Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Anita Mathias's Blog on Faith and Art

A week in Rome

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We are here for the week. Zoe has worked very hard this term with her G.C.S.E’s; Irene’s worked superlatively hard in Year 7, far beyond the call of duty. Her work is mainly projects, and she produces little well-researched books on each of them. Roy worked hard clearing much of a back-log of years of procrastinated family, personal and business projects, and I over-blogged. So we thought a week away would renew our energy and zest for the next 6 week term.

“A change is as good as a rest” is one of my life-mottoes. I really believe it. It refreshes and enlarges one’s perspective as much as a beach holiday would do.

We’ve mainly come here for Renaissance art and architecture, but will see some stuff from the ancient world, of course.

So today, the Pantheon. An amazing dome, even though the bronze covering it was looted by the Byzantine emperor, and taken to Constantinople, and the interior bronze was looted, a 1000 years later by the Pope.

That lovely eye is called the oculus, and it sends an eerie shaft of sunlight into the building.

Just behind the Pantheon was the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, Rome’s only Gothic church, and one of the most beautiful and enchanting churches I’ve ever seen.

The ceiling was  what is called a Giotto blue, with gold stars, and lavish paintings. It was like fairyland, like an enchanted world, like Paradise.

Here are some public domain images (I just had my iPhone.)

Isn’t it lovely? Unfortunately, I made a basic travel error, and packed on preconceptions rather than weather forecasts. Rome, hot, right? Wrong!

And so I am fighting a monster cold. Prayers for health will be gratefully received.

We really enjoy travelling in Mediterranean countries. Italians, Spaniards and Greeks seem to me like Indians–with lighter skin. Voluble, excitable, loud, gregarious, fun-loving.

My French tutor, who is a real Parisian intellectual,  actor and director, and playwright who has adapted novels for the stage told me he would never go to Italy. Why? Because the manners of the Italians who come to Paris are “tres mauvaise.” Why? They talk so loudly? Is that necessarily bad-mannered, I ask shame-facedly. (Our family gets involved in animated discussions and arguments, which, yes, get loud wherever we are!) It is impolite, he says primly.

Have you been to Rome before? he asks. (Our rule is French only, and I am sure our hour of conversation amuses him). “Yes, 25 years ago.” “Oh, it must have changed a lot,” he says.

But Rome is the eternal city, and the Pantheon has not changed.

Neither I hope has the Vatican,which we will visit tomorrow, if I can shake off this monster cold.
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Granada, Spain where the hours are longer and sweeter

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 Granada, Spain where the hours are longer and sweeter
Frederico Garcia Lorca on Granada, “The hours are longer and sweeter here than in any other Spanish town. Granada has any amount of good ideas. Only in such a town with its inertia and tranquillity can there exist those exquisite contemplators of water and sunsets.”
Sounds like my sort of place! We are spending a week in Granada next month, visiting Seville and Cordoba too. And the sun!!

 

Bayeux Cathedral, The Bayeaux Tapestry, Visiting Bayeux, Normandy

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I had a perfect day. I loved Bayeux Cathedral–a fantastic mish-mash of flying buttresses and gargoyles from the outside, inside, a chaste Gothic cathedrals with the most amazing stained glass.

I just love Gothic cathedrals. Nothing prepares you for the moment of sheer awe and wonder when you enter from the dusty exterior, frequently covered with scaffolding to the chaste, pure, magnificent interiors, illuminated by stained glass.

It’s sad that architectural fashions changed, but I suppose as Tennyson put it,“God fulfils himself in many ways, let one good custom should corrupt the world.”

I loved walking by the canals in Bayeux, not as celebrated as Bruges or Ghent or Amsterdam, but lovely.

And I loved the Moules Marinieres for dinner, though the bowls were enormous, far more than one person could eat.

We enjoyed the Bayeux Tapestry, though have bought an illustrated book to go through it slowly. I was particularly charmed by the mythical animals, and the medieval clothes & armour–well, I guess they were modern and up-to-date when the tapestry was embroidered.

Now on our way to the D-Day beaches.

D-Day is still remembered here. Everywhere. The Churchill Hotel. Operation Overlord Hotel. Signs in bistros saying “Welcome to our Liberators!!”  An ironic copy of a sign from the British cemetery in the Bayeux tapestry museum read (well, in Latin), We whom William Conquered are now happy to return as Liberators. What an ironic turning of the other cheek.

The Normans were initially the Norseman, the Northman. The far-reaching Viking influence which we noticed in Ireland earlier this month, and which is evident everywhere in the North of England was evident again.

Chatsworth Estate, Derbyshire

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We took off this half-term for three days in Derbyshire. The Peak District looked like something out of a film, which, given the number of movies set there, is a case of circular art-imitating-life/life-imitating art. Gorgeous sheep-filled fields, with streams meandering through them, in autumn’s browns, reds and golds.

This was particularly true in Chatsworth itself. The intersection of art and life was almost surreal. Clips of The Duchess playing, while outside the window, one gazes at the very same scenes that you see on screen.

The grounds are picture perfect, and for  a couple of days I was close to perfect happiness, walking through those grounds back-lit and flood-lit by autumn. I absolutely cannot wait to go again.

The Dukes of Devonshire are a colourful family, and the current family practises “leveraging” to the utmost. A brilliant example of making the most of what you have. Using their grounds to host Sotheby auctions of monument outdoor sculpture. (Some were splendid–David Ben-Zadok’s circle of wild dancers, his full moon sculpture, Dali’s Femme en Flamme. I would happily have Ben-Zadok’s wild pagan dancers in my back garden could I afford it, but c’est la vie… )

Anyway, a solid business sense is evident behind the aristocratic veneer. Renting the grounds for weddings. Charging heftyish admission fees. Extra for the petting zoo. To him who has shall more be given, provided they hone their talents, shine and buff them, instead of burying them in the ground.

Holidays: Restoration, refreshment, rejuvenation, rekindling, renewal

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I really needed our holiday in Ireland. I was worn out creatively, intellectually, mentally and psychologically. I was not sleeping brilliantly.
At first, I could not think coherently and deeply. I was too tired to pray, though I was conscious, as always, of God’s presence . My thoughts and emotions lay in a jumbled heap, which I barely had the strength to sort out consciously, but just sat still, waiting for thoughts to surface one by one, to be slowly thought through.
After a long period of busyness and tiredness, silence begins to work on you, and you begin to think again.  Words come to populate the inchoate.
You slowly begin to think again, and feel again, and out of the inchoate tiredness, words, old friends, come again.
I sat alone for an hour by the shores of Lake Leanne on our second day Not really thinking particularly, or praying, just enjoying the sound of the lapping of waters against the shore. Just being. What a luxury.
By the time, I left I was back to normal, and God had given me a short book in a dream, which is mainly written. I hope to publish it this month or next month through the publishing company our family owns.
The moral of the story is: Never, ever let myself get that tired again!

 

My Favourite Place in the World to Wander: Ireland

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I love travelling, and have travelled in well over 30 countries, and in every continent but Africa.

However, my favourite country to travel in, hands down, is Ireland.

It is beautiful and green. It is full of history, mythic, magic and mysticism. It has a poetic pagan past, those wonderful Druids, and an equally poetic early Christian history. It is tragic. It has wonderful place names, full of poetry in themselves. It has nurtured wonderful poets like Yeats and Heaney.

However, it is the people who make a place, and I love the Irish. I love their accents, their use of English, their gentleness, their good humour, and their helpfulness.

I think whenever I need a break, I will escape to Ireland if I can.

However, I would not like to live there permanently. It is too homogenous a society. What on earth would I do among all those O’Leary’s and McLoughlins? I still think England is the best place for a citizen of the world,  with a reasonably diverse population, and a fairly open-minded, tolerant and accepting indigenous population.

Wicklow Mountains National Park

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We are now in Glendalough in the Wicklow Mountains National Park. Going on another hike around a lake or two, and then heading for the Rosslare Beaches. We have had splendid weather, it’s never rained when we’ve wanted to hike, and it’s warm, but not hot. No need for jumpers or coats.

A lovely lake. The sound of water lapping on the shores is a natural tranquillizer. I love the ducks, just a few months old, already so tourist-friendly. Fantastic hiking, not so difficult that it takes all your concentration, but strenuous enough to feel invigorated!
We had a super refreshing morning at “Monastic City” in Wicklow Mountains National Park.
St Kevin’s monastic settlement, including a Rapunzel-like long, very high doorless tower in which they sheltered from Viking raids. Apparently, they climbed in through a window, and then pulled the ladder in. There were numerous beautiful and intricate Celtic crosses in the graveyard.
Everything was tranquil, lush and emerald green, with sheep grazing peacefully in the background. Truly an idyllic view!!

 

The Dingle Way. The Gallarus Oratory and Beehive Huts

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We spent a few days on the Dingle Peninsula.
The Irish are amusing in that they drive their cars and camper vans straight onto the beach, disregarding the beware of soft sand signs.
Not being Irish, we got our car stuck, and asked some freckly youngsters for help. Six or seven of them pushed us out of the sand, saying, ” Don’t worry. We are good strong lads.” An older Irishman told them, “Do you know, in England you could get arrested for driving onto the beach?” “You don’t say,” they answered, eyes widened.
Walked by the beach. It exhilarates me and restores my soul, puts me together again. Lovely!!
Slept on Inch Beach, soundly, lulled by the sound of lapping waves, and the air apparently charged with negative ions.
We went on the Dingle Way today. Full of early Christian sites. When we asked the way, an Irish lady crossed herself and said, “These are Holy Mary Roads.” “What’s a Holy Mary Road?” the girls asked. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us, sinners, Now and at the hour of our death.” “Amen” we replied.The Gallarus Oratory was truly a marvel of the “Dark Ages,” 1300 years old, a drystone construction, entirely built without mortar, bell-shaped, like a stranded stone ark, an intricate construction of stones, carefully placed one on top of the other. Claustrophobic and dark inside, the bright and glorious sea outside.
Interesting that the early Irish monks felt they had to shut out the lovely natural world to focus on God. I suppose we do that when we close our eyes, and bow our heads to pray.

Fascinated by the tiny early Christian beehive hermitages, intricate, drystone mortarless constructions, in which their hermits lived year round, and which were provided as accommodation for travellers.. So claustrophobic and dark for us, but probably welcoming with a fire inside, and snow outside.

Also, saw some inpregnable ancient stone forts, with claustrophobic tiny rooms, but certainly enemy-proof, also a dry stone, mortarless construction.The Irish were sure shorter than us in the prehistoric times.

The Dingle Peninsula has scarlet and purple hedges!!–fuschia imported from Chile in the last century, and now naturalized! And delicate sprays of orange cocosmia, also naturalized in every hedge and ditch, a veritable palette of purple heathers and yellow gorse, colour gone mad!
Roy said our family was ruined, so we took a break and had a beach morning. Got caught out tidepooling by high tide. Oh, but to see the magical world of once inert sea anemones opening their myriad red arms like happy underwater flowers; sea stars swirling, mussels opening for plankton, barnacles and their feathery, food-gathering feet, all coming to life with high tide, was well worth it.