The annual O’Connell/Rivett family attendance at the Godalming Operatic Society’s Leatherhead Theatre production of a work by Gilbert & Sullivan directed by Pat O’Connell follows a carefully choreographed process. Taking advantage of the close proximity of each point in the proceedings, arriving in very good time to dine before the performance, we all stay at the Travel Lodge hotel in the town, walk around the corner to dine at an Italian restaurant, and across the road to the theatre. Afterwards we enjoy a drink in the company of the cast, spend the night at the staging post, and breakfast at Annie’s cafe before making our ways home.
The outing was yesterday. The operetta Princess Ida.
All part of the process is that Helen and Bill will have parked in the more expensive car park a bit further away. Ron will then offer to go and collect their car and move it to the one that is free after 6 p.m. and over the weekend, about 100 yards away. He will do this just in time for us to take possession of our seats before the prompt start of the overture.
There is one popular restaurant near enough and willing to feed the entire cast and guests in good time to facilitate the promptness. This year, having changed ownership, it was undergoing refurbishment. It was not yet officially open, but the new proprietor offered to provide a restricted menu for us all, provided we placed our orders in advance. We did so. The orders were placed in a relay of mobile phones. This meant that there was some confusion about my pizza, but this was rectified with good humour. I am not sure what the original name of this establishment was. It is now Rialto, and is to be recommended. There were no complaints about the previous one, but all were agreed that this reincarnation is a general improvement. If they live up to their first night, they should do well.
There was, however, one part of the process that was maintained by the new staff. Traditionally, one of our group goes without something until the waiting staff are eventually alerted to its absence. It may be an entire meal, a drink, or simply a glass with which to imbibe a share of a bottle of wine. Until now, Shelly has been the victim of all these omissions.
Perhaps it served me right for speculating about what she would miss out on last night, for it was I who went without my pizza. Drinking my share of the house red wine, I watched the others enjoying their various dishes accompanied by red or white wine. Eventually I got my own back, and they all watched me consume mine, which was excellent.
The Leatherhead Theatre is an excellent venue. This morning, during a wander around the town, I noticed it was occupied by a group engaged in a religious service of some denomination, so it is perhaps as versatile as the Regent Centre at Christchurch. I also noticed a plaque on the wall, part of the information provided by Leatherhead Heritage Trail, giving a history of the building:
The theatre was very full, as warranted by the usual accomplished performance. Familiar faces included Simon Cakebread, bravely surmounting a chest infection, as King Gama; Richard Arthur as King Hildebrand; and Richard Hales as Hilarion. The Society is fortunate in having a leading lady lady, Jen Sanders, who, being tall and elegant, has a beautiful and powerful voice belied by the slenderness of her frame. Many of the actors and singers have most expressive faces, bodies, and hands, none more so than the entertaining Nora Price who, this time, played Lady Blanche. I found myself transfixed by her hands in particular.
The costumes were splendid and the choreography faultless. Pat explained to us later that one joke that brought the house down had been created at the last minute by members of the orchestra. When Ida claimed to be able to play a number of instruments at once, these players rose from the pit and offered her their various pieces.
Early this morning I finished reading The Folio Society’s edition of ‘Good Behaviour’ by Molly Keane. This is a clever. well-written novel, surprisingly first published in 1981. My surprise is that it skilfully describes a past privileged age, depicting mostly unlikeable characters. On the other hand we do like our period television dramas such as ‘Downton Abbey’. Jane Gardam, in her introduction, tells us that the books was originally turned down by two publishers as being ‘too dark’.
I can see those publishers’ point of view, although the darkness that strikes me is perhaps a different one than theirs. I find the heartrending despair of the naive yet nevertheless spirited narrator Aroon rather less than amusing. Debra McFarlane’s exquisite illustrations, one of which decorates the boards of the cover, perfectly depict the young lady. The family culture of denial is stifling. However, I have to admit that the writing sparkles with wit and the characters are only too credible.
After this, still too early to meet the others for breakfast, I walked around the small Surrey town, spotting another Heritage plaque, this time giving us the tale of a former post office the demise of which must have been repeated throughout the land:
A possibly less imaginative title is borne by The Old Post Office public house in Newark.
Breakfast at Annie’s continued two parts of the process. The first was the encounter with Michael, a regular customer there. This is a very homely little place with just a few small tables. It offers wholesome food, and every Sabbath some of the residents of an establishment for people who are at least partially sighted attend for their Sunday roast dinner. One of these is the septuagenarian Michael. He is so politely gregarious and able to communicate with the use of his other senses, that the first time we met him we had not realised he was unable to see us. Today, Jackie and I arrived before our companions, so we had Michael to ourselves. We come but once a year, yet he does seem to remember us.
The next part was not usually attached to Annie’s. Perhaps it was because there were eight of us, two more than usual, that two of us went short of a meal for a while. Shelly distracted herself with the ‘i’ crossword, and I entertained myself by watching the others scoffing. I won the race to be served by a short head.
Back home in Hampshire Helen and Bill will collect us this evening for a visit to Totton’s Fuchi restaurant, to complete a pleasant weekend. I will report on that tomorrow.
Tag: The Folio Society
John Lawrence
Reindeer was the theme of 1964’s Regent Street lights. I was there that December, never dreaming I would one day send the image around the world as an advent calendar picture.
I very rarely read a book twice, especially by accident. In my ‘Bookmarks’ post I explained one of my methods for ensuring this. When I recently began to read the Folio Society ‘The Best of Raconteurs, I felt sure I had read this collection of anecdotes, but a quick glance didn’t trigger any memories, except for one extract from Jessica Mitford and another from Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle. I knew that I had read the books from which they were taken. Not only that, but there appeared to be no marker enclosed. Imagine my dismay, then, when last night between pages 236 and 237 I found a very thin till receipt from Headmasters (my hairdressers at the time) of Wimbledon Village dated 11.11.10. There is no escaping the fact that I have almost finished reading a book twice.
Pondering the receipt’s date I realise that I read the book in my post-operative state in our Ridgway flat. Still on pain relief and precautionary blood-thinner; suffering from an infection picked up in my two nights and one day in hospital; and recovering from the anaesthetic required for a hip replacement, I wasn’t really very with it. That’s my excuse, any way. It is absolutely nothing whatever to do with my age. Now, where was I?
Enhanced by John Lawrence’s delightful illustrations, the selection made by Sheridan Morley and Tim Heald consists of snippets of a few lines, or pieces ten or more pages long; some humorous, some descriptive, some historical, some salutary.
The artist is one of my favourite book illustrators. His deceptively sketchy style belies the careful work that has gone into making the numerous humorous and lively little vignettes scattered amidst the text. The cover boards of the slender volume bear representations of examples of some of the contributors seated around an after dinner table. 
As the front cover alone shows, Lawrence has provided images of such articulate accuracy that we immediately know that we will be treated to pieces from the pens or the mouths of, clockwise from top left, Joyce Grenfell, Groucho Marx, Woody Allen, George Bernard Shaw, Robert Morley and Dr Samuel Johnson.
This afternoon I made a start on Voltaire’s ‘Le blanc et le noir’.
Threatened with a storm to render our journey dangerous, we set off earlier than usual for the annual prebendal choristers’ carol service at Chichester Cathedral, after which, along with Becky, Flo, and Ian we are booked into The Crown at Emsworth for our dinner. By the time we return home it will be too late to post the events, so I will report again toorrow.
Carthage
We are currently basking in an Indian summer, so it is quite appropriate that Jackie is so proud of her Star of India clematis that, at a cost of £1.99 she rescued from Morrison’s shelves. Baby Bio, regular watering, and plentiful sunshine have done the trick.
Late this morning, I walked down to the village shop and back, for New Forest ice cream. In tubs for the freezer, of course. I wouldn’t have got very far with cones, in a temperature in the high twenties.
Blackberries in various stages of ripening now festoon the late summer hedgerows grasped by their thorny stems. 
We’ll probably have to pick some sometime.
Against the background thrum of the ride-on lawn mower shaving the grass of a house labelled Yew Tree, those not to be ridden-on taking care of the frontage of Bay Tree Cottage opposite, were positively silent as they cropped away.
This afternoon I finished reading Serge Lancel’s tome, ‘Carthage: A History’. The writer himself, I understand, simply called the book ‘Carthage’. To my mind it really represents a search for the great pre-Christian African city state. An endeavour to find the meeting points between archaelogical research and the classic authors’ annals. The difficulties beset by the historian working with early texts and largely vanished remains are as painstakingly confronted by Lancel, as if he himself were digging in the sand.
Carthage was completely destroyed by the Romans in 146 BC. The victors used the stones of the original city to build their new one. There wasn’t much left for the early archaeologists, who, in a less carefully regulated age, plundered the tombs. There was even less for the modern ones. Nevertheless the story is slowly being pieced together.
Although the book’s later writing demonstrates that Lancel, no doubt assisted by Antonia Nevill’s translation from the French, can write elegant prose, I found the bulk of the earlier chapters somewhat difficult to absorb. I am never entranced by figures and careful measurements which were used to explain conclusions. There were lots of these. The author is also committed to examining in detail other possible alternatives. I struggle not to skip these sections.
My Folio Society edition contains many detailed drawings and informative photographs. These aided my understanding of what is known about a place that was just a name to me before reading this work.
Elizabeth came to visit and share our evening meal. Jackie placed the bottle of La Patrie Cahors 2011 malbec in the sunshine. After a very short time the bottle became very hot with the wine erupting through the cork. A lengthy period in the fridge was then required. Readers who feel inclined to read ‘The Village Shop Revisited’ of 20th October last year, will discover that I am quite practiced in this method of acquiring the correct temperature.
Whilst we enjoyed Jackie’s wonderful beef stew, with a smattering of carrots, we got talking about a trip to The Hampshire Bowman. This was because they served feather blade steak, which is often used for beef stew. None of us could remember what we had eaten on our visit there. The solution was simple. Across the room on my Apple, was all the information required. Should you be interested, you can do what we did, which is look up the Renovations post. The malbec was the drink for Elizabeth and me, whilst Jackie’s was Blue Moon. Dessert was the New Forest Dairy Oriental Ginger ice cream I had bought this morning.
Quite By Accident?
Last night I finished reading the Folio Society’s edition of Ernst Junger’s ‘Storm of Steel’. This is the story of the author’s experiences throughout the First World War. So many talented writers did not survive ‘the war to end all wars’ – which of course it didn’t – that it is miraculous that such a great one came through alive with no more than twenty or so scars. Junger’s simple, beautifully descriptive, language is the result of decades of polishing and reworking his young man’s diary notes. He was nineteen when he arrived in France in 1914. Not just another war memoir, the book is a true work of literature. I have not read anything else of his, but I understand he became an acclaimed writer. He does not take a stance. He merely describes what he sees and feels. He could have been on either side.
In his translator’s introduction Michael Hoffman is critical of earlier translations. He has himself no doubt improved upon them and has contributed to my enjoyment of this work.
Next time Dave and Gladys recommend a walk, I think I’ll just make a few polite noises and forget about it. This morning I was happily setting out on the trek I’d previously taken with Matthew and Oddie when I met them striding down past Furzey Gardens. They had been up to the garage on the A31 for their newspaper, and asked me if I’d seen the lakes. I hadn’t, so they told me about them and how to get to them.
It tends to become a little complicated when two people offer one directions at once. Especially if they are slightly at odds. I don’t want anyone to get the impression that what follows was the fault of our neighbours. I am quite capable of going slightly awry without any help. But, having crossed Forest Road, I wasn’t all that sure how far I should travel along the footpath to the right before I turned left. I did get the bit about looking down over the valley, but somehow I didn’t realise the valley should be on my left, not my right. So I turned left a little too soon and took a diagonal down the slopes.
The predicted rain held off until after I had returned home, but, on this dull, yet sultry, day my shirt became as wet as if it had not.
I did travel hopefully in search of the lakes. Gladys had said I would come to Acres Down, where I knew there was a ford. But I didn’t. Not before I was tempted through a gate and up past some inclosures. By that time I realised I must surely have skirted Acres Down. But I didn’t imagine quite by how much.
Nevertheless I enjoyed the walk along the paths of heath and woodland. Rowan trees were in berry;
bracken was turning brown; and heather was coming into bloom. Ponies chomped away and a bird I could not identify from its sound called from the undergrowth. It kept well out of sight.
It was fascinating, and perhaps should have been a little alarming, to see how far away was the A31 that I had been walking alongside some time earlier. When the photograph is enlarged, a yellow lorry in central far distance pinpoints the road.
This area was, as is sometimes the case, rather criss-crossed with footpaths.
Unfortunately they are not signposted, so there is a fifty percent chance that the average person will, when faced with a choice of direction, turn the wrong way. In my case of course it is one hundred percent likely.
Eventually I did come to a bridge over untroubled water. 
This surely couldn’t be Dave’s lakes. If so they must have dried up a bit. Beyond this I saw the gate, went through it, and climbed up through fir trees and past several inclosures, one of which I thought I recognised from a walk with Berry. Well I would, wouldn’t I? They all look the same.
At last I came to a road I knew I certainly didn’t recognise. Just to my left I discovered a Canadian War Memorial. 
A large wooden cross stood in the centre of a collection of smaller ones, some having attached photographs of those young Canadians who gave their lives in the conflict of the Second World War. 
Regular services of remembrance seem to have ceased, but someone replenishes poppies. Was it quite by accident that I had stumbled upon a remembrance of those sacrificed in the second great conflagration of the twentieth century, to follow the completion of Ernst Junger’s autobiographical record of the first? I certainly gave my thoughts for a while to that second multitude of young men who never had a chance to reach my age. Will the human race ever learn?
From here I had no idea which way to turn. A New Zealander was standing in the bracken near his car relieving himself. As I approached he climbed into the driving seat and started up the engine. I waved and asked him if he had any idea where we were. He didn’t. A couple of cyclists were more help. They got out their map and demonstrated, to my horror, that I was at Bolderwood. I knew that was some distance from home, but didn’t know quite how far. I walked to the Bolderwood Tourist Information Centre where I was shown a map and told I was three or four miles from Emery Down. I knew that Minstead was two and a half miles from there. I’d already walked for over two hours. That was enough. I rang Jackie who came out to collect me.
Whilst I waited for my chauffeuse I had plenty of time to study the map. I hadn’t gone far enough along the first path to reach the lakes. The rather dried up stream beneath the bridge I had walked across looked like Long Brook.
When we arrived alongside The New Forest Inn at Emery Down, we realised we had probably found a route around the summer log-jam that is Lyndhurst.
Jackie’s mixed meat stew followed by rhubarb and gooseberry crumble and custard, provided our evening’s sustenance. I drank more of the Roc des Chevaliers.
The Folio Society
On this hot, humid, and overcast morning I set off by my usual route for lunch with Norman in Harlesden. I was very sticky by the time I reached Colliers Wood.
A heron landed in a tree in Morden Hall Park before taking off, no doubt aiming for the river Wandle. On the trail joggers were taking their exercise. One, a young mother, was, one-handed, pushing her toddler in a three-wheeled buggy; although I stood aside when approached by a couple, it was clear one would have to drop back. I speculated which it would be. I was right. It was the woman. She certainly looked the fitter of the two. I hoped this was the reason. A fisherman was unravelling his line. Deen City Farm (posted 16th. May) was filling up, probably because at last it wasn’t raining.
On the Underground there were constant announcements warning of the congestion expected during the forthcoming Olympic games. A busker (see 14th. June) was playing an accordion at Green Park.
Norman fed me with gammon, all the trimmings, and a fruit flan. We shared a bottle of Cona Sur 2008, a superb full-bodied Chilean pinot noir, purchased in Morrison’s, which I had given him for his birthday. He gave me a couple of CDs which I will unveil on Saturday, my birthday.
His pedestrian street, as many others in The London Borough of Brent’s NW10, now has allocated residential parking occupying exactly half of the not over-wide pavements. In 1966, when I learned to drive I had been taught that it was an offence to mount the kerb in a motor vehicle. The kerbs in these roads have not been dropped, so, at least in Brent, this is apparently now legal. An elderly Somali gentleman was feeding a vast flock of pigeons in Preston Gardens (that’s a tiny street, not a park). Fortunately Flo has grown out of breeding several generations of them on her Mitcham balcony. On the way up to Neasden underground station two cyclists sped past me on the footway, one displaying the crack in his bum.
On the tube I finished reading J. Meade Falkner’s novel Moonfleet. This late nineteenth century work is a marvellous 
tale well told. It is at least equally good as those of the better known Robert Louis Stevenson. When she knew I was about to read it, my friend Heather commended it. She did not exaggerate. The theme of smuggling features as a decoration to the front cover binding of my Folio Society edition, and the header photograph above displays the spine of the book in its customary slipcase. The description of Elzevir Block and John Trenchard’s, albeit brief, ordeal in the hold of a Dutch prisoner ship bound for transportation and a life of slavery, reminded me of the horrors of Alex Hayley’s ‘Roots’ and Robert Hughes’ ‘The Fatal Shore’. This latter volume is a history of the origins of modern Australia and desperate plight of those transported in the convict ships.
Had I had more confidence in my teenage abilities, and had my parents been able to send me to art school, I may well have taken up book illustration. As it was, I needed, on leaving school, to go straight to work. I also thought I’d never make a Charles Keeping, a John Bratby, or even a Beryl Cook, all of whom have illustrated Folio books. My first annual salary was about £340, the bulk of which I handed over to my mother. I kept enough back, however, to be able, upon seeing an advertisement for The Folio Society, to sublimate my desire to illustrate by joining this book club. Fifty two years later I have a large collection of beautifully illustrated, imaginatively bound hardback books, printed on good paper which doesn’t turn brown, with suitable typeface and font. All these elements are carefully selected to be in keeping with the original writing. Younger, budding, illustrators are encouraged by an annual competition. Michael Manomivibul illustrated ‘Moonfleet’. Maybe he is one of those. I have the Society to thank for many works of which I may otherwise have no knowledge, and for pleasurable editions of numerous others.
I finished reading the abovementioned ‘The Fatal Shore’ on Christmas day 2007, on the plane to Perth, where I spent a couple of days with Holly’s delightful and most hospitable parents and brothers before being driven to a winery in the Margaret River area of South West Australia for the wedding she shared with Sam. I had a far more comfortable journey than had the early transported convicts.
This is a copy of the solution to an Independent cryptic crossword I designed to commemorate the event. Read the highlighted perimeter letters clockwise from top left.
By coincidence, just after his own birthday this March, Norman shared with me an excellent bottle of wine his niece in Queensland had sent him. This had originated in Margaret River.