Category: History

The history of a broken cello

I don’t usually watch The Repair Shop on BBC television, but it happened to be on over Christmas. It was the Christmas Special, filmed in a heavy snowfall; I only realised later it was probably recorded in the height of summer.

In the show, members of the public bring family treasures to be repaired by expert craftspeople.

In this episode Dame Helen Mirren was invited as a guest.

She presented the Repair Shop with a project which caught my attention; she works with Denville Hall, a retirement home for people in the theatrical profession. Past residents include Sir Richard Attenborough, Robert Hardy and Marianne Faithfull; Scottish comedian and actor Stanley Baxter died there last year.

It drew my interest because Denville Hall is located in Ducks Hill Road, Northwood, where I spent much of my childhood.

She told the story of Martin Landau, a theatre director who was a supporter of the home (not to be confused with the American actor of the same name).

Landau came to Britain on the Kindertransport, a Jewish child fleeing from Nazi Germany. Aged just 14, he never saw his parents again.

He brought with him his most treasured possession; a cello, which was deliberately broken by the German guards as he boarded the train. Despite the damage he kept it, and left it to Denville Hall on his death.

The project was to repair the cello so that it could be played again for the enjoyment of the residents of the hall.

Becky Horton, a stringed instrument restorer, described it as beautiful, but ‘a real mess’. It was badly cracked, and the neck was detached from its body.

It was a long and very anxious process to repair the cracks, and she became tense as the neck had to be glued in place very precisely, or the tone of the cello would be imperfect.

Later in the programme Helen Mirren returned to see the completed work. Becky told her that during the process of restoration, she had fallen in love with the instrument.

A celebrated cellist, Raphael Wallfisch, was introduced to play ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’, proving that after more than eighty years the cello was resonantly alive, with a future ahead of it.

A postcard from Turin

History is close to the surface

The emblem of Torino is a little bull. I happened upon this one, looking down at me from the wall of a house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turin was founded by the ancient Romans; Porta Palatina is a fragment of their city wall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We stayed on Via Garibaldi, a pedestrianised shopping street in the Centro Storico.

Exploring on the first day, I could hear a drumbeat in the distance. As the drums came closer, fifers started to play ‘The British Grenadiers’, a bizarre choice of tune in this Italian city.

The banner commemorates local hero Pietro Micca, who sacrificed his life in 1706, defending his city against the French.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

City of culture

Since the Winter Olympics of 2006, and with the declining importance of industry, Turin has sought to attract tourism. There are free walking tours available from Via Garibaldi, and you’ll happen upon small scale but interesting exhibitions, such as Gli Italiani at the Palazzo Falletti in Barolo, just off Via Garibaldi.

‘The Italians’ was a project undertaken in the sixties by French photographer Bruno Barbey, documenting the lives of ordinary Italians in a country still emerging from the aftermath of the Second World War.

Palermo 1963

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Venezia 1962

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are grand museums and galleries too; Turin is home to a collection of Egyptian antiquities second only to the museum in Cairo, and an extraordinary museum of Italian cinema.

 

Where we ate, what we drank

The restaurants we went to were inexpensive and not touristy. Wines start at around 20 euros a bottle, and are often available in carafe.

La Taverna dei Mercanti 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A cosy place with a menu largely based around thinly sliced veal and beef: carpaccio, brasato, tonnato.

If that weren’t confusing enough, I ordered a grappa. Good job I didn’t ask for a large one….

An elegant pour

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tre Galli (three cockerels, not to be confused with its nearby sister restaurant ‘Tre Galline’, three chickens) is a bit of a hipster place near Porta Palazzo market. The highlight for me was this dish of pasta with beans, chestnuts, pumpkin, gorgonzola and a wine reduction; like a big warm hug on a chilly November evening. We followed with a Zabaglione per condividere (a handy phrase, meaning ‘to share’).

Pasta Garfagnano

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pino & Pino was recommended by Giuditta, the owner of our apartment, as somewhere she eats regularly.

(She also has accommodation for skiing and sent me loads of photos, please DM me if you’re interested, and I’ll put you in touch).

We started with a foaming carafe of Frizzante, then demolished a bottle of red Dolcetto.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was Carciofi (artichoke) season, and there were three specials on the blackboard. We had these ‘fritti’ and a salad of thinly sliced raw artichokes with lemon juice and shaved parmesan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anyone for tennis?

I can recommend Turin as a destination for a city break, there’s plenty to see (and eat!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ATP tournament is back in 2026, and we’re tempted to go for a return match….

Turin: in Search of Stanley Tucci

My travelling companions were going to Turin for the ATP year-end tennis tournament.

I was there for the food. My last visit was in 2015, and I had some unfinished business.

Hollywood star Stanley Tucci, ‘Italian on both sides’, was a source of research in the Piedmont episode of his TV series ‘Searching for Italy’, available on Amazon Prime.

First stop, coffee

We followed in his footsteps for coffee at Al Bicerin, an institution on Piazza della Consolata since 1763. They run a queuing system, and once you sit down there’s a short wait while your drinks are made, and the complimentary biscotti are plated.

Al Bicerin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pronounced Beech-erin, the eponymous drink consists of layers of espresso and dark hot chocolate, sipped through cold cream, a perfect start on a chilly morning.  ‘We suggest not to stir it’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So far, so good. Where to for lunch, Stanley?

Piola da Celso, an unassuming place on a quiet residential backstreet. Piola translates roughly as a tavern serving home cooked food.

Chef Elisabetta prepares everything herself each day, and Stanley was assured she makes the best Bagna Caôda in town. Traditionally eaten during the grape harvest and pressing, it’s a warm dipping sauce of garlic and anchovies, served with vegetables.

‘It has incredible flavour, and will give you incredible breath – the garlic kills everyone in front of you’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had to try it.

I walked there to work up an appetite, which was just as well. I was shown to a table next to a group of five men of a certain age, who were already deeply engrossed in pasta, tripe, roast rabbit, and carafes of red wine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elisabetta’s son Carlo was called over to speak to me in English. I did my best, and he quickly reassured me ‘your Italian is perfect’. (He’s as charming as he appeared to be on TV).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘My name is Carlo, like your king’.

He recommended the mixed antipasto to start, with the last portion of Bagna Caôda.

I ordered un quartino dell’ Arneis, a 25cl carafe of the local white wine.

Bagna Cauda

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The antipasto was a lesson in Piemontese dialect: vitel tonné, salame cotto, insalata russa, tomino with two sauces*.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*sliced veal with tuna & caper mayonnaise, baked salami, Russian salad, and tangy, creamy cheeses with red & green sauces – all specialities of the region; the salame you will only find there.

Tomino cheeses

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elisabetta came over, unbidden, to give me a taste of a mysterious green purée; I asked what it was, and she showed me a raw floret: ‘e broccolo, con un po di patate’…..

I ordered the agnolotti con salsa arrosto, ‘then you can decide what to do….’

An enormous pan of pasta arrived, dressed with parmesan and the rich juices of roast meat. ‘It’s ravioli, but here in Piemonte we call it agnolotti’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I reluctantly declined the offers of meat and dessert, and opted for an espresso. Lunch was 28 euros.

Carlo asked my name, took an interest in where I was from, what was my work, and offered to call me a taxi.

 

Two days later I returned, this time with reinforcements.

I had phoned ahead, and Elisabetta recognised me, greeting me with a little curtsey.

Two of us shared the antipasti, then Tajarin, similar to spaghetti but fresh pasta, with tomato, followed by a slice of Bonet, a dense dark chocolate mousse with crumbled amaretti and mandarin jam.

Bonet with Amaro

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carlo recommended a glass of Amaro San Carlo (‘like me’) as a digestif, a bittersweet drink with flavours of alpine herbs.

Lunch for two came to £47.

He recommended booking for dinner a week in advance. There’s no website, just a Facebook page, so phone and practise your Italian; ask for Carlo, or ask your hotel to call.

 

Back at home, I watched ‘Searching for Italy’ again.

With the help of subtitles, it was Elisabetta who stole the show:

‘This will be the best Bagna Caôda you will have in your life.

It will resurrect a dead person’.

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