Nine lessons and carols at King's College Chapel on Christmas Eve, part 3

As I passed through the gateway into Kings College the porter smiled and handed me a piece of paper which gave me guidelines to queuing.  It was just after eight a.m., I had walked the three quarters of a mile to King’s Parade from where I had left my car in Richmond Road which is just far enough out of the city centre to have no parking restrictions or meters.  It was still raining, the sandwiches, flask, extra layers and other things I had considered might be useful and stuck in my rucksack were heavier than I would have liked but as I joined the end of the line and did a quick tally I reckoned I was about ninetieth in place.  I nodded and smiled to myself, proud I had crow-barred myself out of bed; with two hundred seats in front of the chancel screen and four hundred behind I might even be lucky enough to get a seat which would give me a wonderful view of the triptych and choir.   Dropping my rucksack and camping stool on the ground I contemplated the hours that stretched ahead of me and considered my plan.  At nine o’clock I would have coffee, at eleven a round of sandwiches and a trip to the loo and at midday a bar of chocolate.   I prepared for myself a little series of milestones which would help see the hours through. Steadily the line grew, my feet got cold despite the walking boots and as the rain came and went I resorted to wrapping myself in the waterproof backed picnic blanket I had brought along.  I drank my coffee and ate my cheese and tomato sandwiches.  Texts of Christmas wishes came in and texts of Christmas wishes went out.  And slowly, as people chatted and exchanged bits of interest about themselves a sense of resolve and camaraderie built up bolstered by the fact that by now the porters were turning people away.  We had become a successful and happy little bunch of folk who had one thing in common; we were guaranteed a seat at the service.  Places were saved in the queue while people went to fetch coffee, to answer the call of nature (no need really for my flask, sandwiches or bog-in-a-bag since the coffee shop was opened in the KC common room).  I timed my loo breaks just right to avoid the queues. At midday the Kings Singers arrived and serenaded us in the rain, just after which a small troop of youngsters from Kings College prep school in capes and top hats appeared out of a door in the Gibb’s Building and then disappeared through the chapel door.  Our spirits rose as we heard the distant sounds of music and singing filter across the quad to where we were standing.   Just before one o’clock, interested to know how far down the queue I was, I wandered up to the front.  I realised then, that what I had naively assumed was the head of the line was in fact nowhere near.  As I turned the corner of Gibb’s building I saw in front of me a line three times as long as the one in which I had been ensconced for the last five hours. A line with at least three hundred other people patiently queuing.  My shoulders drooped as I realised in reality how far down the line I actually was, even more so when I learned that people had been standing in line since three o’clock the previous afternoon, a whole twenty four hours before the service started.  I saw myself destined for some camping chair deep in the far dark recesses of the nave.              

Nine lessons and carols at King's College Chapel on Christmas Eve, part 2

As the rain ricocheted off the surface of the A14 and I listened to the pleas of the traffic reporter not to attempt anything but the most important of journeys I mused on the merits of choosing this particular year to strike this particular adventure off my very particular never-too-late list.  At six a.m. as the alarm went off on my iphone, I had lain in the enveloping warmth and comfort of my bed tucked tightly into a ball and listened to the rain drumming on the velux window.  I had closed my eyes and swore at myself for remembering to charge up my mobile phone.  With no alarm I had no doubt that I would have missed the narrow window of opportunity which would give me just enough time to pull on my layers of fleece and water proof, make my sandwiches and head out of the door.  If you were not inside the quad at Kings by nine at the latest it wasn’t likely you’d get in to the service.  I had over an hour’s drive and at least five or six hours of queuing.   I lay there, pushing it to the limit and considered the trade-offs.  An hour’s driving across rain sodden and possibly flooded countryside and then the long minutes ticking by getting increasingly damp and bored.  The other option was to hit the shops for some last minute compulsive purchasing and a nice lunch at Zizzi whilst enjoying a couple of glasses of wine.  As I rolled over in bed I clearly felt the weight of the angels on one shoulder and Old Nick on the other.  It was sorely tempting to stick my head under the covers and convince myself I would do it next year instead.  It was warm, it was dark, it was nearly Christmas. But because of that very fact, something, somewhere, prodded my sense of motivation and achievement and 40 minutes later I found myself out on the dark road, almost with the world to myself, pleased I had made the effort.    Nine lessons and Carols at Kings College Chapel on Christmas Eve, about to get a very big tick.  And as the miles passed, as the rain got harder and the dawn creaked over the horizon in front of me I forged on fuelled with chocolate and coffee.  Here I was, alone, on another adventure.

Nine lessons and carols at King's College Chapel on Christmas Eve

There is something quintessentially English about listening to Carols from Kings on Christmas Eve amongst the debris of wrapping paper, sellotape that has stuck to you, the furniture, and then itself and an empty glass of Baileys on the windowsill waiting to be refilled.  The winter solstice has just passed, Advent is coming to a close and Christmas Day will begin a twelve day celebration.  That might be of the birth of Jesus Christ in Bethlehem just over two thousand years ago or supplicating oneself at the altar of hedonism, depending on your ‘spiritual’ point of view.  But whilst some may be down the pub on Christmas Eve getting off their faces on booze as the clock ticks towards Midnight, I choose to have a quieter more reflective time, gazing into the crystal-ball type draw of the lights on the tree and thinking about the year past and the year to come.  Christmas Eve, to me, is one of the most special nights of the year.

Tomorrow will be even more special because with rucksack packed and cheese sandwiches in hand, I will brave the inclement forecast to stake my place for a seat in the chapel.  The traditional Carols at Kings has been running since 1918 and the competition for seats on Christmas Eve is fierce, the gates open at 07:30 and if you are not there by nine o’clock then the chances are you won’t get in when the doors open at one thirty in the afternoon.  The service still doesn’t begin until three but I am hoping it will be like queuing for a kind of festive nirvana.   But all hampered a bit this year by the forecast of torrential rain and wind.  After six hours on a camping stool in water proofs and a hat, I don’t expect I will get any points for personal presentation and glamour. But all the same, it will, I suspect, be worth it.  I'll let you know.

Cuba, Sunday Part 2 - feeling like a voyeur, in the steps of Count Troubadour and finding peace in a sunset.

The small beautiful city of Trinidad is a photographers dream.   And all roads lead to the Plaza Mayor around which a well-preserved collection of historic buildings reflect the grandeur built on huge sugar fortunes amassed during the early 19^th century.   The roads increasingly narrow as we slowly make our way into the centre and after a while become rambling narrow streets with uneven cobbles and tall narrow kerbs.  The mini-bus stops and ejects me out into a street busy with people.  Plaza Major, a short walk away is by contrast, quiet.   A very elderly jinetero (tourist hustler) with skin dark and leathery from the years of sun stands leaning on his donkey which sports a large sunhat topped with plastic flowers.  You can take their picture, for a price.

I am not so interested in the town square which is too picture perfect for my taste but rather am drawn to the streets through which we passed on our way into the centre and in which I think the true story of everyday life for Cuban people lies.  These streets, with houses almost close enough to touch from the windows of the bus are full of families and groups, sitting on the door steps, perched on the low window ledges or seated in chairs on the occasional small veranda which juts out into the pavement.  Doors and windows are open and as I walk by I glance in, curious as to what it might be like inside.   The houses are very small, the amenities basic, the frills few, but the rooms are often full of people, young and old together sometimes watching a football game on a black and white TV, sometimes just sitting and chatting.  If they look up and see me I smile and they respond, often with a wave.  The Cubans are a nice people.

There is a clear strength of community and I stop for a while in the shade away from the glare of the sun and just watch. Then I feel guilty about watching.  I put down my camera and just absorb the sensation of being in a place so different to home.  The quality of the light is different, the clouds of dust kicked up by a passing car or cart make you sneeze and there is a constant dryness in the throat from a heat that seems to envelope you.  It’s like walking wrapped in an electric blanket. I feel wrong about taking so many photographs, as if I am being intrusive.  It’s a world that in one way feels so open and yet in another so private.

It’s a long road I have chosen to wander down with nearly every house attached to the one next to it and only the odd passageway through which I glimpse a small yard and a flash of greenery.  In amongst the houses are shops which are really just windows in which chunks of meat might be hanging from a hook or small baskets of fruit and vegetables displayed on a countertop.  In a doorway a tiny woman, with rheumy eyes and skin lined with age sells baby clothes.  A line of people queue for milk which is one of the basic foodstuffs which are still largely rationed in Cuba, along with eggs.  A young man selling freshly squeezed orange juice wears a white t-shirt which looks remarkably crisp given the heat which has turned my outfit into a crumpled mess.  He smiles and I smile back and see myself reflected in his mirrored aviator sunglasses.  He is keen to have me take his photo so I oblige and order some juice which I stand and sip, glad of the shade.  Across the narrow street a bored and lethargic boy is selling pork and large chunks of it sit on the counter, unrefrigerated and uncovered.  I wonder how long it will stay out in the heat.  At the end of the street I see something that makes me smile.  A small truck, the sunlight reflecting from its aluminium paint job is selling beer in much the same way as the milk was being sold.  The queue is much longer though and through each of two tiny squares cut into the back doors an arm extends, takes the vessel offered up from the front of the queue and then returns it filled with beer.  It reminds us that we are due to meet for lunch back in the plaza and so we decline the mimed invitation to come over to speak to the guy doing the selling and head back to the centre of town.    

At Casa de la Trova we sit out on the terrace which is covered with a rampant vine heavy with small bunches of grapes.  It’s busy, vibrant and loud and most of the tables are full. A band is in full swing and we have to shout to make ourselves heard but mostly we are happy to just sit, absorb the atmosphere and watch the musicians, average age probably about 65. This is Trinidad’s version of the Buena Vista Social Club and they look like they are having as good a time as we are. Some famous people have played right in this spot - Santa Palabra, Israel Moleno, Count Troubadour.  We have ordered the house cocktail which is a combination of honey, mint and white rum called the Canchachara which sounds to me more like a dance, not a drink and after a couple I’m rocking along with the vibe quite nicely.  I am looking forward to spending a couple of nights in this lovely little town whose people seem so relaxed and at one with their place in the world.  I hope some of it might rub off on me. 

In late afternoon we drive up to our night’s accommodation at Hotel Resort Las Cuevas http://www.captivatingcuba.com/cuba/las_cuevas/index.html.  It is high on a hill and before dinner we meet up and enjoy a cocktail looking out over the panoramic view of the Caribbean and the town below us.   It is a beautiful sunset, there is a cool breeze which flutters over my shoulders and the first lights begin to appear in the houses far below us.  Like everywhere we have stayed in Cuba the facilities are idiosyncratic, the aircon in my room is feeble and I have had to mend another toilet.  I am beginning to feel I should ask for a discount on the basis of my plumbing prowess.   But sitting on the terrace, for the first time being a long way from home feels OK.  And I begin to feel a little bit of peace returning.

Find the Cuba photographs on the gallery.

Hunted-down in Mendoza: short travel article for The Telegraph Magazine Just Back From....

“We’ll have to split up” my boyfriend whispers, his face close to mine “or we’ll never lose them”.  It’s early evening in Mendoza, the sun is setting and long shadows create growing pools of darkness across Park General San Martin. We are hidden behind a tree, the trunk of which is just about wide enough to obscure the two of us.  The rough bark digs uncomfortably into my back as he leans against me and extends his head just a fraction to see if they are still there.  They are.  It’s been two hours, we’re tired and thirsty and now the gang have been joined by a third. Running back and forward, first noses to the ground and then up high into the air, like some shaggy-living-radar they are getting closer with every sweep.  God, I think, do I smell that much?  We are being hunted down by a growing pack of dogs and for such a little crime – feeding one of them the tail end of my hotdog supper.  It wasn’t even that good but now we were paying the price.  These are impressive dogs, the dogs of Mendoza.  Skinny, long legged, quick and bright - at road junctions they stop and sit patiently until the lights change and then cross with the crowd.  And because they are good natured too, it’s oh- so-hard not to weaken and buy them a snack.  They seem to have worked out that cultivating this blend of easy going charm and staying power improves the probability of a payoff, and they are right.  Later, as we skip into a bar that we never intended to visit we take a seat and peruse the wine list.  The one remaining dog sits in the doorway and peruses us.  After a few minutes it lies down, clearly in for the long haul.  I sigh and as I do so slip the bag of complimentary breadsticks into my pocket.  It rustles ever so slightly.  The dog hears this, its eyebrows flicker and it wags its tail and does what can only be described as a doggy smile.  It really does.  And we know that we are beat.  

Luckily by day three we work out the nemesis of the dogs of Mendoza and it comes in the ready shape of a bobby on the beat. A copper on a bicycle drives these dogs to distraction. Their hackles rise, they howl and bark, they run behind them snapping at any bit they can reach: shoe; trouser leg; bicycle wheel.  And it gives you just long enough to run, as quickly as you can, in the opposite direction.  And for a moment, it feels sad to lose your little four-legged acolyte which has followed you so loyally and unquestioningly.  It’s easy to get attached to their friendliness and canine charisma but you can be sure of one thing, in Mendoza, you’ve already been targeted by the next one.