The blue lotus issue 9 by martin bradley

Lotus

Issue 9 Winter 2017

The Blue

Arts Magazine

in this issue Benjamin Brown Colin McAllister Ed Gold Lubaina Himid Liz Morris Chrissie Westgate Nick Bellamy Regina Lafay Bellamy Richard Noyce Nathalie Hamill Jan Richie Honey Khor 1

Lotus The Blue

Arts Magazine

The Blue Lotus remains a wholly independent magazine, free from favour and faction.

The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine is an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asia to the world, and the world to Asia

inside.... 7 Editorial Thoughts on the current issue

by the Founding Editor

10 Colchester 24 Creating a Future Colchester arts

30 Benjamin Brown Artist 36 Colin McAllister Artist and Cartoonist

48 Ed Gold Other Worlds

50 Lubaina Himid Warp and Weft

58 West Mersea 72 Liz Morris Prints

Front cover by Nick Bellamy

Winter 2017

74 Chrissie Westgate Photography

82 London

90 Wiltshire

100 Paignton

106 Nick Bellamy Ceramics

118 Regina Lafay Bellamy Street Photography 130 Wales

144 Richard Noyce Poetry 146 Liverpool

156 Oxford

168 Nathalie Hamill Ceramics 174 Jan Richie Prints

176 London

Colchester Town Centre

Lotus Welcome to

The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine.

September This issue marks marks theaend slight of divergence Summer. The from days the begin to (practically) change, and with all Asian it our trend thoughts. for The This Blue fresh Lotus issue of The Blue Lotus reveals magazine. spiritual paintings from India, PopIArt returned from Japan, to thefish UKfrom for aSingapore 'road trip'and withSurrealism Honey (my wife), to show from her what Cambodia. we could in a very short There are Amazing space digital of time. paintings from a young Indian Before painter she living arrived in Ithe spent Middle some East, time and in paintings my old home from one town, of Colchester. Malaysia's masters, Inside this as well issueasyou buns willfrom see the the places Chinese wediaspora visited and andrecorded an insightfor into your Malaysian delight. food. The Blue Lotus is a platform for international cooperation, The Blue Lotus aiming is atoplatform bring creative for international Asia to the world, and the to creative world toAsia Asia.to the cooperation, aiming bring creative world, and the creative world to Asia. Now read on

Now read on Martin Bradley

Martin (FoundingBradley Editor) (Founding Editor)

part one

road trip uk

solo

Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Light rain is on the light dust. The willows of the inn-yard Will be going greener and greener, But you, Sir, had better take wine ere your departure, For you will have no friends about you When you come to the gates of Go. Chinese Poem, From Rihaku, Lustra (1916) by Ezra Pound Four Poems of Departure

Colchester, by Marriage's Mill

colchester

Colchester, Castle

to begin at the beginning (Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas, 1954)

In the late British Summer I undertook a road trip. It extended from the oldest recorded British town of Colchester to West Mersea, Wiltshire, Devonshire, Wales, Merseyside, Oxfordshire and finally to London. It was a trip permeated with memories, old and new, a remembering and a letting go (without forgetting). Returning, after nearly a decade and a half, was to bring fresh experiences, new insights and the opportunity to see the country of my birth with fresh eyes, the eyes of an expatriate re-entering what was once stiflingly familiar to find a strangeness unexpected and unfamiliar. This is a slight accounting of that journey.

It is the East. Evergreen banana fronds sway outside my bedroom window. It is the East. Evergreen banana fronds sway outside my bedroom window. The day, for once, is a little overcast, ringing the change from seemingly endless days of heat and Summer to the few of rain, when it is cooler. The sun had broken through, earlier, but retired as it moved towards midday. I look at slightly swaying palm leaves belonging to plants outside the house opposite. Various vines and blue pea flowers trail across that property, displaying Art Nouveau curlicues, bringing a joy for me to witness. I have been thinking of the visit to come, albeit with mixed feelings. I am about to return to Albion, and to that ancient historic town on the Essex/Suffolk border, where I spent the time of my youth. Being besieged with five decades of memories troubles me. Transcontinental flight, even in these technologically advanced times, is burdensome. After half a dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flight, at Heathrow Passport Control, I have a surprise. I had not noticed, but my passport has a new gold embossed icon on the front cover. To me, it looked like the icon for one stop on a London Underground Tube map. In reality, it is a sign that I have a digital chip in my passport. The icon relates to that semi-translucent plastic, covering the image of my face, the printed seagulls, a most erect lighthouse and the quaint sailing boats delicately printed upon the early pages of said passport. Up until this point these things had meant nothing to me. A smiling, helpful, staff member now takes me in hand, and practically by the hand, and points to a row of Immigration entrance points. She is most patiently talking me through the process of entering Great Britain with my brand spanking new passport. I could not help but notice that she was young, of the Indian diaspora, and very professionally helping this sexagenarian. It has taken seconds. I remain amazed. Next is customs. I have nothing to declare and need do nothing except collect my no longer virgin, unnaturally green, suitcase, then walk the requisite distance to be able to alight an Underground train. Londonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Piccadilly Line feeds me to Holborn. From there I am transported, via the Central Line, to Liverpool Street Station. Then begins the struggle with my suitcase, up copious steps and escalators until the moment that I am trying to catch what breath I can, to continue my journey to Britainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s oldest recorded town. Liverpool Street Station has changed but a little in thirteen years. As I look around, Saturday evening louts run through the Station, hotly pursued by hosts of Keystone Kop policemen. Other loud louts disgorge from trains. They are already chanting their mindless, violent, chants, egging each other on, fists raised in the salute of thuggery. It is late. I am tired. The journey hangs on me as a lead overcoat. On the 13

St. Botolph's Priory

H Gunton delicatessen

Colchester bound train I am accosted by a red faced, obviously drunken, thin young man. He is enquiring if I am having a good day. Am I? It is an obvious challenge. To not answer would only incur the young man’s wrath. To answer incorrectly would do the same. ‘I’m feeling pretty tired right now.’ I answer truthfully. ‘I’ve been travelling for 21 hours’, ‘What, in London’ he replied somewhat intoxicatedly astounded. I said ‘no, from South East Asia’. He answered ‘Where?’ Is that, in London’. ‘Yes’, I said a little jaded, ’It’s like the South East of London’. He switches from tormenting me to targeting a young couple sitting opposite. Luckily, it is at that particular junction that the train pulls into Colchester, Central Station, and we all alight. It is a warm, pleasant, evening, but I am travel weary. Outside Colchester Central Station, I drag that unnaturally green Austin Reed suitcase across bumpy pavements, pedestrian crossings and past my past. Midstride I am verbally accosted by youths outside Gala Bingo, bellowing something probably offensive and challenging, but I am too tired, and my ears too un-attuned to their accents, to hear. I had intended walking the full distance to the Airbnb but, on second thoughts, a cab seems safer. It is tragic that I am beginning to feel far less safe in the country of my birth, than I have been living abroad for thirteen years. England seems very loutish now. Perhaps it always was. There was always the tussle between town and gown, with an emphasis on the Garrison part of the town. Young soldiers fresh from training or fresh from warfare, alcohol, and young local women are an explosive mix. But the garrison has been wound down now, relocated outside of the town and only the local yobs ply the streets with their inane challenges. The East, with all its racism and religious ranting, has not made me feel unsafe on the streets, while these three incidents in one evening, in England, have left me wishing for the comforts (and relative quiet) of that green idyll of my Eastern, beloved, home, its banana fronds, towering, sun grasping, coconut trees and large, spiky, fruits that smell like hell and taste like heaven. It was the Camalodunum of the Romans; the Colneceaster of the Saxons; and a favourite stronghold of the Danes. ... John Bartholomew's Gazetteer of the British Isles, 1887

It is seven thirty ante meridiem (am) on a very temperate morning. 15

Frank Wright & Son Butchers

Henry Collins and Joyce Pallot mural

The warm night plagued me like a mosquito, of which there are none, here. I am in the ancient East Anglian town of Colchester. According to that Internet oracle, the only establishment open for breakfast is the allAmerican McDonald’s. I have checked with Google, then Foursquare, then again with TripAdvisor, but cafes and restaurants seem to take there own sweet time in proffering the first meal of the day. I used to complain about the lack of choice in my Asian idyll, and yet, by 7.30am, there would be Chinese food; which basically means a variety of noodle dishes, fried or soup, Pau (steamed filled buns) or half- boiled eggs, or Mamak cuisine (Indian Muslim food which has a taste all of its own), and plenty of them in every direction you can swing a domestic animal in. This, you might agree, is better than the rubber and cardboard that is McDonald’s. There is nothing funny about leg cramps. I seem to suffer from them after long flights. Yesterday’s marathon brought on last night’s leg cramps, waking me at ridiculous times of the early morning. I still have the residue today after walking around town, pretending to be a tourist. Doctors say there is no prevention, and no cure. Thank you doctors. It is, therefore, with leg cramps acting as alarm clock, that I have finally given up on sleep. Regarding breakfast, I decide to wait for Tesco Express to open. Eventually I buy breakfast, lunch and sundries in what turned out to be an amazing, and very convenient Tesco mini-mart, if you remember to bring a bag that is. Britain does not give bags away lightly. But, before the Aladdin’s Cave of the Tesco Express, I have taken a Sunday morning stroll through Colchester town, being besieged by over a half-century of memories. There were days of schooling at the newly conjoined St. Helena Secondary Modern school. Finally males and females were allowed to freely mingle. I had cycled five miles from the far end of my village of Great Horkesley, to Colchester town. My grey steed was a ten-speed cycle hand-me-down from my brother. He, by that time, had bought his second car, a Mini, so his old damaged cycle, which had argued with an apple tree, and lost, was repaired for me. That bike gave me wings. I could fly into Nayland (Suffolk), wing into Colchester, down the back alley between Woolworths and the market, sliding on vegetable discards and 18

Henry Collins and Joyce Pallot mural

loving every minute of the early 1960s, Beatles, Stones, Kinks and riding that grey Rayleigh bicycle to my heart’s content. It became more than a steed, it was my bestest friend ever. But, and perhaps more importantly, I could cycle to the best bakery in Butt Road, Colchester, and buy marvellous sticky buns (iced buns), topped with sweet, white, icing, for my lunch. The school remains. The old meat market, which stood at the entrance to Sheepen Road (or sheep pen Road), has long gone, along with the New Market Tavern which had watered me with pints of Rosieless cider in my late, soon to be psychedelic, teen years. In The Last Don, Mario Puzo reminds us “What is past is past. Never go back. Not for excuses. Not for justification, not for happiness. You are what you are, the world is what it is.” The old home town did not feel the same, as I stepped down off the train. I have no Mama nor Papa to greet me. Places, shops, have switched around, so it was with a gladdened heart that I see Frank Wright & Sons (butchers since 1926), still displaying fine cuts of ‘English’ meat, sausages, packets of seemingly exotic stuffing and still surviving after all these many, many years. A rival, on another side of town - Gellar (Quality Butcher, opened in 1966) purveyor of fine meat pies and sausages enough to please any Punch, is now permanently closed. The shell of it stands as a reminder never to return. Never to go back and try to relive your 19

Meze at Mirra restaurant

Mirra Turkish, Mediterranean, Middle Eastern restaurant

memories, or pies. Opposite the stoic Frank Wright & Sons, still stands the derelict remains of my cinema going youth. The original Odeon cinema, built in 1931, had closed in 2002 and had entertained an inquisitive 13-year-old to many an ‘x’ film, blood, guts, gore and no small amount of titillation too and, as long the staff got their shillings they didn't seem to mind about the corruption of minors. The Odeon, ABC (1930-81) and the Cameo (previously the Electric Theatre, 1910-72) cinemas, which had once clustered around one side of the town of my youth, have long since perished. The Odeon, especially, looks forlorn. It is a poignant reminder of the further erosion of Colchester’s town centre. It has given over to clusters of Nuevo coffee houses, Costas, Starbucks, restaurants proffering anything but local (British) delicacies, and any number of ubiquitous charity shops. My quest to reveal good quality British food is off to a very shaky start. My first non-Tesco packaged meal, back in dear old Blighty is, in fact, Turkish. A mixture of Meze, a soupçon of Turkish coffee and, of course, the ever sweet Baklava beckoned. Who was I to deny its call. There must be an unwritten rule about dining on Turkish cuisine and the concept of a mandatory Baklava. It not, there should be. Turkish coffee should also be in bigger cups, so should Italian, but I digress. Nothing could hurt me more, than to see a great range of common covered with fern (pteris aquilina ) furze, (culex europaus ) and other spontaneous growth sufficiently luxuriant to shew the goodness of the land; and yet, within two miles of Colchester. Arthur Young, 1784 Tour of Suffolk. Unbeknownst to me, Monday is a Bank Holiday. A vague memory stirs. August Bank Holiday, aka St Lubbock's Day. Ah, it is Sunday all over again. No chance to hire a car today, nor to get a SIM card for my reasonably smart Samsung phone. England, it would seem, is going out of its way to make me exercise. So I walk. I bravely, and perhaps a tad stupidly, walk the 1.4 miles to the far reaches of Shrub End, never quite knowing which side of the footpath is not footpath and which is cycle way, it seems to change every few yards. I’m not used to cycle ways. Whizzing Lycra clad individuals, hell bent on out-pacing cars are a mystery to me. I had been a cyclist in the days when cyclists needed no helmet, Lycra or streamlining, and no separate roadways of their own. The problem now, is that cyclists, when not given 21

Road sign honouring Queen Boadicea

their side of the footpath to whiz by on, claim the footpath anyway. I have just got over the shock of the Drury Arms public house (founded 1914 as the British Hotel, renamed the Drury Hotel, and eventually the Drury Arms) being turned into a minuscule Sainsbury's supermarket, when a seemingly earnest young man, atop a modern cycle, hurtles along the pathway and nearly bowls me over. He does turn and apologise, but his words disappear with him has he races away, this time on the road. The absence of the Army garrison had already struck a blow. It was there that I lost my first love, Barbara, to a much older man who, incidentally had already left school and perhaps represented a more suave older man as opposed to naive, fifteen year old, me. Later, it was at that garrison that I had claimed my right to be a street sweeper, in the early 1970s. It couldn't, and didn't, last, thankfully. The very idea, that a garrison having been in Colchester since Anglo Saxon times would be overtaken by public housing, is a great surprise, nay a shock. It is one of many surprises en route to Shrub End. I pass Ralph and Rita Martin’s (the florist), expecting to also pass the football ground. I walk, and walk, and then walk some more and was beginning to doubt my navigating skills, when I come to Boadicea Way. Yes, I am on the right road. Okay, so what happened to Colchester United football ground. That football club, apparently, departed Layer Road and was subsumed into the Colchester Community Stadium, along United Way, outside of the main town and near the A12, in 2008. United Way? Back in Colchester town centre. Wimpy. Do you remember Wimpy? Wimpy (previously called the Wimpy bar) was the first fast food burger joint in England (1954), and Colchester still has a Wimpy. I do a double take, wipe my eyes, and it is still there. Wimpy was established in England a decade before Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC, 1965) Two decades before McDonald’s (1974) or, indeed, Burger King (1977). Wimpy competed with the established, mainly Italian run, coffeehouses as typified by Cliff Richards’ film Expresso Bongo (1960). Starbucks, which now seems to be everywhere, up and down England, in towns, villages and Services along motorways was only established in England during 1998 and, as of the 2016 statistics, there are now some 898 Starbucks in the UK. I avoid as many as possible, preferring Costa Coffee as it gives a better coffee experience, and is not American but was founded in the East End of London, by two immigrant Italian brothers - Bruno and Sergio Costa, in 1978. O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that (Shakespeare's King Lear, 1605) 22

Deja Vue is the feeling that you have been somewhere, or done something before. In a sense I had, been in Colchester before, but not this Bizzaro World Colchester. High Street landmark Willie G’s, or Williams & Griffin, has vanished. In its place is Fenwick from Newcastle upon Tyne, scary. I just dashed, well limped, down Castle Street to make sure that Colchester Castle was still there, and not some plastic covered, American owned, fun fare in its place. The Castle is still there. I stand, being washed with memories. I walk as the ghost of a schoolboy, runs through that Castle Park, fresh from school, to the Bus Park, buying American comics from the newsstand, eating bacon sandwiches dripping with liquid fat, waiting for the Great Horkesley ‘Norfolk’s’ bus which goes down to Nayland and eventually deposits that young me outside the Rose & Crown pub, and steps from my home. A nineteen year old me, in a dyed black army (first World War) great coat and pink scarf, leans up against a Norman archway and dreams romantic, poetic, dreams. Finally, as a forty-something Essex University ‘Gallery Studies’ post-graduate student I volunteer at Colchester Castle. The Bus Station too has gone, moved from its nest and entrance from East Hill to Osborne Street and Stanwell street with no cafeteria to sell bacon sarnies and no newsstand to proffer young schoolboys comics. In 1965 Bob Dylan toured Britain. D.A. Pennebaker captured that on a film which was to become ‘Don’t Look Back’. I had seen that film at what was the old Cameo Arts Cinema. Dylan was right, don’t look back, don’t go back, there is too much heartache, too many memories crushed by the harsh reality of progress and change. You can’t go back. Time is not frozen. Even our memories let us down. 23

Walking Woman by Sean Henry

Colchester

Creating a Future 25

The Minories Galleries houses a contemporary art gallery now run by Colchester School of Art. The site is also home to a shop selling some of the best art and crafts to be found across the region, and has meeting rooms for hire, and can also cater for weddings and other events. A listed Georgian building, The Minories is of local importance within the historic town of Colchester. The Victor Batte-Lay Foundation, over the years assisted by the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Friends of The Minoriesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; support group, have ensured the building be used to present art for the community of Colchester and visitors to the town. This has continued and now ensures the Colchester School of Art provides contemporary art and design in one of Colchesterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most distinctive buildings.

Benjamin Brown exhibition at The Minories

As well as the public gallery and shop, there is also the Batte-Lay Tea Rooms (run by Tiptree) and a wonderful walled garden that is looked after by The Friends of The Minories. The Minories is next door to Firstsite, Colchester’s new contemporary art space, in the centre of the town’s cultural quarter. Find out more about the latest events and exhibitions on The Minories website. The Galleries are open Monday – Saturday 10.00am – 5.00pm. Entry is Free. The Batte-Lay tea Rooms is open Monday – Saturday 9.30am – 5.00pm during the summer, and 9.30am – 4.00pm during the winter. The Garden, and some areas of the main Minories building are available for private hire, for business meetings, conferences or training sessions. The Gardens and Building are also a wonderful setting for wedding receptions, private parties and other celebrations. Contact us for more information. E-mail: the.minories@colchester.ac.uk

The Minories hallway

benjamin brown found in East Anglia

Red Bicycle Swimming with Nicholas

Benjamin Brown (b.1989) is an emerging artist living in Manningtree, the smallest town in the UK. He is working primarily with found materials, often employing energetic mark-making and vibrant strokes of colour. Self taught with no formal training, Benjamin Brown is a raw and promising young British artist. This year Benjamin started to exhibit his work. The Triptych Athos, Porthos, Aramis was 32

Fork's Sake

selected as one of the featured works in the Penarth Open. - Recently Benjamin has been experimenting with photography some of his photos have been selected for Martin Parr's - Essence of Essex exhibition at Firstsite. Benjamin released a book 'Paintings' which sold out within a week. You can now buy Fine Art prints at Benjamin's online shop -http:// benjaminbrown.bigcartel.com/ 33

colin mc allister Colin McAllister is a cartoonist and illustrator living in Colchester, working in black and white, pen and ink. His current drawing interests include local urban scenes, portraits and cartooning. His cartoons are microcosms of issues of interest, and, unlike most cartoons, require time to be studied in order to take in all the detail and action. He tells us that sometimes the subject matter is serious, sometimes sentimental and silly but whatever he is working on at the time has his full attention and he is always attempting to out-do his previous efforts without repeating himself. He has a love for interesting perspective and minute, exacting detail and attempts to use a piece of paper to its full capacity, leaving no subject detail left out. Colin also enjoys completing drawings which are updates of old masters paintings, reworked into my own style. He finds it interesting to begin with a wellknown composition and giving it his own modern twist. Colin also goes under the pseudonym â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Snublicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; and he calls his drawings Snublic Drawings. He aims to complete a drawing every month, either for himself or as a commission. Colin is an affiliated member of ENAS through CO3 Studios http://www.essexstudios.org.uk/users/snublic

Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Deep Dark Web

Brexit

2 Wrongs Makes a Right

Manufacturing Consent

New frontier

First Site's mission is to inspire people through innovative art and culture â&#x20AC;&#x201C; contributing to their regionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s well-being, learning and economy. Their inclusive and evolving programme immerses audiences in a wealth of visual arts that aim to bring art into the heart of our diverse community. They present exhibitions from both local and internationally renowned artists, run events, activities and learning workshops and show a wide range of films and live opera and ballet screenings. First Site believes 'that art in all its forms offers fresh perspectives on modern life. By encouraging dialogues between artists and audiences we aim to fire the imagination and stimulate new engagement and practice.' 46

ed gold: other worlds

A self-taught photographer, Ed Gold began documenting people and communities whilst working as a farm labourer in Essex in the 1980s. He holds a B/TEC National Diploma in Graphic Design from the Colchester Institute, a BA Hons in Design from the Colchester Institute, and an MA in Interactive Multimedia from Central Saint Martins. In 2001, Gold began taking photographs full-time, and has since been â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;homeless,â&#x20AC;&#x2122; choosing to forego a home base and instead live amongst some of the most unique and isolated societies on the planet. Communities that Gold has documented include Welsh Patagonians, the Inuit and Athabascan peoples, a family that lives in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, and the British and American military. His work has often featured on the BBC. 48

The presentation is made up a hundred photographs taken over a period spanning almost thirty years. These have been selected from Goldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s personal archive, and the various bodies of work chosen represent his ongoing interest in isolated communities (both geographic and social): Patagonia, Country Folk (Essex, Wales & Scotland), Afghanistan Bed Spaces, Positive Futures, and Nowitna, Alaska. In the spirit of Walker Evans and James Ageeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ground-breaking text and photo work, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, 1941, Gold embeds himself in the communities he records, living with them for up to three years, sharing their experiences and forming close relationships with those he portrays. 49

lubaina himid warp and weft

A key figure in the Black Arts Movement, Lubaina Himid first came to prominence in the 1980s when she began organising exhibitions of work by her peers, whom were under-represented in the contemporary art scene. Her diverse approach disrupts preconceptions of the world by introducing historical and contemporary stories of racial bias and acts of violence inflicted upon oppressed communities. Himid is best known as a painter, and Warp and Weft is comprised of three bodies of work in which the artist adopts the mantel of the History painter to question its imperialist tradition. By reinserting black figures into this arena of power and prestige, Himid foregrounds the contribution of people of the African diaspora to Western culture and 52

economy. The exhibition’s title, Warp and Weft, refers to the process by which threads are held in tension on a frame or loom to create cloth. Himid chose the title for its reference to Colchester’s important position in the wool trade between the 13th and 16th centuries, and its complex history of race and migration that is reflected in the productive tensions of Himid’s work.

Colchester Art Cafe

On a consistently warm, late August, morning the sun graced the expectant windows of a 500 year old Colchestrian building. On its way, that triumphant sun glinted off Colchester’s main Library and spectacularly highlighted trees at the rear of Colchester’s oldest surviving church, revealing the 11th Century Anglo Saxon tower belonging to the Holy Trinity Church, on Trinity Street, Colchester. Renown West Mersea watercolourist James Weaver, his chef wife and daughter have created both an art space and a thriving cafe in Britain's oldest recorded town. It is a sister cafe to their highly successful, and artfully situated Art Cafe on the island of West Mersea, also known for its famous oyster sheds. At their Colchester site, no. 7 Trinity Street, the Art Cafe’s 54

Colchester Art Cafe

antique, exposed beams punctuate the buildingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interior. In that 16th Century, Grade 2 listed building those beams are interspersed with intriguingly rendered white plastered walls appearing almost as artworks themselves. Despite the outside A board tempting me with bagels and salmon, I was quickly to learn that they were out of bounds, until lunchtime. Pouting a little, I ordered and eagerly devoured Eggs Benedict. I was informed that it comprised of a modicum of locally produced ham (from Suffolk) and free range eggs hailing from West Mersea, not to mention the lovingly, and freshly prepared hollandaise sauce. To accompany, I quaffed two, fine, flat white coffees. However, I became a little suspicious of their addictive quality, which seemed to be way above and beyond that of 55

West Mersea Art Cafe

mere caffeine, but I eventually put it down to the skill of the cafe staff, the beans and the machine. On the Art Cafe walls, Rod Shone's stark (black on white) celebrity linocuts brought the 'Art' to the notion of an Art Cafe. Pioneer at Sea, another (large) linocut, this time of the boat Pioneer and by James Dodds, added to the already cultured ambience of the antique building. That linocut held me in awe of its size for, as we know, the larger linocuts are the more difficult it is to get a good print from separating paper from inked linoleum. The Weavers had chosen well. Settling into an antique building so close to the town centre, while remaining subtly aside from it is an art in itself. Trinity Street has a long history of art, from the old Trinity Gallery, art space and art supplier, to the studios of Colchester artists which once graced the street. 56

West Mersea Art Cafe

The Artcafé, 2 Coast Road, West Mersea, Essex, CO5 8QE. Telephone 01206 385234 The Artcafé, 7a Trinity Street, Colchester Essex, CO1 1JN. Telephone 01206 577775

west mersea

Monkey Beach, West Mersea

Sign pointing down Monkey Steps

The time of year is upon us. The Mayor of Colchester, Colchester’s Chief Executive and the Town Sergeant are gathered together on the east of Mersea Island, near Colchester, supping gin and nibbling at gingerbread. These actions mark the opening of Colchester’s (Mersea’s) annual oyster fishery season. Once also known for its own concoction of pudding (Colchester Pudding, involving custard, fruit and tapioca), Colchester is, perhaps, much better known for its oysters. Since time immemorial, Colchester’s Mersea Island has been famous for what is called ‘Native’ oysters, native to the estuary and its surrounds. Colchester (or Mersea) oysters have been popular since before Roman times and, it is said, oysters may have been one reason why Romans invaded England in 43 AD. In 1189 AD, Colchester officially laid claim, by charter, to the Blackwater oyster beds in Mersea, now known as the Colchester ‘Native’ oyster beds, as one particular type of oyster (Ostrea edulis), known for its sumptuousness, grows there, and only there. In modernity, annually, on the first Friday of September, the incumbent Colchester Mayor traditionally travels, by boat, to the Pyefleet Channel. There a proclamation, dating back several hundred years, is read aloud. The civil leader (Mayor) dredges up and eats the first oyster of the season. This is followed by a toast of gin and a piece of gingerbread, dating back to 1540. And so the oyster season is begun. The actual Oyster Feast is held at the end of October and an Oyster Festival in June. After a recent Colchester Mayor had difficulties with the boat journey, the ceremony has been switched to land, and the Mayor handed a plate of oysters, rather than physically dredging for him/herself the prized bivalve mollusc. Somewhere, there is a black sketchbook containing my first few pen and ink sketches of houseboats on Mersea Island. It was in those preArt School days when Virgil Finlay and Aubrey Beardsley were my artist heroes, and before I became fascinated by the neo-Celtic works of Jim Fitzpatrick. I’ve not sketched, and especially not taken up my map pens and Rotring Ink, since transporting myself to South East Asia. Instead I use the camera on my phone to record the images that I am later to use 60

Garden Cottage Coast Road

for writing I walk, taking the footpath that runs counterpoise to the early morning work traffic, from my Airbnb lodging to the Town Railway Station bus stop (stop C). I anxiously await the 67A First Bus, to take me to the west of Mersea Island, from which I intend to walk to the oyster sheds. Mersea Island is Britain’s furthest Easterly island. It faces the English channel and is formed by the Pyefleet Channel to the north, and the Strood Channel to the west, which connects the Blackwater to the Colne. Mersea Island is therefore nestled between Brightlingsea and Brightlingsea Creek, on the one side, and Tollesbury and its ‘Blackwater Estuary National Nature Reserve’, on the other. A causeway bridge (originally built by Anglo-Saxons), and the B1025 road connects the island to the mainland, with traffic frequently impeded by tidal flooding on the Strood causeway. The three-quarters of an hour bus journey weaves me through the South East Essex countryside. With a talkative, retired, ex-charity worker bending my ear throughout, I try to glimpse the village of Peldon as we pass through, and eventually arrive at St. Peter and St. Paul’s Church, West Mersea (established somewhere between 654 AD and 1042 AD) 61

West Mersea splendour

British Seafood array

Fresh Mersea Blackberries

and is, apparently, considered to be Saxo-Norman). The threatened showers hold off. I strip my shell jacket off and, as I walk, I bask in the late Summer sun. I am washed by Mersea salty sea breezes to the comforting sound of curlews and the smell of Oyster Stout. Yes, Oyster Stout. Mersea Island has its own vineyard and brewery, tucked away down Rewalls Lane. Its brews include a traditional Oyster Stout called, surprisingly enough, Island Oyster. The brewers claim that It’s ‘superbly rich, and smooth, brewed with Mersea native oysters’ and has 5.1 % alcohol content, available in bottles and firkins. I cannot attest to that. I rarely drink beer, ale or stout unless its ice cold. Before ambling along the small road leading to the oyster sheds, fishers and one very traditional British seafood stall, I find myself on Monkey Beach. There is, of course, a dearth of monkeys. There are many stories as to how Monkey Beach and Monkey Steps got their name. Some claim that monkeys were once held in a cage, in the garden, at the dark clapboard cottage adjacent to that particular beach, others claim that Customs Officers (who some say were called Monkeys), had their smugglers look-out post there. The smuggling part is, at least true, as attested to by Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould (1834 – 1924) writing his famous novel (‘Mehalah’) concerning smugglers and smuggling there. That novel was based upon what the author could discover about 19th. Century Mersea Island, and the Blackwater area, during his decade of residence. In Mehalah, Sabine Baring-Gould uses names of people, places and buildings still in existence, in a novel which is, essentially, a smuggling romance. I stand on Monkey Beach. To my knowledge there are no smugglers present. The sky is an immaculate blue. Stones and sand crunch beneath my comfortable trainers, a breeze tugs gently at my shirt. In a perfect moment, I might toast a glass of sparking wine to a beloved, as we sit smiling inanely on a picnic rug, with crab salad before us and golden haired children playing happily on the sand, or in the water. But I am alone. I stir from that daydream and walk back up Monkey Steps and along a slight greensward, parallel to the rambling road. That stretch of coast seems quintessentially English. It has some of the best the sea has to offer, as well as all the traditional comforts of countryside, the blackberries, hawthorn, crab apples and, slightly away from the road, behind ageing cottages, domesticated apples, hazelnut trees, red squirrels and woodpeckers and, somewhere in the cooling Mersea waters, lives Sammy seal. 65

Mersea Natives Copyright Chrissie Westgate

Cleaning Oysters on Mersea Island

I walk past the bronzed young men stripped to the waist, washing nets full of freshly caught oysters, past the oyster ‘sheds’ and the restaurants, pubs and other eateries proclaiming the sale of fresh Mersea oysters. Like a carload or two, leaving disappointedly, I am too early. It is 10.35 in the morning, oysters are served at noon. I volte-face, leave the proffering of traditional British seafood from a white hut calling itself ‘The Dukes’, and its hundred year old history. I turn to return to the High Street, rejecting jellied eel, dressed crab, cooked pink prawns, cockles, smoked salmon, potted shrimps, whelks, rollmop herring and a platter as a combination of all mentioned, because half past ten on a bright, sunny morning is just too early to indulge in British seafood. 68

Native Oysters Mersea Island [Copyright Chrissie Westgate]

Shucking Competition on The Packer Marsh Copyright Chrissie Westgate

liz morris 'I trained as a painter at the Southern College of Art, Bournemouth, at Goldsmith's and the Central School, and only much later discovered etching at Morley College in South London. Living in Greenwich I taught art and ran a print making workshop in my studio, and was one of the founder members of the Greenwich Print makers, a co-operative with its own gallery. Living now on Mersea Island I belong to the Gainsborough’s House Print Workshop, and was for ten years a member of the East Anglian based 12PM Twelve Print makers. I am a print maker who enjoys islands and the sea, and my work has come to reflect two particular island environments. They are Mersea Island where I live and where I work in my studio, and Heir Island, a small island in West Cork where for years I have spent much of the summer, sailing, walking and drawing. Sea and sand patterns, shapes of stones, textures, imprints in mud and tracks of birds, fish, gulls - and most recently – sea myths and biblical stories with sea references, are all used as starting off points for my prints In recent years I have exhibited at the Royal Academy and at ‘Originals’, the contemporary print making show at the Mall Galleries. Also at the Barbican in print exhibitions 1996- 2000, and at the Affordable Art Show, Battersea. In East Anglia I have frequently shown at the Eastern Open at Kings Lynn. In 1999 I was awarded the Coley and Tilley prize by the Royal Birmingham Society of Artists, and in 2005 I was featured in the Anglian Television series ‘Coastal Inspirations’'.

On Packing Marsh Island

Footprints

The Multitude of Fishes.Ed100

chrissie westgate Chrissie is an international award-winning photographer with many years experience. She specialises in street and informal portraiture, and also enjoys all aspects of this art form. Chrissie says 'A photographic image can expose so many emotions and almost always transcends nations. Images are such a capable and powerful way of exposing situations of conflict and misery throughout the world and offer a compelling means of bringing about change. The essence of being a people photographer is gratitude. I am constantly grateful for the opportunity to see and spend time with people and to make images that allow me to share what I have seen with others. I can immerse myself in all genres of photography, and see it as a privilege to be asked to photograph a wedding or take family photographs, knowing they will be treasured and stay with those families forever. Landscape photography, particularly around my home on Mersea Island, can be enthralling. I find it difficult to describe that great 'inside thing' I get from creating an instant image that reflects how I felt at the moment I chose to press the shutter. However, if I had to find words, 'Harmony and 'Delight' would spring to mind. Harmony - for at the moment of capture I am utterly captivated and absorbed in my subject whatever it might be. Delight - as so many things delight me, but encapsulating a precious moment in time, such as the light dancing on the sea, or the sun setting is such a wonderful thing to be able to do.' Chrissie's work has been displayed at The Victoria and Albert Museum, The Mall Gallery, The Menier Gallery, The Royal Albert Hall, The Greenwich Museum, Liverpool Street Station and many local galleries. â&#x20AC;&#x2039; Prints ordered from this site will be printed using Fotospeed papers. https://www. fotospeed.com/ 74

Tom's hands Copyright Chrissie Westgate

Gerry the Boat Gypsy Copyright Chrissie Westgate

Ray Smith - Tomato Boat Man

The Old Jetty 'At Their Own Risk' Copyright Chrissie Westgate

london

The Annunciation, the Crucifixion and the Assumption) painted by the French artist, poet and film maker, Jean Cocteau, in1959

Yesterday I had taken the very same trip, albeit a little earlier and without the unnaturally green suitcase. Yesterday’s trip was to meet a significant University of Westminster academic, and to talk about the Chinese diaspora in London. Names such as Limehouse, Lao She (Lao Tze), Thomas Burke and the popular fiction of Sax Rohmer (aka Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward) were banded about in the lunchtime Illy Caffé. On that day, after gracefully enduring my questions, the prized academic had gone to her lectures, leaving molecules of her very feminine perfume behind to remind me of what had been a fragrant presence. I elected to walk to the modern incarnation of London’s China Town, now located within the area of Gerrard Street and Lisle Street with Chinese restaurants leaking into Wardour Street too. The walk took me past Veeraswamy’s restaurant, in Swallow Street, reputedly founded by the grandson of an English General and an Indian princess, and purports to be the oldest existing Indian restaurant in England (first opened in 1926). It is not, however, the first Indian restaurant in London. The Bengali owned Hindoostane Coffee House was certainly one of the first. It was established in 1809, by one Sake Dean Mahomed who had hailed from Patna, Bihar, India. He converted from Islam to Christianity to marry his love, and has the reputation of being the first Indian to publish a book in English. The Hindoostane Coffee House was situated at 34 George Street (renumbered as 102 George Street) in London’s Marylebone. As Veeraswamy’s restaurant was a tad beyond my pocket, I sauntered on to 5 Leicester Place, and into the Church of Notre Dame de France, to see the murals (The Annunciation, the Crucifixion and the Assumption) painted by the French artist, poet and film maker, Jean Cocteau, in 1959. Those intriguing murals were signed D.D.D Jean Cocteau, and with his characteristic star, one year later, in 1960. I luncheoned on the hoof, grabbing Roast Char Siu Pau (roast pork buns) from the Kowloon Bakery in China Town, and then to Liverpool Street Station and back to my Airbnb in Colchester.

Veeraswamyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s restaurant, in Swallow Street

Today, manhandling that unnatural green suitcase, now mostly filled with unwashed clothing, I board the train.

I am bored by the change of trains at Colchester North Station. Eventually I am deposited at Liverpool Street Station, swipe the barcode (nestling in my Samsung Edge 7) on the standing scanner, and head for something to eat. I am a little fidgety, full of cortisol and adrenalin, for today I am to meet my wife for the first time in nearly a month. I am, somewhat slowly, edging towards Heathrow Airport Terminal 4 and the landing of her Malaysian Airways flight, later in the day. I discover that Liverpool Street Station has little in the way of actual restaurants. True there are many kiosks with all kinds of panini, grilled sandwiches, even sushi and my favourite doughnuts (Krispy Kreme), but few places to eat them. I am loathe to go too far, what with that unnaturally green suitcase and its minuscule wheels and all, so I limit myself to what is being proffered on the station itself. Very little as it turns out. The Merchant at Bishopsgate, actually on the station, expects nearly eleven pounds (actually ÂŁ10.95) for what it calls Proper Fish and Chips. I end up dragging that unnaturally green suitcase up five steps and am having a bowl of Moroccan soup and two croissants from the Camden Food Company. The afternoon spreads before me. I am not due at Heathrow until 5pm. Do I dilly dally along the way, ever pushing or dragging my burden with me, or do I begin the journey just in case of unforeseen difficulties along the way. Eventually I chose the latter. You might have thought that transiting to Heathrow Terminal 4, via the London Underground would be a simple matter. It is not. It was not the changing of lines from the Central Line to Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, that was the problem, but actually getting to Terminal 4. Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 and 5 are serviced by one Underground train, Terminal 4 by another, separate train. Do not assume that Terminals 1,2,3 and 5 on the front of an Underground train automatically means that Terminal 4 is inclusive of this array. It is not. So here I am, having manhandled my unnaturally green suitcase, up and down steps from Liverpool Street Station, through the Central Line, changing at Holborn, and onto the Piccadilly Line where I assumed that it was safe to board a train, any train, heading towards Heathrow. It was 86

not safe. It was a false assumption. There are twenty-five stops between London Liverpool Street Station and Heathrow Terminal 4. It takes about seventy minutes to complete, on a good day. It was not a good day. I had boarded a train marked Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 and 5, and it was only at Hatton Cross that the strange metallic Underground Dalek suggested that I might want to change trains to reach Terminal 4. Realisation had struck. I was on the wrong train. I shot out of that Underground train carriage, propelling my unnatural green suitcase at speed, onto the platform and wistfully watched the train pull out of Hatton Cross station, with but a handful of fellow travellers stranded at Hatton Cross station. That is okay, I think to myself. This is London. This is the oldest, most professional underground railway system in the world. It had begun way back in 1890, as the Metropolitan Railway, while the line that I am on hails from the early days of the 20th Century (1901). I think, with all that history, and experience that it would be a small matter to hop onto Hatton Cross station, wait a modicum of minutes then hop back onto a train to my destination (Heathrow Terminal 4). That does not happen. I, and others, watch as three trains pull in and pull out of the station, all headed to Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 and 5, one comes in 4 minutes. Another comes at 12 minutes. The other arrives in 25 minutes, and only then is Heathrow Terminal 4 mentioned. It is a delay in the region of 40 minutes, and it is at this point that I am so glad that I began my journey early. The journey from Hatton Cross to Heathrow Terminal 4 takes an irritating two minutes. Hatton Cross to Heathrow Terminal 4 is so near, yet so far. I am still early. I settle in at Cafè Nero, one of only three possible venues to grab coffee and something resembling food at Heathrow Terminal 4 Arrivals. I begin to read a novel from my tablet. I stop reading. My brain is too vexed and tired. I look around. I 'play, play' with Facebook. I read and re-read my dear wife’s last ‘Private Message’ to me ‘On the way to airport. Don’t have time to sleep. Work until 5.30am, shower and leave home. See you soon’. ‘Soon’ is, of course, relative. For me, sitting at Cafè Nero, soon might be interpreted as a few minutes, ten, maybe twenty minutes. Whereas ‘soon’ from another perspective might mean, ‘as soon as I reach Kuala Lumpur International Airport, drop baggage, exit immigration, wait for flight boarding, board the aeroplane heading towards London, endure the near 14 hour flight, exit plane, tackle immigration, pick up baggage from the carousel and walk, tired and weary, through customs and finally out at Heathrow Terminal 4, Arrivals’.

I wait.

There on that concourse, children cry or run hither thither. People meet and greet. People come and go, and I have no idea if they are talking of Michelangelo.

Terminal 4 Heathrow Airport

The Arrivals hall seems the perfect place to practise patience. There is, after all, little choice. All the ranting and raving, all the anxiety in the world will not bring your loved ones back to you any sooner. It is all to do with fate, or karma (Kamma as some say). The universe brings or takes away. In the fullness of an engorged time she will appear. I know that as a certainty. And yet, the devil on the left shoulder whispers of missing flights; being held in immigration; of not being allowed into my country. The angel on the right shoulder smiles a beneficent smile, shrugs and suggests that I wait and see. So, with just the teeny amount of doubt, I wait. And then, at exactly the moment the universe has decreed, through the left hand doorway, a bronze suitcase proves to be the advance guard. She is here. I cannot extinguish the huge grin on my lips. My heart is pounding. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a love attack. She is safe and she is here, in front of me, also grinning. This Road Trip has begun, all the rest was but a preamble. Having exited from the Hertz shuttle bus, we discover that Hertz is a tad out of our price range. The only car they have left, at such an advanced time of the afternoon, requests me to part with an arm and a leg. I am fond of my body parts. Fortunately, a very kind employee takes us to one side. He points towards a rival company (Enterprise Rent-A-Car) next door. I say next door, but next door is a couple of hundred yards away, a bit of a push with two suitcases and sundry bags. But we make it. The deal is done. We drive away in a black Vauxhall Mokka automatic and head towards the motorway. Despite it being close to workers knocking off time, the drive out to the M3 and then the A303 is straightforward, once I have discovered which side the indicators and windscreen wipers are on, that is. I had booked an Airbnb overnight stay, online, at a homestay near Stonehenge (actually half an hour away) and, using the trusty Waze app on my phone, found Coombe Bissett, near Salisbury, Wiltshire. With little effort. 89

wiltshire

part two

road trip uk

duo

Grounds & Gardens by Honey Khor

Well kept hens eggs, just in case

The hosts, the (farm) house, the proffered glass of wine, the kitchen decor (replete with colourful budgerigars) all engender a very warm welcome. Pink bougainvillea tangle with a deeper pink fuchsia on a mezzanine frame beneath the kitchen ceiling, The kitchen itself is half conservatory, half white painted wood, ornamented, and spacious. It is a dream. Eggs are kept in a small wooden chicken coop lest they run away, or are bothered by one of the foxes close by. Real, pink, and white orchids peek at us from every turn.

And so to bed.

This morning, the steaming light illuminates foxes. A fox motif quickly reveals itself amongst the plethora of farmhouse objects d’art, in what has turned out to be a magnificently decorated home. There is a small print of a running fox on the wall. A photo of a fox as he is half hidden amongst the bracken, which for some reason reminds me of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped and David Balfour’s journey. Beatrix Potter’s Mr Tod is framed and on the wall, while a stuffed cushion of a fox in hunting gear (Hanford’s English Hunt Plush Mr Fox perhaps, in his red coat outfit) sits on an antique wooden cane back chair. Breakfast reveals homemade marmalade and jam. It is all very, very English, from the hunting scenes on the walls of the kitche, to the green garden view the windows allow. I could not have wished for a better place to introduce Honey to England.

Heaven. 92

Freddie Fox Tapestry Cushion

Airy Kitchen by Honey Khor

Today it is Stonehenge.

That magnificent late neolithic stone structure on Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, mystically draws us to it. Many years ago, when I had first visited Stonehenge (constructed about 5,000 years ago), it was still possible to walk among the stones, sense those ancient vibes and really get to feel at one with the ley-lines (lines of energy) and the ancients who had contracted that imposing circle, other circles, and groupings of standing stones in the vicinity.

Visitors by Honey Khor

As well as Stonehenge, scientists now believe that they have discovered the remains of an even larger ‘Stonehenge’, laughingly titled ‘Superhenge’. What remains are thirty stones (out of a possible ninety originally) some fifteen feet tall, and nearly two miles away from the monument that we know and love. This follows the news that there was a wood henge, built about 2300 BC, in the same vicinity, mostly destroyed by farming but now marked by concrete posts for posterity. These snippets of news take nothing away from the mysteries and magic of the existing structure but, rather, add to the awe we feel when we come to gazing at Stonehenge.

Stonehenge is beset with rain. We hustle from the carpark to the visitor’s centre, glad for our hooded ‘shells’ as it is too windy for umbrellas. Briefly stopping for a gulp or two of Fentiman’s (established 1905) botanically brewed Wild English Elderflower drink, we damply mooch towards the bus stop. Along with buses of others, equally garbed for the inclement weather. We are transported to a destination fifty yards or so from the standing stones themselves. Not even the English rain can take away the splendour and mystery of the sight before us. Though one Indian gentleman does try. Calmly, and with the weight of wisdom showing in his face, he asserts that Stonehenge is

We arrive after a leisurely drive

boring, for it is not carved like the Khajuraho group of monuments in India. Honey and I are stunned. We are unable to fling back a witty retort, but mumble to each other about the inappropriateness of his assertion. The Khajuraho grouping is, of course, young in comparison to Stonehenge, Khajuraho was built between 950 and 1050 AD, and is at the very least two thousand years younger than Stonehenge. That misguided gentleman takes nothing away from our interest. The rain eases enough for Honey, in her brilliant red and sombre black jacket, to make a sketch or three. The rainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easing allows us to stand and gaze when standing and gazing is necessary, jump up and down for cameras on

our phones, when our spirits are themselves risen, and even sit and muse at the questions the distant stones continue to pose. Visitors from divers countries snap away, as do we. Selfies are taken with Stonehenge, like family shots, with Stonehenge as the aged parent in the back row.

devon

Paignton sea side

100

101

I have never, yet, been to The Riviera, the French one that is. Some wag, perhaps in his cups, or a sworn pasty, scrumpy cider and clotted cream addict desperate for a fix, has named the Torbay area, in which sits Paignton, the English Riviera, and a quick re-branding has hailed Paignton as the Historic Heart of the English Riviera. I can think of no other reason why Paignton should have been named so. That is Paignton, not I hasten to add, Peyton Place which sounds similar but was a somewhat mucky American book by Grace Metalious (1956), followed by a dubious TV series (1964 to 1969). It was hardly a taxing drive via the A303, A30 and A380 etcetera. It was simply two hours (plus) of reasonable road and a roadside lunch so memorable that I have clean forgotten where we ate, or what. Perhaps it was because our minds were otherwise engaged on the company to come, the sheer delight of meeting old friends and learning more about each other. So, the seaside town in which they lived, was important in so much as they lived there, and it happened to be Paignton. As it turned out, Paignton was reminiscent of another seaside town, Clacton-on Sea, where I had spent a decade of my life watching seagulls, strolling sands and listening to the music of the waves. However, Paignton is a tad more upmarket. There are those who may indicate anything is more upmarket than Clacton, but I digress. Paignton is yet another of those Anglo-Saxon settlements, also written about in the famous Doomesday Book of 1086 A.D. (as Peynton), beginning as a fishing village and, eventually, with the building of first a railway in 1859 and the construction of a pier in 1879, became a seaside resort bringing Victorian red sand, sea and whelk lovers down from London to sniff the saline air. Honey had brought rainbows with her. We stand in an English Riviera carpark, just down the road from Paignton, in Torquay, and my favourite Chinese Malaysian artist holds a rainbow in her hand. It is not the first rainbow to spring into being during this trip, but the first to silhouette Torbay Palms making me a little homesick for Malaysia.

Honey and the rainbow in Torbay

102

Fish & Chips by Honey Khor

Back in Paignton, in the morning, we forage for breakfast after a night of wine, women and talking about my friend’s ceramics and photography, the songs of Pink Floyd and images of the Mexican Day of the Dead, we have headed for Frankie’s (Breakfast Bar & Coffee House), on our friend’s recommendation. Over the course of (almost) a month in Britain I have become a little fond of the (great) British breakfast. Therein lies robust Cumberland sausages filled to the skin with at the very least 80% coarse chopped pork, spices and real gristle (most satisfying). The breakfast continues with two slices of real (that is to say pork, not chicken, turkey or beef ) back bacon which are heavenly, and fresh (not tinned) fried mushrooms, which gives the breakfast before me the edge over many. All this comes with lightly fried eggs (two), actual tomatoes (again not tinned) and, in this case, a foreign object. It is an obvious fact that New York Hash browns (previously called Hashed Brown Potatoes) are not British, and have no recourse to be resident within a British Breakfast, especially mine. Hash Browns may have a history dating back to the 1880s, mentioned by Maria Parloa in her book 'The Original Appledore Cook Book' (1872, page 82) simply as ‘Browned Potatoes’, but in her 'Miss Parloa’s Kitchen Companion' (1887, page 501) as ‘Hashed and Browned Potatoes', does not give them the right to invade my breakfast, however, that did not stop me from eating them. 103

Redcliffe Towers, Paignton

Today it rains. Sometimes it rains that miserable, cold, British rain, sometimes it is a little meatier and forces us to run for cover. After the delight of Frankie’s breakfast, Our experience of the Paignton seaside is dashing in and out of the, conveniently placed, shelters alternating in shedding our jackets, due to the late Summer warmth, and hastily replacing them and dashing for shelter. In between, thunderous battleship grey clouds part slightly to reveal delicate blue skies, then more rain. Between the lashings of heaven sent water, and feeling a little windswept but not interesting, we stroll the ‘South West Coastal Path’ along Paignton’s promenade, to the somewhat imposing Redcliffe Hotel, (aka Redcliffe Towers), as it stands castle-like on the Paignton seafront, along Paignton Marine Drive and imposingly overlooking the smooth red sands. Colonel Robert Smith, architect and artist, had sketched and painted many hundreds of British troops in India, and life in the East India Company, alongside views of Indian temples, monuments and landscapes. He retired as an engineer, formerly of the Bengal Engineers, and between 1852 and 1864 had constructed Redcliffe Towers with styles borrowed from British, Indian and Italian architecture. Being in Devon, it would have been most remiss to deprive my love of her Cream Tea. Devon and Cornwall are famous, or is that infamous, for Cream Teas. Cream teas, made exclusively from local ingredients, had began in the 1850s with the advent of greater tourism into the ‘West Country’. They are now advertised everywhere in Paignton, ranging from the ‘scrumptious’ to the vin ordinaire, with every variation in-between. Cream Teas comprise of butter, a scone (or scones), jam (preferably home made or Tiptree jam) and clotted cream - the wonderful smooth, yellow, cream only found in Devonshire, Cornwall and Yorkshire, and tea, preferably a pot. Incidentally, ‘Clotted Cream’ is made from heating un-pasteurised cow's milk which is left in a shallow pan for many hours. The cream rises to the surface and ‘clots’, giving a characteristic skin or rind, which many favour over the cream itself. Supping of the fermented grape, teas with yellow cream and wet walks along coastal beaches must, eventually, come to a close. We bade teary farewells and exited Devonshire, heading towards Wales and fresh adventures. 104

scrumptious

CREAM TEAS

Cream Tea with Devonishire Clotted Cream

105

nick bellamy Creating with clay came relatively late into my life. Prior to this I was a senior graphic designer for a large design company for nearly 20 years. Unfortunately, throughout my adolescence and adulthood I suffered many periods of depression which fluctuated in intensity and length. It wasn't until early forties that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder (manic depression). Though this news came as a great shock to hear, in actual fact it answered many unanswered questions for me. It explained why I constantly lived with high states of manic elation through to the opposite state of utter despair. The condition I was informed would not erase itself from my brain, it required management for the rest of my life in the form of medication and specialised talk therapy. Around this period of time I was forced to accept that the working environment profoundly and negatively affected my emotions and mood levels. In late 2008 I made the decision to leave work on

106

these medical grounds to seek a more stable quality of life. I also moved to coastal South Devon. The following year I found a pottery in the area, in fact it was a mental health wellbeing charity. It had a primary goal of using the creation of ceramics to help people combat the feelings of depression. I began to volunteer at their workshops as well as learning about the many processes of using clay myself. It was such a cathartic and grounding experience to partake in. Even though I discovered clay by chance, I know now that it entered my life just when I needed it. Since then it has given me positivity of thought, emotion, and mood, a freedom of creativity, and a wonderful sense of wellbeing. Photos by Regina Lafay Bellamy

107