the guests to move into the elegant dining room and eventually we do, a little later than they might have liked! I imagine the stress in the kitchen as we are a party of 50. The Brazilians have copied the Portuguese in their love of food, and the more the better; the generous menu shows five courses.

The starter is a crêpe filled with Bacalhau (salted cod, considered by some close to divine); it looks and tastes good but there’s too much! The Peixe (fish) course is a meal in itself, a lovely piece of Sea Bass with a huge mound of sweet potato mash, with added sugar! For my entrée I am presented with 300g of filé mignon; I eye Celina’s mushroom Risotto slightly jealously! The sobremesa is a slice of Apple Crumble with some beautiful Cinnamon ice cream; the latter is very welcome! And still we haven’t finished as Camila’s baked two cakes (note 2) …. candles are blown out, the cakes are sliced and distributed and both Brazilian and English versions of ‘Happy Birthday To You’ ring out across the crowded room.

The elegant dining room, known for its murals, the following morning.

My abysmal lack of ability to speak Portuguese is tackled by Nuno, a Lisbon lawyer at my table. He leans across his wife Rita (Note 3) and says it’s easy for the Portuguese to learn another language …. and boasts that all they need is three months max! His own English is 80%. But if you are Portuguese there’s a need to learn another language unless you limit your travels to Brazil, Mozambique, Angola, The Azores or Madeira. I do not need to learn it, I want to, but the vocal chords get stuck …..

The party draws to a close and guests make for their rooms or for a taxi. Room service breakfast the following morning is followed by a dip in the pool before a taxi back to Estoril. The one-way system around Sintra is extremely long and it’s some time before we pull up outside Avenida General Carmona 368.

A good and generous celebration; espetacular and maravilhoso even.

Richard 17^th September 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Tivoli was, some scholars believe, the name of a Roman town 20 miles east of Rome, used as a summer resort and noted for its waterfalls.

Note 2 Camila is building a very successful celebration cake business – Camila Vasconcellos at http://www.instagram.com>nacozinhadecasa

Note 3 Her sister and brother-in-law ran a beautiful beach resort at Picinguaba, to the west of Paraty in Brazil, a place to unwind, a place to watch men fish and maybe to eat their catch. (See PC 10 March 2014)

The last time I had to write any essays was for entrance into the Army Staff College in 1978, with papers on International Relations and War Studies. A great tip was to liberally drop appropriate quotes into the essays, hopefully giving an impression of being well read; like ‘Jaw! Jaw! Not War! War!’ (Note 1). Little did they know!

Not sure about you but I would hazard a guess that occasionally you come across some words, some comment, some observation, my grandparents would have used the French expression ‘bon mot’, that stops you in your tracks; you think “That’s so nice! That’s wonderfully apt! How beautifully expressed! Etcetera.” I certainly do and am often so moved to jot down those words in my Notes app on my iPhone. (Note 2) This postcard covers some of these, attributed where possible but if not I acknowledge that I did not write them!

One of the most amusing autobiographies I’ve read was the late Clive James’ ‘Unreliable Memories’ (1980). Of his writing, Australian James (1939-2019) wrote: “All I do is turn a phrase until it catches the light.” All of us who want to turn our thoughts into words look for that, I guess, wanting them to ‘catch the light’!

Philosophical individuals have written much the future:

“The future is just mere speculation. Now is the time to live tomorrow’s memories.” Like ‘live today as if your last’, but who does that, even if you acknowledge the wisdom of the direction? Then this little encapsulation: “Yesterday is history; tomorrow is mystery.” The rhyme of history and mystery is cute although it still comes back to living in the present. Try Yoga meditation if you want to learn how to be in the present. There is also a reminder that history can teach us a great deal; today we are forgetting how important is the study of history, of events and societies’ reaction to them.

“Memory is an unreliable friend.”  It’s been described in many ways, this storage of our experiences, our data bank, no more so that over the last year or so when individuals have tried to redefine the word ‘truth’! Then I read ‘The Spaces In Between’, an autobiographical account of the early life of Caroline Jones, a yoga enthusiast and good friend. She writes about one’s ability to recall experiences: “…..  I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings – and who is to say that my version is true anyway? Who is entitled to say what is true in any family’s history? It is all shades of grey, interpretations and misinterpretations: something that passes one person by might be the thing that tips another onto a different journey; and all, in the end, coloured by imagination and weakened by unreliable memory.” Exactly: so simply put.

There’s this Chinese Proverb: “I hear and forget; I see and I remember; I do and I understand.” So ‘doing’ something gives one greater insight than simply observing or hearing? So better to play the piano than listen to someone else’s efforts, or enjoy looking at a painting rather than painting? Food for thought! (Er? Cooking rather than eating?)

I enjoy reading the wisdom of the Zen philosophers, especially the stories of the Muddy Road and the tale of the Cup of Tea. In the latter Nan-in, a Japanese master during the Meiji era (1868 – 1912), received a university professor who came to enquire about Zen. Nan-in served tea. He poured his visitor’s cup full and then kept on pouring. The professor watched the overflow until he no longer could restrain himself. “It is overfull. No more will go in!” “Like this cup,” Nan-in said, “you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?” Both stories illustrate how we get obsessed with our own ego.

I often find that a phrase in a foreign language sounds more romantic than if read in English. Dante Alighieri (1265 – 1321) was a Florentine writer, poet and philosopher best remembered for his ‘The Divine Comedy’, a journey through the souls of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. I recently read a quote from his Paradiso: “L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stele.’. Although lovely, I don’t think the English translation has that same magic: ‘The love that moves the sun and other stars.’ One of his more popular quotes is “Remember tonight for it’s the beginning of forever.”

There are a great many quotes made by people at the end of their time on earth. One I read the other day stays with me: “We loved this earth but could not stay!” Then there is the story how Harold McMillan, Prime Minister of the UK from 1957-1963, sat in his chair with his evening whisky, finished the glass and murmured: “I think I will go to sleep now!” ….. and died. He was 92.

The Academy of St Martin’s in The Field Chamber Orchestra

The late Sir Neville Marriner was the founder and conductor of the Academy of St Martin’s in The Field orchestra in London. One day, irritated during rehearsals by the piercing sounds of a pneumatic drill being used in the road outside the church, he stormed out to confront the chap. “Are you interested in sex and travel?” “Of course!” said the man. “Well, fuck off then!” The music theme reminds me of Sir Graham Vick’s comment: “You do not need to be educated to be touched, to be moved by opera.” Which piece of opera touches you, gets inside your emotions?

“Science takes things apart to see how they work. Religion puts thing together to see what they mean.” Jonathan Sacks was notably the Chief Rabbi from 1991 to 2013. Ennobled, Baron Sacks was also a philosopher, peer and very much a public figure.

I really hope you enjoyed some of these? There will be more – to be continued ……….

Richard 10^th September 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS In PC 245 ‘Tagus and Cascais’ I mentioned the Niagara River. Coincidentally this popped up in Facebook this week, a rare photograph of the dry falls in 1969.

Note 1 Attributed to Sir Winston Churchill

Note 2 If you read books on a Kindle or some electronic device you can see which passages others have found profound/interesting/apt/funny/poignant.

You might think from the title of these scribbles that I am going to write something about the human body, taking a leaf out of Bill Bryson’s book ‘The Body: A Guide for Occupants’. Well, I am but only to frame these thoughts and give them some cohesion.

Have you unconsciously started listing them, these five basic abilities we have? For those of you who are missing one or more, I feel sorry for you as our colourful life will have lost some of its tones. For those of you whose sense of taste or smell was ruined by the after-effect of a Covid infection, I hope they return, functioning as well as ever. Writing in last weekend’s Times, the author Kate Weinberg’s article in Long Covid had this: “Then, one morning, my cup of tea tasted like hot water and my eggs like scrambled Polyfilla. (Note 1).”

We see, we hear, we touch, we taste, we smell, but this is not going to be about three monkeys! My sixth sense woke me at 0610 this morning and I realised I hadn’t written anything about it! (see Note 2)

Up above the marina, in an older part of Cascais, Portugal, is a restaurant I have been to a couple of times before, called 5 Sentidos – Five Senses. The name always stops me in my tracks and then I get the delightful subtlety of it, as the whole process of ‘eating out’ can be really enhanced by the active engagement of all senses.

A large church, Igreja Paroquial de Nossa Senhora da Assunçăo, overshadows the plane trees that line the square, along one side of which lies Largo da Assunçăo and the ‘5 Sentidos’.

 Having circled the church (Can you circle a square?) looking for a parking space and been unlucky, we head off to the underground car park between the marina and the castle. Cascais has, like any town, a parking problem, made worse by the Portuguese habit of believing that parking restrictions apply to everyone else but themselves; they park on street corners, half on pavements, on pedestrian crossings (Note 3).

As we walk towards the restaurant we sight early diners already occupying the pavement tables. Then another sense is immediately assaulted – the large sonorous church bell chimes the half-hour: “boonnnnggggggg”. It’s so loud that I think maybe this wasn’t the best choice of places to eat, if this happens every 30 minutes! Fortunately it must have been rung for some other non-temporal reason as it only rang once more while we were there. Reminds me of stories of urbanites escaping to the country and complaining about the rooster’s crowing and the cows mooing!

Walking up the steps to our table on an outside terrace, my heart sinks for near where we are to sit is a table of three men and a woman and one of the men, an obvious Englishman, has a loud voice and finds everything he says funny. ‘I just need to get over my reaction!’ I think!

Our bottoms touch the slatted, painted wooden chairs and we settle down. The table has been chosen as a nod to Covid advice but also as inside can be a little claustrophobic on a warm evening. Unfortunately it’s not a warm evening; this Atlantic coast is cool compared with the Algarve’s down south or further, through the Straits of Gibraltar, along the Mediterranean coasts and we are grateful for a nearby space-heater.

Adriana brings the menus and takes the drinks’ order. When I am eating out I try to choose a dish I don’t normally have at home. I spy Camarão à Braz; ‘sounded interesting’, I thought ‘and I love shrimps’. ‘À Braz’ means cooking the shrimps with onions and minute potato sticks, all bound together with scrambled eggs and sprinkled with parsley and black olives. Bacalhau (salted Cod) à braz is the more famous version.

A restaurant’s choice of the size of plate in interesting. If it’s small yet piled high with food, we think ‘how generous!’: extremely large plates with large portions are for Americans. On her last visit here my mother-in-law had had a huge plate of rice with a thimble of chicken curry in the centre; rice is cheap!

When my dish arrives I am reminded of my teenage years when a packet of matchstick-shaped chips or sticks was a treat; these are they, simply made soggy and eggy. My first mouthful tastes ‘interesting’ …… but that’s as good as it gets. I pick out the shrimps but struggle to finish the mound of now mash, my taste-buds covered with a glutinous coating!

There’s the general murmur of low muted conversations around us when we stop to listen, when our own chatting pauses; sounds of people eating, waiters waiting and occasionally a little snippets invading one’s own hearing. Across the terrace the 3+1 table have been asked to vacate to a table on the pavement as it’s passed 2100; we have no such restriction and order puddings. The ice bucket wobbles on the uneven slats and condensation forms on its shiny surface; tempting to run my finger down the outside! Ah! The tactility of cold and wet!

Having discovered from Adriana that the orange tart on the sobremesas menu was ‘off’, which was a pity as it sounded unusual, I opt for some chocolate soufflé instead and head for the loo. Cascais is old, and the street drainage system whiffs; inside the unisex loo there’s that damp, musty smell that is often present, no matter how many scented candles or smelly sticks abound. There is no lock on the outside door so I keep a wary eye out for another visitor!

And on the topic of smell (note 4), you remember when it was permissible to smoke inside a restaurant? With diners at different stages of their meal, it was irritating to get the whiff of someone else’s cigarette smoke across your delicate Sea Bass! This evening any smokers are banished to the pavement tables and the evening breeze keeps the smell away.

We signal for the bill with the international wave of the hand, settle up and, threading between the tables, step out onto Largo da Assunçăo, the assault on our five senses complete. Out into the night of Cascais.

Richard 3^rd September 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1. Trademarked ‘Polyfilla’ is a type of plaster used for filling small holes.

Note 2 The five senses keep us informed about the physical world. A sixth sense Proprioception “allows us to keep track of where our body parts are in space” (?) Quite! Normally we describe it as our ability to perceive something which isn’t actually there, or hasn’t happened – yet! It was also the title of a Bruce Willis horror film in 1999.

Note 3 In Madeira it was so bad I surmised that pedestrian crossings were there purely for drivers to have more certainty of nudging a pedestrian; they never stopped!

Note 4 This sense is called Olfactory – which I find difficult to pronounce! And taste is officially known as gustatory.

A young elephant sets off on a journey and comes “to the banks of the great grey-green greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever.” Lovely alliteration from the British author Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) in one of his ‘Just So stories – The Elephant’s Child. (Note 1) But it was the word ‘river’ which prompted me to remember the Limpopo (Note 2), as sitting in Estoril I am close to the estuary of the Tagus, the longest river in the Iberian Peninsula.

There is something obvious about major rivers and their part in the physical development of countries, as intercommunity trade was how societies grew – before airfreight! I am told that my readers often learn something new from my scribbles; that’s good as it’s never too late! Geography is a fascinating topic and the increasing focus and concern on man’s contribution to climate change will bring the location of some of the major world cities under the spotlight. For those which are sited on the coast, like Lisbon here in Portugal, or New York or Singapore or Wellington or like London, on a tidal river, a rise of only 1.5 metres in sea levels may have a significant impact.

Predicted sea levels in London in 2100

Just for fun, I have listed some of the major global capitals that lie on a river, some are of course a distance from the sea: Paris on The Seine, London on The Thames, Lisbon on The Tagus, Moscow on the Moskva River, Vienna on The Danube, further downstream Bratislava (Slovakia), still further Belgrade (Serbia) and even still further down The Danube Budapest, the capital of Hungary, with the hilly district of Buda across the river from the flat Pest. We have Rome on The Tiber, Washington on the Potomac, Khartoum (Sudan) lies on The Nile 2170 kms upstream of Cairo in Egypt, Baghdad on The Tigris, while in Africa Kinshasa (DRC) and Brazzaville (Republic of Congo) are astride on The Congo River. Amsterdam is on the River Amstel, Kiev on the Dnieper and Warsaw on The Vistula. In South America both Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay and Buenos Aires, Argentina’s, respectively sit north and south of the Rio de la Plata and across in South East Asia on the Mekong River lie Vientiane (Laos) and Phnom Penh (Cambodia).

Bill Nighy

You may have seen a Channel 5 series on British television called ‘The World’s Most Scenic Rivers’ narrated by Bill Nighy? Despite the syrupy nature of the commentary, with words like ‘spectacular’ and ‘marvellous’ (‘espetacular’ and ‘maravilhoso’ in Portuguese) gushing like the waters themselves, I suspect it was an informative series for most viewers. The rivers that earned the right to be called ‘most scenic’ were the Shannon in Ireland, the longest in both Ireland and the UK at 360 kms; the Spey in Scotland, famous for its salmon fishing; the Niagara (Note 3)  on the border between the Province of Ontario in Canada and the State of New York in the USA and one of the shortest rivers in the world at 58 kms; the longest river in Italy, The Po, at 652 kms; The Moselle in Germany famous for its wines and the Hudson in New York State, some 315 miles (506 kms) long.

So what would the producers of Bill Nighy’s series have made of the Tagus? Firstly it rises in the Sierra de Albarracin in eastern Spain, a thousand and seven kilometres from its mouth, and all its main tributaries flow into it from the north. The first major city along its banks is Sacedón.

Sacedón in eastern Spain

Its natural path is no longer smooth; there are several dams and dozens of hydroelectric schemes along its route, helping to provide drinking water and energy to population centres such as Aranjuez, Toledo ……

…… and Talavera. I can’t write Talavera without thinking immediately of the Peninsula War battle of the same name in 1809; British against the French (was ever thus!). Then the association runs to the Lines of Torres Vedras and the Duke of Wellington etcetera etcetera (Note 4).

The Tagus near Spanish/Portuguese border

By the time the Tagus reaches Portugal it’s slowed, meandering through a wide alluvial flood plain before mingling with the salt water of the sea.

The Tagus estuary from air, looking towards Cascais

On the northern banks of the Tagus estuary, some 30 minutes by a dinky little train west of Lisbon, lies Cascais (pronounced Kashkise) on what the Tourist Industry maintains is the Portuguese Riviera (Note 5). The resort was made popular by European royalty, particularly during the Second World War when Portugal was neutral. Today luxury villas are second homes to the rich and hotels cater for the well-heeled. Espetacular e maravilhoso!

A night at the Hotel Albatroz, set on a promontory overlooking the harbour, would set you back 420 euros; and that’s without breakfast! Today the era of elegance created by Cascais’ famous visitors has faded, swallowed by a faster pace of life and sadly less time to ‘stand & stare’.

In the summer months the tourists walk the tiled pavements ………,

……. gawk at the grand castle and marina and invade the fast-food establishments serving pizza or pasta.

This seaside restaurant is ….. marvellous

Some large mansions and hotels have been sympathetically converted into apartments whilst others stand gaunt and covered in shrubs and weeds, often the result of laws on inheritance producing no agreement as to ownership.

Needs a little more than TLC?

Cascais is some 20kms south of the western-most point in Europe, Cabo da Roca. Just north of Gincho Beach, the lighthouse on top of the cliffs is at 38° 47’N 9° 30’W. If the world was flat you might think you could see North America – on a day with good visibility!

Cabo da Roca

Richard 27^th August 2021

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Some years ago I managed a bookshop on Northcote Road, Battersea, for a day while the owner went off to a wedding. A challenging but interesting experience, dealing with potential customers and doing the cash balance at the end of the day. One customer asked me what I would recommend for his 13 year old son; I remembered Kipling’s Just So Stories ……. and made a sale!

Note 2 The Limpopo River flows through Mozambique.

Note 3 Niagara Falls got an unfavourable mention in my PC 51 (October 2015) about Foz do Iguazu in Brazil.

Note 4 Numerous books on Portugal but Patrick Wilcken’s 2004 Empire Adrift, about the royal family decamping to Brazil in the early 1800s, and Barry Hatton’s Portugal are very good.

Note 5 ‘The Riviera’ normally refers to the coastline between Cannes in France, and includes the Côte d’Azur, and La Spezia in Italy.

We humans seem to have an insatiable appetite for tales of romantic love, whether fictional ones from Jane Austen for example, or real ones from across the centuries. The fact that these stories often have a very sad ending intrigues us more; how can an emotion such as love be the cause of its own demise? (Note 1)

Such was the passion between Antony and Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, that in some ways the end was never in doubt; they choose suicide to stay together in their eternity. When the Roman general Mark Antony first saw Cleopatra he reportedly exclaimed: “Brilliant to look upon and to listen to, with the powers to subjugate everyone.” She could have had anything or anyone she wanted but she fell passionately in love with this Roman. As Shakespeare depicts it, their relationship was volatile but, after they risked all in a war with Rome and lost, they chose to die together in 30 BC, rather than be paraded through the streets of Rome in disgrace. Mark Antony stabbed himself with his sword whilst Cleopatra ‘allowed herself to be bitten by an asp’, an Egyptian cobra.

In the first postcard about tragic love affairs I mentioned Elvira Madigan, whom I knew about from travels in Denmark. Many visits to Vienna and holidaying on an Austrian lake gave me insight into the Mayerling story, although I admit it’s not well known here. I thought it was a simple tale of two lovers who commit suicide, but there’s more to it than that.

No one at the time could foresee the fall-out from the doomed love affair between Rudolph, the 30 year old Crown Prince of Austria, and his lover 17 year old Mary Freiin von Vetsera. Rudolf, who was married to Princess Stéphanie of Belgium, was the only son of Emperor Franz Joseph and Empress Elisabeth, and was heir apparent to the throne of Austria-Hungary; crucially they had no son, only a daughter. The romantic version is that the strict codes of the Hapsburgs forbade this dalliance and that Rudolf proposed a suicide pact with Mary. Sneaking away to a royal hunting lodge in Mayerling, an hour outside Vienna, the crown prince shot his lover and then turned the gun on himself; it was 30^th January 1890.

The Mayerling tragedy is the subject of both a film (1968) and ballet. The former stars such actors as Omar Sharif, Catherine Deneuve, James Mason, Ava Gardner and James Robertson Justice. Historians now agree that Rudolf was a poetic young man, liberal in his politics and often at odds with his conservative father. But he was also a rake, someone who used his position to bed as many women as possible. It’s believed he had some 31 illegitimate children! Another rumour was that he was ill with syphilis and felt guilty that he had infected his wife.

The Habsburg court tried to stifle the facts, suggesting he had died of a heart attack but their enemies enjoyed the scandal. As Rudolf had no son, the succession would eventually pass to Franz Joseph’s brother Archduke Karl Ludwig’s eldest son, Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Sadly for everyone Gavrilo Princip, a Yugoslav nationalist and ethnic Serb, assassinated him in Sarajevo in June 1914. The dominos fell: Austria declared war on Serbia, an ally of the Russian Empire and the systems of other alliances resulted in the start of the First World War that autumn.

What if Rudolph had not committed suicide? He was obviously a man conflicted by the demands of duty and his own personal wishes (Thinks? This reminds me of another prince?), but he had a growing reputation as a liberal on the European political scene and was not supportive of his father’s conservative aims for the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Maybe there would have been no First World War? You can have fun with ‘What if ….?’

Don’t you find it weird when various songs pop into your conscious brain, every so often? It’s either the lyrics or the musical score or both. Whenever I meet someone called Maria I can’t help it; ‘I once met a girl named Maria.’ just arrives, the memory sung by Tony (Richard Beymer) to his Maria (the beautiful Natalie Wood (Note 2)) in the 1961 film West Side Story. In a smoky cinema in Devizes in Wiltshire one evening I watched another modern day Romeo & Juliet take, this one set in 1950s New York. The portrayal is strong, vibrant, colourful and energetic as rival teenage gangs, The Jets, a white gang led by Riff, and The Sharks, a Puerto Rican gang led by Bernardo, fight for turf on the mean streets of the Upper West Side. Tony, a Jet and best friend of Riff, and Maria, a Shark and Bernardo’s younger sister, fall in love …… then everyone thinks they know better ….. there’s fighting ….. and a song ‘Officer Krupke’ …….. and eventually Chino, Maria’s fiancé, shoots Tony, who dies in Maria’s arms. Maria takes the gun from Chino and pleads with everyone to stop the inter-gang warfare.

My education never covered Greek mythologies but gradually I have learned the outline of the story of Helen of Troy. (Note 3) When Parris (one ‘r’ or two?), the woman-mad Prince of Troy, made a diplomatic mission to Sparta (modern-day Greece), he met Helen and fell head-over-heels in love with her. They ran back to Troy together, causing the Greeks to assemble a great army, led by Menelaus’s brother Agamemnon, to rescue Helen, thereby starting the decade long Trojan War. Whether she wanted to be rescued is a matter for debate, so of course is whether she actually existed! We’ll never know, but her romantic part in the greatest epic of all time can never be forgotten, forever remembered as ‘the face that launched a thousand ships.’. She didn’t actually smash a bottle of Greek Metaxa brandy over the bows as she wasn’t there; it was her face that Menelaus kept in the forefront of his mind when he built the huge navy built with which to attack Troy. Later the Greeks constructed a wooden horse to gain entry to the City of Troy; it secured their victory. Paris was killed and Helen and Menelaus returned to Sparta. (Note 4)

Richard 20^th August 2021(my 5^th wedding anniversary!)

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS To be continued ……..

Note 1 Well! Of course! Those of us who have experienced love that withers, love that dies, shouldn’t be surprised!!

Note 2 Natalie Wood (1938 – 1981) had married, divorced and remarried fellow American actor Robert Wagner. He remains ‘a person of interest’

38 years after she fell off their yacht and drowned, aged 43. (In the film Marni Nixon and Jimmy Bryant’s voices sing ‘Maria’).

Note 3 She’s always known as Helen of Troy but of course she was born a Spartan.

Note 4 Coincidentally ……in last Sunday’s Sunday Times book reviews there’s one of ‘The Women of Troy’ by Pat Barker. The most thrilling scenes are ‘set inside the Trojan Horse; sweaty Greek soldiers packed into the wooden contraption as tight as olives’. I can instantly visualise them!!