General Articles

Fawlty Towers - French Style

2nd Prize - Barney Roberts Non-fiction Award

Fellowship of Australian Writers Tasmania Inc. Literary Awards 2017

My husband and I were one week into a three-week driving holiday around France. It was a cool autumn afternoon as we entered the village of Thonac in the Dordogne region. And we were excited to be only eight kilometres from our next adventure; the fabulous Lascaux Caves.

We drove through Thonac with its pretty shuttered stone buildings in less than a minute. Obviously we had missed the hotel I had pre-booked from home. A local couple was out walking so we pulled up and I asked, in my amateur French, for directions to the hotel.

They looked at us blankly (either the hotel didn’t exist or my French was worse than I thought) but after a flurry of waving arms and words like ‘droit’ and ‘gauche’ we thanked them and drove back to the village. The hotel, as it turned out, was down a side street across a picturesque stone bridge.

The historic complex comprised two buildings and was set amongst acres of lush green lawns and woodland: I couldn’t help but congratulate myself on such a great find. The larger of the two buildings, a converted barn painted white with light blue shutters on its windows, displayed a small ‘Hotel’ sign on its tiny veranda.

We parked the car and walked over and inside to a foyer with a reception counter. There we waited. And waited. Finally I saw a bell and rang it.

After a few minutes a man pushed open the front door and informed us in passable English that we were in the wrong building (well, it certainly looked like reception). So we followed him outside and across to the second building which apparently housed the office.

No deposit had been needed when I booked the hotel and the man simply took our credit card details. He said his name was Dominic, gave us our key and explained where our room was located on the first floor of the converted barn. Dinner was in the restaurant behind the office, he said, and breakfast would be right next door. We thanked him and went back to the car for our bags.

The ‘hotel’ was like a dormitory with long dimly lit corridors that went on and on, and the entire building had an eerie feel of emptiness. It was cold and very, very quiet. But our room, although sparsely furnished, was clean and warm and had everything we needed.

At the appointed time we wandered across to dinner. Some of the restaurant’s 300-400 year-old original stone walls had been painted white and the ceiling featured enormous chocolate brown timber beams. There were eight or so tables on the polished terracotta tiled floor and they were covered in brightly coloured tablecloths with white crockery and glassware.

A young waitress seated us, placed a basket of bread on our table and handed us each a menu. It appeared the only option available was a four-course meal. We weren’t really that hungry and there was no price on the menu, but the waitress clearly didn’t speak any English. It was getting late and the thought of having to find somewhere else to eat, and navigate the language barrier, was unappealing. My husband shrugged his shoulders so I nodded our agreement and the waitress left.

Only two other tables were occupied and the only other staff member was a middle-aged woman who constantly darted back and forth across the restaurant issuing orders to the waitress. Dominic appeared and asked if we would like some wine.

I said, ‘Oui, merci,’ and he asked if we would like the 1, 2, 3 or 4 sized jug. We must have looked confused as he then started to explain the sizing, so we asked instead for his recommendation. He returned with a No. 3 jug which was a carafe of something red, and he poured it into our glasses. We had no idea what it was, but like all French wine, it was very good.

The waitress appeared with our first course, a potage (vegetable soup) which was thick and tasty and clearly home-made. She followed this up promptly with an entrée of quiche with champignons and some type of meat I couldn’t identify. However, this too was delicious.

We noticed that two elderly women sitting at a table across the room were glancing our way and smiling. I made some initial small talk in French and they seemed very interested in us, and how we were enjoying our meal. We chatted on and off in a version of Frenglish whilst the wine in our No. 3 jug slowly diminished. Dominic re-appeared with another larger carafe and replenished ours, without asking.

How much is this going to cost? I wondered.

Then the waitress appeared with our main course; Poulet au Bergerac. The chicken casserole took up one third of the dinner plate and the remainder was covered with masses of overcooked French beans in some unidentifiable sauce. However, the casserole was delicious and we had barely finished when she appeared with our desserts.

I sat back in my chair and sighed. I really couldn’t face any more food but I didn’t want to offend our host. And the sweet meringue, which was literally drowning in a sea of custard, went down easily enough. It was a fitting finale to what had been a most enjoyable meal.

When the waitress had removed our plates my husband smiled and said, ‘What does all this remind you of?’

I shook my head.

‘Fawlty Towers?’

I grinned then too. Of course.

‘The Manager is Basil, the woman running back and forth is Sybil and the waitress is Manuel…a,’ I said.

He nodded as I tried to restrain the laughter that was bubbling up inside me.

Basil seemed most concerned that we would run out of red wine so every time he passed our table he re-filled our jug.

How much is this going to cost? I wondered again.

The amount of wine we drank remains a mystery, but fortunately we only had to roll back to our room which was a mere 50 metres away. And when we finally reached it we collapsed onto the bed laughing. It had all been such an experience!

The next morning we wandered across to the breakfast room and in the light of day we could see the hotel complex boasted a large in-ground swimming pool with deck chairs. Given the surrounding woods there was clearly plenty of opportunity for walks and relaxation; what a great summer holiday destination it would be.

In the breakfast room were the two ladies from dinner, friendly and curious as ever, eager to hear how we had enjoyed our night. Breakfast was continental and there was an abundance of juice, fresh croissants and rolls with preserves, fruit, yoghurt and all the tea and coffee we could drink.

How much is this going to cost? I wondered, yet again.

The time came to check out so we packed up the car and went over to the office to pay. As I slowly withdrew the credit card from my purse I was truly afraid to look at the bill: a night’s accommodation for two, four course dinner with unlimited red wine and a sumptuous breakfast.

Dominic handed me the invoice and I looked down at the total.

100 Euro - $145 Australian dollars. Unbelievable.

I tried not to show my utter shock and relief as Dominic (Basil) processed our payment and we thanked him for his hospitality. As we drove away we vowed to return if ever the opportunity arose.

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Tackling Takayama

3rd Prize - Barney Roberts Non-fiction Award

Fellowship of Australian Writers Tasmania Inc. Literary Awards 2017

Having successfully traversed the countryside by fast train north from Kyoto, my husband and I arrived in the Japanese town of Hida-Takayama just after 11.00am. I had booked our hotel from home in the knowledge that it was within walking distance of the railway station, so we went directly to the information counter for directions.

I presented our booking advice at the counter and was told that no, the hotel wasn’t within walking distance and we would need to take a taxi – or wait for the hotel’s shuttle at 3.00pm. Four hours? Yes, I was told, the hotel’s shuttle didn’t begin operations until 3.00pm.

Fortunately the taxi rank was close by and our friendly driver spoke a smattering of English. After showing him our paperwork we set out for the hotel. He told us about the annual Autumn Festival that would shortly be underway and we said we looked forward to seeing the street parade later that day. Then we turned a corner and came to an abrupt stop.

Up ahead we could see the street was jammed with people. The driver wound down his window and spoke to somebody in the street. Apparently the street parade had already begun and the roads were now blocked off for the next half hour. He told us pleasantly that we could either wait for the parade to finish (and pay for the cab) or walk.

We had no idea where the hotel was and told him so. He pointed up a steep hill and told us the hotel was up there. He couldn’t tell us how far it was but said we could walk it. We were concerned about the additional cab fare so we paid him, collected our bags and started out.

The walk was indeed uphill, about a kilometre and a half as it turned out. And by the time we reached the top, each carrying a backpack and dragging our 20 plus kg bags behind us, we were exhausted, puffing like steam trains and berating ourselves for not waiting in the cab.

However, we kept walking along the ridge of the hill until we eventually came to what looked like a commercial building, and went inside to ask for directions. Fate must have been on our side, as this was actually our hotel. So we carried our bags up the steps to reception where a severe looking, tall thin man welcomed us and in broken English advised check-in wasn’t until 3.00pm. We would need, he said, to come back then.

We both looked aghast so he then said we could leave our bags at the hotel if we wanted to take a taxi into town, or walk, and that the hotel’s free shuttle service began at 3.00pm and would bring us back. He said to call at 3.00pm and it would pick us up from a pre-arranged location.

We both sighed and he took our bags. Then he gave us a map of the town with the pickup location marked, along with the phone number we needed to call. We thanked him and proceeded out of the hotel, heading back the way we had come – on foot.

The street parade was in full swing by now and we wouldn’t have missed it. With its huge range of multi-coloured floats and costumes it was certainly a highlight of our stay. And Takayama’s old town is a fine example of an historic Japanese village with its narrow laneways filled with fascinating shops, museums and restaurants.

But we were tired from the morning’s climb and really just wanted to check into our room, so we found a café in town, had some lunch and whiled away the hours. Just before 3.00pm we made our way to the pickup location for the shuttle bus and I dialled the number.

The phone was answered by a man, in Japanese. I said we needed a shuttle and was put on hold. I waited. A woman answered then, also speaking in Japanese. Again I said we needed a shuttle and was again put on hold. I waited. Finally another woman answered who thankfully spoke a little English. Yet again I explained we needed a shuttle and confirmed we were at the pickup location. She said to wait there and that the shuttle wouldn’t be long.

Fortunately it arrived and we were back at the hotel within fifteen minutes, checking in – we were later to discover that this one call on my mobile had cost us nearly three times what a taxi would have!

Our room was light and spacious, and afforded fabulous views of the old town. Traditional tatami mats covered the floor and the bathroom was large and reasonably modern, but apart from one coffee table there wasn’t a single piece of furniture in the room.

I started opening cupboards, of which there were many, and found bedding – mattresses, sheets and doonas. We pulled them out and laid them on the floor, making up what we thought were reasonable looking beds. My husband looked around in mild amusement, wondering aloud how he was going to get up from the bed once he got down.

It was then I spotted a compendium of sorts tucked away in the corner. Fortunately its few pages were in both Japanese and English and advised us that staff would make up our beds at night. Not wishing to offend the hotel, we un-pulled the already made-up beds and stashed them back into the cupboard, laughing as we went.

After a good night’s sleep in our surprisingly comfortable beds, we made our way to the breakfast room. There we were greeted very enthusiastically by several women who clearly didn’t speak any English. One directed us to a table and we sat and studied the trays she placed in front of us. On them were several small bowls containing completely unrecognisable food items. Breakfast was an interesting and unforgettable meal, to say the least.

As it turned out, Takayama was a fabulous destination and we spent many happy hours wandering the streets, indulging in the local cuisine and breathing in the traditional atmosphere of both town and hotel.

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After-life

Published in Tasmania 40०South

Issue 86 / September 2017

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An Exceptional Egg
1st Prize
Fellowship of Australian Writers Qld. Inc. Literary Awards 2017

In Russia, Easter is the most important religious festival of the year for those of the Orthodox faith. Eggs are exchanged, and in 1885 Alexander III, Czar of Russia, was looking for a special gift for his wife Maria Feodorovna. He placed an order with a young jeweller his wife had admired, called Peter Carl Fabergé. What eventuated was an exceptional egg that launched a royal tradition.

The first Imperial egg was enamelled in matte white, to look like a real hen’s egg, complete with a dull-gold yolk. Inside the yolk was a gold hen with ruby eyes. Inside the gold hen was a miniature royal crown, and hanging from it, a tiny ruby egg.

Maria was so delighted it was decided Fabergé would make an egg every Easter; it had to be unique, like no other, and would contain a surprise for the Czarina.

Carl Fabergé was just 24 years-old when in 1870 he took over his father’s small jewellery business in St Petersburg. He had been educated in Germany and learned the family trade as an apprentice under several of the leading goldsmiths of that time.

Carl and his younger brother Agathon set about expanding the company. They employed other designers and artists to assist them in creating the Fabergé eggs. And they used their creative abilities to improve their craftsmanship so that their masterpieces were known for more than just the number of jewels they contained.

Fabergé’s designs were inspired by centuries past, particularly art works he copied from his many travels. And the metals he used to create the eggs included silver, gold, copper and nickel. He used natural stones that were in abundance in the local area; jasper, rock crystal, agate and lapis lazuli, as well as more precious stones like sapphires, rubies and emeralds, to decorate the eggs.

Fabergé also used a technique called guilloche, which was a treatment of the surface of the egg that produced waves and stripes in the design. This could be done either by hand or with the use of a machine.

The size of the eggs varied a great deal. Some were as small as two centimetres (miniature eggs) with others as tall as 20 centimetres. Many stood on their own whilst others were displayed on stands of various heights and degrees of decoration.

The colours and shine of the eggs were breathtaking and they shared a unique beauty combined with magnificent workmanship.

In October 1894 Alexander III died suddenly and his son Nicholas II took up the throne, somewhat unwillingly, believing he was not yet ready to be a Czar. He decided to continue what his father had begun, including the annual creation of the Fabergé Imperial eggs each Easter.

Nicholas not only ordered one of the beautiful eggs for his wife Alexandra Feodorovna each year, but one for his mother as well. In fact, between 1886 and 1917 the two Czarinas received 53 eggs, each one different and exquisite in its own way.

In 1898 the Czar presented the Lillies of the Valley egg to his mother, Maria Feodorovna. This egg was covered in pale pink enamel and pearls, with translucent green enamel leaves and rose diamond dewdrops. The surprise was triggered by a small pearl knob and miniature portraits of the Czar and his eldest daughters, Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana, popped out of the top of the egg and spread out like a fan.

Perhaps the most famous of the Imperial eggs was The Coronation Egg, produced the first Easter after the Czar’s coronation. It was covered in a glossy translucent yellow, sectioned by golden laurel leaves. And at each intersection were opaque black, enamelled Imperial eagles.

The surprise inside this egg was a tiny replica of the coronation coach, which was designed over fifteen months by a former coachmaster turned goldsmith, George Stein.

Extravagance is certainly a word that could be used to describe the lifestyle of the Czar and his family, but during Russia’s early involvement in World War I, he found himself in trouble when the Russian empire suffered the collapse of its economy. The country was threatened by famine and the people of Moscow and St Petersburg demonstrated in the streets, demanding bread to eat.

On 15 March 1917, the Czar was forced to abdicate and was arrested, along with the other members of his family. On 17 July 1918 Nicholas, his wife Alexandra and their five children were executed. Only the Czar’s mother, Maria Feodorovna, escaped from Russia, and took with her the very last Faberge Imperial Egg the Czar had given her, The Cross of St George Egg.

Made from silver, it was smaller and less ornate than other eggs – perhaps an attempt by the Czar to be less extravagant at a time of war. The outside was opalescent white, wrapped in gold ribbon that had orange and black bands (the colours of The Order of St George). Tying off in two places, bows revealed buttons which released small medallion shaped doors that flicked up to reveal pictures of the Czar and his son Alexis.

But what happened to the wonderful Fabergé creations?

The Imperial eggs were shown to the public for the first time at the World Exhibition in Paris in 1900. People were astounded at their magnificence and Faberge’s company expanded even more to become The House of Faberge, eventually employing some 500 craftsmen and designers.

These days the Imperial Fabergé eggs have passed through a number of purchasers including King Farouk of Egypt and American President Franklin D Roosevelt. They are currently displayed in museums and galleries around the world, and owned by royalty and private collectors, one of whom is Malcolm S Forbes, the founder of Forbes magazine, who possesses a collection that matches that of the Russian Government.

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www.eurekastreet.com.au/article.aspx?aeid=52581#.WUSzamiGOM8

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Art for the Street

2nd Prize
Fellowship of Australian Writers Qld. Inc. Literary Competition 2016

Millions of people around the world love to draw and paint, and create beautiful artworks, and the rest of us just enjoy looking at them. There are hundreds of famous art galleries all around the world including the National Gallery in London, the Louvre in Paris, the Guggenheim in New York and Australia’s own National Gallery in Canberra.

Here there are also galleries in each of our capital cities and throughout regional Australia. Some of the paintings are extremely old and worth millions of dollars; others are very modern and sometimes it’s difficult to work out what they’re all about. But they all have one thing in common; they’re works of art.

But there’s one art gallery in Australia that is very different to the others. Here, the paintings are displayed on walls, only these walls are not inside a building, they’re outside in the street. The paintings are called murals, a form of street art, and the town that hosts them is Sheffield in the foothills of majestic Mount Roland in north-west Tasmania.

Mural Towns exist all over the world. Chemainus in Vancouver, Canada had since the late 1800s thrived on its mining, fishing and forestry industries. But its natural resources were being depleted and the locals needed a new vision for their town. They decided to revitalise Chemainus by painting giant outdoor wall murals and this not only earned Chemainus a worldwide reputation but many other towns followed their example. The murals illustrate the history of the town and those industries that had been so successful.

In 1990 the town of Katikati in New Zealand was facing economic difficulties. To try to put some life back into the town and attract visitors, a group of local volunteers got together and began to paint the walls with images that depicted Katikati’s history. They call their murals ‘Open-Air Art’ and so Katikati Open-Air Art Inc. was formed.

Kurri Kurri in the Hunter region of New South Wales showcases its history through beautiful public art pieces, each of which includes a kookaburra, the symbol of the town. The mural project was initiated by ‘Towns with Heart’ a small community group that works within the area. They began the project to help address the local level of unemployment in Kurri Kurri and to help the town to grow. And in the west at Mendooran you can view murals that highlight the history and industry of this oldest settlement on the Castlereagh River.

But back to Sheffield; Australia’s best known mural town where, since 1986, over fifty enormous murals have been placed on permanent display on the walls of the town. These murals showcase the natural beauty of the area and the pioneers, farmers and community leaders who contributed to the history of this beautiful part of Tasmania. Sheffield is also famous for hosting the annual International Mural Fest.

Since 2003 a yearly competition, the Mural Fest, has been held in Mural Park, Sheffield’s very own outdoor art gallery. Here, nine artists compete in a public ‘paint-off’, each completing a 4.8 metre by 2.1 metre mural based on a yearly theme inspired by a poem. A panel of qualified judges awards substantial prize money to the winner and visitors can view the progress of the murals and vote for their favourite as well.

Who are the artists and how are they chosen? Well, each year the Mural Fest Event Team calls for expressions of interest from artists who paint a miniature of their proposed mural based upon the theme and poem for that year.

An independent panel of judges then chooses nine finalists to take part in the ‘paint-off’. The judges look at how the miniature reflects the theme and the poem, how original the artist’s work is and their technique. Everything except the paintbrushes is provided by the event organisers: the paint, and containers for mixing them, the backing board, ladders and water buckets. And then the paint-off begins.

But it isn’t just the artistic ability of the entrants that is tested. The competition isn’t for the very inexperienced as over the week they must stay within the park for a reasonable portion of each day, and they not only have to contend with the general public watching them and interrupting with questions, but there’s the unpredictable Tasmanian weather as well.

The Mural Fest theme for 2011 was ‘Power of Community’ and was based upon the following poem by P B Tewson:

In the dawn bright with birdsong,

the people rise to watch the world open.

As in previous years, the 2011 murals illustrated our environment; our places and our people, our wildlife and the natural beauty of our country, all from the artists’ points of view. And as always, there was a range of different interpretations, styles and colours including ‘The Performance’ which illustrated birds rehearsing on a theatre stage. In ‘After the Harvest’ a baker worked at his flour mill, baking fresh bread. ‘New Days Flight’ celebrated the sunrise across a blue and white sky; and in ‘The World Open’ a partly open sardine can represented the world, from which birds and the bush emerged at dawn.

Each year more than 120,000 people, from all over Tasmania and mainland Australia, come to see the murals. For a small town like Sheffield, with a population of less than 2,000, the Mural Fest has given tourism a real boost. Mural Fest has also been so successful that similar events are now happening in other Australian states and even overseas.

In fact, in Canada, you can follow a Mural Map across the country and attend an annual National Mural Symposium which is a conference for mural artists and others interested in murals. The town of Scarborough in Toronto even offers a free training program for youth mural artists in leadership development and in producing and managing their projects.

There is another form of street art we know so well – graffiti – which has been a part of our environment for a very long time. As far back as 30,000 BCE prehistoric cavemen used animal bones and pigments to decorate the walls of their caves with scenes of wildlife and hunting expeditions.

In Pompeii, Italy, graffiti in the form of alphabets, famous literary quotes and declarations of love was found on buildings that had been covered in volcanic ash for two thousand years. Graffiti has also been found in the remains of other ancient civilisations including Egypt, Greece, Guatemala and Ireland.

In Australia we see graffiti on fences, walls, train carriages, advertising signs, water tanks, telephone boxes, overhead bridges and even garbage bins.

The Oxford Dictionary defines graffiti as ‘inscriptions or drawings scribbled, scratched or sprayed on a surface.’ Wikipedia says it’s ‘the name for images or lettering scratched, scrawled, painted or marked in any manner on property.’

Neither of these sources tells us that graffiti is bad. Why then do governments spend millions of dollars each year trying to clean it up? And why do some companies exist purely to remove graffiti using anti-graffiti products?

Maybe it’s just a matter of taste. After all, wouldn’t you agree that some graffiti artists have real talent? The style and clarity of their writing, the shapes of their symbols and drawings and their choice of colours are just amazing.

But perhaps there’s more to it than that.

Wikipedia goes on to say that in most countries, graffiti that appears on a property without the property owner’s consent is considered to be vandalism. And here in Australia, the website Graffiti Hurts Australia tells us that graffiti ‘generally refers to the illegal defacing of private and public property’ which includes buildings, overpasses, public transport carriages and other surfaces.

It makes sense doesn’t it; after all, would you want people drawing all over your walls without asking you first? And cleaning it up is not only a dirty job, but time consuming and expensive.

In Port Macquarie, on the New South Wales north coast, school students from around the district were invited to scrub the graffiti from public walls in a program called ‘Stop the Scribble’ during the early 2000s. Stage two of that program was a kind of reward for all their hard work, where a series of youth public art projects was conducted in the school holidays and young people aged twelve to twenty-one were then invited to replace the graffiti they had scrubbed with artwork, in the form of murals.

With the help of local artists, the young people created murals that not only brightened up the local area, but taught them about art and mathematics as they scaled, designed and colour co-ordinated their projects.

Maybe what graffiti artists really need is another outlet for their creative talent, one that doesn’t involve them breaking the law. And thankfully, some authorities are already on board in providing this.

In 2008, the City of Playford in South Australia partnered with Anglicare to provide a program that would meet the creative needs of graffiti artists, to take their artwork from being illegal, to legal.

The program, which used as its theme ‘Respect’, allowed a group of young people to use aerosol paints to legally create community art pieces that could be exhibited to the public. The program demonstrated that part of ‘getting’ respect is ‘giving’ it, and that some of the graffiti we see around our streets can be considered to be artwork, when it is painted on a more traditional artist’s canvas and shown in a more professional manner.

Those involved in the project also learned how to work as a team and under the direction of Playford’s Graffiti Program Co-ordinator. All in all, a wonderful project.

But back to Sheffield. During the 2011 Mural Fest, something very different and unusual happened.

An entrant named Christian Griffiths, who travelled down from the northern NSW town of Murwillumbah to participate in the competition, didn’t use a paintbrush. For the very first time in the history of the Mural Fest, an artist used aerosol, the preferred medium of graffiti artists.

Christian demonstrated his passion for art in public places by spray painting his entry. Entitled 'Connectivity', he says it is ‘an expression of connection and disconnection’. In the background of the mural we see the beauty of nature; mountains and a sunrise whilst in the foreground two people wait at bus stop on a dingy city street in front of a high brick wall.

Christian wanted his audience to see the contrast between nature and the urban landscape. He wanted people to think about whether one or the other had become the dominant feature in our environment. And to add even more drama to the mural he painted enormous multicoloured graffiti all across the brick wall.

It was definitely an unusual entry, and, surprisingly he won.

Christian, who is also known as ‘Sauce’, is himself a graffiti artist who runs a business called ‘Aerograffix’. He believes that ‘art isn’t just about glossy magazines or art galleries. It can be found everywhere. Graffiti embodies the notion of taking art to the people.’ Christian is a very talented artist who paints striking landscapes, many of which include some form of graffiti in the foreground, the background or even as the major focus. And he is an example to other graffiti artists who are looking for an outlet for their creative talent.

So, next time you see graffiti on a wall, or you watch as somebody tries to clean it off, you might choose to disregard it as just time and money wasting vandalism. Or maybe you’ll hope that the artist who spray painted that wall will one day have an opportunity to use his or her creative talents in a more positive way.