Letters from Athens

The Worst Journey in the World

In yet another ineffectual effort to put some order into my bookshelf I came upon one of my favourite books of all time, The Worst Journey in the World, by Apsley Cherry-Garrard (1886 -1959).

This is an account of Robert Falcon Scott’s ill-fated expedition to discover the South Pole in 1911, written by the youngest member of the team, who was just 24 at the time. A memoir, in a completely immersive style, by someone who had never written a book before, nor wrote another in his entire life.

I came upon the book by chance many years ago, browsing in the wonderful Heffers bookshop in Cambridge. Just the cover of the hardback, the shape and heft and compact size of the wonderful Picador Travel Classics edition and I was sold. I bought the thing as an object, but then I started reading it and became hooked on the subject and, most unlikely for me, Polar exploration in general.

The old-fashioned, unreal feel of the whole organisation, the details and lists of supplies and packing, the endless debates of dogs versus ponies versus men hauling the sleds. Why would anyone want to put themselves through such an ordeal, but in fact, many did. They vied to get on the expedition crew. They felt it was heroic and, being British, even more heroic to combine the race to the South Pole with scientific projects such as geologising, which meant carrying about bags of rock samples, as well as going on a winter trip in the middle of the endless dark of the Antarctic winter (the Worst Journey in the title) in order to collect Emperor penguin eggs from their impossible to reach breeding grounds. Cherry was one of three men who went on that little pleasure trip, and it is a miracle how they survived, especially since their tent was blown away in a storm one night.

*Apsley Cherry-Garrard with frostbitten nose*

In fact it was a miracle any of them survived, because they had miscalculated the supplies and equipment needed. Scott and his team of four all died, from scurvy and cold and hunger, having faced the most bitter of disappointments. They had lost the race—finally arriving at their destination to find the Norwegian flag already planted there. Because of course, Roald Amundsen had no interest in penguins or rocks. He and his team were highly skilled on skis and used dogs to pull the sleds and got there in a ruthlessly efficient manner, five weeks before Scott. They also had a better diet of fresh meat and so did not suffer from scurvy.

Both Amundsen and, more importantly, Scott’s wife, learned of his death more than a year later, which in our era of instant communications, seems weirdly shocking.

There have been many books written on polar exploration, about the exploits of Amundsen and Shackleton and others. I have read quite a few and watched films, especially the 1985 seven-part series called The last place on Earth. I find it all quite fascinating, more so since it is something I would never dream of attempting myself. I think it amazing that still, especially now that there is nothing left to ‘discover’, there are people still doing it—such as Sir Rannulph Fiennes, who, amongst other expeditions, was the first person to visit both the North Pole and the South Pole by surface means and the first to completely cross Antartica on foot.

Be that as it may, the book is engrossing and will make you travel into a different world. What is particularly interesting is the minutiae of daily life and the relationships between the men facing such difficult conditions. Highly recommended.

More Easter Nonsense

In homage to Glen Baxter

Born in Leeds in 1944, Glen Baxter is an English draughtsman and artist, known for his absurdist drawings and a general ambience of literary nonsense.

I have always loved his insane and incongruous sense of humour and his old-fashioned drawing style, and own a few of his books.

Here is a sample, for those who have survived the excesses of the day and are in need of a laugh.

Should you enjoy this kind of thing, you can look him up on Instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/glenbaxterartist/

Happy Easter everyone!

This year, everyone celebrates Easter together.

Due to complicated calculations concerning the Vernal Equinox, the split between the Roman and Byzantine Empires and their different calendars and the division of the Christian Church into Orthodox and Catholic (look it up, people, I can’t be bothered to explain further) usually there are two Easters, one for each church. Sometimes, though, they coincide—and this year they do (the last time was in 2017).

Therefore I am in the happy position to wish you all a Happy Easter, wether you smash red eggs or wait for the Easter Bunny. Enjoy your lamb on the spit, your Hot Cross buns, your Easter Bonnet Parade (is that still a thing?), your egg hunts and your indigestion. Or anything else in your local or family traditions.

Rediscovering Barbara Pym

Does anyone remember Barbara Pym?

I’d read her books years ago while still at school. I wonder why, since I was at Greek school and she could hardly have been on the curriculum. Probably browsing my mother’s bookshelves, where I was allowed a free run. At the time it was difficult to find foreign books in Athens and she was member of a book club – cloth-bound volumes arrived by post every month or so: Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Ian Fleming, Neville Shute. I still have most of them. The thrill of it, the anticipation of receiving a new book, before the instant gratification of Amazon (I almost miss it—still prefer Amazon, though.)

But I digress. I recently came upon a BBC dramatisation of some of Pym’s books on Audible and downloaded it on impulse.

Barbara Pym wrote a series of social comedies in the 50s, but by the 70s her work was deemed too old-fashioned and was rejected by several publishers. Still, she kept writing, and forged a friendship with the poet Philip Larkin, who championed her work. When both he and the critic Lord David Cecil nominated her as the most underrated writer of the century, her career was revived. Her book Quartet in Autumn was nominated for the Booker Prize.

Pym was a shrewd observer of a certain type of English middle-class behaviour. Spinsters, bored housewives, academics and, in particular, vicars and curates, all came under her sharp and ironic scrutiny.

Of course I did not recall details of the books but I seemed to remember amusing and straightforward stories of village life and church goings-on. Via the dramatisation I am now discovering a narrative full of undertones, sexual innuendo and a delightful disregard for morality. Respectable wives go out to lunch with their friends’ husbands, spinsters plot to entrap men into marriage, older women meddle in everything. County housewives obsess over the new curate as they would today over the Kardashians. And all of it delivered in posh cut-glass accents you never hear any more because people are careful to disguise them even if they spent their childhood at Eton.

Probably this is not to everyone’s taste—I don’t think the young would appreciate it—and even for me there is no element of nostalgia, since it is set before my time. But it is an excellent production and I am deriving considerable amusement from listening in the car.

A Neapolitan journal

Thursday: Afternoon landing in Naples—a city with a prominent position on my bucket list because, what else, Pompéi (and pizza!) The taxi driver from the airport had us in stitches as, intent on having a conversation, he gesticulated so much his hands hardly touched the wheel! Twice he nearly went off into a side road, only to veer wildly at the last possible minute.

Our hotel on the waterfront had a view on the port, dominated by the majestic sight of the volcano. A busy port, with huge cruise ships moored next to ferries going to Sicily.

*The Bay of Naples with Vesuvius looming*

The afternoon was spent walking around the Piazza di Plebiscito in the historic center, bordered on one side by the huge, neo-classical Palazzo Réale and on the other by the Church of San Francesco di Paola, with its twin colonnades on either side.

Dinner in a traditional trattoria, where the owner’s husband and a friend regaled us with guitar playing and songs. Great food.

Friday: we treated ourselves to a guide, a great idea since Maria Luisa was enthusiastic and eloquent and answered all questions brilliantly. Pompéi was all I had expected—no, much more. I had not been prepared for the sheer size, the brilliant city planning, the length of the streets.

Stepping stones were laid down so that people could cross the streets when they were flooded without getting wet. They also had ‘cat’s eyes’ of white marble in certain places so they would shine by torch light and people would not lose their way in the dark. Naples was a city of rich merchants and the villas reflect their wealth and status.

The villas had courtyards and also, second floors which do not exist anymore—just the steps leading up to them.

How many artists must have lived in this city, for houses to be decorated in such a manner? Breathtaking frescoes everywhere.

The Bathhouse, below, with its original roof intact. It was a proper spa, with baths of different temperatures, fountains and a changing room.

Of course there was a theatre, a stadium and a forum.

Afternoon walk around town, where narrow, crowded streets often lead you to an elegant piazza.

The city is noisy and dirty but vibrant and buzzing with life. Walking in one of the crowded streets a few drops of rain started falling and immediately people materialised out of nowhere, selling umbrellas!

Saturday: We drove up the Vomero hill to the Certosa di San Marino, a former monastery which is now a museum. There was a stunning view over the city, with its ochre and yellow and terracotta colours.

Although the artefacts in the museum were interesting, the biggest attraction was the great cloister, with its wonderful mature camellia trees in bloom. A magical place, where we had the supreme luck of being alone for some minutes.

In the afternoon we visited Naples Underground: under the lively historic center there is an extensive network of streets and squares that partly was built by the Romans and Greeks and carved out of the tuff. It is a labyrinth of passages, water tanks and tunnels, almost a replica of the city above. These were used by people taking refuge from earthquakes and the war. After the second war people lived down there for years, since the city above had been destroyed by bombs and they were homeless.

We emerged to walk about the streets again. And I must not forget to mention the memorable meals. Pizza, of course, since Naples is its birthplace, but also delicious pasta and fish and greens of every kind.

Sunday: Before catching our flight we tried to visit the Museum of Capodimonte, but sadly it proved impossible since, on the first Sunday of every month museums are free and there was a huge line. However, the museum has a lovely park with a café in which we enjoyed a coffee in the sunshine. It was also the last week of Carnival, so the waterfront was closed to traffic and teeming with people out with their families, children dressed up in multicoloured costumes.

All in all, a memorable few days.

In praise of Penelope Fitzgerald

My days, darkened by the quasi-permanent absence of sunlight, were unexpectedly lit up by the discovery I had somehow missed reading a couple of Penelope Fitzgerald’s books, although she has long been one of my favourite writers.

Penelope Fitzgerald died in 2000 aged 83. In 2008 The Times listed her among “the 50 greatest British writers since 1945”. The Observer in 2012 placed her final novel, The Blue Flower, among “the ten best historical novels”, and A.S. Byatt called her, “Jane Austen’s nearest heir for precision and invention.”

Fitzgerald’s books are short, but within a few pages her prodigious powers of imagination create whole worlds. In The Beginning of Spring, she manages to describe the minutiae of life in pre-Revolutionary Russia as if she had been born there. But the research is worn so lightly it is imperceptible.

The Blue Flower, about the poet Novallis, has always been one of my favourite books. Based on the life of Friedrich von Hardenberg (1772–1801) it describes the time when, aged 22, before he became famous under the name Novallis, he became mystically attracted to the 12-year-old Sophie Von Kühn, an unlikely choice for an intellectual of noble birth given Sophie’s age and lack of education and culture, as well as her physical plainness and negligible material prospects. The couple became engaged a year later but never married as Sophie died of consumption a few days after her 15th birthday. The book is sad, subtle and romantic.

One of the books I had not read yet is The Golden Child, which is actually a murder mystery (she did not include it in her novels) with such a biting sense of humour that I found myself laughing out loud. The book is set in a museum, where “Even in total silence one could sense the ferocious efforts of the highly cultured staff trying to ascend the narrow ladder of promotion.” A perfect phrase if there ever was one. Or the description of the characters, even their names: “Hawthorne-Mannering, the Keeper of Funerary Art, was an exceedingly thin, well-dressed, disquieting person, pale, with movements full of graceful suffering, like the mermaid who was doomed to walk upon knives. Born related, or nearly related, to all the great families of England (who wondered why, if he was so keen on art, he didn’t take up a sensible job at Sotheby’s), and seconded to the Museum from the Courtauld, he was deeply pained by almost everything he saw about him.”

Her third novel, Offshore, won the Booker Prize in 1979. Based on her own years of living on an old sailing barge moored at Battersea Reach, it is about the mixed emotions of houseboat dwellers who live between the water and the land, fully belonging to neither.

Although she launched her literary career late, at the age of 58, Fitzgerald wrote nine novels, plus several biographies, short stories and articles. She had a hard life because due to her husband’s alcoholism she faced poverty, living for years in a houseboat which sank twice, and in public housing. She taught until the age of 70. Would she have been as good if she’d had an easy life? I think probably yes, because she was born in a scholarly family: she was the daughter of Edmund Knox, later editor of Punch, and Christina, daughter of Edward Hicks, Bishop of Lincoln and one of the first female students at Oxford. She was a niece of the theologian and crime writer Ronald Kox, the cryptographer Dillwyn Knox, the Bible scholarWilfred Knox, and the novelist and biographer Winifred Peck. She obviously also had great inherent talent.

She remains a unique, luminous voice in the literary firmament. I highly recommend her to anyone wanting to immerse themselves in her world.

The joy of beautiful prose

Being a bookworm from a young age, I read as the mood takes me, across a wide variety of genres: literary fiction, memoir, historical fiction and non-fiction, travel books, short stories, thrillers and crime. I have now arrived at an age where, if a book does not draw me in, I abandon it. So many books, so little time…And it has long ago ceased being homework. I read to be entertained, but also to be drawn into different worlds.

Into this last category come atmospheric books, such as the Booker Prize shortlisted Stone Yard Devotional, set in a religious community, or the winner, Orbital, set in space. The pace can be slow, but it is a delight to find oneself in a place one will never visit. The opposite of a thriller or police procedural, where you are waiting with bated breath to find out whodunnit.

Occasionally, though, I come across a book where the plot does not matter, because the writing itself is so beautiful that I relish every sentence. I have lately, by coincidence, read two books of that calibre: Held, by Anne Michaels and Light Years, by James Salter.

Anne Michaels is an award-winning poet, which is perceptible in this fragmented tale of four generations of women. It explores the trauma of loss and the impact of love, shifting between times and viewpoints. You get submerged in the power of language, which is simply exquisite—lyrical and vivid. Like poetry, like music.

The second book is the story of a marriage, between two people who have privilege, charm but also flaws.

It describes the brittleness of happiness, the chinks in the perfect facade, the pull between contentment and desire. The inability to enjoy what one has, the longing to escape, the lure of something different. Restlessness, unfocused dissatisfaction. Voices heard, details of clothing, music, food. Flashes of landscape, the beauty of nature, subtle thoughts and feelings. The prose is lucid, the style is impressionistic, flawless.

Neither of these books have much of a plot, and ultimately perhaps this is not enough. A few of the reviewers complain about this and of course, liking a book or not is entirely subjective. It also much depends on one’s mood. Occasionally, however, it is a joy to luxuriate in wonderful language, where every sentence is a asks to be re-read. I loved both books and highly recommend them.

A matter of perspective

Here in deepest Normandy I don’t think we have seen the sun—or a pale imitation thereof—more than twice in the last few months. I might exaggerate a bit, but not much.

When I take the puppy out in the morning, it is pitch dark. Once or twice when the sky was overcast I even had to use a torch! I wrap up in boots, scarf, hat and gloves.

However, I would rather have rain, sleet, fog and ice than wildfires. Having lived through a number of those in Greece, there are few things worse. A vision of hell.

My thoughts are with the people of California who are dealing with this at the moment. Many have lost their homes, their livelihoods and some their lives. I sincerely hope the fires will be brought under control soon…

And a Happy New Year

What is it that makes the turn of the year fill us with hope? It is a totally fictitious concept. Nothing changes in reality—it is just another day. And yet…most of us think of it as a new start.

Looking at the year’s photos that are published around this time in the papers, there is not much to make the heart glad. Wars, poverty, natural catastrophes, displaced populations—the list never ends. But one could focus on this kind of thing every day of every year, or find images to lift the spirits. Wonderful landscape and wildlife photos, reminding us we live on a beautiful planet, very much worth preserving. Images of everyday life, music, art and performances. It always makes me hopeful for humankind when I see how many people enjoy going round exhibitions or pay good money to watch concerts and plays.

*A good time to go out with friends (pencil on paper WIP – detail)*

So let us take this opportunity to see a few good friends, spend time with family (if one can stand them, obvs!), perhaps make a donation somewhere, make a couple of (un-followable) resolutions, drink a glass of bubbly. Us Greeks will be baking or buying a Vassilopita, the traditional cake which we cut on New Year’s Day (or for months afterwards! – because one has to be eaten in every office, business, association or club as well as in every family) and devouring sugar-dusted kourabiedes or syrup-soaked melomakarona.

My Christmas wishes were very belated this year, due to a technical glitch, but they were heartfelt, and so are my wishes to all of you, for a wonderful 2025. Health, joy and may the world be a better place.

Merry Christmas!

My best wishes to all my bloggy friends, wherever you might be in the world.