Easter ‘Staycation’ – Glamping in Cornwall

I love a glamp and I love a camp – and I never used to think I’d be good at either.

I’ve even glamped in December and February – note glamped, not camped – I’m not that brave…February Glamping – it’s a thing.

I love the Easter holidays – spring is springing, we’re getting to bask in those few extra hours of daytime and it feels like the literal light at the end of the dark winter tunnel.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be in springtime than our own excellent U.K. and this year I chose a happy return to both Cornwall and Devon.

Ever since I enjoyed childhood holidays in the former, and, being born actually in the latter (I was a native for about 10 days – long story), it’s an area I hold close to my heart.

That said you don’t need any historical reason to love both counties with their beautiful beaches, atmospheric coves and dunes, local foods and ciders and hospitality like no other.

With a laidback, back to nature vibe, a visit is the equivalent to a course of therapy sessions and month’s free subscription to your favourite meditation app. Probably.

St Ives, Cornwall

For the first four nights, our destination was St Ives, Cornwall.

Known for its beaches and art scene, i pinpointed it as the perfect place to relax whilst get an injection of culture at the same time.

Booked through the rather marvellous Air bnb we stayed in a shepherds hut at St Ives Glamping, on a hill with views of the ocean. This was very important to me.

I don’t care where we go

I did

But I’d like to see the sea

And so we did.

The site is lovely, eclectic and serves a hearty serving of (and we’re all going to roll our eyes and tut as one, when I say this), seaside, shabby chic.

I’m sorry but it’s the only way to describe it – and it was lovely.

The hut we stayed in came with some wonderful outdoor props conducive to lounging around, sighing and reprogramming your brain from work-mode to human being-mode.

See that picnic bench, beanbag, hammock? We lounged and lolled around on all.

The chiminea was lit each night and we both relaxed into our respective country-living chill-out comas. Snoozes? Periods of relaxation. We relaxed. We were calm, is what I’m saying.

The website will provide details but I’d rather talk about how I felt rather than what I had (ok, a cosy bed, a kettle, a toaster, a ukelele and electricity). I felt like a weight had been lifted from my dramatic shoulders.

With a hot tub for hire, firewood for sale, a delightful cooking and communal area and clean showers and toilets, it was what we glampers are looking for – a great space for a bbq, a bottle of wine, a big old listen to radio 2 (age spoiler) with nature, whilst feeling clean and catered for at the same time (and a bit zen to boot).

We bravely left our haven, over the 3 days, to venture into the wonderful town of St Ives.

A 20 minute walk down country lanes, takes you into the town. It is no exaggeration to say that there is a gallery on every corner, none more so famous than Tate St Ives

On the site of the old gasworks, would you believe, the view from within looking out is an artistic masterpiece in itself. And no coincidence, I’m sure.

The calming space is complimentary to its coastal setting.

The current exhibition, featuring works by Anna Boghiguian finds its natural home, as Anna has created work inspired by Cornwall’s industrial history; fishing and mining.

I knew I was in the Tate when I saw this sign on the approach to the exhibition…

FYI it’s weirdly pleasant walking on salt.

FYFI I saw Jenny Eclair…

The other of the more famous galleries and indeed museums is that of the Barbara Hepworth studio and sculpture garden

Yorkshire-born, and long term St Ives resident, a visit to see the beautiful works against a backdrop of Barbara’s tranquil English garden is like an intravenous shot of pure mindfulness. Honestly.

I shall let the website give you the history and my photographs try to amateurishly convey the beauty…

As for the town itself?

The cobbled streets bedecked with galleries, the windows full of paintings of the town itself (meta), independent craft shops and bakeries, they’re a joy to saunter up and down.

Never more than a few feet away from a Cornish pasty, I plumped for one from St Ives Bakery (say what you see…)

Huddled round the corner in the shade (the weather really was incredible) my husband and I attacked our steak Cornish pasties with glee.

I say attack – whereas he ate it with dignity like a normal human being, I managed to make a holy show with pastry flying and carrots and potato cascading down from me onto the pavement like there was no tomorrow, such was my fevered approach.

I kept hold of that succulent steak though – amazing.

The beaches speak for themselves – golden sands, jewelled waters, and a testament to how the British seaside is more than a worthy rival to shores further afield.

Taken from The Rum and Crab shack

4 nights and it was time to leave and head to North Devon. But St Ives is good for the soul. And I’ll leave it at that.

https://www.stives-cornwall.co.uk/

Life Drawing and Validation – Altrincham’s Open Studios

I think it may be something to do with approaching a milestone age but I have recently been living at an accelerated speed.

Not particularly hedonistic but in terms of adding to my repertoire of life experiences, things have stepped up a gear.

It’s as though I’m prepping for an ‘end of year’ review in my ‘real’ job (when not prattling on online), except this is an ‘end of decade’ review. Predictably I’m not divulging which particular decade I’m due to leave sometime this year.

In a blind panic, I’m adding to the (imagined) section, ‘what in actual hell have you done with your life recently apart from developing an addiction to cheese, sparkling wine and watching ’90 Day Fiancé’ incessantly on the wonderful channel that is TLC’.

In order to validate my life (or position at the company who employs me, to further the analogy), I’ve taken on a number of new projects and interests. One of which is Life Drawing.

I’ve always had a keen interest in art, mainly fuelled by me achieving my highest module mark in The History and Theory of Art, during my three year not art degree. It was on that day that I vowed to bang on about this forever more.

I verge from an appreciation of the traditional, to the Warhols, to the sublime (I once found myself on my hands and knees, crawling through an installation (tunnel) of ‘something’ at the Tate Modern, only to find myself out the other end, having seen nothing but darkness.

Part of me added my own deep theory as to what the artist had in mind.

Part of me wondered if my confusion upon exiting was being filmed; my bewildered expression forming part of a bigger installation to be projected onto the Houses of Parliament at a later date, a’la Gail Porter, entitled ‘The gullible’.

Back to the point, and the purpose of this blog post; that is, giving thanks and a shout out to the wonderful Open Studios in Altrincham, who both locals and not so locals, will know from the wonderful classes they put on, and the marvellous ‘Hidden Altrincham’ festival, showcasing art around the town.

As described on their website, Open Studios is where one goes

to be creative

even if you consider yourself not.

That non-consideration, will very quickly be discouraged through encouragement, by the lovely Jo Cushing who has not only shown me how to put up an easel without trapping everyone of my fingers (although I’m still unable to put it away without smashing it into the ceiling), but the rudimentaries in applying charcoal to paper, and drawing the wonderfully poised and, well, remarkably ‘still’ life models before me.

I have been to two classes so far and any nerves about picking up a piece of charcoal since I was in high school were quickly calmed by not only Tutor Jo, but by the other lovely artists (when I say ‘other’ I mean in addition to Jo, not myself) who have attended the class on a Wednesday at 7pm.

my first stab – apologies to the model

It is at this point I add my reason for this particularly timed post. Walk-ins are welcome to each and every class, and no sign-ups are required. This is particularly beneficial to people like me who may appear flaky but unable to go more than once every month of so. Such as being unable go again for a further two weeks…And so this blog post also forms part of a message to Jo…

I haven’t been for a few weeks, not because I’m sulking that I couldn’t draw that foot properly last time – I’m still keen to learn and have even done sketching homework (not life models, you understand).

Anyone and everyone is welcome, including beginners, and for only £13, receive two hours of tutorage. You even get to keep your drawings! And the smudges all over your face from incessantly touching your face with your charcoal fingers (I’m a face toucher, evidently).

And so in the absence of attending tonight (not that I’m suggesting I’ll be missed), I wanted to encourage others to, to keep my place warm so to speak.

With even a tea or coffee thrown in (I take my own diet coke, admittedly – I’m a strange non-brew drinker), add to your life-CV and list of anecdotes, by popping along to give it a go. And I’ll see you there (in a couple of weeks).

Life Drawing classes are every Wednesday 7pm-9pm, as well as Tuesdays 11am-1pm (when I’m unable to attend, as I’m trying to keep myself in employment during the week).

For details of these classes, all others and the Studio itself, please click through to the website here.

Sleeping Beauty – a trip to the theatre and my childhood

Last night I was taken straight back to my childhood.

It’s amazing/frightening how much you forget about the magical tales which were such a part of our lives when knee-high.

Take for instance Sleeping Beauty.

Invited to the opening night of the Birmingham Royal Ballet’s mesmerising production at The Lowry Theatre, Salford (more on that later), it was a ballet I hadn’t seen and a story that first I got mixed up with Snow White and her apple and friends. The prospect of her seven dwarves pirouetting certainly piqued my interest.

Then I delved further back into the furthest corners of my mind (basically remembered) the actual story of Sleeping Beauty.

I shall surmise.

The King and Queen invite all the fairies to the christening of their daughter, Princess Aurora (aka Sleeping Beauty). However, and we’ve all been there, they forgot to invite the evil fairy Carabosse.

Now, call me cynical, but ‘forget’ seems like a bit of a cover to me. I tend not to invite evil people to my shindigs. Unless, of course, social awkwardness has led me to adding them to the guest list. I guess the only opt-out is the old ‘oh no, I forgot’ response to a bold gatecrasher.

In this case, they really should have got her on the top table because the repercussions far outweighed having to endure small talk with the evil fairy had they just added her to the guest list in the first place.

Carabosse (Nao Sakuma) vows that Sleeping Beauty (Delia Mathews) will one day prick her finger and die. Thankfully the Lilac Fairy (Jenna Roberts), who I like to think of as the godmother, changes the spell to sleeping for a 100 years, only to be woken by the kiss of a handsome prince…rather than death.

The most I’ve ever done for my god-child is get them a modelling job on the cover of Inside Soap when they were a week old (long story but one I drag out at Christmas).

And so it comes to pass.  Carabosse, disguised as an old woman, duly does deliver that spindle and so Sleeping Beauty does take to her slumber.

At this point I’ll pick up on the actual ballet and production (Peter Wright) which was, in short, as spell-binding as any cast in the story, in terms of choreography, costume, orchestra and sets.

Not withstanding all due credit to Tchaikovsky, our introduction to Sleeping Beauty comes from the beautiful strains of the Royal Ballet Sinfonia, conducted by Paul Murphy.

Before the curtain has even lifted, we (I can speak for my husband and am going to take a punt and boldly speak for the rest of the theatre-goers when I say ‘we’), are immediately transported to another world, far away from our Salford Quays setting – although given that it was snowing that evening, it has to be said Salford was a little more magical than usual.

With some strains more familiar than others, Tchaikovsky’s score is playful when required, and rousing and urgent when the tale turns dark.

And this is before the curtain has yet been raised.

The sets are grand and exquisite (Designs – Philip Prowse, Lighting  – Mark Jonathan/Peter Teigen). With the Prologue and Act I taking place in the Palace, with both the christening and Sleeping Beauty’s (technically just ‘Beauty’ at this point) 16th birthday, the swathes are sweeping, the backdrops really quite baroque (please correct me on this if I’m wrong) and the colours enchanting.

When at the end of Act 1, the set becomes dark and imposing with layers of forest falling to the stage, thus hiding the palace (and within it, our Sleeping Beauty , family and attendants), it was at this point that I was catapulted to being 4 years old, recalling the terror and fear that such fairy tales really did invoke in me as a child (and I’m a quite morbid individual). The oppressive look of the set and heavy strains of the orchestra, left most of the theatre in awe (and mentally reassessing who not to leave off their next guest-list).

The costumes are simply beautiful, the fairies bedecked in the most ethereal outfits and tutus, the female ‘elders’ of the court in grand, sweeping gowns.

The programme (a literary masterpiece in itself in terms of look and photographs) tells us that the dresses worn by the Court Ladies weigh just over one stone, with Carabosse’s gown weighing two stone (karma, is all I’m saying).

Controversially, perhaps, I am only just coming to the dancers themselves but as a layperson who loves the ballet but doesn’t know the technical nuances of the choreography (Marius Petipa), all I can say (and I think is all that is needed) is that I was captivated, open-mouthed and utterly, utterly entranced by their elegant and beautiful moves from curtain up until curtain down at the end of Act III, following the marriage of Sleeping Beauty to her Prince (Brandon Lawrence).

With each sweep of the arm, extended pirouette and (technical term alert) tip-toe from the fairies across the stage, we were taken to another world of magic, story-telling and childhood.

It is not just the leads who are given stage-time to demonstrate their poise, skill and talent, each section of the cast are given the stage to enchant the audience with their own performance, each a contrast to the previous in terms of choreography, music and mood, you can come away feeling like you’ve been treated to a whole host of individual little productions and shows.

With four days left at The Lowry theatre of this exquisite production, I urge you to go, sit back and let the spell-binding world of Sleeping Beauty sweep you away to another place.

All the details including case list, credit and booking details can be found by clicking here.

43 hour east end people

In what was quite possibly the quickest made arrangements in the history of ‘getting a date in’, myself, my partner in crime and our two E1 based friends got a date in the diary for visiting (us to them) within 10 minutes over Whatsapp one Friday night.

I will protect their privacy somewhat, and call them Lark and Moretto.

John the husband? You can just be John (he chases fame).

I will further try and protect their privacy by not sharing their address with you (what a friend I am, eh) but will say it’s near Brick Lane (it’s actually there) and what is one of the coolest neighbourhoods I’ve ever visited, never mind stayed.

And so before you could say Gilbert and George, 43 hours in the east end commenced.

And there are 3 and a half things learned in 43 hours…

1. The Gherkin has a top bit

Gherkin this, Gherkin that. We’ve all seen the Gherkin, blahdy blah. Ooh look up at it.

Well readers, I looked down on its sorry being.

I actually don’t know why I’m abusing it so. It’s a fine building and my dislike of the…vegetable? Pickle? Pickled vegetable? should have no bearing on my appreciation of it.

I have just realised you can’t really see the top bit of the Gherkin in my photograph but it’s there.

How on earth did you get this great vantage point?!

…I hear you cry.

Why from the very fabulous Sushisamba on the 38th floor of Heron Tower.

One can eat sushi, drink cocktails and generally be marvellous as one gets an aerial perspective over London.

One can also be slightly troubled by what appeared to be a very young lady doing some sort of amateur photo shoot and filming with same view as backdrop, for, I suspect a promise that they’re gonna make her ‘a star’ once she’s paid the sign-up fee. Still, I hopefully she enjoyed the views.

2. Nat has herpes and Mike’s a c*nt

Of course not. You shouldn’t believe everything you read. Although maybe give the pair a wide berth.

As well as serving as a source of news, the streets of Brick Lane and surrounding areas are a living, breathing art installation.

A mix of street art, political and social commentary and mostly a mix of both, every lamppost, building and alleyway is a chance to see a local artist’s endeavours (and STD revelations).

At this point I’ll let the art do the talking…

3. Hackney has a spanishy speakeasy. And it’s brilliant.

Much as I would love to pretend I’m being careful to protect the relative anonymity of this sterling establishment by not revealing its whereabouts, I’ll admit that I don’t know where it is.

I mean, I’ve been but much like many restaurants in Manchester’s Chinatown, I know I’ve been but I don’t know I would find it again.

Speakeasies have become a bit lazy and rampant in recent years. My favourite find, they’re becoming a little too explicit these days – every other bar in Manchester is being described as ‘hidden’ in a big piece telling us exactly where it is.

In fact I don’t think this place actually suggests that it is either hidden or a ‘speakeasy’ which perversely makes it feel more-so.

I’m clearly making no sense but it’s great and houses about 15 people and is dog-friendly.

Pic credit: the bar as I didn’t really take any apart from one because it was beautifully dark

This place was at the bottom of a residential street and despite the appearance of it being a barbers, is in fact a Spanish wine bar selling fine beers and cava by night. It’s dark, very dark (as all good speakeasies should be) and not only candlelit but scented candlelit! In essence it’s lovely and there’s a barber’s chair to help you take the weight off.

I basically got no decent pictures apart from the above because it was so good and I was having a good time. Which is good.

Ps it’s called Wolfies

A half. Minehead isn’t in Wales

This half a fact isn’t really (at all) related to the east end of London but it is the backdrop to both myself and John learning that Minehead wasn’t in Wales. We both thought it was. To give it a bit more context, during our trip round the fine establishments in the east end, we decided to join Lark and Moretto in booking tickets to the Shiiine Festival in November. In Wales (in our heads).

And so this morning we discovered it was in Devon.

And I should add that Lark and Moretto did know this.

And that we had a fantastic 43 hours in the east end.

Pop in to the Pop-up at Open Studios this Christmas

I don’t enjoy shopping (stay with me). Specifically shopping in Manchester or the Trafford Centre.

Don’t get me wrong, both are fantastic shopping destinations when nobody else is there. Unfortunately, as much as  I think the world revolves around me, nobody’s afforded me the luxury of closing off entire city centres to allow me to swan round.

Again, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy ‘accomplishing’ goods, be they for me (me me) or others, I just don’t enjoy the push and shove of the busy crowds.

Two or three years back, I became an online Christmas shopper. A slave to ‘tracking my order’. Smugly avoiding all human contact. Mission accomplished. Except it all became a bit…clinical and sad. Yes presents came to me. But in the guise of aggressive, brown cardboard packaging, soulless cellophane, and more often than not, in the form of a ‘sorry we missed you’ calling card.

You’re not sorry. I can tell.

Last year, I found my happy medium and did all my Christmas shopping in Altrincham and Hale (cheating on the area very briefly with Knutsford – close enough for it not to be a total betrayal, I feel).

It felt good to support local businesses and traders, and comforting to know that there was little risk of me buying family members, the same as somebody else.

I still shudder when remembering that fateful Christmas when my brother and I both bought my mum the same Simply Red CD (what, she liked them. Not that much though). And not only that, the same Christmas card.

Whilst the Hucknall horror is never far from my mind during Christmas shopping season, time heals and lessons are learned such as not buying everything from HMV (we’re talking pre-download times).

And so I intend to do the same again this year; that is, shop local. And yes I am still speaking of this in the future tense. Raspberry to those who’ve already shopped and wrapped. It’s not envy – I genuinely enjoy the panic and terror of the mid-December dash. I do.

I don’t.

And so, actually getting to the point. Amongst the already lovely independent shops and market stalls, I was thrilled to hear about the new shopping experience on the Alty block this Christmas – the Pop-Up shop at Open Studios.

Even more opportunity to support local traders and designers whilst finding unique gifts that will make everyone love me

…I  thought (yes I do think in blogpost soundbites, actually).

Located on Stamford New Road, the Studios are hosting the Pop-Up until Christmas Eve (yep – no doubt, I’ll be last to leave), with work from a range from a number of rotating makers and artists – original paintings, prints, jewellery, cushions, bags, Mick Hucknall albums, crafts – I can’t wait to do my panicking there.

Lino prints and t-shirts by Meadowlark Prints

Artwork by Jo Bramall-Smith – Raspberry Art Studio

Ceramics – Gabi Komar

Working in that heaving metropolis that is Manchester City Centre, I’m winning if I roll into Altrincham interchange before 5.30pm, so the Open Studio’s late night opening until 8pm during the week, is of great appeal – especially given the odd time the trams are delayed (bless them).

If you want to get involved on the other side of the fence and wish to sell your wares to lovely, calm, non-panicky consumers such as me, artists and makers are encouraged to call in for a chat.

So with 19 (at the time of writing) more shopping days until Christmas (it pops up at weekends until 6pm too), know that I’ll be popping in before it pops off.

Open Studios

47-49 Stamford New  Road

Altrincham

WA14 1DS

All the deets on Open Studios.

Paris in Pictures ❤️




It’s not all Soup Cans and Marilyn (or, Why Warhol is our Leader)

I live with a fear of being late, which often results in my being early for appointments, we can be talking approaching an hour, and lurking around waiting for people. 

People…

Oh have you been waiting long?!

Me…

No! Well yes. But no! Anyway it’s my fault! 

I’m sorry.

So whilst I consider myself late to attending the Andy Warhol exhibition in the Artist Rooms at the Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester on its very last day after months of procrastinating about my attendance (this long sentence is about to come to an end…) – I guess I was right on time. It’s all about perception you see.

The exhibition centres on the period after Warhol was shot by ‘feminist author, activist and entourage member’ Valerie Solanas, in 1968, and died. Then revived. And then died, in 1987.

More details here, lest I plagiarise further
Needless to say, there’s an emphasis on Warhol’s own sense of mortality and pre-occupation with death. Some works more literal than others, such as this (delete as appropriate to your own view point – art: it’s all about perception, folks) fascinating/grim piece entitled… 

Cadaver (1986)

But don’t worry, it wasn’t all sinewy human limbs (more’s the pity), there was light and shade in the exhibition. 

Warhol’s self dubbed Disco Decor alongside, his all too real photography, adding literal sparkle to proceedings. Although, don’t get carried away as shadows in art represent darkness and death …

Shadows 1 (1979)

It should be noted that I didn’t take any photographs during my first lap of the exhibition as a) I just wanted to look and absorb, and b) It felt wrong.

I did want to write about my visit though and not lift images of his art but add my own images of my experience as that’s one of the purposes of a personal blog  – adding your own take on life.

Two reasons led me to start taking some photographs of the exhibition. 

Camouflage (1986)

The first was reading this…

Warhol did what essentially what a lot of us do now; we’re documenting. For me, that means commenting, photographing, musing, tweeting, retweeting, instagramming, blogging, tagging; the whole lot (not Snapchat. I just don’t get Snapchat).

Now don’t get me wrong. One person’s documenting is another person’s nightmare. 

Just as I apply my own ‘rules’ to my online presence…

No cryptic outpouring 

Can’t believe this monstrous unspecified thing has happened

U ok hon?

I don’t want to talk about it

No specific outpouring 

This has happened and this is what I said and this is what they said and I’ve had enough and not standing for this any longer and this is what I’m going to do and so on and so forth 

And last, but certainly not least…

No inspirational memes

Now, I’m pretty sure that anybody who knows me, certainly through Facebook may well be sick of me sharing my millions of blogs, hearing about some running my husband has done or reading about where I last drink a glass of champagne that I probably can’t afford but have it anyway.

And that’s absolutely fine (sulks).

But self documenting isn’t a new thing and for those of us who feel a bit grubby after every posting, should take comfort in that.

We’re making like Warhol and creating an infinite record of our lives. Whilst it may not have wide-reaching significance, it will have some to those who know or love us now, and in years to come.

Example – this Warhol self portrait. Or selfie. With, incidentally, the reflection of my husband in the glass (he ran a marathon a couple of weeks back, don’t you know)…

And going back to my original point.

The second reason I decided to start taking photographs of the exhibition is because I saw somebody else do it in front of a curator and they didn’t get in trouble. 

As the exhibition has now closed, don’t thank me for the below insight into what you missed, thank the tall, thin man with the professional looking camera who gave me inferred permission to take the below. 

And, of course, our self-documenting leader, Warhol.

Electric Chairs (1971)

5 February 2017 – #projectlife365

hangover day spent face-planting this cushion 

24 January 2017 – #projectlife365

more local art by Eric Jackson 

23 January 2017 – #projectlife365

new purchase by local artist Eric Jackson – love his witty work