First Light

I was getting ready to leave at what I consider an early hour of the morning, although even at five o'clock there are a few intrepid souls already at work. Making my way into the Place du Saint-Sernin I found myself drawn by the haunting beauty of a girl singing where the walls of the Place produce an acoustic almost like a concert-hall. The words, “O quam mirabilis est” — “Oh what a miracle this is!”

She sang like a lark, apparently just enjoying the quiet morning air, and I loitered just inside the square to listen, waiting until her song wwas finished before crossing to greet her. I suppose I should not have been surprised to learn that she was the oldest daughter of Herr Grüneberg; that her family had lived in Bad Sobernheim for five generations becoming one of the wealthiest farming families. In the hope of learning more I invited Traudi and her father to share breakfast with me in the tavern and over the meal, I learned more about the hazards of den Weg des heiligen Jakobus.
The first hazard as you climb into the Pyrenean mountains, so Sigismund tells me, is the packs of wolves in the high forests which prey on lone pilgrims, and it was because of these that the hôpital at Roncesvalles was established. And it wasn't so long ago, that the souls of pilgrims were at risk from the pernicious teachings of the Cathar heretics who sought refuge in the mountains.
On the east of Lorca is the bitter river the local people call the Salado. There are wicked men who wait beside the river for unsuspecting pilgrims and encourage them to water their horses there. When the horses fall dead, these rogues skin them before their carcases have even cooled!
Once you pass over the mountains into Spain, do not eat their beef, pork, shad, eel or tench for they will almost certainly make you sick. (Spanish tummy? I wondered that such a thing has been known for such a long time) The Porma and the Sil are good rivers of sweet water, flowing through verdant and pleasant lands. A few miles from Santiago our party halted and we bathed in the waters of the Miño, a river surely blessed by God, stripping off even our underclothes.
Sigismund was so keen to tell me of the adventures they had been through, and the things they had learned along the road that our meal was done before ever I had a chance to ask Traudi about the song she was singing earlier. Before the poor girl had a chance to utter a word Sigismund told me with a note of pride in his voice that she had learned the song as a pupil, one of the few females admitted to the school run by the Benedictines at Disibodenberg.

References

                    

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.      

Those boots were made for walking

Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,¹
and bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth²
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye³
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,—
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,—
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;⁴
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Checklist

1. April has quenched the drought of March
2. Gentle breezes have replaced the howling gales of the equinox
3. The Dawn Chorus has resumed rehearsals
4. Wanderlust takes hold once more

As you might guess from the checklist, my first, very ambitious thought was to make the pilgrimage, at least part of the way, for myself, to Santiago de Compostela. But the suggestion was vetoed very firmly citing the risk of exposure as a reason. Any physical risks I might take are part and parcel of the lives of the people around me, but the danger of being exposed as someone with ‘supernatural’ connections for the duration of quite a long pilgrimage would place my life in danger unjustifiably. I may not be able to make the pilgrimage immediately, but I intend to find some way to overcome any potential obstacles in due course somehow.
For the folks who live in the era, I can hardly blame them for wanting to go on vacation once the weather starts to improve: three months of cold, damp, and preserved food has certainly done it for me in the past. In my case though, I am looking further afield than Caunterbury; I figured if I can establish myself at Toulouse, long-since established as a popular rendezvous for pilgrim groups crossing Europe, there should be some good pickings for a seller of pilgrim memorabilia. Yes, even in the 13th century, there is a flourishing trade in souvenirs. And if you're rich enough, and have the right connections, you might even be able to buy one of St.James’ actual fingerbones (current estimates suggest that he had between thirty-five and forty fingers on each hand!)
As a first stage, before heading towards Toulouse I made the acquaintance of some of the craftsmen of L'Isle Jourdain, where I obtained a workable stock of rosary beads, small carved wooden figurines and some carved bone icons. Thus prepared I made my way to the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne in Toulouse to set up my stall. Describing my adventure in such bald terms belies the competitive nature of the vendors already there, and I was obliged to display my stock at the furthest edges of the market.
Identifying the pilgrims returning is simplified in many cases by the scallop shells which they wear fastened to their hats or breasts, although in a few cases, they are equally identifiable by the evidence of miracles which they proudly display to anyone who shows the slightest curiosity: I obtained the following song from an older man who was keen to show me his well-worn crutch, explaining that for many years he had been lame as the result of an accident, but now, not only could he walk, but as he eagerly demonstrated, he could dance once more!

Herr Grüneberg, as he identifies himself to me, knows many of these pilgrim songs which have even been set down in written form by King Alfonso X, ‘The Wise’ of Spain.
                   

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.       

Danny Boy - just squeezing in, in time for TOMORROW!

http://www.scribd.com/doc/28303925/Danny-Boy
If you don't know the words to this song, perhaps you should steer clear of the Shamrock Bar this week! Or if you have a musical bone in your body, get a free copy of the song.

What has Ireland done for you?

• Well, there's the Coffey still, used in making Whiskey (but nobody has invented a Whiskey still for making Coffee yet. Bad luck.)


• Francis Rynd invented the hollow needle used in hypodermic syringes. I leave it to you to decide if that was a good thing or not


• Earnest Walton, working with John Cockcroft, helped to split the atom for the first time, at which point I refer my reader to historic footage of The First Irish Moon Shot

A mouse in her room woke Miss Dowd,
She was frightened, it must be allowed.
Soon a happy thought hit her
To scare off the critter:
She sat up in bed and meowed

... and New York

Has anyone told you, you look like a penguin? Seriously, you look very dashing. Are you ready to hit the street? I think I could fall in love with the Chrysler Royal that you hired for our runabout! I was thinking that drinks before the show wouldn't be an option and of course, we wouldn't want to risk getting on the wrong side of the law, but I had a word with the desk clerk earlier and he hinted in the broadest terms that Fifth Avenue is a very hospitable area for folks like us from out of town.
When I was checking the paper earlier, I saw that Jerome Kern's Show Boat is playing at the Ziegfeld Theater, and if they don't have any seats there, Merry-Go-Round is playing at the Sam Harris Theater.

At this point, I need several aspirin and a shot of java to facilitate the proper recollection of the events of last evening. Show Boat was wonderful. I love live theater and now my head is full of songs like “After The Ball”, “Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man” and “Ole Man River” (although I would have liked to see Paul Robeson in the role, I have to say that Jules Bledsoe was very good). And I apologize sincerely for complaining (I remember that part very clearly) about not taking the breezer; after ankling into “Jumpin’” Jack Jones’ Jazz Joint we both would have been a danger to traffic. Are you sure we weren't a danger to the cab that took us home? Did I do anything frightfully embarrassing? I really don't remember.
What I do remember was the hopped-up kids in the place. And I don't mean just the babies, I'm sure I saw flappers, dappers, and Methuselah himself putting away the coffin-varnish. I couldn't have imagined such a mix; from dewdroppers to face-stretchers. If they weren't getting a wiggle on they were sinking the juice like it was going out of style! And maybe it's the product of my gin-soaked imagination, but I remember the band being hot stuff, they were rocking the dive with their jive! Was it my imagination again, or did they have a negro up there tooting that horn? It's details like that that make me realize how far we have come even if we still have a long way to go.

References

Get hip to the jive with a little help.
And stay out of the way of the ladies of the Manhattan Women's Christian Temperance Union!
And when you visit the watering-hole, make sure you know where the other back door is. Better leave your soda in a hurry than wait all night in the cooler to talk to the beak in the morning.
                    

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.      

Down and out in London...

...the poor always ye have with you; ...

John 12: 8.

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?

Eleanor Rigby (by Paul McCartney)

Don't get me wrong. Things have improved a lot over the years, but wherever you go, these lost souls are still wandering. Most of us will never know them, never want to know them, but a very few see beyond the unshaven chin, the unkempt hair and the outmoded clothes. And are ready to offer a warm meal and a few minutes of companionship even if it means missing an appointment.
Doing the right thing means being sensitive without showing it; the veteran who can't hold down a job, lost his family, doesn't want to talk about anything but will accept a few dollars for helping with yard work.
The bag-lady, pushing her world around town in a shopping-cart, accepts the offer of a warm meal.
When the Vagrancy Act was passed in 1834 concern had been expressed about soldiers returning from the Napoleonic wars with no home, or job to return to, and of course it wasn't long before civic authorities began to see the possibility of applying the terms of the Act to the professional beggars, prostitutes and other undesirable persons in their towns and villages. Of course, not all the individuals living on the streets and by their wits can be justly tarred with the same brush. Some of them inhabit their own incomprehensible world, not dangerous to themselves or others, the municipal asylums are unable to help them so that homeless people like Bert, often known to the local constabulary by a friendly appelation, like Burlington Bertie find themselves being shuffled from district to district. Burlington, at the time when the song was popular (and even at the time of writing) is one of the more respectable suburbs of London, favored by the well-to-do and aristocratic families who maintain a residence in the city in addition to their country estates.
Of course, when the case of a vagrant comes before the court, the individual concerned must be represented by a competent barrister; someone like Mr.David Hunter, or Mr.Reginald Smythe, Justice Lord Rosebery presiding.

I'm Bert, p'raps you've heard of me
Bert, you've had word of me,
Jogging along, hearty and strong
Living on plates of fresh air
I dress up in fashion
And when I am feeling depressed
I shave from my cuff all the whiskers and fluff
Stick my hat on and toddle up West

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And saunter along like a toff
I walk down the Strand with my gloves on my hand
Then I walk down again with them off
I'm all airs and graces, correct easy paces
Without food so long I've forgot where my face is
I'm Bert, Bert, I haven't a shirt
But my people are well off you know.
Nearly everyone knows me from Smith to Lord Rosebr'y,
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow.

I stroll with Lord Hurlington,
Roll in The Burlington
Call for Champagne, walk out again
Come back and borrow the ink
I live most expensive
Like Tom Lipton I'm in the swim
He's got so much 'oof', he sleeps on the roof
And I live in the room over him.

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And saunter along Temple Bar
As round there I skip
I keep shouting 'Pip Pip!'
And the darn'd fools think I'm in my car
At Rothchilds I swank it
My body I plank it
On his front door step with 'The Mail' for a blanket
I'm Bert, Bert, and Rothchild was hurt
He said ' You can't sleep there' I said 'Oh'
He said 'I'm Rothchild sonny!' I said 'That's damn'd funny,
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow'

I smile condescendingly
While they're extending me
Cheer upon cheer when I appear
Captain with my polo team
So strict are my people
They're William the Conqueror's strain
If they ever knew I'd been talking to you
Why they'd never look at me again

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And reach Kempton Park around three
I stand by the rail, when a horse is for sale
And you ought to see Wooton watch me
I lean on some awning while Lord Derby's yawning
Then he bids two thousand and I bid Good Morning
I'm Bert, Bert, I'd buy one, a cert
But where would I keep it you know
I can't let my man see me in bed with a gee-gee
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow!

My pose, Tho' ironical
Shows that my monocle
Holds up my face, keeps it in place,
Stops it from slipping away.
Cigars, I smoke thousands,
I usually deal in The Strand
But you've got to take care when you're getting them there
Or some idiot might stand on your hand.

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And Buckingham Palace I view.
I stand in the yard while they're changing the guard
And the queen shouts across Toodle oo!
The Prince of Wales' brother along with some other
Slaps me on the back and says Come and see Mother
But I'm Bert, Bert, and Royalty's hurt,
When they ask me to dine I say no.
I've just had a banana with Lady Diana
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow.

References

The Theatre of the British Legal System, Part 1, Part 2
                   

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.       

Terra firma once more

When I disembarked, Christopher, the black giant was playing a merry jig for those of his shipmates that were staying aboard during their off-hours:

Whatever the reason for the pings earlier, I've been spared long enough (just a day or so) to complete my voyage to Panjim, and the difference from Munambam could hardly be more pronounced: from a tiny fishing village to a huge, bustling port city. Where the accents of Munambam were almost exclusively Hindi, walking through the bazaar here my ear detects English, Spanish / Portuguese, Hindi, something that I think might be African, and even Arabian.
And the cosmopolitan character of the city is emphasized by the odd mix of Christian churches, and Hindu shrines which populate the whitewashed stucco streets. Though, I am told, most of the shrines are a fairly recent development: when the Holy Inquisition sent their missionaries to ensure the eternal welfare of the Hindi natives in the sixteenth century, many of the faithful risked torture to smuggle their idols to a safe haven about fifteen miles away in the town of Ponda.

I suppose I should really have followed tradition and offered a prayer of thanks for safe conduct in the cathedral of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, but I was more concerned with finding someone to continue my education on the subject of traditional Indian music. Guitars seem to be ubiquitous, but as evening drew on I managed to find a duetting pair adding their music to the lilt of the breeze across the marshes on the edge of the city. In all probability I will never know for certain whether they were father and son as I supposed, the elder improvising hypnotic arabesques on a sarangi, and the younger playing the melody of an evening raag on a bamboo flute.

References

Maps of the region, in PDF (not much help to a timetraveller!)
                   

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.       

Morning Raaga

Thank you, my faithful companion, for coming with me on this voyage. The Taoists have a proverb that The journey is the reward, and it certainly seems to have been the attitude of Dispatch in sending us here: barely forty-eight hours since we docked at the small fishing village of Munambam, and already I am getting a ping to warn me that the elastic is being stretched. When I say docked, what I should say is that the ship anchored offshore in the Arabian Sea and we were permitted to go ashore at Munambam.

The first thing I appreciated about Munambam was the variation in diet made possible by our brief stop: bananas! fresh, ripe bananas which must surely be proof that God loves us! Even in a small fishing village like this, there are brilliant colors everywhere, and here and there, small shrines piled with offerings from the faithful. So far, I have seen several shrines to the elephant-headed Ganesha as well as the universal presence of the Buddha.
With the captain's permission to spend the night in the village at the tiny inn to wait for the village market today, I was too excited to sleep much and the constant chattering of the monkeys from the jungle around the village, and the songs of the night birds populated my thoughts with vivid images of ancient temples and mossy stones beside quiet streams. When the sky was just beginning to lighten, I caught the strains of a sitar somewhere nearby and it was then that I left my bed to go in search of the music.
The old man I found, accompanied by his son and nephew, was introduced to me as Baladhi after perhaps three hours of almost hypnotic improvisation repeating the same underlying theme until the music ceased and the spell broke. It is to Baladhi, and Haresh that I am indebted for the following morning raagas, which I hope I have transcribed (more or less) correctly allowing for the differences between the western scale, and Indian thaat. As explained to me briefly, Indian music not only employs more complex rhythmic devices (taals) than can be easily represented in western notation, but much more subtle divisions of the thaat.

The village market was a surprisingly variegated event; a travelling silversmith set up a small workshop with anvil and forge repairing jewelry and selling beautiful work set with turquoise stones and red coral. The local farmers bring yams, peppers, goats and chickens for sale, and buy fish, and a merchant has a stall selling bolts of cotton.
I hope that at some point it will be possible for me to return to India and explore the culture more thoroughly; it seems nonsensical that despite the technology that makes it possible for me to traverse time and space, the constraints of the project do not permit me to linger even though I can return almost to the same instant from which I departed. Being a mere mortal however, I have a limited number of years available to me, no matter how I use them, so perhaps should take care to spend them carefully!

References

If you're interested in Taoist proverbs, there's a small but concentrated collection of them here.

Gaiye Ganapati; (Real Player) a song in praise of Lord Ganesh
Performed by Chandrakantha Courtney.

                   

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.       

Jack fell down and broke his crown

We're almost down to the Cape of Good Hope, and the weather has stayed fair for the last few days, just getting a little cooler. However, I am feeling a strange sense of loss after one of the crew fell from one of the crosstrees. He survived the fall, but took a dent on the noggin when he landed and had it not been for the willingness of our surgeon-barber to accept the assistance of an Indian physician from a trading dhow, I am afraid we would have lost him.
After the unfortunate fellow was diagnosed with bleeding into a part of the brain referred to as the Cave of Brahma by the physician, I suspect it was partly by virtue of being female that I was invited to assist in an operation to relieve pressure within his brain. Overruling the objections of his western counterpart, the physician first produced a natural sponge soaked in a pungent preparation which I learned later.¹
Despite the smell from the sponge which I held over his nose, the patient quieted noticeably and I actually had to make an effort to engage him in conversation and keep him at least semi-conscious while the physician worked with astonishing speed and dexterity, making his incision, trephining a small piece of bone and spilling bloody fluid on the deck.
As soon as he had finished suturing the wound and I was able to remove the sponge, he applied a compress made with the leaves of the Ekdandi to staunch the bleeding. Now, several days later, the patient is recovering well although he complains of a splitting headache which is apparently caused by contamination of his spinal fluid. But he is able to perform light duties, mostly swabbing and sail-mending. But he shows a marked change in personality. Where he had been one of the more exuberant members of the crew, now he is quiet and rather withdrawn and I'm not sure whether it is the result of his injury, the remedy applied, or perhaps, the anaesthesia?
During their off-hours, his shipmates try to engage him in games and songs, looking for traces of their old comrade, but it seems he may not be there any longer. However, in their efforts to kindle the cheery spark of former times, I have learned that there are shanties for:

• Hauling the halyard
• Pumping the bilge
• Winding the capstan or the windlass
• And Fo'c'sle shanties for just making whoopie in off-hours!

The example below is a good Short-drag shanty from one of the African members of the crew:

References

1. • Opium
   • Mulberry juice (from unripe berries)
   • Decoction of Mandragora root
   • Decoction of Ivy stem
   • Decoction of Hemlock stem

                    

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.      

A Passage to India

When the director asked me if I liked curry, I should have suspected something. Apart from the routine debriefing questions, my director never asks me anything unless there's an ulterior motive of some kind. And here I am, having vowed never to risk life and limb on a wooden ship, sailing for India! We're only ten days out of Portsmouth and already I am developing a potentially lifelong aversion to salt herring. For variety we have some fresh fruit aboard, but it is strictly rationed, as is cheese and the rum which the crew gulp down like nectar but which in my opinion might serve as mouthwash.
The good thing about my growing aversion to dried fish is that I am developing a rapport with the ship's cat, very imaginatively named "Blackie". So, what else have I learned so far?

• Life at sea is damp.
• The crew aren't altogether happy about having a passenger aboard. Particularly a female passenger. But I am allowed on deck for a couple of hours each day as long as I don't distract the sailors from their duties.
• Since my (tiny - think broom-closet) cabin is relatively warm and comfortable the handful of books I brought along are relatively safe from the aforementioned damp and I have as much time for reading as I could ever want.
• In an effort to relieve the monotony of my diet, I tried a piece of hardtack. Hard is right. Even after soaking it in the soup of the day, it remains like homebaked concrete.
• Sailors are an impossibly superstitious group. I hope to write more about that later.

The best part of the voyage, in my opinion, is that the sailors are well-versed in all forms of recreation and during off-hours when more-or-less one third of the crew are off watch there is music, games and chatter to be found all over the ship. Which is to say, in an area roughly half the size of my front yard at home.
Having never been much of a knitter, I thought a lengthy voyage like this might provide me with ideal opportunity to learn and a couple of days ago I was on deck winding the yarn I bought before leaving Portsmouth when Blackie found me. The help of the ship's cat might have been enough trouble for me, but the ship's carpenter who also plays the viol saw the mischief that Blackie was threatening and struck up with the following ditty which has since been entered in my list of some of the most ribald I have ever heard!
                   

The    written content of this work is licensed under a Creative    Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.