Atlantic Thread and other Stories
Good morning all, I hope this finds you well. It's wild and windy outdoors- great weather to be by the ocean perhaps, for all its rejuvenating qualities of blowing the cobwebs away, but also the weather that exposes the dangerous power of the ocean too, picturing people literally battening down their hatches...but I'm in London, so it's a more prosaic case of putting on a coat and a scarf.
And if you are in London too, please come along and see my exhibition 'Atlantic Thread and Other Stories' The opening will be on Tuesday 9th April, 5.30-9, at the lovely Apple Tree pub in Clerkenwell. This is when I'll unveil the blanket, to show with the map, photographs, and some other pieces of textile art. I will also bring along my Twelve Steps sculpture for the opening, and all the rest will be up for 2 months, during which I'll do two or three crochet workshops. I chose this place because it's been fairly recently taken over, with a view to make a true community pub. It's beautifully decorated downstairs, you need to climb a colourful rainbow staircase to the function room where the exhibition will be, and they use their rooms for shows, discussion groups and to hire out to therapists and groups...it's a real public house. Full details of the opening here, and if you pledged for a scarf, please wear it along!:
https://www.facebook.com/events/2170551099924942/
And now back to the story of the trip...After my 2 month interruption, I arrived back in Portugal on the winter solstice, to the lovely Tavira. It's decked out beautifully with decoration for Christmas, but not over the top; and I didn't feel that overwhelming sense of preXmas tension that you feel even in small towns in the UK. Staying in an ecofriendly lodging house with crochet curtains, I feel quite at home! I visited two shops here; Casa de Malhas, a fabulous haberdashery, and O Comercio Popular- which sells absolutely everything, and has a gorgeous window display of crochet covered furtniture. I got some lovely blues in cotton, silk and wool for the blanket, and enjoyed wandering around the streets, taking a tiny toytown train to the islands of Tavira. Well worth a visit for the seafood, and also to see the haunting installation of hundreds of half buried anchors; to remember all the fisherfolk who have lost their lives at sea. It was a gorgeous sunny day, but remembering it on this blustery day that I am writing, it seems yet more poiganant.
Crossing the border on the bus into Sapin, the border seems much more fluid here than in the North. The landscape doesn't change...this is all Al Andalus, the southern part of Iberia, ruled by Berbers from Morocco, only becoming separated when the kings of Spain and Portugal invaded from the north. The Moorish influence is everywhere, especially in the architecture- but arriving in Huelva, we're definitely in Western Europe. All the pre-Xmas tension that I find hard to cope with in the UK is here too. Except in the tantalalisingly gorgeous yarn shop that I can see, but has closed early. I kind of admire it though; everywhere else is staying open as long as possible to get those stressed Xmas shoppers, but they seem to have been more like, sorry, got things to do; if you can't sort out your yarn buying earlier in December, then you'd best shear your own sheep. The Xmas lights in Huelva are breathtaking- a huge cathedral of colourful glow in one square, but I can't say I warmed to the city; perhaps you need more time to discover the soul of this city.
My next stop was Cadiz, where you really only need a few seconds to find soul. It's old- continuously inhabited for over 3,000 years, it's the oldest confirmed city in the whole of Europe, originally built, like Tunis across the water, by Phoenicians sailors and settlers from the eastern Mediterranean, who at that time also used to sail up the Atlantic Coast to Cornwall for tin. In the main square that night was the most incredible live flamenco in front of the Town Hall, which bears a huge banner saying 'For an Open Door Europe: Borders Kill'. How refreshing, especially as I come from a country which has decided to create a hostile environment for immigration, to see this on the front line. This is where migrants in tiny boats actually arrive, across the straits of Gibraltar from Africa. These straits haven't always been a border, so to see this city welcome migrants while politicians and journalists 1,500 miles further north rail against them is really hopeful. And the sounds of flamenco, the Andalusian fusion of Berber, Arab, Jewish and Roma sounds also gives hope. Cadiz was the home of Camaron de la Isla who made incredible music...have a listen!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vT8OBl_E08Q
The next morning was on the bus to Tarifa (there really shouldn't be two places called Tavira and Tarifa so close to each other, it's enormously confusing). From the beach here, Morocco looks as close as just the other side of the Thames. It's Xmas Eve, and it is just as mental as in London. I'm feeling pretty awful here, wracked with grief, wanting to be away from the revelling hoards and feeling decidely poorly, so it's garlic soup for dinner and an early night. Feeling much better on Christmas morning, we went to catch the boat to Tangier; a really calm short crossing. I'm sure it's very efficient in that everyone has to queue and get their passport stamped on the boat, but it does mean that you don't really have time to gaze at the sea and land either side, which is what I love to do on a boat.
Arriving in tangier, the first relief was being away from Christmas; it's a busy and bustling modern city, but Christmas is just like any other day here, and the second relief was a really hearty tagine and mint tea. I'm very amused by the tangerine trees everywhere; it feels a bit surreal to be eating a Tangier tangerine in Tangier while waiting for the car hire to be sorted. We don't have much time to get to Chefchaouen by nightfall, so we rushed to the suburban industrial estate in a vain attempt to find the cotton mill. Those places are so hard to navigate anyway, and it's one of the few places where all the signage is only in Arabic, not French, so we headed out from there, driving up higher and higher through spoectacular valleys into the Rif mountains to Chefchaouen, the blue city....
The story continues and concludes next week. Wishing you all love and light...and hope, Billy xxxxx
And if you are in London too, please come along and see my exhibition 'Atlantic Thread and Other Stories' The opening will be on Tuesday 9th April, 5.30-9, at the lovely Apple Tree pub in Clerkenwell. This is when I'll unveil the blanket, to show with the map, photographs, and some other pieces of textile art. I will also bring along my Twelve Steps sculpture for the opening, and all the rest will be up for 2 months, during which I'll do two or three crochet workshops. I chose this place because it's been fairly recently taken over, with a view to make a true community pub. It's beautifully decorated downstairs, you need to climb a colourful rainbow staircase to the function room where the exhibition will be, and they use their rooms for shows, discussion groups and to hire out to therapists and groups...it's a real public house. Full details of the opening here, and if you pledged for a scarf, please wear it along!:
https://www.facebook.com/events/2170551099924942/
And now back to the story of the trip...After my 2 month interruption, I arrived back in Portugal on the winter solstice, to the lovely Tavira. It's decked out beautifully with decoration for Christmas, but not over the top; and I didn't feel that overwhelming sense of preXmas tension that you feel even in small towns in the UK. Staying in an ecofriendly lodging house with crochet curtains, I feel quite at home! I visited two shops here; Casa de Malhas, a fabulous haberdashery, and O Comercio Popular- which sells absolutely everything, and has a gorgeous window display of crochet covered furtniture. I got some lovely blues in cotton, silk and wool for the blanket, and enjoyed wandering around the streets, taking a tiny toytown train to the islands of Tavira. Well worth a visit for the seafood, and also to see the haunting installation of hundreds of half buried anchors; to remember all the fisherfolk who have lost their lives at sea. It was a gorgeous sunny day, but remembering it on this blustery day that I am writing, it seems yet more poiganant.
Crossing the border on the bus into Sapin, the border seems much more fluid here than in the North. The landscape doesn't change...this is all Al Andalus, the southern part of Iberia, ruled by Berbers from Morocco, only becoming separated when the kings of Spain and Portugal invaded from the north. The Moorish influence is everywhere, especially in the architecture- but arriving in Huelva, we're definitely in Western Europe. All the pre-Xmas tension that I find hard to cope with in the UK is here too. Except in the tantalalisingly gorgeous yarn shop that I can see, but has closed early. I kind of admire it though; everywhere else is staying open as long as possible to get those stressed Xmas shoppers, but they seem to have been more like, sorry, got things to do; if you can't sort out your yarn buying earlier in December, then you'd best shear your own sheep. The Xmas lights in Huelva are breathtaking- a huge cathedral of colourful glow in one square, but I can't say I warmed to the city; perhaps you need more time to discover the soul of this city.
My next stop was Cadiz, where you really only need a few seconds to find soul. It's old- continuously inhabited for over 3,000 years, it's the oldest confirmed city in the whole of Europe, originally built, like Tunis across the water, by Phoenicians sailors and settlers from the eastern Mediterranean, who at that time also used to sail up the Atlantic Coast to Cornwall for tin. In the main square that night was the most incredible live flamenco in front of the Town Hall, which bears a huge banner saying 'For an Open Door Europe: Borders Kill'. How refreshing, especially as I come from a country which has decided to create a hostile environment for immigration, to see this on the front line. This is where migrants in tiny boats actually arrive, across the straits of Gibraltar from Africa. These straits haven't always been a border, so to see this city welcome migrants while politicians and journalists 1,500 miles further north rail against them is really hopeful. And the sounds of flamenco, the Andalusian fusion of Berber, Arab, Jewish and Roma sounds also gives hope. Cadiz was the home of Camaron de la Isla who made incredible music...have a listen!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vT8OBl_E08Q
The next morning was on the bus to Tarifa (there really shouldn't be two places called Tavira and Tarifa so close to each other, it's enormously confusing). From the beach here, Morocco looks as close as just the other side of the Thames. It's Xmas Eve, and it is just as mental as in London. I'm feeling pretty awful here, wracked with grief, wanting to be away from the revelling hoards and feeling decidely poorly, so it's garlic soup for dinner and an early night. Feeling much better on Christmas morning, we went to catch the boat to Tangier; a really calm short crossing. I'm sure it's very efficient in that everyone has to queue and get their passport stamped on the boat, but it does mean that you don't really have time to gaze at the sea and land either side, which is what I love to do on a boat.
Arriving in tangier, the first relief was being away from Christmas; it's a busy and bustling modern city, but Christmas is just like any other day here, and the second relief was a really hearty tagine and mint tea. I'm very amused by the tangerine trees everywhere; it feels a bit surreal to be eating a Tangier tangerine in Tangier while waiting for the car hire to be sorted. We don't have much time to get to Chefchaouen by nightfall, so we rushed to the suburban industrial estate in a vain attempt to find the cotton mill. Those places are so hard to navigate anyway, and it's one of the few places where all the signage is only in Arabic, not French, so we headed out from there, driving up higher and higher through spoectacular valleys into the Rif mountains to Chefchaouen, the blue city....
The story continues and concludes next week. Wishing you all love and light...and hope, Billy xxxxx
Comments
Post a Comment