Lizards, Cane-work, Fruit, Flowers and Embroidery

A colony of little solar-powered lizards flatten themselves against the warm black volcanic rocks. As they reach optimum temperature they raise themselves on their four tiny legs and scamper off, zig-zagging between the cobbles on their frantic lizardy business. I sit so still that the flowers on my skirt interest one of them who skitters up for closer examination, then skitters down again for a quick look in my handbag.
These little creatures are brownish-khaki with white stripes and vary between four and eight inches in length.
I am in Madeira, so they may be Portuguese or Madeiran, because the origins of many things here seem to be open to debate. I sit still in warm sunshine while they continue their important businesses, turning over tiny scraps of leaf and finding things infinitesimal but delectable underneath.
I hear that it's snowing back in England, so I sit some more, only discovering too late that I have burned in the hot sun and stiff Atlantic breeze.
More active humans pass by and the lizards flicker into the myriad cracks of the stone walling but they, in turn, generate shrieks of horror from the German ladies tramping past.
Everyone seems scared of everyone else. But not of me. Old ladies can be invisible.

I am sitting in the President's Garden in Funchal.
What a kind President.
He has beautifully labelled and manicured gardens, and when the gates are open anyone can stroll in and enjoy  them. The only thing I'm not too keen on is his collection of Macaws in an aviary. They scream constantly, and have an avian monopoly on the place. Madeira is not on any of the great migration routes and there are not so many other birds around apart from sea-gulls and pigeons, so the Macaws are unchallenged as they shriek their messages over the marina.

I have not been here before, and I am captivated by the drama of the landscape and the fecundity of the rich red earth, so rich that it goes on producing fruit, flowers and vegetables all through the frost-free year. Three crops of potatoes a year, bananas by the ton, papaya and sugar-cane, all grown on steep terraces on precipitous hillsides. The work is all done by hand, the land being too steep for machinery.

Willow is grown, often to spectacular heights in the damp mountains. Then it is peeled and boiled and hand-woven into baskets and furniture and mirror frames as well as into a  veritable zoo of creatures, including anatomically correct dogs.
Camacha, in the hills above Funchal, is the centre of the cane-work business. It remains a cottage industry, with workers being paid by piece-rate, but the village is now dominated by showroom, shop and parking facilities. Madeiran crafts are threatened by much cheaper imports, mainly from the Far East, and the makers attempt to protect their products marking them with a seal of authenticity under the IBTAM ( Instituto be Bordados, Tapecaria e Artesanto de Madeira). Conservatory furniture remains expensive and difficult to transport back home.

                     A  few of the thousands of  embroidery patterns stored by the factory of Joao de Souse Viola, Funchal.

Sadly something of  the same may be said of the other Madeiran craft of cut-work embroidery, which was probably at the zenith of  its fame in Victorian times, having been made popular by the Great Exhibition of 1851. The emboiderers are still home-workers, paid by  the stitch, although the 'factories' print the cloths, prepare the threads and market the finished products. These 'factories' now hope to survive on customer loyalty, with a client base of rich customers for whom they make personalised items such as table wares of specific sizes, embroidered with armorial bearings. Their work is of very fine quality, but however much I love my grand-daughter I am not able nor willing to pay upwards of £80 for a baby-sized dress.

As I continue to sit among the lizards I look at all these giant, rampant plants that I fail to grow at home. Things that struggle in a conservatory reach up to twenty feet here - the Bird of Paradise flower is a tree, as is Aloe Vera, and Agaves are great succulent things that people carved their names into. Bougainvillaea clambers everywhere, turning walls purple, and orchids bloom happily in flower beds - and yet it is still technically winter.
There are dates and passion-fruits and mangoes and there is, of course, Madeira wine.

The lizards and I like it here.

Responding to Molly.

                                                       
                                                                                            I lived here, long ago.



A little while ago Molly issued a challenge. I couldn't respond to it at the time, but now perhaps I can see and feel my way into the murky past - something I am usually reluctant to do.

I am from confused memories of air-raid sirens and droning aircraft and a fear of fire in the night. From  a time when there were unfenced pits and ponds and crumbling, glass-sharded buildings to trap the unwary explorer. From a time when knees were scabbed by tree-climbing but hair was constrained into plaits, doubly secured with rubber bands and hair-ribbons.
A place and time where things were rationed, and there were coupons, and clothes were handed down from cousins who were older and larger and very differently shaped.
From a time when food was valuable and had to be eaten no matter how much it was hated, and where there were little children starving in far off countries who could be saved by the scraps I refused to eat, so that the guilt was compounded.
From a time when the long-anticipated taste of chocolate was found to be actually pretty disgusting (until the sweet tooth grew).
A time when so much was scarce that inventiveness was rife.

I am from a joyful, illogical time when ten-year old girls could roam wild and free on battered bikes, only having to return home as it grew dark, but then be caned at school for a failure to learn the nine-times table.
An incomprehensible world of limitless freedoms and savage restrictions.

I am from the magical world of the written word, and the endlessly captivating charms of the spoken word on the radio. A time when the images and visions were all my own, and there was mystery around every corner.

Then, a bit later, I came from a world of deep segregation, boy from girl, clever from not clever, child from adult; a place where our separate worlds seldom collided until, at the age of eighteen, there emerged fully-formed, middle-aged adults from the scarred chrysalis of childhood.

More Signs of the Times

(Nearly) always something to raise a smile on my morning walk!

Pick the Mushrooms - Don't Drink the Water.

                                                                             Black Sea coast below Krymsk.

On the internal Russian flight with Ural Airways we are offered sweets and sick-bags before take-off. It's not a good sign. The plane is a rather old Boeing, because planes in Russia have a much longer shelf-life than in many other countries. However, my son assures me, there are positive aspects; the planes have been proved to work and their pilots have many years of experience in flying the same models.

It's a good flight. The Russian couple sitting beside me see that I'm writing in my notebook and assume I'm a famous author from England.

London, they know,

Kate Middleton, they know.

Manchester United the husband thinks I must know.

Manchester City? No?

Mobile phones with lots of photos save the day for their communication with me. I see their summer-house, their daughters, sons-in-law, grandson.

I see their fishing trips. The fish.....amazing! I am suitably impressed. I do this in England? No? No lady fishing? That is strange.

I see the mushrooms, baskets full of them. I go to forest for mushrooms? No? No mushrooms? England is strange.

I am strange. I do not know Kate Middleton, I know nothing about football, I do not catch my own fish nor pick my own mushrooms, I don't live in London. Strange!

Between  discussions of fishing trips I've been able to glimpse great rectangular areas of rich black earth, vineyards stretching out the horizon. It's like the Vale of Evesham on steriods. The Krasnodar region is rich, fertile, productive.
Then we land. Many people applaud. It's traditional on internal flights, like the sick-bags.
After the bitter cold of Moscow the air feels soft and balmy.

We drive through a golden sunset into the darkness of Cossack country, full of wines and fruits and people passionate about their land, their heritage.

                                                                                War memorial, Novorossiysk.

Terrible battles were fought here, not only over the valuable land, but over the even more valuable access from the sea. There are war memorials on so many streets. War is vivid in so many memories, such an intrinsic part of family history that it feels as if it happened a few weeks ago.

                                                                             Novorossiysk - view of the port.


In the morning I pull back the curtains and there is the Black Sea, not black at all, but green and golden, the distant horizon dotted with oil tankers.
Novorossiysk where I am now, is Russia's second largest port. There is massive development. High rise flats tower over tin and wooden houses, great glass and marble palaces spread along the coast line.
Nearly everyone also has a summer-house, a plot outside the town where they can grow fruit and vegetables, an apartment near the sea, where they can swim, a wooden cottage in the hills where the summer air is cooler than the 40 degrees common in town.
We are invited to one such summer-house, not far from town, but in a little ravine with views out to sea and cool breezes blowing in from the hills behind it.
Last summer there were severe floods in the area. This summer-house lost part of its garden as waters from the mountain rushed out to sea. Fish from the carp pool ended up on the roof. They are rebuilding and restocking. We ate fish from the new pool.

There is great pride in the produce of the area. People know where all their food originates: carp from the pond at the bottom of the garden, vegetables from the rich earth, wines from home-grown grapes, champagne from the lake-side vineyard in the hills nearby.
Our dairy food, raw milk, butter, cheeses, sour cream, the eggs and meat all came from the family farm. The goose we ate at Russian Orthodox Christmas had been plodding around there a little earlier. Mushrooms, if you want them you go into the forest and pick them, or you go to the local market where they are piled in succulent baskets full.
But don't drink the water. In a land of richness and plenty the water may be unreliable. A land of paradox.

My flight companions found me strange. I find their country mystifying, magical, somewhat alarming.It's a country on a vast scale. Tragic things happen.
 A short distance away last summer, in the town of  Kryrmsk a devastating flood swept down the valley in the night, washing away homes and people. There had been weeks of rain in the mountains, and there were rumours that a reservoir above the town had been breached or even opened to protect the dam. These rumours have been strongly denied, and there remains no clear evidence about what actually happened. One of my Russian companions believes it is possible that a tornado out at sea picked up a huge volume of water and dropped it inland.

Death and violence come from the sky, from the sea, from the mountains, just as so many of the good things in life do.
No wonder my Russian friends knock on wood, cross their fingers, believe in astrology, and respect the spirits of nature.



.

Signs of the Times

My first visit to Moscow was over forty years ago, deep in the Soviet era, completely controlled and supervised by the Intourist Organisation. We were not free to visit anywhere independently, nor to attempt to speak to anyone other than the Intourist guides.Self expression was dangerous, faith was underground.
I remember drawing back the curtains in the splendidly faded Metropol Hotel, just off Red Square and looking out over a small area of garden. The snow lay deep and crisp and even and no adult or child, nor even a dog had deviated from the assigned paths.
Some seven years ago my husband and I visited again, and were yelled at by police for not using a pedestrian crossing in the gardens of the Kremlin. The road was completely free of traffic, but we were made to walk back and use the official crossing point.

On this visit I sensed a tentative freedom in the city, even a slight lifting of the rules.
We visited the hauntingly beautiful Novodevichy Convent on a glitteringly cold afternoon. This, one of the city's oldest religious centres, developed from the 15th century, part of the city's defences as well as a convent and a sort of prison for ladies of high rank.There is an extensive lake outside the high, fortified walls, and muffled figures slid and tottered around on its frozen surface. Small children were being drawn along in little padded sleighs, the children themselves so engagingly padded that they looked like TeleTubbies. A couple of people sped along more efficiently on skis.

The signs at the edge of the lake forbade people to go on the ice.

Near to the main entrance of the convent the base of a buttress was covered in graffiti, admittedly most of it in  beautiful script.

Petitions to Saint Cyprian; 'A better job for Ludmilla', 'Health for my son'. The guards stand by, but the petitions are not removed, nor are people punished for making them.

On a little ornamental bridge there are dozens of brightly coloured padlocks clasped to the decorative railings. They bear the names of those recently married, or otherwise wishing to announce a relationship.

In a couple of places the railings have been broken, presumably to remove the padlock of those no longer locked in love. I wonder if these padlocks come with two keys, or perhaps no key at all, as an emblem of permanence?

High in the hills in the countryside a multitude of little flags flutter in the wind. Scraps of fabric tied to twigs and fencing, like Buddhist prayer flags. They are a sort of prayer flag, signs of hopes and dreams and wishes.

My kind Russian host rips up a perfectly good handkerchief and I tie on a few flags of my own for family members back in England. Grand-daughter now has her own little flag flying in Russia!

Then I notice that among the little flags are scraps of knicker elastic, lace and fragments of someone's tights.
Humour and the expressions of new freedoms.

A Moving Time in Moscow

During my travels I have not had full access to Blogger and have not been able to post or comment, so my greetings are belated.

The Metro train rattles through darkness and stops at stations gleaming rose and grey, white and amber, marble and polished granite, bronze and brass, mosaic and elaborate plasterwork.
I cannot read their names, I cannot even recognise their names when they are announced, but I can recognise some of them visually. They are all different, all differently striking.

This is underground Moscow on New Year's Eve and we are heading for Red Square. So are thousands of others, many of them young men in thickly padded black jackets and furry black hats - Asiatic young men who come from Tashkent and other Central Asian towns to work in Moscow for a few years, perhaps to earn enough to return home.
So many young men, so similarly dressed seem frightening to my English eyes. Is it a protest, a potential riot?
'No,' says my son. 'It's their one night off and they're going to enjoy it'.

New Year in Russia is all the Winterfests rolled into one. Santa is here, the Madonna and Child are here if you look carefully; so are Mickey Mouse and Tom and Jerry and look-alikes of Lenin and Stalin.
Father Frost is here, big-time, in blue and silver with stuck-on stars and a big white beard. His helper, the Snow Maiden is also here, generally explained as his grand-daughter, but we all know that rich older men bearing gifts may have their nubile female attendants.

We have to push our way through the crowds. Red Square is closed in preparation for this most significant of Russian nights. Big screens are erected. President Putin will speak to the people at midnight and then....then there will be fireworks!

The snow starts and grows heavier. It is late, but all the shops are open and busy and the illuminated Kremlin buildings glow and glitter golden against the slanting snow. We duck into a maze of side-streets where my Russian companions know of a charming little restaurant hosted by a resident cat and dog. The cat, who is much larger than the dog, wears a bow-tie in honour of the occasion. The dog, a chihuahua, trots about anxiously - the risk of being trodden on is high. I greet him in English. He acknowledges me politely and sits beside me in the alcove. The cat in the bow-tie ignores me.

We return home through emptying streets and flying snow. Shop keepers are trying to hasten the last customers out. The Metro rattles us back to the suburbs. Father Frost and his lady-friend must visit every child in Russia tonight.
In every main road and quite a few side ones the snowploughs wait in silent ranks, ten, fifteen at a time, their drivers chatting and smoking in groups, waiting for the call to action.
In the meantime the gritting lorries are out in force, spraying a corrosive mix that turns the snow to brown sludge. Night or day, ice or snow, Moscow keeps moving.

There is no time to be lost, for we need to be ready at ten o'clock to bid farewell to 2012, with all its joys and pains and tedious bits. We raise our glasses of champagne to what is past.
The food is ready; smoked salmon, a cold roast, slabs of white fat, black bread, pickled herring and salads, beetroot and vegetables in vinaigrette dressing.

Friends arrive bringing more delicacies. There are very special mushroom gathered deep in a forest in Belarus....Cossack mushrooms. There are gherkins and fruits and then there are chocolates made locally and bought fresh from the factory. There is vodka, of course.
We eat and drink. There are many toasts, to our families, our children especially. There are photos on mobile phones and a few tears. The vodka flows. Ah, the past has been good to us.....and now....now.

On the television a hush falls over the vast crowds in Red Square and President Putin speaks to the people.
He says what all great leaders say, 'Be good, work hard, be kind to your family, be proud of your glorious nation.' Then the great bell of the Spaski Tower in the Kremlin strikes midnight. The national anthem plays out over scenes of beautiful Moscow in the snow. It is dignified and proud and moving.

Then the fireworks start, great earth-shattering detonations of colour and fire exploding into the night.
They go on....................
all night.

Happy New Year to us all - everywhere.

Letter to a Grand-Daughter

Dear Little One,
You made it!
You got here on the night of Halloween, trick and treating us all.
Tricking your parents by stopping and starting in your journey, treating us all by your eventual safe arrival. So much power was in your birth, creating such pride in and for your mother, who did everything possible  to deliver you safely, giving the most profound, life-changing experience to your father and, for your paternal Grandmother, an unexpected sense of making sense, of bringing things together, when you arrived on the sixth anniversary of your Grandfather's death.

Now you are here, tiny and seemingly  fragile, but with a voice that can fill the house and prehensile fingers and toes that can hold on for dear life.

I was privileged to be near you in your first week, witnessing the joy and love and anxiety and utter exhaustion; the package that comes with every new baby.
Already you are teaching us things you like, things you don't like.
You are uncurling from your scrunched-up warm darkness, feeling air and strange movements, hearing noises that have been muffled but are suddenly sharp and clear, opening your eyes and seeing.... seeing what?
Shape, light and darkness certainly, for you are looking carefully at a black and white picture your mother has placed in your crib. It's a stegosaurus. You'll know more in a few years, but at the moment it's something eye-catching.
On your seventh day I saw you were suddenly transfixed by a large plant silhouetted in the bathroom window.
'What? What is THAT?' you seemed to think as you turned to look again. I told you it was a house-plant, and I'll explain more fully another time, but within a few more days you will know it's there and look for it again. You will know that the house-plant may prelude a warm bath, in which you can unfurl like one of those Japanese paper flowers when dropped into water.

You know a great deal already.
You know you like food and warmth and being held close, especially in your sling where you can be jiggled about and swayed just like in the old days.
You like movement of all sorts, in the car, in someone's arms. Rocking and patting are good things, ensuring that you are the centre of  your universe, as is your right - at least for some time more.
You know that you can get the good things started again by having a bit of a shout. People will do what you want when you shout.

It won't always be this way, so make the most of it.

What you cannot know yet is how fortunate you are, to be born into a life where you are so appreciated, so loved, and, above all, to have such wonderful parents.
If only all new-borns could have such advantages the world would be a happier, better, safer place.

Enjoy it all, Little One, but try to get a bit more sleep!

Love from Grandma.