Foyle's Finale: The End of an Era

Some eighteen months ago I wrote about the end of another television crime drama, that of Agatha Christie's Poirot. And now, today, is another culmination of a beloved detective series. I stumbled across Foyle's War, a crime drama series set in England during WWII, while on the hunt for films or shows the talented British actor Michael Kitchen had been in. I saw an episode from the second series and was immediately hooked. Nigh on seven years later, I am still as hooked as I was then.

I was studying at the time in the middle of the mountains in Colorado, a veritable backwater (I say this with the deepest affection, by the way), and it was a huge relief (if not a surprise) that the local library had the Foyle's War dvds. I watched them out of order as, wouldn't you know it, other patrons kept checking them out as well. It didn't matter, as they are fairly stand alone 90 minute episodes. At home for Christmas we ordered all the sets and it became a bit of a tradition to watch them each holiday.

Why was I so hooked? Gosh, I could be here all day just on the subject of Michael Kitchen's brilliant and understated acting ability, but let me try to be brief. First off, the quality of the show was excellent. Not only interesting and historically accurate plot lines written by Anthony Horowitz (who also contributed to some of Poirot's screenplays), but the filming managed to capture a nostalgic feel. Set in Hastings on the south coast of England, the scenery itself evoked an earlier, simpler time.

The house used as Foyle's home in Hastings -
taken during my visit in 2010

 Having grown up with the Old Country always present in our house, and my use of knife and fork, odd words like 'chap' and 'pardon', and my lapses into Queen's English spelling constantly being commented on by friends, immersing myself in the world of Foyle felt wonderfully like coming home. I can't explain it eloquently, but it struck a deep chord. Perhaps it was evocative of Enid Blyton's stories (if we leave out the murders) in a way, when boys still wore short trousers, ginger beer was the beverage of choice, and good, old fashioned justice was meted out. My childhood dreams were filled with her stories, and to be honest, I'd still give my right arm to be George (short for Georgina), racing around the English countryside on bicycles and finding secret passageways. One of the main characters, Sam (short for Samantha), is Foyle's driver and reminds me very much of an Enid Blyton character: inquisitive, brave, loyal to a fault, likes a "jolly good murder", and is unendingly jolly. I'd give my right arm to be Sam too, really...

Near "Foyle's" house, looking back towards
the Old Town (2010)

Hasting's Fishing Net Huts (2010)

So, the acting, the quality of production, and of course, most importantly, the stories themselves are reasons why I fell for the series. Foyle's War is not merely a television detective series, but a deeper look at the history of Britain during the war years. We are given an idea of what life on the Homefront was like; it was tough to say the least, and when the world is going to hell, what you really want is a principled, unwavering, honest chap to keep things on a balance. And this is where Michael Kitchen's character of Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle comes in. Unlike some other TV detectives, he doesn't rush around like a headless chicken looking for clues or rough up suspects in dingy interrogation rooms. Foyle is methodical, polite, clever, and need only pierce a wayward suspect with a steely look (which Kitchen is a pro at) to get results. Horowitz is a champion at the murder mystery, and his writing for this particular series was brilliant.

Hasting's Pier (2010)

The backdrop of history is fascinating, and after a few episodes I was back at the library finding all the books I could about the Second World War and Britain's part in it. For in truth, it is my history as well. My family both in England and in Holland were directly affected and involved with the war, as I suppose most people's families were, but I certainly felt closer to my own history after reading all about it. Growing up in a country that was not my own and feeling essentially rootless, learning about what things might have been like for my family gave me a sense of where I come from.

And here we have arrived at just why this show about a provincial detective on the Homefront means so much to me. Not only did it strike a chord and give me a chance to investigate my background, but it gave me the interest in a time period that was so important - everything changed after the war, and the repercussions were felt for decades and decades afterwards. It is only now we are beginning to find the space for reconciliation, as I've discussed before. This interest in all things WWII led to further research, which in turn led to writing, which then led to meeting those with similar interests, and has left me far better off than before, richer in knowledge and ability. Would I have been inspired to write three novels and countless short stories all set around the time of the war if I hadn't been obsessed by this time period? Would I have even dared to pick up my pen? I don't know. Foyle's War was a starting point: from there I was able to discover my passions in regard to history and writing, leading to so many wonderful things. Is there anything better than knowing what it is you truly enjoy?

So, you see, I'm not just sad to see this series come to end, though after 28 episodes and over 13 years I can quite understand Horowitz saying it's enough, I'm also grateful. It's given me quite a lot over the years, and the 'fandom', while small, is unique. I'm often teased for my obsession, but there you have it. It's not just about the actors and their relationships, or figuring out 'whodunnit'; it opened up a world I might never have touched upon. I have never once thought all those hours of researching, or trips to every museum that dealt with the war, or countless books on the subject a waste of time or money. I was learning - not just about the war, but about myself too.

I'm both dreading and anticipating tonight's final episode of Foyle's War. Saying goodbye has never been a strong point, and this truly does feel like the end of an era. But it's been a wonderful ride, and my interest in the series and time period is for life, so it isn't really the end of it all. I'll still research and read and write. I'll re-watch the episodes and remember fondly that there was a time when I saw beyond a detective show and instead saw the boundless possibilities of interest in a subject and what it might bring. We live for our passions; our interests drive us like nothing else, and I shall strive to continue following mine.

Remembrance Weekend

People often ask me, "don't you miss it?" And whether it be in reference to a previous country of residence, a job, or university, my answer is always inevitably, "no." There is no point, in this short life, to miss and pine. What has passed has passed, and there is only ever the future. However, (you knew that was coming, I expect...), there are brief moments during the year that I do miss being a part of larger body of commemoration; a sense of oneness and selfsame purpose with the nation around me.

November 11th, the end of World War I. Armistice. In the States it is called Veteran's Day; in England it is Remembrance Day. Each year this time is observed and remembered, not only marking the end of conflict in 1918, but all those that followed. It has always been for me a moment of great solemnity, of thankfulness, and of most fervent prayer that we should never find ourselves in the midst of such horrors again. We often think of those who fought during the first two World Wars when thinking about Remembrance Day, but of course, there has been numerous conflict since. In my own life time there have been two major conflicts in the Middle East.

This year marks the centenary of the First World War; the 70th anniversary of the landings at D-Day; and last month we saw the last British troops leave Helmund Province after a thirteen year campaign.  It has, in short, been quite the year for commemorations.

In reality it does not really matter where in the world I am, since I can remember the fallen anywhere. But I will admit it is at times like this that I miss being a part of it all. Sat watching the Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall on BBC1 tonight, I was as ever moved and humbled. I'm rather hopeless when it comes to things like commemorations, because I usually begin to blub before the first ten minutes is through. It is meant to be emotional though, and as we saw, there were many people in the Albert Hall moved to tears as well. A wonderful, human expression that we all share.

I've been doing research for the last few months for a bit of writing that deals with both World Wars. Reading personal stories as well as the bare facts of military manoeuvres. I've also been reading fictional books that deal with WWII, and all across the BBC there have been nods to Remembrance. This immersion brings it home all the more. At the Festival a young German lad recited part of a poem, and although I've said this before in previous posts dealing with commemorations, it still gives me immense hope to see the reconciliation that comes about during these times of remembrance.

It also gives me hope to see how involved the younger generations have been; remembering is part of this reconciliation, no doubt. Some might say, all this remembering and parading...wouldn't it just be better to leave it in the past? I don't think it would: the example above of the young German lad being part of the Festival is case in point. We all suffered and lost and grieved. There is an old quote about being equal in death, but are we not equal in suffering too? A mother's son is a mother's son, English or German. Perhaps my generation, that much more far removed from both World Wars, can afford to be objective about it. For us, Germany means Oktoberfest; for them, Britain means Primark. I'm joking of course, but my point is this: our generation have explored the World Wars in staggering detail during the course of our schooling. From a young age we know and are told, and this, in one way or another, leaves its impression.

I remember the pancake breakfasts held in the Parish hall every Veteran's Day when I was young. Our school would go to help out; we would serve food and drinks, sing songs we had learned, and say the Pledge of Allegiance. Most of all what I remember besides the smell of bacon and coffee and mouldering hymnals stacked out of the way, is the old men in uniform, medals gleaming on their chests, who sat and told stories and shook our little hands with their old, gnarled ones. These were men from WWII and Vietnam mostly; many of the veteran's from WWII will have passed on by now.

Equally, I will never forget the Remembrance Sunday service in King's College Chapel, Cambridge. It was the wettest day outside and the place was packed to rafters. If you have ever been inside the chapel, you know it is a overwhelming place. When it is packed for services such as this, or Easter or Christmas, a mass of humanity all feeling especially reverent, the place lit up with candles, reverberating with the life pulse of the great organ piping out 'Abide With Me', and the voices of the innocent raised in boyish purity... well, my words cannot do it justice. It is magical and moving.    

I will miss it; but then again, my thoughts are there, and that's all that matters. I hope those who are close to London have gone to see the poppies at the Tower of London. Incredible. But, I should point out I'm now in a country that celebrates Liberation Day with as much solemnity and reverence as my two "home nations" do Remembrance Day, so nothing has been lost, but merely gained. 

In a way, it's perhaps best I'm not in church this Remembrance Sunday belting out 'Eternal Father' or 'Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer' ... I never make it through without welling up. The same goes for the Last Post: I cannot hear it without subsiding behind a hanky...

It only leaves me to say: We we will remember them.
 

Music Idols

It's not often one gets to see or even meet their music idols. In fact, depending on your taste in music, it can be nearly impossible (eg: they are no longer living...). I've been very lucky to see a few of my favourite musicians - multiple times in different countries, on opposite ends of the world even.

As a singer/songwriter and folkie (a folk musician) my heroes include, to name a few: Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tim O'Brien, Mark Knopfler, The Band, The Beatles...and so on (it's a very long list). The last two were obviously not an option when hoping for concerts, but the others...

I've seen Bob Dylan three times: once in Albuquerque, in London at an Irish festival of all places, and in Nottingham when he played with Mark Knopfler. I've seen Mark Knopfler in Denver too. Tim O'Brien frequented the local Folk and Bluegrass Festival in my home town when I was growing up. An incredibly nice guy when I spoke with him, and he had some great tips about song writing. And Joan Baez.

Joan Baez at the Oosterpoort

Last weekend Joan Baez came to town. Which was both fortuitous and slightly random - I mean, Groningen isn't exactly the first place one thinks of when you hear the name of a top American musician. I had the very great fortune to see her in Cambridge three years ago and meet her as well after the show was over. She was lovely, as you might imagine, beautiful and full of energy. She had played all my favourite songs - songs that I cover during my own sets - and it was all rather surreal. 

This time she was playing at the the 'Take Root Festival', which is an American music roots festival here in Groningen. I was pleasantly surprised by it, as I didn't really know what to expect from an indoor festival. It was quite simple and relaxed actually: four different stages, different bands scheduled throughout the evening, plenty of beer and food: voila! I was able to stand near the stage and listen to Joan Baez sing and tell stories to the crowd. It really is incredible to hear songs you've listened to so many times, sung a mere ten feet away. It is also very moving; her songs are powerful in their own right, but being present always gives them more weight. A most wonderful start to the evening.

There were also plenty of other bands to see once Joan Baez had finished her set. Some rock bands, a folk singer, and a six piece country and western band. With cowboy boots, Stetsons, and steel guitars! I was in my element! Country music was a big part of the culture of where I grew up, and the first songs I ever learned to play on the guitar were country songs. It gets a lot of flak these days, and it is true that it isn't the same as it used to be. It's more rock and pop with a country flair, which doesn't quite cut it.

One reason I loved living in Australia was because country music is quite big there - Tamworth is the country music capital; Keith Urban is from Oz; and country music is often heard on the radio. Living in England, however, was like a country music desert. My oasis: a one hour weekly slot on BBC radio that I listened to regularly. And goodness, trying to explain what a tailgate is... But there was a great collection of English ballads and Celtic inspired music that filled the void, and that too was good.

Therefore, I never expected to move to the Netherlands and suddenly find myself in the midst of an Americana reboot. After all, what was the Netherlands' entry at the Eurovision Song Contest? Calm After the Storm - a country song by the The Common Linnets, a Dutch Americana band. It took Europe by storm and came in second place. And it's not just the Netherlands either: a Danish film maker has just made a Western film with Danish, Swedish, and English actors: The Salvation. A Danish Western...dark and broody with excellent story telling, no doubt! I can't wait to see it. Everywhere I turn I seem to find this interest in Americana: cowboy hats and boots; belt buckles; the rise in popular fiction of "the cowboy" and Western genre. I can think of at least three films coming out in the next few months that are Westerns, and pubs aren't just full of jazz bands, but more often country and western bands - both original and cover bands. It's wonderful!

Anyway, my point is that I found it very inspiring to see my music idol, Joan Baez, as well as get back to my roots a bit. As a musician I believe it is very important to put down the guitar at times and go listen to others. I walked away from that festival with a whole slew of new song ideas and new chords patterns I want to try. When I get to see my music heroes, it always takes me back to when I first heard their music. Back to those first few times I tried to play their songs, learning the tabs and chords. It's like coming full circle, you see: very special. I look forward to sitting down properly and making music after this!

Remembering a True Blue Hero

Tiredness does strange things to the mind: for instance, I was sat staring into space after a shattering day and suddenly I did what can only be described as a triple take. The sun was trickling through, making a dappled sort of pattern on bright green ferns, and just in front of it, on a iron gate, ringed tail hanging down from a brown body, was what I thought was a monkey. It was, in fact, a rather odd looking cat, but I did begin to wonder. It was certainly time for a cup of tea! But thinking about animals in odd places reminded me of a time when animals were everything. 

Today, September 4th, is not a day I easily forget. It's a bit like someone's birthday - you know it's coming up. Eight years ago today, the world lost an incredible man: a wildlife warrior of the highest calibre, Steve Irwin.

It feels almost childlike to say it, but he was my hero. I couldn't get enough of his wildlife programmes as a youngster. He was a man who was passionate about conservation and preservation - crucial things if we are to sustain any sort of existence, really. He was crazy and wild, running about in khaki and jumping on crocodiles - I suspect the Aussie's groaned at this national export. Crocodile Dundee and Fosters was bad enough, but now this? For me, it endeared me to a nation that I have since fallen in love with.

Family tribute at Australia Zoo

I was in my first week of college, brand new to life away from home and learning responsibility, when I heard the news. We had an 8am Anthropology lecture, and my professor said far too casually that Steve Irwin had died. I didn't want to believe it, but with a sinking heart, I knew it had to be true. After class I ran home and switched on the news; and there, sure enough, was the headline. He had been killed by a sting ray, of all animals. I rang my mum of course, for what else do you do when you are unreasonably sad? I had never met him; didn't know him personally; and yet I cried such tears and felt such loss. Still do, in fact. Why should such a good man, doing so much for animals and our earth be taken away?

And why was he my hero? Well, it was not simply because he was a wildlife warrior, championing for animal's protection at every breath, but he was also a teacher, explaining the how and why. A world away, these magnificent animals existed - the dangerous, the cuddly, the beautiful ones, all in a mind boggling harmony. It was utterly fascinating, and whenever a new episode came out, I was sat glued to the television.

He was also a man who showed his emotions, not afraid to cry or show fear, or to be off the wall enthusiastic. He bled real blood and broke real bones in front of the camera; he took real risks. He was a man who lived. I suppose it all captured my imagination. He had a rather wonderful message to the world that reads: "If we can teach people about wildlife, they will be touched. Share my wildlife with me. Because humans want to save things that they love." What a terrific role model.

Steve Irwin was a huge part of the lives of my generation; I think he took the world by storm - and surprise! He was just a true blue Aussie bloke that believed passionately in wildlife conservation, and he touched so many people through the work that he did. Sure, he was over the top, but his message was clear: we need to look after our world.

Only a small example of the tributes to Steve at Australia Zoo

I went to Oz like I always dreamt; made my way to what had once been a small flora and fauna park in southern Queensland, now a major site called Australia Zoo; I spent an entire day admiring my hero's life's work and crying at the sheer amount of tributes to him that had been left outside the zoo upon the news of his death. He was not just my hero; no, he was the animal's hero, the world's hero.

One that is, by crikey, sorely missed.

Cross Border Catchups

It was a weekend of catching up with friends, which is a good weekend any way you slice it! The great thing about travelling and living the life of a wanderer is that one gets to meet so many people and make many friends. The less great part about it is that one usually ends of miles and oceans apart. Thank goodness for technology!

My weekend really started on Thursday with a trip to Amsterdam. Meeting up with people you know in random foreign cities is by far the best; going home is nice, but if there is a chance to wander around a city while catching up...well, I'm sold. The friend I went to see is the lead singer of a rather wonderful band out of London. We met through a mutual friend a few years ago, and we three all share a love of music. Not only is the band, The Statue Thieves, really, very good, the lead singer also has an encyclopaedic knowledge of '60s music, which made for fascinating conversation while walking along Amsterdam's waterfront. My favourite track off their first album, Statues of Realisation, is 'Broken Beat'.

There is nothing broken about it however, as it is one great toe tapping tune. It is my 'go to' up-beat song. What I like about The Statue Thieves music is that is makes me want to pull on a black turtle neck or an A-line skirt and be driven around on a Vespa... The chaps have a bit of 'The Mod' look about them too, and they are a delight to watch live. Such (dare I say it) groovy energy. Craig, Alex, Iván, and George have great music to share, and would you know it: a free download available at the moment. Do give them a listen!

Talking about music is always lovely and my time spent in Amsterdam with someone who is so passionate about music was very inspiring. Ran home and finished writing a song in fact. (Well, I took the train...but you get my point...)

I also chatted with two of my oldest friends from high school and my uni days at the weekend. I never feel homesick, but for once, this weekend I did a bit, and I was incredibly grateful to chat about old familiar places and people with those who have known me for ages. Something about this time of year - the mountains and whispering aspen leaves only just beginning to change colour have been very much on my mind. So there you have it: wandering and living the globetrotting life is great, but there are moments when remembering old times is just the ticket.

It was also a very rainy weekend, so a lot of holing up in the attic room with pots of tea. Was just what I needed to get ready for the start of classes this week. I also went through my entire music collection, which to be honest really isn't quite the same on a computer. I know as a globetrotter it really is more handy to have it all on hard disk, but there is something lovely about leafing through albums...and don't even get me started about the joys of listening to vinyl. No wonder people needed the entire downstairs cast of Donwton Abbey when they used to travel...I imagine I would be weighed down by a typewriter, record player, and about a hundred books.

So, perhaps instead of watching another mindless television programme tonight: pull out your favourite music and remember the joys of just listening in the comfort of your sitting room. (I've been rocking out to 80s music all afternoon...for a change...)

100 Years Ago Today

It is not often I am moved to write poetry, but today is an exception. With my head stuck in the fusty pages of history, researching for projects and personal interest, I can not help be captured by the thousands of photographs of boys going off to war; to be touched by the letters recovered from families, recalling memories of the Front. The Great War.

It is an abominable thing, war. But we do well to remember those that have given their lives; Allies or otherwise. One hundred years ago is nothing in our lifetime. The papers have been full of death recently; the books I've had my nose in are full of destruction; it is enough to make one wonder where the beauty of this world has escaped to. Enough to make us wonder what it all was for if such things can continue. Today, I think about those who gave their all.

"100 Years Ago"

100 years today and yet not so long ago,
A distant past, on fields of shattered clay,
Boys and men readily volunteered to show
That they would join the fray.

Fathers, sons, husbands, brothers:
A nation of names and ranks and souls;
Wives, daughters, sisters, and their mothers,
Worked as one to bring them back still whole.

And what of the others on distant shore,
They are not so different, so to see;
Shall the mud and bullets make more
Distinction than us and them; you and me?

Aye, 100 years ago, and yet, not so very long;
They’ve heard our prayers as we wept our tears,
And sung our rousing, patriotic song.
We remember them, but what about their fears?

Lonely soldiers in a wasteland,
Borne of man and made a hell on earth;
With gathered strength, they made their stand,
Rising from the mud and stench in awful birth.

They fought for you, for me;
The enemy in hell they met:
For King, for God, for Country;
Lest we, the bonnie lads, forget.

A compilation: My great-grandfather during his service

Summertime Reading

It is hot. Hot, that is by Netherlands standards: ie, it's 24C (75F) and everyone is in shorts and dresses, drinking beer on terraces, and looking chic in their sunglasses. Tomorrow it is meant to be even hotter. The attic room is setting a course towards sweltering, and I'm sat dreaming of ice creams and lemonade (not together, obviously). And with a weekend of nice weather, playing music, bbqs, and time with friends looming, I'm one happy camper. I love summertime for all the above reasons (yes, even the sweltering...), but most of all, I love summer because it means time for reading.

As a young girl I spent my summers running wild as only one can in the middle of the Colorado mountains. I have extremely fond memories of it all. Equally, I distinctly remember going to the library as soon as summer vacation started to sign up for the Summer Reading Programme. My mother and I would go every week to collect books from the library. I was allowed to take out seven at a time, which I thought was heaps and I dutifully raced through them all each week. The idea of the programme was to log each book you read, and if you reached the goal, at the end you would get a goody pack with a free book based on your reading history, bookmarks, and other random items.

I think about this each summer, and really wish there was a reading programme for those over the age of ten...Can you imagine!? I doubt I'd be racing through seven books a week at this stage, but still, the idea of that voracious reading you do as a child is a pleasant memory. I used to find all sorts of ways to keep reading (usually involving a torch after lights out...), and can remember being sprawled in the most unladylike fashions in chairs, eating ice cream with a nose in my book.

And do you know, I remember all those books - those summertime reads that kept me company as the July rains rolled in across the mountains. I will never forget reading Little Women for the first time and wanting to be just like Jo; or being really chuffed I suffered through The Count of Monte Cristo, even though I doubt I understand half it; or re-reading the first three Harry Potter's (yes, there were only three at that time!), delighting in all things Hogwarts and wizardry. Falling in love with Tarzan of the Apes, and re-reading all of Enid Blyton's stories, wishing I too could go off on cycling holidays with ginger beer and tinned peaches...

So, sitting here, feeling rather hot and sticky in my attic room, with a stretch of free time ahead, and plenty of my old favourites sitting on the bookshelf, I think I shall enrol myself in my very own Summer Reading Programme. I'll be sure to try to sit in unladylike fashions and keep plenty of lemonade to hand (honestly, is there anything better?); I'll read both "trashy" and classic books with untethered glee, and make sure my torches have new batteries. In this rush and madness of the adult world, there are times when escaping with a book is just the ticket.

The Independent, and indeed many other newspapers, have recently released this year's summer reading list, but I shan't read any they suggest. a) Because access to new English books isn't exactly as easy as it used to be and b) they all sound rather odd.

 I would however, be interested to know what YOU are reading this summer. Happy reading!

Easter in Groningen

You may be thinking, "What? A post about Easter already? It's only Good Friday!" I know, I know, but so much has happened already! Yesterday, Groningen was host to a HUGE spectacle called The Passion. Every year on Witte Donderdag (Literally, White Thursday, or what is known as Maundy Thursday - the day before Good Friday, when the Last Supper was meant to have taken place...) this huge musical event is staged in a city in the Netherlands. This year, as luck would have, it was taking place about five minutes from my front door!

The stage set at the Vismarkt. Security tight too.

The Passion is put on by all the different Christian organisations within the Netherlands. It is national event. You might be thinking, how do they make "The Passion" into a musical event? At first it seems almost blasphemous - pop music intertwined with the story of Jesus' last days? However, it is done very well.

The story, set in modern times, was filmed in and around Groningen. What was so cleverly done about it was that while the singers sang in the clips on the big screens, the music was being played live on the massive stage in the Vismarkt. There were also live performances on stage. Famous Dutch singers (Jesus being played by Jan from 3JS, no less!) were singing popular Dutch songs that even I knew. Songs that are regularly played on the radio.

Setting up the big screen in the Grote Markt

There was also a enormous white cross that was carried from the Oosterport, through the Grote Markt (where I was), to the Vismarkt. The local news company had a team of reporters in amongst the crowd and walking along with the cross interviewing people. A reporter stopped two ladies at one point asking about why they had come, if they were enjoying it, etc. They were mother and daughter; the daughter said she didn't believe, but wanted to come along to see what it was all about with her mother, who did believe. To learn why it was important to her mother. I thought that was splendid.

Last night it poured with rain (even with a brolly I became quite damp), and yet the paper reported this morning that 20,000 people attended The Passion, with 12,000 people alone in the Vismarkt. (De Telegraaf said it was a "sea of umbrellas", which I think is quite apt). While it was certainly a religious event, it didn't feel overly so to me. It actually felt more like a summer concert. There were all sorts of people there, of all ages. The atmosphere was lively, people sang along, and everyone just enjoyed it. It was a positive vibe, very moving if you allowed yourself to become wrapped up in the spectacle, and overall a wonderful experience. 

Right at the end it stopped raining. Grote Markt screening

I don't know why I'm so astonished. I suppose, 20,000 people out in the rain (and according to another newspaper, 3.2 million people watching at home) is something you don't see every day. I am so pleased I was able to go and see it for myself. What an experience!

Afterwards, as I followed the crowds away from the Markt, I walked past the Martinikerk and wandered in. Churches are fantastic for just wandering in - art galleries too. There was a sort of an "after event" with free tea and coffee, stalls with information about programmes going on in Groningen, volunteer programmes, and even a quiet room with an organ playing. You could light a candle there. It was very lovely. Along the back wall of the church was art work to do with the Crucifixion, which was interesting. All in all, a most pleasant evening. 

Today, we seem to be playing host to bus loads of Germans. (Along the canal by my house, there were eight buses...I am not entirely sure why they've all come.) [Don't mention the war!] It was rather odd when walking into town to see cafes advertising 'Kaffee und kuchen'. The parking garage even had a German flag on a sign that said "German parking" ... I suppose, being near the border, Groningen is a holiday destination?

The gorgeous Martinikerk

Well, anyway, I was heading to the Martinikerk to enjoy a spot of singing for Good Friday. Even though the entrance was free, I ought to have picked up a ticket beforehand. I explained to the lady manning the door that I didn't have a ticket (in my best Dutch). She said something back and I looked at her blankly before asking politely if she wouldn't mind repeating herself. She said, "Oh, sorry, I thought you were German."

Now, I know I've got a funny accent, but really. I've been called many things, but German is not one of them. I didn't mind in the least, but was instead doing my best not to laugh. She asked if I was alone and was I here to listen to the music? Yes on both accounts. She shoved me inside without further ado. So, blagged my way out of that one!

It was a lovely, peaceful concert. The inside of the Martinikerk is beautiful. Simple, yet elegant. Hearing the organ going at full tilt was spectacular as well. What a wonderful start to the Easter weekend! The rain from yesterday is gone, leaving Groningen looking bright and clean. I hope it is just as lovely where you are. Happy Easter!

(If you would like to see the enormity of the crowds and hear some of the songs, have a look here).

IKEA: Sweden's Most Dangerous Export

IKEA is fairly familiar to us all. A beacon of blue and yellow on the edges of retail parks that draws in the Saturday crowds. Low price, ready to assemble furniture that is stylishly simple - what's not to like? Would you believe IKEA was founded by Swedish Ingvar Kamprad at 17 years old in 1943? Remarkable.

The owners of where I'm currently living are enamoured with IKEA, as everything in the house from bathroom to kitchen to bedroom is from there. Not to upset the theme I decided to go have a look. I needed a chair and possibly a stool as well. Nothing grand, nothing expensive, just functional. Easy, right?

The Groningen IKEA is only about twenty minutes walking from where I live, so on this sunny Saturday, I decided to go out in search of chairs and stools. I've been to IKEA in Sweden once before and was very impressed (and overwhelmed), but only just to have a look. It is quite a different thing when you're actually in search of something.

The layout of IKEAs are in a long, rambling sort of one way path (what I like to think of as "The Long Wander" but the Swedes call "The Long Natural Way"). You can dump your kids at the Småland play area and then continue up to show floor. It begins with simple examples of how your living room could look, with chic sofas and throw pillows. As you wander further in, it moves to kitchens, bathrooms, offices, bedrooms and so on...each section full of show models. You begin to think, this would be perfect for my house! at every step.

And here is where it becomes Dangerous. No, no I didn't get lost (they provide maps as you go - brilliant!). I went in for a chair and stool as previously mentioned, and I left, almost two hours later, having completely designed in my mind my future house for my future family with three kids, a dog and two cats. Yep, from the bedding and curtains to the wood floor, chandeliers, kitchen counter tops...even the garden furniture...the perfect desk and filing system, the best bedroom set, the towels and hangers...

It was the most splendid fun. I did finally get out alive with my chair and stool. It's all "self serve" - you must jot down the item number on a piece of IKEA paper with an IKEA pencil (provided every few metres for your convenience) and then go to the long rows of ceiling high shelves at the end of the Long Wander to find your bit of furniture. It's less of a retail store and more a long sequence of showrooms. There is even a restaurant where you can recoup after the showroom extravaganza, and a food hall where you can buy Swedish meatballs and Lingonberry jam. 

The stool is only slightly wobbly...

The fun doesn't stop there, however. I trudged home with the bits of furniture under my arms (only garnering a few strange looks), clambered up the Stairs of Death, and arrived breathless and perspiring from the spring sun and exertion. But before I could congratulate myself on my new purchases, I had to put the ruddy things together...the prices are low for a reason - you've got to do all the work! Armed with only a Swiss Army knife I realised I was going to need some help. I knocked up number 14 and asked the cute boys there if I could borrow a screwdriver and wrench. 

Thus armed with tools, I began Stage Two of the IKEA adventure. I am currently sprawled on my IKEA sofa, admiring my handiwork. The stool wobbles only slightly and the chair is stable enough. Feeling rather exhausted, I'm resolved not to move unless absolutely necessary. The rest of my planning for the future IKEA infused house will have to wait...

Boekenweek: A week of literary abandon in Nederland

Anyone who knows me realises I love books. I even put off using a Kindle until recently. I couldn't bear the thought of not having a book with real pages. It was rather pig headed of me, I realise, since an ebook (like Kindles and such) are really just the MP3 players of the book world. And being an avid traveller makes it ideal. (There, I've said it...)

I was concerned about not having access to enough books in English when I moved to the Netherlands. I couldn't just nip down to Oxfam to find a book on the cheap whenever the mood struck. Then I thought perhaps libraries might be the answer, as people in the Netherlands are incredibly bilingual and put the rest of us to shame. But one must join a library for a fee here, so that was temporarily put on hold too. And in the bookshops I noticed the English books are terribly overpriced (import tax?). At least I wasn't spending a fortune on books. I began to fear my literary life here in the Netherlands was going to be rather dull.

However, I've since been busy with a Dutch course and someone rather sensible (my mother, most likely) pointed out that reading helps with many aspects of learning a language. I'd been making headway with children's books, which is all well and good, but I would prefer to sink my teeth in to something. So, it was with determination last week that I went down to the bookshop.

March 8-16 was Boekenweek (Bookweek) here in the Netherlands. There are other places that have such events, but I must say I was quite impressed. The whole country seemed to get behind it: there were literary programs on television, interviews with Dutch authors, author visits/talks at bookshops, as well as events in libraries and schools. Best of all: if you spent 12.50 Euros on a book, you got a novella for free. (Which, in the Netherlands, is pretty incredible. Nothing is ever for free here.) And before you think, "oh, if it's free it's probably rubbish," - No! In fact, the novella this year was by a popular Dutch author, Tommy Wieringa (even I knew his name) and I've been plodding along and enjoying it immensely. Finally! I can sink my teeth into a real grown up book: in Dutch! And I don't feel nearly as intimidated because it is a novella. I only have to despair for 150 pages....

The bookshops were having a field day!

However, the loveliness doesn't stop there. I went to the bookshop and bought a nice copy of a classic young adult book in Dutch called Oorlogswinter about World War II here in the Netherlands; I got a free book because of this purchase; and inside that free book, was a bookmark which allowed me to travel for FREE anywhere in the Netherlands by train on Sunday, the last day of Boekenweek.

Incredible.

The shops were doing a roaring trade and even young people (who I perhaps unfairly tarnish with the same brush of being glued to their iPhones) were reading in the trains and on benches in parks. There was truly a buzz whipping across the nation. It was a wonderful sight to see on Sunday in the train home: at least 80 percent of the carriage held up the novella and bookmark. We caught each other's eyes and smiled, like we were part of some elite group. Discussions were breaking out all over the place about the novella, how far are you, what do you think of it? and so on.

I have now revised my opinion of my literary journey here in the Netherlands. I clearly underestimated the Dutch on this point. I'm off to plod through another chapter of my FREE novella, Een Mooie Jonge Vrouw. Let's hope I get my verb conjugations right...

To see more about Boekenweek, click here.

Cinematic Lamentations

Though not one to dwell on negativity, I am feeling a bit put out. The beginning of 2014 has seen a significant rise in "decent" films and cinematic endeavours, and here I am, in the middle of the North Sea, with no access to any of it! And not just film, no indeed: television has decided to produce some wonderful series, and the West End is awash in Shakespeare. Typical.

I can't really complain, as I'm having a jolly adventure here...but film has always been an avid interest of mine, and when the line up came out for "What to expect in 2014", well, I could hardly believe my eyes. We've seen some great things come out of cinema the last few years, and television as well, but never have I seen such an incredible list for the first few months of a year.
(If film isn't really your thing, please feel free to skip ahead. But...I would implore you to read on - you might find something of interest!)

A section of the line up:

JANUARY

The Best Offer - starring Geoffrey Rush; the story is about an antiques dealer (Rush) who becomes obsessed with an heiress who has asked him to evaluate some rare paintings she owns. The trailer looks very mysterious, and has an array of familiar faces.

The Railway Man - Colin Firth stars in this true story of a victim of the WWII "Death Railway" in Burma. It will likely be compared to Bridge Over the River Kwai, but in my opinion it stands apart. The main character is faced with a chance to meet his Japanese torturer, so while very much a historical drama, this will no doubt be a captivating story. A three tissue film, I should think.

Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit - based on the character in Tom Clancy novels, starring Chris Pine. (Not sure I can see him as anything but Captain Kirk now...). I don't think this particular film is based on a Clancy book, unlike the Harrison Ford films. Pine will be the fourth actor to play Jack Ryan, following Alec Baldwin, Harrison Ford, and Ben Affleck. I'm interested in this film, because 1) I do love a good action flick, 2) it's about spies and hankers back to the Cold War, and 3) surprisingly enough, it's directed by Kenneth Branagh. Yes... I'm curious! (Plus it has Kevin Costner alongside Pine!)

Inside Llewyn Davies - about a young folk singer in 1960s Greenwich Village, New York, that echoes strongly of Dylan. It's directed by Joel and Ethan Coen, with an incredible soundtrack, and a stellar cast. I go rather weak at the knees at the music - Marcus Mumford, Dave Van Ronk, Chris Thile, and Oscar Issac (Davies) who gives them all a run for their money. I'm sceptical because I'm not usually a fan of the Coen brothers...however, the music is drawing me in, and I will certainly see it.

And the television channel, Sky Atlantic, is releasing the mini-series, Fleming, at the end of the month. About Bond's creator, Ian Fleming, obviously. Dominic Cooper stars amongst a brilliant cast, and I'm hopeful! Television has been looking good so far this month! We've seen the return of Nordic Noir delight, The Bridge, as well as Call the Midwife, and The Bletchley Circle.

FEBRUARY

(This is the month where things really begin to heat up!)

The Invisible Woman - Ah, the wonderfully talented and silk voiced, Ralph Finnes (pronounced the old fashioned way, "Rafe," by the way). Not only is the clever man directing, he is starring as Charles Dickens. I go all a-flutter when I see the trailer as it looks beautiful. Creatively shot, interesting story line (Dickens had a secret young mistress apparently, the scoundrel), and lovely costumes. Cannot wait!

Winter's Tale - this film, starring Colin Farrell and Russell Crowe is being released in the US on Valentine's Day, which leads me to believe it will be rather soppy. But then again, who doesn't love a bit of romance and fairy tale? It also stars the ill-fated Sybil from Downton Abbey (Jessica Brown-Findlay). The trailer itself is somewhat confusing - it's set in a mythical New York, and a burglar falls in love with a young lady who is dying. I think. Anyway, I am intrigued. It's based on a book by Mark Helprin.

The Monuments Men - First off, they filmed part of this near Cambridge, England! It was in the papers and everything: "Matt Damon and George Clooney come to Cambridge" - (only slightly less exciting than when the Duke and Duchess visited...). It's about a group of men (true story, by the way) who have been tasked with saving Europe's art from the Nazi's and returning them to their rightful place. Art, WWII, great cast - I'm already sold.  

MARCH

The Grand Budapest Hotel - This is the one I'm waiting for. I think it will be even better than Wes Andersen's last, and it has a most amazing cast. With, guess who - (yes, You-Know-Who!) - Ralph Finnes, as the lead. He really has been a busy bee. This film looks amazing on so many points - cast, obviously; hilarity and great one liners; beautifully shot; and the ever intriguing characters Wes Andersen is truly brilliant at creating.

Some other films that are coming out this year that look interesting are, Osage County (Oscar nomination for Meryl Streep, surely); Labor Day (Kate Winslet being her usual talented self, though stuck in another mother role); Grace of Monaco (Nicole Kidman in the starring role);
And the one I am most impatient for (they haven't even given us a release date!?) is The Imitation Game - starring Benedict Cumberbatch as Alan Turing. All about Bletchley Park and the WWII codebreakers, with Turning at its head. Not only historically fascinating, but it has the lovely Benedict looking dishy in braces (suspenders), and riding a bicycle in a rather fetching grey suit.

So, as you can see - a tremendous line up, and that's only the first three months of the year! Of course, the films might be horrible, but I somewhat doubt it. I'm chafing at the bit because my old independent cinema in Cambridge is having special events and themed nights galore to celebrate all this wonderful art.

For me, going to the cinema is nothing to do with popcorn or best mates or a night out; no, for me it is about celebrating an artform where it was intended. Bring down the lights, turn up the sound, roll the projector - bliss. Go when it is quiet and cheaper (afternoons or Monday evenings); go to your local, independent cinemas (they usually serve beer, always a plus); support cinema and film - don't just settle for downloading; on the big screen is where film comes to life after all.

On Being a Fangirl

The Oxford English dictionary describes "fangirl" as a female fan, especially one who is obsessive about comics, film, music, or science fiction. Urban dictionary suggests that it is a derogatory term, and I believe it is often used that way. Usually towards fifteen year olds "obsessed" with Doctor Who or who stand about for hours for a glimpse of One Direction.

It would not be often said of me that I am a fangirl. Certainly not the screaming, hand flapping, typing all in capitals, and/or fainting type. I think I am, in fact, a closet fangirl. I don't jump about madly, but I just get silly grins on my face and go all wobbly inside. A stealth fangirl, if you will. 

I have had the great fortune to meet lots of my favourite musicians, authors, and actors. Please do not think the next few paragraphs are name dropping; I am merely trying to illustrate my point. 

For example, growing up around the American bluegrass and folk scene in the mountains of Colorado, I met and chatted with many folk musicians. I think this is where my love of music came from - sitting on a hillside and hearing music, and getting to chat with the band afterwards. They were such normal, lovely people, and eager to discuss songwriting or their particular love of the banjo. The group Eddie from Ohio I met many times, and were particularly inspiring in the songwriting category; Tim O'Brien, a fantastic and highly talented musician, showed us how simple is sometimes best; and The Waifs, an Aussie trio who were a prime example of how music is just so darn fun. 

The list goes on, but it was meeting and listening to musicians like these that shaped my own musical endeavours, for which I shall always be grateful. Getting to meet your icons is definitely cause for fangirl moments. I did, for instance, nearly stop breathing when I met Joan Baez. Who wouldn't!?

While living in England I was able to indulge in my fangirlish-ness to a surprisingly terrific degree. Everything is so accessible. I visited National Trust properties that served as backgrounds and sets for films (Mr Darcy not included in the tour unfortunately). Wilton House near Salisbury where Pride and Prejudice and The Young Victoria were filmed; Castle Howard in Yorkshire where Brideshead Revisited was filmed; the town of Hastings where they filmed Foyle's War; and so on and so on... (I had nearly four years after all!) 

Most of my favourite authors are from last century, so it is a point of visiting where they lived. Most of the time there isn't a whole heap to see, but just outside of Nottingham I was able to visit the birthplace of author, D.H Lawrence. I think I was the only visitor all week, so the old lady there gave me a personalised tour. We had the most splendid time talking about the author. It gave such great insight to see where the author grew up - how it inspired his stories and his characters.
(You too can visit places of literary connection: visit the National Trust website).

So while most of my favourite authors aren't in the land of the living, I did have the great opportunity to meet two prominent staples of Television at book signings: Stephen Fry and Sir David Attenborough. Most certainly fangirl moments meeting such legends! Mr Fry was a delight, and is enormous in person. The telly doesn't prepare one for his height. I don't know how I kept my head while Sir David chatted with me. He was such a lovely man, and I walked away that day feeling much taller. 

Actors in Britain are also accessible (this sounds slightly stalkerish, but I assure you it isn't). Many return to the stage, so popping down to London to take in a play very easily places you in their vicinity. I once sat in the front row at The Apollo Theatre (the one in which the roof fell in last month) seeing David Suchet perform in an incredible production. I've seen so many great actors on the stage - what I love about it is that I get to see another side of their acting ability. Film is one thing; stage is quite another.

I think people would hate watching British television shows with me because I find myself constantly recognising people and thinking, "oh yes, I've seen them in such and such play!"... While working in a bookshop, I did in fact serve Brendan Coyle, the delectable Mr Bates from Downton Abbey, who was charm itself. My face went very red and stayed like that for about an hour afterwards...I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest. Worse part was, NO ONE knew who he was. (This was when Downton had only just begun, but still!).

And herein lies the problem with my fangirl tendencies: no one knows who the hell I'm on about! For years my friends wrote it off to, "Who - another old British dude you like?" 

In the "old days" I think people took out magazine subscriptions to things which turned them into screaming fans. Thank goodness for the Internet! Now we can join plenty of others who appreciate splendid, enigmatic acting; those of us who have slight (or not so slight) obsessions with all things Nordic; and can chat about our favourite books or upcoming films. I can go on and on about how Michael Kitchen is brilliant, or why Benedict Cumberbatch and Alan Rickman are by far the best British baddies in the history of American cinema, and there are whole groups of people that agree with me! (Very nice, for a change!) 

Through forums, Facebook appreciation pages, blogs (ahem), fanfiction, conventions, and more, we can express our enthusiasm for things we are interested in and passionate about. We can learn so much from channelling this enthusiasm. For me, visiting the places my favourite authors wrote about gives me such a better idea of the stories; getting that background became part of the reading experience. Or brushing up on some history to better understand a new film - the list is endless of how our interests can broaden our horizons . Equally, being able to meet people you've seen on telly, or admire musically is a terrific (if not slightly terrifying) thing. It brings it all that much closer.

Enjoy your passions. Indulge yourself. The things we are passionate about are important, and should be explored and shared. I know I always will ... (whether you really want to hear about them or not!)

Nordic Noir and Swooning over Sweden

"Nordic Noir" is not my term, but rather has been coined to encompass Scandinavian crime fiction and crime dramas. There is quite a following for all things Scandinavian (guilty party, right here!) and the guys over at Nordic Noir do a wonderful job bringing it closer to those of us outside Scandinavia. And who doesn't like a bit of gritty detective drama to keep you cosy on a wintery night?

I first experienced the wonder that is "Nordic Noir" after Stieg Larsson's Millennium Trilogy was published in English. I had actually just been in Sweden visiting a good friend and she mentioned it. Had I heard of the book about "men who hate women"? Naturally I hadn't, because (typical!) the Swedish title, Män som hatar kvinnor (literally, Men who hate women) had been changed to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Can I just take a moment to interject just how much I love Sweden? I do, I really love the place. First, however, let me say the only negative things I have ever thought about it are a) asking 65 Kroner (about £6) for 568millileters of beer is really rather a cheek; b) the sun setting at 3pm, after only have risen at 9am in wintertime is just cruel; and finally c) it's bloody freezing come September until about May. 

So, I make a point only ever to go in July or August when the weather is perfect, the sun never sets, the fields are in bloom, and the men all walk about in nice trousers and boat shoes. In fact all the young men are strikingly gorgeous, looking as if they've just walked off a photoshoot for Björn Borg, and drive about in Volvos with their beautiful, blond girlfriends. Of course they are never single - that would be too easy...

I think this is why I love Sweden: it actually fits its sterotypes to a tee. And they are all delighful! Every house you walk into (likely painted red with white trimming) is like an Ikea showroom - classy, understated, and modern. The streets are clean, the buildings well maintained, the hospitals are to die for (erm...sorry...great health care is what I mean to say...), everyone under the age of 30 speaks perfect, accentless English, and the modern trains have better wifi than most homes.

The Swedes are crazy about ice cream and therefore it can found everywhere (how is this not amazing!?); actually, all their food is yummy; everyone could be models for H&M; over half the population either has a boat or a summer cabin - plumbing optional; lots of nature and water; families regularly jump into lakes naked; beer can be bought for 80pence per can in a government run liquor store (begging the question, why do bars even exist?), and public transport is so effortless. It is a beautiful country, with interesting history, fantastic people, and the style of living is enviable.

I could go on about Sweden for ever, and while this is all overgeneralising, my point is: how can a culture so full and bright produce such dark and, frankly, shocking crime fiction? And this isn't just Sweden - neighbouring countries of Norway and Denmark, with similar cultures, produce equally chilling stuff. Some may even call these stories disturbing. It is incredible to say the least. Some things that have come out of Scandinavia in the past twenty years are shocking good reads. The Millennium Trilogy, Henning Mankell's Wallander, Jo Nesbo's books - the list goes on an on. This is before we get to films and television series.

So, for me it began with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I stood reading it voraciously, elbow to elbow in a packed train at the end of summer travelling from Bristol to London. It was the beginning of the end. From there it was on to the Wallander series, then The Killing (Forbrydelsen), then Arne Dahl, Borgen, and The Bridge (Bron). I was even lucky to see Krister Henriksson, who plays Wallander in the Swedish series, in London at an event put on by Nordic Noir.

And many of these tv series have been remade in the English language. Normally this annoys me more than anything - why can't people just read subtitles, honestly? Why must Hollywood get their grubby fingers on it, or even the BBC? However, after some thought, I realised people loved the genre so much, they just had to give it a go themselves.

Wallander was remade with the lovely Kenneth Brannaugh, playing Police Inspector Kurt Wallander solving all sorts of insane crimes - filmed entirely in Ystad, Sweden. It was good... Then the Yanks played merry hell with Denmark's, The Killing (that one I boycotted, as you can't really out-do Sofie Gråbøl). This story follows a Copenhagen detective solving a complex, twenty episode, abduction and murder case. Incredible captivating and horribly gritty. And Sarah Lund's jumper is wonderful.

Hollywood also remade The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - shooting on location in Sweden did help, as did the number of Swedish actors, but it actually felt like Daniel Craig was playing his character of Bond. If Bond had given up spying and become a chain smoking journalist...The original Swedish version of the film was terrifyingly well done, so Hollywood didn't stand much chance.

Then Americans remade The Bridge, in 2013. This time, instead of Malmö/Copenhagen, it was set between the US/Mexican border.  It was filled with cowboys, and pitiful shots of Juarez, and shock, horror - subtitles for about five minutes per show. It was like they were filling a quota...Awful. I gave up.

And then, would you believe, the Brits got hold of the idea, deciding to remake it, set between France and Britain on the Eurotunnel, renaming it The Tunnel (...aren't they clever...). This one, so far, I've actually been impressed with. It feels appropriately depressing...

I've just realised I've gone on quite a bit about this. The thing is, Scandinavian crime is in a league of its own - full of dark, gritty, often horrible stories. Yet the acting is understated, the filming superb and suitably bleak, and scripts often complex. The worst things in human nature usually pop up. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo alone has all of humankind's depravity: murder, serial killers, rape, Anti-Semitism, torture, incest...yes, I know, sounds charming - but believe me, it's a bloody good read.

Why is all this gritty crime so compelling then? I'm not sure I know the answer, but what I can suggest is that you take a look as soon as you can. Get on to Netflix or down to your local bookstore immediately. You'll never look at crime drama the same again. And also go to Sweden if you haven't done so already. Even if you have been, go again. It's wonderful!

Healing Qualities of Music

Why I am consistently amazed at how freeing music can be, I'll never know. Each time it happens, I always think: "Yes, this is what life is about!" And then I promptly forget it until the next time...So, now I'm making sure to write it down.
You see, the thing is, we allow everyday life to barge in and grip us by the throats. It gives us a shake and says, "Don't you know this is reality!? Come on now!" And there we are, trembling at the horror of it, forgetting all the things that make us happy and carefree.

It has been a busy few months here; hectic, sometimes unfulfilling, and often frustrating. So, it was with great joy that I went to see a tribute band play last night - time to let my hair down and indulge in some music. That they are tribute band to The Band and Bob Dylan's music, well, indulgence on a platter, really.

Over the last month I've been so focused on other things (namely trying to settle in a new country...oddly preoccupying) that I've rarely picked up the guitar; though sacrilege in itself, I've also hardly listened to music. It has only been when I'm speeding in trains hither and thither that I've been able to put on my headphones and listen. This last week, over the Christmas period, I discovered loads of great music through Amazon's free music deals. It was such a joy to just sit and listen to new music.

That being said, listening to old favourites is equally soothing. On my most recent foray, I put on what I like to call my "travel songs" - a sort of justification for the life of wanderlust I lead. Two of these are "Into the West," and "Brother Wind" by Tim O'Brien. I met him many years ago at a Folk Festival; a pleasant fellow and such a talented musician. I've devoured all his music since. Anyway, I sat there in the train with a silly grin on my face because I knew, that once again, I was doing what I was meant to do. I have listened to these songs on so many occasions when I was unsure of my decision to "take to the wind" as it were, and each time it has worked out. Nice to be reminded.

As I stood listening last night to The Band's songs being breathed into new life by the tribute band, with me singing along to my favourites, I finally felt reinvigorated. The same shocking feeling as previous times of "Golly, this is the life!" passed through me.  Maybe I don't get out to concerts enough...Anyway, my point is that music is something I desperately enjoy - both the playing and listening of it. It is always such fun to watch a live band, to see how they play, to feel their energy, and to hopefully take a part of that joy of music home with you.

I think part of it is that music has a certain healing quality. It puts things in perspective. Cans things be so monstrous if good music can still be played? It brings all types of hope: can I learn that riff and better my own guitar playing? Beautiful lyrics that whisper of shared experiences; moving melodies that speak their own language that needs no translation.

The ironic thing is that music is part of our everyday lives: we hear it in the car, on advertisements on television, radios at supermarkets, some youth's blaring headphones, damaging their hearing before they even know how to listen, elevators - truly everywhere. And yet, I think it is only when we participate actively with it - that is to say, becoming involved in the music by listening and allowing it to change you in some way, be it mood or whatever, can we really appreciate it.

So, let your troubles slip away - take ten minutes (about two and a half songs!) to listen - I mean really listen to some music, whatever strikes your fancy - and see where it takes you.

My Top Three Films of 2013

Cinemas, theatres, concerts, art galleries, and so on, are all great places to escape from the world a bit. Visiting these places were regular occurrences for me when I was living in Cambridge, England. To lose oneself in a painting or within the depths of music is almost a sort of preservation method. Being able to get away "from it all" and turn the mind to something else besides the drudgery of the everyday is something I both need and relish. To celebrate art in all its wonderous forms is a lovely thing.

For me, the cinema is almost a weakness - much like bookshops. I can hardly pass one without going in. When I travel I usually make a point of checking what films are playing, as foreign cinemas can be quite fun! (Especially when you realise only too late that the entire film has been dubbed...thank you, Germany...). With a cinema, I prefer the small, independent types that are usually cosy and slightly funky. 

Now, here are some of the films that I saw in 2013; I hope you will indulge me by reading on - you never know, there might be something for you! Here are my top three:

Jagten (The Hunt): I will admit I am somewhat obsessed by all things Scandinavian...However this Danish film is incredibly well done. It left me thinking back to it for weeks. The acting was superb and Mads Mikkelsen did a great job in this difficult story. It isn't an easy film (and not because of the subtitles), but the subject matter. Mikkelsen plays a teacher, Lucas, who is accused of indecent actions in a kindergarten. The child who told the lie (yes, the audience knows the entire time that it isn't true, which makes it all the more painful to watch his journey), is the daughter of Lucas' best friend. In a small community, the rumours and mistrust spread like wildfire, and Lucas' life begins to spiral out of control. The film is riveting; true to Danish filming style, the landscape is bleak, and scenes understated. Aficionados of Scandinavian films/tv series will recogonise a few faces.
(I did actually see this in Dec 2012, but it was released in most of the world in 2013...)

The Great Gatsby: I would categorise this as the most surprising film of the year. I went in to it with a "well, we'll see..." feeling, since I loved the book and the first film with Robert Redford (Redford in a cream suit...what's not to like!?). Typical of director Baz Luhrmann, the film had been spiced up with modern music, and in the trailer it looked as if all the debauchery in 1920s New York was being let loose at Gatsby's party. (Which it probably was...) So, I was nervous to say the least. It could be good, or it could be a mistake. For me, it came somewhere in the middle - neither brilliant, nor a mistake, just somewhere happily in between. The casting, I think, was inspired - Leonardo DiCaprio did a wonderful job as Gatsby, and Carey Mulligan played Daisy, Gatsby's former lover, very well indeed. The film is beautifully shot, but the costumes rather hit you over the head, screaming, "This is the 1920s!" Still, beautiful clothes, and anyway, I'm a sucker for well dressed men and jauntily set hats...The modern music somehow worked, and I left the cinema feeling relieved - it hadn't been ruined, merely reinterpreted in a pleasing way. (Unlike the catastrophe that is The Hobbit...)

And finally, perhaps the best for last:

The Book Thief: I saw this film on a cold evening in Washington DC in a lovely little cinema on E Street. I had just come from the Holocaust Museum, making this film all the more poignant. I had read the book years and years ago - the style is odd, and the story dances along an unusual time line, but I flew through it, enjoying it very much. So, as always with books that have been made in to films, I was slightly apprehensive.
With a great cast, the story follows a young German girl called Liesel (the book thief), just before the Second World war, and through the wars years. The story is narrated by the lovely deep timbre voice of Roger Allam - the narrator is in fact Death, which is such a unique perspective. Geoffrey Rush is wonderful as Papa, but the two children who play Liesel and her best friend, Rudy, by far stole the show. They will be ones to watch out for in the future of film-making! What struck me most in both the book and the film is how reading and writing are so important for Liesel, and how she uses this as a weapon. It's as if reading allows her to hold on to humanity. She learns the power of words from Max, the Jewish man they have hiding in the basement. The story is a tear jerker and leaves you thinking - this film really shows the humanity of people... and how it shines through in times of dire inhumanity.

So, these are my top three for 2013 - they are closely followed by Django Unchained (Tarantino doing what he does best!), Star Trek: Into Darkness (Benedict Cumberbatch is a villain with the loveliest voice since Alan Rickman in Die Hard); also Summer in February, mainly for Dan Stevens wearing lots of woolly jumpers and it being about Cornwall's school of painters. And 2013 isn't over yet - I still have more films to see that have come out recently!

I'd certainly recommend these however, and encourage you to see them. If you have seen them, I would be interested to hear your take on them!

Poirot's Curtain Call

The genre of police detectives and murder mysteries is one of the most popular in books, television shows, plays, films, and even games. Perhaps of all time. It is likely that I will dive into this area a few times, as I'm mildly obsessed with the crime genre. (Who doesn't like a good murder mystery?) Today, however, I want to talk about Agatha Christie's famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot.

Christie once said this about Poirot, "Why, why, why did I ever invent this detestable, bombastic, tiresome little creature?" After about a decade of writing Poirot stories, she tired of him, and much like Conan Doyle and his Sherlock, wanted to kill him off ages before the clamouring public would ever allow. During the Second World War, she wrote Curtain, Poirot's final case and popped it into a bank vault to be published when she could no longer write. (It was published in 1975).

We first meet Poirot in Christie's 1920 novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. From thenceforth, he appeared in 33 (!) novels and over 50 short stories. Agatha Christie was known as "The Queen of Crime." Many of her stories follow a similar motifs of posh people at dinners or weekend shooting parties (of which, Poirot is usually one), where someone dies of poisoning; then the Will is read out and reveals that the snobby son has been cut out...dun, dun, dun... But it works, you see! She is clever and interesting in her story telling. I have correctly guessed but a hand full of murderers in her stories (I've read nearly all of them), so she must be doing something right.

Old Cataract Hotel, Aswan

 I love the places she takes Poirot and her readers: not just Devon, London, or the English countryside, but the Middle East, France, and other parts of Europe. Again, I've had the great fortune to visit some of the places she writes about, which for me enhances both occasions - the reading of her story, and the visit to that place.

For example, earlier this year I was able to visit Egypt and had lunch in the very hotel Agatha Christie stayed in - The Cataract Hotel in Aswan (and where Poirot stays in the novel, Death on the Nile). My travel companion was good enough to indulge me, and we listened to David Suchet (the actor who plays Poirot) read this novel on audio book as we travelled up and down Egypt. Christie was mentioning places in the novel that we had just been to! As I say, it really made the story all the more exciting.

It was similar when on this same trip, we went to Petra in Jordan. Although, I have given The Orient Express a miss as it is far beyond any normal person's price range. I've been to where Christie spent much of her life in Torquay, Devon. There is a small museum there, and it was wonderful to see some of the first manuscripts. She was an incredible woman, a great traveller, and a prolific writer.

And now, to David Suchet, the brilliant actor who has portrayed the character of Poirot for over 24 years. He has performed every story that Poirot has ever appeared in, even the stage play, Black Coffee. Quite an impressive feat. He plays the character to perfection, having closely read the details Christie provides in her stories. 'The Radio Times' magazine has an article here, that may be of some interest. The precision Suchet brings to the character of Poirot is truly remarkable.

I was lucky enough to be in "Row A" at the Apollo in London and saw Suchet up close and personal in a wonderful performance. It is incredible that a man with such presence and deep timbre can transform himself into, "That funny, little Belgian," as many other characters in the Poirot stories describe the detective.

These are stories I read over and over again - partly to see where I went wrong in guessing "who-dunit" the first go round, but also because I love them. My favourites are Death on the Nile, Dead Man's Folly, and some of the early short stories with Captain Hastings and Inspector Japp. The most surprising of the collection that I've ever read is The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. One of those that leave you in frustrated disbelief long after...

Tonight is the very last television episode, ever, ever, of Poirot, and I'm very sad to see an end of an era. It has been a great achievement by Suchet and the writers of the television episodes. For me, my memories of reading Poirot mysteries (which I much prefer over Miss Marple, Christie's other long running character), are summer days reading one after the other in quick succession; of watching the television series, I remember curling up on cold nights and enjoying a "jolly good murder," and spotting actors before they were properly famous. I've been putting off watching the final episode this evening - I always hate goodbyes. Tissues at the ready, methinks, and a raised glass to "the little grey cells." Farewell, Monsieur Poirot...

On reading Hemingway

At the beginning of A Moveable Feast, Hemingway reassures himself,

"Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. 

All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."

This isn't the first time that I have found inspiration in Hemingway's words, nor will it be the last, but today this passage seemed to jump off the page and slap me around the head. As some of you know, I'm currently half way through my second novel, which is frightening and exhilarating all at once, and I took reassurance from these words.

I first read Ernest Hemingway, a much loved American author, when I was sixteen or seventeen. Reading A Farewell to Arms was no more than continuing that pretentious teenage thing of reading all the classic books you can, merely to say you've read them and to seem well read amongst your friends. The only good things about this annoying teenage habit is that a) you do actually become well read and b) you sometimes stumble across an author you will love. And so it was for me.

Hemingway has this wonderful succinct, clipped way of writing. Writing to the point, as one might think, speaking gloriously of drinking and far off places, and of women, love and sport. He was a man's man - brimming with machismo and physicality. Gun-wielding sportsman, fisherman, soldier, lover, traveller, heavy drinker - he lived fully. Machismo is something nowadays we mostly eschew; the dominating male is not something to necessarily be admired, but with him, I secretly love it. Much has been said about Hemingway, much has been studied, and many opinions have been shared, and they are all available on the Internet for you mull over later on.

After reading that first novel, I devoured his collections of short stories and very slowly began working my way through his other novels. Whenever I come to a story of Hemingway's, if I've read it before or not, I am always immensely pleased at how much I enjoy the sheer beauty of his writing. Often I stop reading and gaze into space, thinking about what I've just read. He does that - makes you think, which is why I love his stories. They are so...human. I find them so inspiring, and it usually isn't long before I've put pen to paper again myself, waxing lyrical with eagerness.

He writes about places that I've had the good fortune to have visited - bull rings and mountains in Spain, canals in Venice, the Boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris. But he also writes of places I dream about, such as Africa. I think my favourite story, if I were to pin one down and say, "Yes, definitely this is the one you must read if you can," would be The Sun Also Rises.

Whether writing about sport, love, the harsh reality of relationships of men and women, or death (in the afternoon or otherwise...), Hemingway draws his reader in, and he does it so brilliantly with dialogue! You begin to think about things more and wonder at the curious nature of it all.

I once became so involved in For Whom the Bell Tolls that at the end of it, when the outcome was so sad and frustrating, I went off in a huff for nearly an hour, grumbling I'd never read Ernest bloody Hemingway again. Poor Robert Jordan: after 500 pages, and then...well, the point is, Hemingway's writing makes one think, feel, and leaves one pensive.

The only other author that is positively irritating like that - you know, offing characters after a million pages of invested interest, is D.H. Lawrence, the other great literary love of my life. His writing too, is distinctly human - the thought process is so interesting, and seeing it written down in prose is wonderful. Moving an entire story along through this medium: brilliant.
James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ford Madox Ford too, in my opinion, all use this way of writing - it make me wiggle my shoulders in delight, snuggling deeper into my chair and switching the brain On. Interestingly enough, they were all in Paris at the same time during the early '20s and were mates.

In this latest novel that I was reading of Hemingway's, A Moveable Feast, he writes about his time in Paris with his first wife when he was 25, fairly successful as a journalist, but struggling as a writer of novels. What I particularly like, is firstly that I can relate, being the same age and filling pages; but secondly that he talks about these other writers and artists that he knew then. His descriptions of these men and women allow us a look at the other, more intimate side of our favourite authors. Rather like looking through a small window at what life might have been like for these people, this génération perdue. 

I could go on and on for ages ("Why, you already have!" I hear you say) about Hemingway and my favourite stories of his. I can't really express myself eloquently about how much I admire his writing, but I suspect what I really wish to share is how delightful rediscovering and reconnecting with a favourite author can be. If you get a chance to read Papa Hemingway, short story or novel, translated or in English, please, please do. I rather think he's got something for everyone...