Category: History

Paris street culture, and a lesson in French slang

After an exhibition at Musée Maillol, we were enjoying an aperitif outside a bar

but we weren’t expecting a spontaneous lesson in slang.

The bar was at a small crossroads in the 7th arrondissement, the embassy district. A squad of armed police appeared on the corner, and started directing traffic.

As a motorcyclist disobeyed his command and drove off, one of the officers shouted –

‘Putain!’

If you’re a fan of the French TV cop show ‘Spiral’ you’ll recognise the word, it peppers the dialogue liberally, but it was the first time I’ve heard it used in real life.

It means everything from an expression of mild irritation to the F Word; probably the latter on this occasion.

In due course the officers stopped all traffic to allow an SUV with blacked out windows to pass at speed unimpeded, escorted by police motorbikes and unmarked cars with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring.

 

Musée Maillol for some street culture

Musée Maillol is a good gallery to watch for photography exhibitions. We were there to see ‘Instants Données’ (‘Given Moments’), a retrospective of the work of Robert Doisneau.

 

‘The marvels of daily life are so exciting; no movie director can arrange the unexpected that you find in the street’.

Robert Doisneau, 1912 – 1994.

If you don’t recognise the photographer’s name, you’ll know his style. Starting in the 1930s by capturing the street life of children at school and at play, he went on to portray the hardship of workers in the Renault factory, portraits of artists and writers (famously Picasso and de Beauvoir) and downtrodden drinkers in the bars of Paris, reminiscent of the paintings of Toulouse Lautrec.

The exhibition continues until 12th October 2025.

https://museemaillol.com/expositions/robert-doisneau-instants-donnes/

 

Hockney 25

Earlier in the week we went on an expedition to the extraordinary, ship-shaped Louis Vuitton Foundation in Bois de Boulogne to see the retrospective that David Hockney regards as the most significant of his career.

Curated by the artist himself, he called in favours from collections around the world to loan significant works.

I had seen two Hockney shows before. In 2019 his works were hung alongside pictures by Van Gogh in Amsterdam; he memorably corrected our impression of Van Gogh as a depressive – ‘if you look at his paintings they’re full of joy’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then in 2021 came the exhibition of his iPad paintings at the Royal Academy.

In Paris the story begins with a portrait of the artist’s father, painted when Hockney was just 19, then a room of his early works that reflect his sexuality, still illegal at the time. Hockney is still producing work in his eighties, still innovating, and he’s clearly happiest when he’s working.

There’s his largest work to date, painted in the open air: ‘Bigger Trees near Warter’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was made of fifty canvas sections small enough to be transported by car, the oil paint still wet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 2019 Covid restrictions stranded Hockney at his home in Normandy. He started producing works every day to send to friends by email.

He was there partly to revisit the Bayeux Tapestry, which influenced his mural of the Norman countryside. The Vuitton Gallery is something of a space age warren, and sadly I missed that room altogether, although with over 400 works to view, it wasn’t a disaster…..

The exhibition closes with his collage of photographs of artworks from the 1400s to the present. They illustrate Hockney’s research that led him to the controversial theory that throughout the history of western art, painters have used optical devices to help them produce work. He applied his practitioner’s eye to reach a convincing conclusion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Catch Hockney 25 until 31st August 2025: 

https://www.fondationlouisvuitton.fr/en/events/david-hockney-25

Postscript from Paris

A feature of the city streets is the engraved plaques commemorating resistance fighters, often unidentified, who were killed in street battles to achieve the liberation of their city in August 1944.

In this anniversary year of Victory in Europe, this poignant memorial in a quiet street in the 7th caught my eye, on my way to the local wine shop.

 

 

 

‘A tribute to Lilian Vera Rolfe.

Born in this building in 1914 and executed in Ravensbrück in 1945.

A radio operator in the service of the British Special Operations Executive, formed in 1940 to support the resistance movements in Europe and to prepare for the landings on 6th June 1944′.

 

 

 

 

Last year in Ljubljana

I promised last November that I had returned.

It is only by diligent pestering (you know who you are) that I have been embarrassed into finally writing about a trip to Ljubljana in January 2024. 

It’s the capital of Slovenia, a small country similar in size to the Netherlands. After Slovenian, most people speak English, then Hungarian, German or Italian, depending on which country is their nearest neighbour. My research for the visit led me to this handy guide to Slovenian pronunciation, and I realised that understanding the language wouldn’t be a problem….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I came across a helpful article from The Telegraph, which described Lubljana as ‘the Slovenian mirror-image of Edinburgh’. Much of the city is pedestrianised, so it’s very easy to get around.  The main landmark in the centre is the Triple Bridge over the river, with plentiful cafés and bars on the riverside nearby. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We were invited to join a party of 14, organised by friends who had lured us to Stockholm in 2019 and Oslo in 2022, so despite being first timers we knew we would have fun.

It was mid January and Twelfth Night had been and gone, but the city was still decorated for Christmas. I asked a waitress when the decorations would be taken down. She looked puzzled for a moment, then vaguely suggested around the end of the month.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The building behind the Christmas tree (above) is a Franciscan monastery. It has an interesting museum attached, where I saw a photo of monks who were captured by the Gestapo during WW2.

Slovenia became part of Yugoslavia in 1945, and gained independence in 1991. ‘We have no ego’, says a local, ‘we’ve spent so long under the control of other people we’ve never learned to sneer’. 

Another museum is dedicated to Joze Plecnik (1872-1957) in his home (below). His influence on Ljubljana has been compared to that of Gaudi on Barcelona. After working in Prague and Vienna he designed the city’s most distinctive buildings, including the Triple Bridge. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We stayed at the Heritage Hotel, Cevljarska Ulica 2, which is centrally located and the reception staff gave us helpful restaurant suggestions. 

I particularly enjoyed the buffet breakfasts, with their novelty of a different fruit crumble every day!

 

 

 

 

 

Watch this space for recommendations on where to eat in Ljubljana, and features on the central market (I do like a market, and this one didn’t disappoint), a wine tasting at Grajska Vinoteka in Ljubljana Castle; and an expedition to the spectacular Castle Bled, with lunch in its restaurant where the view made be think of the villain’s lair in a Bond film.

 

‘Rest assured, my followers, I have returned!’

Amaro and Twisted sounded its last post in 2023, when after 28 years in Twickenham I moved to Norfolk – and went native.

The blog was then lost in transition due to technical problems I was unable to resolve – until now.

It seems the right time to recount my adventures as a contented resident of Norwich.

I have considered trying a new ‘Nom de Guerre’ – perhaps The Norfolk Chronicles….

 

But for the time being, ‘Rest assured, my followers, I have returned!’

 

Slovenia, January 2024

Norwich has a rich history and varied architecture…… 

The Cathedral Cloisters

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…..and a buzzing food scene

Pie Night at The Steampacket

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As well as exploring Norwich, ‘A Fine City’, I shall be bringing you a taste of my travels.

Among the highlights of the past 15 months have been a visit to Ljubljana, a return to Amsterdam, and holidays in Marche (eastern Italy) and Ibiza.

Olive trees in Le Marche

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The adventures continue – watch your inbox!

 

West Horsley Place (and its Ghosts)

West Horsley Place, east of Guildford, has a 15th century manor house at its core. It was seized by Henry VIII in 1535 and given to his childhood friend and cousin, Henry Courtenay. Courtenay’s gratitude was such that he entertained the king and his retinue to a lunch of 35 courses.

The king’s gratitude was of a lesser magnitude and, true to form, he had Courtenay beheaded as a Catholic plotter in 1539.

The house was later owned by Carew Raleigh, Walter Raleigh’s son. Sir Walter’s wife lived here, and after his execution the story goes that she paid to have his head brought to her. She is said to have kept it in a velvet bag until it was too decayed to keep. It’s rumoured to be buried under the main stairs, or possibly in the local church. 

In the early 17th century the 2nd Lord Montague, owner of the house, was imprisoned on suspicion of being involved in the Gunpowder Plot, because he employed Guy Fawkes as a footman – much to the excitement of the groups of schoolchildren who visit in the 21st century.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that the house might be haunted by the ghosts of its past. You couldn’t make it up, could you?

Actually, you could. The BBC TV series ‘Ghosts’ is filmed here.

The house originally had a full height Great Hall, which was replaced in the 18th century by two storeys, when the Tudor staircase was moved and the present ‘Stone Hall’ built with a drawing room above.

In c1640 the then owner wanted to upgrade the house, but couldn’t afford to demolish it. A cheaper solution was found: he commissioned a new façade in the fashionable Dutch style. Built of brick, it was literally screwed to the original Tudor timbers.

The earlier structure is visible behind the façade, in the form of the original kitchen.

West Horsley Place was further updated in the early 19th century, with a fine library added by Lord Crewe in the 1930s. The books were later bequeathed to Trinity College Cambridge, who took their pick.

The oldest painted plaster ceilings in the UK are Grade 1 listed.

Outside, the house boasts the only Grade 2 listed dog kennels in the country. (I said you couldn’t make it up).

The house was inherited in 1967 by Mary, Duchess of Roxburghe, who visited but didn’t live there and by the time of her death in 2014 it had fallen into serious disrepair.

It was then left in a surprise bequest to Mary’s nephew, Bamber Gascoigne, who reached the difficult decision to sell the contents of the house (including a Canaletto or two) to begin the process of raising funds to stabilise and reverse the decay of the property. It is now run by The Mary Roxburghe Trust.

To visit by appointment, explore the website: https://www.westhorsleyplace.org/our-story

 

 

 

I had my say in The Sunday Telegraph

The Telegraph was my parents’ paper of choice, and my sister still subscribes.

She tipped me off about the weekly writing competition ‘Your say’ in the travel pages on Sunday.

This week the brief was to describe a favourite sweet treat discovered on your travels, in no more than 150 words.

My entry was printed in a very slightly edited form. Here it is in full:

 

A favourite ‘sweet treat’ from my travels

 

Frìtole in Venetian dialect (frittelle in Italian) are traditionally devoured only during the Venice Carnival, a celebration of gluttony and excess which ends on Shrove Tuesday, before the austere days of Lent begin.

Days are often foggy and cold, and revellers seek out fried treats in the misshapen form of frìtole, found in pastry shops and cafés throughout the city.

They’re knobbly little doughnuts, studded with candied citrus peel, pinenuts, and raisins (which, if you’re lucky, will have been soused in grappa) then fried and dusted with sugar.

Carnevale is not only for tourists; on one night of our stay we managed to get seated in a crowded dining room of a busy Osteria. At the neighbouring table there was a party who were clearly Venetians, finishing a tray of warm frìtole: a Renaissance prince, a nineteenth century admiral, and a Mikado who started singing arias in Italian….

 

 

The Sunday Telegraph, 11 April 2021

A Normal Viking and The Archery Physician

‘just a normal Viking in a mad world’

 

This is how Jon Hancock describes himself. He runs the Holt Woodland Archery Club, which has become a regular haunt when I’m in Norfolk.

I’ve written about it before: https://wp.me/p7AW4i-tf  (Thudding in the Norfolk woods).

 

On a recent visit Jon told me:

‘I say to the people who come here that archery is a very egalitarian sport. It doesn’t matter how old or young you are, whether or not you’re able-bodied, or your gender, religion or the colour of your skin’.

 

Jon Hancock

‘We’re all archers’

 

Since the easing of lockdown, Jon hasn’t put signs out on the road outside. He’s hoping to control the number of casual visitors, while continuing to attract ‘archers who know what they’re doing’.

However, from Wednesday to Sunday the club continues to welcome individuals, small groups and families who want to try their hand with a bow and arrows.

 

 

Having a go at archery

 

 

Anyone is welcome, but Jon doesn’t allow children under the age of eight to shoot, saying:

‘THEY HAVE THE ATTENTION SPAN OF SQUIRRELS’ 

 

 

The club attracts a number of former servicemen, who are better at paying attention.

On one occasion I got chatting to a chap wearing a regimental cap badge, who described his experience in Northern Ireland.

“I was on foot patrol when I heard the tearing sound of a Thompson gun, you can’t mistake it. I hit the deck”.

Afterwards he saw the row of bullet holes in the wall behind where he had been standing.

To this day he won’t sit with his back to a door, even in his own home.

 

 

 

Home on the range

 

 

‘Nothing clears a troubled mind like shooting a bow’

So said Fred Bear, an American who Jon describes as one of the greatest archers who ever lived.

The club gives me a chance to work on my technique; in the early part of the week I’m often the only person there.

There’s a mixture of conventional target faces and 3D animal targets at different distances, which is useful for practising field archery, which is more instinctive or intuitive than what I’m used to in Richmond.

Jon charges £5 per person to newcomers using club equipment which, he says, just about covers the cost of lost and broken arrows. For the same price, experienced archers with their own kit can come any time, and shoot all day long.

If you’re lucky, Jon will give you some tips, and recommend suppliers such as Clickers Archery in Norwich, and Eagle Archery in Tyne and Wear, “they’re lovely people”. (I’m a believer in supporting businesses I rate by spreading the word).

 

 

Demonstrating how to anchor the bowstring to the corner of the mouth. ‘It helps if you have a tooth missing!’

 

 

And the Archery Physician?

 

That’s not Jon, it’s me.

 

3D target

 

 

I can cure heartburn and floss teeth, all in one appointment.

 

A Letter from F. Scott Fitzgerald in quarantine

Quarantined in 1920 in the South of France during the outbreak of Spanish Influenza, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote this letter:

 

 

Dearest Rosemary,

 

It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his sources.

 

The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us.

 

POSTSCRIPT
Since ‘posting’ this letter yesterday, one of my subscribers has kindly pointed out that this is a parody by Nick Farriella, and provided a link which includes this concluding paragraph:

You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand. In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.

Faithfully yours,
F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/this-side-of-paradise-a-letter-from-f-scott-fitzgerald-quarantined-in-the-south-of-france

‘The best thing on the menu’

At the Real Wine Fair in 2014, a hundred or so producers had set up their wines on rows of tables in Tobacco Dock, an event space in Wapping. In the next room about a dozen London restaurants and street food vendors were preparing to serve lunch. 

One of them took the initiative by taking some samples into the wine tasting hall; a young Frenchwoman, with little English, but a friendly smile, offered a tray of sliced saucisson to anyone within range.

As lunchtime approached, I decided it was time to investigate. Two of the Frenchwoman’s colleagues were cutting a huge pile of baguettes to be filled with the same saucisson, or Iberico ham. A third was dispensing wine from magnums: stylish.

They also had a short menu on a blackboard; I chose one of my favourite things, a Terrine de Campagne with cornichons. It was savoury and rich, with the crisp tangy pickles for contrast. 

It was so good, I went back the following day to try something different from them; after all, these two French couples were the only caterers to have travelled so far to feed us. It was a hard decision, and I asked “magnum man” for his advice.

 

“The pig’s muzzle is the best thing on the menu”, he confided with a smile. 

 

I was so charmed by their friendly good humour, and the quality of what they were doing, I decided to go for it. It was fried in a crisp crust, and the texture was not dissimilar to the previous day’s terrine. Delicious, but a more intimate piece of pig than I’m used to eating….

Their business is a hotel, La Cour de Remi. I picked up their business card, looked up their website when I got home, and determined to track them down.

 

La Cour de Remi

About an hour’s drive from Calais, it’s a good choice for a long weekend. The hotel is in the converted stable yard of a chateau. 

 

La Cour de Remi

 

We booked for my birthday, at the end of August. There was a mix-up about our booking, so instead of a room we were given a self-contained cottage in the gardens. (Alas, the treehouse was fully booked).

 

The treehouse, La Cour de Remi.

 

We were happy to have dinners in the hotel restaurant. The owner, Sebastien, is the chef, and his wife does front of house (she was the woman at the wine fair), helped by a young man we nicknamed Tintin on account of his solemn demeanour, and also his quiff of red hair.

The atmosphere is ‘rustic luxury’, the menu uses local produce, with some Spanish ham and cheeses.

The menu for dinner was 32€ for three courses in 2014, and is the same price in 2020.

 

Menu 32 euros (35 with cheese)

 

 

They served us a substantial breakfast on the Sunday for my birthday: glasses of champagne, baguettes with Serrano ham, boudin noir, scrambled eggs, brioche and (an unexpected touch) rice pudding. 

It kept us going for an expedition to walk the battlefield of Agincourt, which would lead me to take up archery the following year:

 

‘A Long Walk from Agincourt to Richmond’

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-aN

 

It turned out that the restaurant was closed on Sunday evening, and Sebastien had to go out. We asked if he could recommend anywhere nearby we could go for dinner, and he mentioned (rather doubtfully) a couple of places in Boulogne, about an hour’s drive away. 

We believe he thought better of it; he later offered to prepare something for us, leaving Tintin to bring it over to our cottage. We agreed enthusiastically.

 

Somehow Tintin managed to fit everything on a tray

 

That terrine de campagne, Serrano ham, pâté de foie gras, cheese, good bread and butter, chutneys, and a simple salad of green tomatoes. Raspberry pannacotta to follow, and champagne and wine from the hotel list, which we able to finish off the following day.

 

The mother of all picnics

 

 

It was a good decision.

 

LA COUR DE RÉMI – HOTEL ET RESTAURANT DE CAMPAGNE

 

 

Footnote: fields of conflict, and a paradise for fallen warriors

 

If you’re interested in history, La Cour de Remi was the HQ of the Royal Tank Regiment in 1916; they maintain a small memorial in the garden.

Agincourt is nearby, and the Canadian monument at Vimy Ridge is an easy drive; you can visit preserved trenches from the First World War, and tunnels deep underground. The Canadian and German positions are surprisingly close to each other.

As well as the Commonwealth cemeteries with their familiar rows of white headstones, there’s the largest German war cemetery in France, where the bodies of German servicemen were relocated from temporary graves and “field burials” all over the country.

I was struck by the archaic German rank “Musketier”, apparently equivalent to a private soldier in the Prussian infantry. Occasionally the crosses are interspersed with a headstone bearing a Star of David, commemorating a German Jewish soldier.

 

 

Neuville-Saint-Vaast German Military Cemetery “La Maison Blanche”

 

 

Neuville-Sanit-Vaast reflects a different tradition of burial from that of the Commonwealth and French armies. The graves are spaced more widely apart, each marked by a simple black iron cross, engraved with the names of four soldiers.

 

It’s Valhalla for fallen warriors, or ‘Paradise in a Gothic wood’. 

My picks of 2019

My Museum of the Year:

The Vasa Museum in Stockholm, without question. Read my post here:

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-On

 

The Vasa Museum

 

 

Exhibitions:

Stanley Kubrick – I’ll come back to this one with a dedicated post. First seen in Paris in 2011, at La Cinémathèque Française, I didn’t realise it was on an extended world tour. While it finished at The Design Museum in September 2019, there’s a chance you’ll be able to catch it somewhere in the world in coming years.

 

Stanley Kubrick, The Exhibition

 

Other highlights:

Sargent at the National Museum of Sweden.

Sorolla, Master of Light, at The National Gallery, London.

Hockney and Van Gogh, The Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam. https://wp.me/p7AW4i-Ib

 

Film: The Two Popes

‘Two Welsh actors walk into a bar; they both start to pontificate’

I wasn’t expecting much of The Two Popes. It’s a fictionalised account of Pope Benedict’s decision to abdicate, and nominate his unwilling successor, Pope Francis. Both men have troubled pasts.

Anthony Hopkins plays the rigid German who adheres to Catholicism in its strictest form, but sees the need for the church to modernise. Jonathan Pryce plays the football-loving Argentinian who intends to resign as Cardinal, but is then summoned to Rome. Filmed in locations including the Sistine Chapel and Argentina, it’s a large scale film that centres on the relationship of the two men with great humanity.

The Traitor at The London Film Festival is also based on a true story, of a minor mafioso who is persuaded to return from anonymity in Brazil to become a central witness at the Sicilian Mafia Maxi-Trials of the 1980s. It’s a chilling insight into recent events in Italian history.

Blue Note Records: Beyond the Notes is a documentary charting the history of the record label from its foundation in 1939 by two white German immigrants, Alfred Lion and Max Magulis. Unconcerned by commercial considerations, they loved the music, treated the artists well, and nurtured their creativity. From around 1947 the label embraced modern jazz. Changes of ownership followed Lion and Magulis’s retirement in the 1960s. Since 2012 it has been under the stewardship of its current president Don Was, who has overseen its revival, attracting a new generation of musicians.

The Favourite was a major disappointment. I really expected to enjoy it. Visually striking but dull.

The Souvenir was my Turkey of the Year. I’ll never get those two hours of my life back.

Theatre: two Shakespeares, two Wiltons

The Sam Wanamaker Theatre at The Globe is an intimate space, a recreation of a Jacobean theatre, illuminated by candlelight. An eerie production of Macbeth in January opened in darkness; a single candle was lit, the Thane of Cawdor encountered the witches in near-darkness, and was propelled towards his blood-soaked destiny.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream at The Bridge was a mischievous delight. The central joke, that Titania should be bewitched to fall in love with Bottom, was playfully inverted; it was Oberon who fell for the ass.

 

Wilton’s Music Hall, Grace Alley

 

Sinatra: Raw at Wilton’s Music Hall was an enjoyable suspension of disbelief, written and brilliantly performed by Richard Shelton.

‘You all know Somethin’ Stupid, yeah? Well if you’re thinking of singing it on your way home, I’ve got some advice for you’

‘Doobie Doobie, Don’t’

 

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-ST

 

A Christmas Carol, also at Wilton’s, was rewritten as another gender inversion; Ebenezer Scrooge died young, and his sister Fan, played by Sally Dexter, reverts to her maiden name after she is widowed from Jacob Marley.

 

The bar at Wilton’s, Christmas 2019

 

Miss Scrooge resolutely resists the blandishments of the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, and in desperation the ghosts transport her to 2019, where she witnesses her female descendant running the family business, beset by all the pressures of 21st century technology.

Scrooge returns to her own time, committed to devoting her fortune to the empowerment of women, and to celebrate Christmas in a last act that owes a big debt to panto.

 

Music:

In February I anticipated that Booker T Jones might just be my gig of the year.

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-FQ

 

Van Morrison at The Roundhouse was a strong contender in July. People complain he doesn’t play all the hits, but with a back catalogue like his, who can blame him? They say he only plays for an hour and a quarter, he doesn’t do encores, choosing instead to wander offstage mid-song.

He performs on his own terms. The Roundhouse was a perfect venue, and he and his band were on fine form. As a bonus, Chris Farlowe guested for ‘They Call it Stormy Monday (and Tuesday’s just as bad)’, and he’s still in good voice.

 

Van Morrison at The Roundhouse

 

But my pick of the year goes to Quentin Collins (trumpet, flugelhorn) and Andrew McCormack (piano) at The 606 Club, playing the music of Chick Corea and Woody Shaw.

They regularly perform with The Kyle Eastwood Band, one of my favourite acts, who we always catch at Ronnie Scott’s.

It was my first time at The 606 Club. It’s on Lot’s Road, in the wasteland of blocks of luxury flats beyond The World’s End in Chelsea. There’s an illuminated purple sign above the doorway – ring the bell and they buzz you in.

The club is in a basement, of course, with tables that seated perhaps 35 people on a Wednesday in November. Quentin Collins described it as ‘the most authentic jazz room in London’.

 

Quentin Collins

 

We couldn’t have been any closer to the musicians. Quentin came on stage after the break with a modest glass of red wine, and asked politely if he could put it on our table.

Steve Ruby, the proprietor of the club, joined the band on stage to play flute on ‘Bud Powell’.

 

Having a song named after you, wouldn’t that be cool?

 

https://www.606club.co.uk/

Face to face with my grandfather

I’ve never concerned myself particularly with the family tree.

With my surname, Cameron, I romantically assumed that my ancestors were highlanders; if they didn’t perish on Culloden Moor in 1746, they made their way to the Scottish lowlands, or perhaps further afield to make their fortunes.

My mother was Ruth Nicolson, born in 1916, the eldest of three children. Her family were originally from Pittenweem, a fishing village in the Kingdom of Fife.

Her father William was a minister in the Church of Scotland, first in Edinburgh, then later in the parish of Elgin. He wanted to become a missionary, but was prevented by rheumatic fever, which led to his premature death in 1921 at the age of 34, leaving three young orphans: my mother, her sister Aunt Jessie, and Uncle Bill.

I knew little more about him, apart from his portrait photograph as a minister; he has a strong resemblance to one of my nephews.

This year I came across a family photo I hadn’t seen before. If I hadn’t been told they were my relatives, I might almost have thought they were members of a minor Sicilian mafia clan; these sturdy people look as if they have had a hard life.

 

The Nicolsons, c1903

 

 

The Nicolson genes are strong; the boy in the back row is my grandfather.

 

He’s perhaps 16 years old, which dates the picture to about 1903. My guess is that the two young women on either side of him are his sisters; I dimly remember knowing Auntie Maggie, and I believe the other was Aunt Madeleine – my great aunts.

Along with the family photo was an extract of the Register of Marriages from 1912, when my grandfather William, aged 25, (described then as a lecturer) married Jessie Hogg (spinster), aged 24. Jessie’s parents were David Hogg, a plasterer (deceased) and Rachael (née Scott).

William’s father, also William, was a retired hairdresser. His late wife was Christina (nee Doig). They must be the seated couple in the photo. Perhaps one of the boys is my Great Uncle Bill, who became a member of The Magic Circle; when I was a small boy he still performed tricks at his flat in Edinburgh.

 

They say you can’t choose your family, but I’m glad to have met them face to face at last. Now I know more about who I am.