Rio 2016 Dressage & the grittier side of Rio

If the tennis, Olympic Park and the smooth transport system demonstrated aspirational Rio, today I saw the grittier side of Rio as I headed out to the equestrian Olympic Park and the Dressage.

Train journey was easy but real life wss on it. The new metro to the Olympic Park is just for ticket holders with the Games equivalent of the Travelcard but to get to the Deordor area you take the sumburban train. The railways were orginally built by the Brits but haven't been developed in sthe 20th century so this is a rarity in the country. The tranline seemed to go through some of the poorer areas but not the favelas. The street-sellers also made the most of a captive audience by offering crisps and sweets, hanging their offerings from the handrails. Rminded me of how they used to visit the bars on the Copacabana.

The equestrian centre could not be more different from the architecture of the Olympic Park. One concrete stand and the rest made of sold scaffolding. I don't know much about dressage other thatn what I could remember from childhood pony books but I found it hypnotic as you really did start seeing the difference between how horses reacted to doing the same test. Somehow there was something magical about horse and rider doing something technically demanding, elegantly, quietly and without drama in fairly basic surroundings. Sport truly was King.

There was also a lovely atmosphere inside the stadium with lots of families. I like the fact that there is unallocated seating in many of the venues. It gives it a really fun feal and you can try and avoid the sun! We had a Mexican wave to celebrate a Brazilian rider and then the Braziliam F1 tractor team came out to play, I mean rake.

Below the less than glamorous horse's (centre) backside.

On the way back, I changed train at Marcana station. Of course, I got out to take a look. hat stadium has more magic for me than Wembley as my first football memories are Brazilian. I've longed to go there, be there, & now I've seen it. Next time I'll be at a match there. It's been rebuilt I know and there does seem to be a real mix of styles. A wish of mine has come true - I've seen the place where fantasies have come true such as England beating Brazil!

My final stop of the day was Copacabana. New food stands & Olympics media city detracts but the street sellers are still there, the musica is still there as are the beachlovers. memories and reality jostled together and I will draw a veil over the rest,

Got a taxi up back and to my joy the driver asked me how long I'd been living in Rio. Compliment to my Portuguese even if I speak it with a strong British / Sao Paulo accent.

I enjoyed today. It was Olympics at its purests and Brasil true to itself.

Rio 2016 - tennis

Tennis - a newcomer to post-war Olympics : brings in the professional highly paid players who have their own Grandslams to the greatest competition on earth.

So how did Rio do? I cannot comment on Centre Court. I made it to No.1 with a quick entry into No. 3.

First and foremost, Wimbledon it ain't. I always knew the Wimbledon ball boys & girls were good but not how good! Umpires were continually having to chase up balls and there were a few agility issues but maybe the heat got to some of them! Players don't wear whites but their national colours. Are they playing for themselves or their country? I suspect the former.

The tennis itself was what you would expect from first round matches. Certainly unbalanced when it came to Cillic & Dimitrov. heather Watson was doing very nicely until I came along & then lost the 2nd set. I kept saying to myself no dramatics, sensible points but the thoughts didn't work. The match between Gilles Simon & Borma Coric was certainly entertaining. No one explained that if you had a ticket for the show courts you could also watch the outside ones which meant that there few for the Watson match.

Above : Cilic wins the toss and elects to serve while Watson feels the heat.

The Olympic Park has some superb buildings. I'd love to see more of them. The way the arenas flow into each other are stunning and I rather liked the orange of Centre Court.

I found the transportation impressive & there was a lot less further to walk than London. No issues with security other than walking the long way round when there were no queues! The issues that people feared I found to be no problem but it was the details that mattered.

There was very little shade other than picnic tables and boy was it hot which led to the major issue I did have was food and water. Food - you weren't supposed to leave the tennis area but they ran out of snack food - little choice & expensive. You weren't permitted to bring liquids into the grounds but the water fountains were few and far between. They also pointed upwards with variable water pressure so it took forever. I thought I might witness murder when one guy took out a cup after filling 3 bottles!

If you bought a bottle then it was served with the lid off. A cynical way of making money from the sustainable games?

People were loving being there. A warm and friendly atmosphere which grew as the day wore on as more people came. A good day out but maybe not a great one.

Travels with Margaret

One of the first social commentaries I ever read was recommended to me by my Mother - Travels with Charlie by John Steinbeck. I still love it and am about to download it to my kindle! It certainly influenced me in doing my greyhounding and travels round Australia.

There is one person that more than anyone else will ever do that influenced my wonderlust and shared so many of my travels and that is my Mother - Margaret.

I understand that we clocked up our first major expedition on the way to live in New York for a couple of years and stopped off in the Caribean. I, as a baby, famously wouldn't be soothed on our final day. Nappy was fine, temperature was fine, had been fed. Just didn't want to leave. That set a precedent. Many years later Margaret and I visited Hyde Park, home of the Roosevelts, and we were asked if we had been before. I said no but Margaret said "yes, when you were a baby." back came the rejoinder, said directly to me. "you remember it well then." That said a lot about our trips together, historical, cultural and fun. We combined things that were new with things that either one or other of us had done before. These trips often included a pack of cards and competitive games of 'Hunt the Ten."

I had an exotic childhood. We lived for 5 years in Sao Paulo,  Brasil and then another 5 years when my father worked out there and my Mother comuted between London & Sao Paulo for a few months at a time. Looking back, I know I was happy at the time but now I realise that in many ways it was an isolated childhood but enough of that.

It was a special time for travelling. Margaret and I did things my Father didn't want to or couldn't. We also had some fabulous family holidays on the beach. Some worked and some didn't. Memo to other parents - taking an 8 year old to Mexico City was not the best idea in the world but taking an impressionable 12 year old to Machu Pichu before it became accessible was. Margaret and I combined trips home with other places. Jamaica for her & Disneyworld for me. Vancouver & Beautiful British Columbia (BBC) for both of us. Tango in Buenos Aires for her, Tom & Jerry film festival for me. I don't think I was supposed to laugh when she walked into a lamp post immediately afterwards. Sometimes we travelled first class. A highlight for me - making bacon sandwiches for the British Caledonian Captain, a highlight for her sharing the top deck of a Boeing 747 with Tom Watson.  It was during one of these trips that she made a tactical mistake in allowing me to rad an imigration form. I discoverd her date of birth did not coincide with how old she claiimed to be. But we had fun and we learned and grew together.

There was of course a pause in our travelling but in the last 15 years it began again. A trip to New York. One amazing and the other when she ended up being stuck there due to the volcano. She did end up with an encyclopeadic knowledge of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That trip we discovered Brooklyn but were astonished to find that the Frick had an exhibition of the works from Dulwich Art Gallery. We hadn't gone all that way to see our local paintings. Together we explored Kykuit, first the house and then the grounds. We postponed a trip due to 9/11. I had to drag her to the Air & Space Museum only to have to drag her out at closing time.

Her Euopean trips were mainly shared with her closest friend Janice but we fitted in a few and more in the last few years. I had wanted to taker her to Nice knowing that she would love it. She resisted having gone off the South of France when she became seriously ill with food-poisoning from unwashed grapes. We went and together visited Vence for the first time. We did manage to find a yarn shop and she bought a bag and I her Chrismas present - well, she chose the wool & I knitted it. The Chapel overshadowed all of that. It was an artistic highlight of both of our lives and the Cut OUt exhibition at Tate Modern that followed, a bonus. We both came to learn and love Matisse together. Another French highlight - a day at Giverny and a country restaurant. I could and will go on.

I didn't always get it right. Knowing she would love Aix and Arles I took her there. Only for her to comment that the Aix Hotel was not as grand as she was used to and that the bathroom was too small. The view from the balcony did however compensate and we loved the open-air opera even if the production of Don Giovanni was dire. Zerlina sings her great aria clutching Don Giovanni's coat?! How does that work? As for Arles, it had Romans, Van Gogh and sun. Fortunately the hotel although small was perfectly formed! By the time it got to Nice I'd upgraded ...

And so to Rio 2016. She's been so supportive of my trip coming back, excited by the Olympics and London Brazilian celebrations. There was never an idea that she would come to but I have a suspicion that she wanted to. I will not be able to share this one with her but I am glad I'm here even if the area isn't the glamorous Copacabana she loved and the Bed & Breakfast isn't very grand.

Dedicated to my mother Margaret R 22.11.193? - 3 July 2016.

A Summer of Socks - Sporty Socks

Now, I'm not the most active person in the world. Exercise for me takes the form of a long walk in the countryside. About 8 - 10 miles preferably with a minimum of up! (Unless of course it's the South West Coast Path which is par for the course!). Where I am sporty is that I love to watch sport and over the last few years I've started going to more sporting events.

In 2012, the Press were horrified by the sight of a woman knitting at Centre Court rather than being riveted to the action. What is wrong with that I ask? If you have a small simple project, you don't need to look at the work and you have something to occupy your hands. You can easily drop it to your lap. Would there be the same criticism of someone on their phone, tweeting, texting, facebooking? I don't think so because these have been common practice. I would have more sympathy with this outcry if the argument had been that the clicking of needles was distracting to others or that the knitter was seen as a fidgeter. Of that I have a lot of sympathy because if I'm at a concert then I feel that way about restlessness & people using their phones. In that case, I would expect the person next door to say something.

I've taken socks to Wimbledon & Lords. No one has complained, I've had the odd converations and had to persuade a security guard that 2.5mm (diameter) & 15cm wooden knitting needles weren't going to be a serious weapon. OK so at Lords the person originally sitting next to me swapped with his friends but that mightn't have been the knitting, maybe I smelt?! The other thing about bringing knitting to a cricket match, is that really as distracting as the amount of beer that people drink & the comings and goings to get more or to relieve themselves. Again, at Lords you are actively encouraged to tweet about the game & given free wifi so what I'm doing is it that distracting? I'm not sure.

OK, so rant over. Why do I bring knitting to sporting matches? Yes, I'm an addict & so a leisurely day spent outside seems a waste without having some knitting to do. Kntting is easily portable and easy to pick up and put down unlike a book. A phone, well, you worry where you've left it & drop an electronic tablet? Not a good idea besides which they are heavy & don't take such good photos as a camera.

So, Wimbledon. I love going. I've only once been lucky enough to get a ticket for Number One Court for the whole day thanks to a Debenture Holding friend of my Mother's. The rest of the time, I've queued like normal people. But are we normal? Maybe not. After all to get into the queue, I tend to get up at 4am and be there for 5.30. That has never been early enough to get a day ticket for a Show Court but it does get you the Court of your choice for the early matches. That's a bit of a lottery. You choose something that looks like it should be good but no, your match on Court 18 ends up straight sets and easy while over on Court 5 there's a real humdinger going on or do you head to Court 3 and see what happens there?

It's during the queue that it's worth taking your knitting. You sit and hang around for quite a while. If you are lucky, you are next to people who you can exchange pleasantries but you could easily be next to someone who is desperate to get onto Centre Court and is comparing Wimbledon unfavourably to the Australian Open. Humph... There's something so civilisedly (I know this isn't a word!) English about the Wimbledon queue. You obtain a card with your number so that there is no queue jumping and on that card is the rules for queueing. The Stewards ostensibly keep an eye on things and move the queue along when necessary but in practice they play the charming and polite hosts to perfection. Encouraging, informative, welcoming. At 7.00am you aren't awake so soothing knitting is perfect as is the bacon sandwich from the mobile catering.

The queue begins to move, you've gone to the loo and not sure where your place was. Your queue helps as you check someone else's number & move accordingly. You think that this is it but no, the tents are down, you move further up and more people fit in. You look behind you and cannot believe the numbers behind you. You smile smuggly, Your sleep sacrifice has been worth it. You think you are getting somewhere but what the newcomer doesn't realise is that there is a long way from opening the gate to the queue to getting to the ground. You cross the Park, passing entertainment from the former tenis players on a mock court, tempted by soft drinks from the sponsors. You are moving albeit in a stop start fashion. At this stage, knitting isn't so great as you are on your feet moving slowly. I would then recommend either enjoying the atmosphere or get out a lightweight reading device such as a Kindle. Round the corner,then you see it. Centre Court looming there in front of you. Airport Security, wooden knitting needles passed OK, you pay (cash only) and you are in. There's a queue for the loo but you don't bother, you work out the nearest way to the Court of your choice. You've been through so much and it's only 10.30 am with play not scheduled to start until 12.00.

Welcome to Wimbledon rings out and you are advised of the weather and in particular if it's going to be hot or interupted. Water is advised on hot days but you pray you get the tap rather than the rain variety. Then the thing I love the most, the courts are opened and a line of stewards including the forces and fire service walk slowly towards the courts ensuring no running, no panicking, no shoving. Technically once you've sat down that's it, no moving or you jeopardise it but in practice, dump stuff (ensuring you take valuables including knitting & hop to the loo). it's then that you really need your knitting as you are condemned to sit in a not very comfortable seat until play begins. There's no wifi at Wimbledon so any tweeting is done on your own accout but who cares. You are there.

Am I that woman who knitted in 2012? No I'm not. I have to admit that my head is like all the others and is transfixed by the speed of the ball and the agility of the players but I do find that when the players take their extended breaks I do pick it up. If I choose to watch a match on the big screen from Henman Hill then yes I do as a screen is far less compelling than actually being on Court.

The end of the day? A little sojourn on a show court. Wimbledon has the best returns system I know. show court ticket holders on leaving can return their tickets, you can then buy them for a donation of £10 for Centre & £5 for No. 1 & No. 2. The courts remain full, you get to see the tennis and charity benefits. Perfect! That way I've seen Leyton Hewitt in his final match at Wimbledon, the most generous sportsmanship from Jo Wilfred Tsonga. I've not made it to Centre and possibly I never will unless I get lucky in the ballot (providing I remember to enter it!) but I would rather see the top players on No.1 than waste time during a perfect Day at Wimbledon!





 

A Summer of Socks - Ocean Socks

In the Summer of 2014 I knitted 3 pairs of socks and each represented a little bit of me.

The first pair - ocean socks - named after the yarn but the colour is about right as was where I did much of the knitting - Coastal Paths. I love long distance walking paths. The National Trails are fantastic but then so are other ones such as the Cumbria Way which 3 of us did 5 years ago.

My first experience was beginning the Cornish Coastal Walk in 1990s. Now it has become the South West Coast Path. My idea is to crack on as otherwise it will have become the British Coastal Walk before I have finished. Now I am back and have done much of the Dorset Coast (from Lulworth Cove to Lyme Regis and am well on track with the South Devon leg with a little around Seaton & also from Sidmouth to Torcross. Ocean Socks belong to my stay in Bridport. I fell in love with Bridport - a lovely market town with West Bay a short distance away on the coast. I loved being in Bridport with its varied buildings, wide streets and the ability to stroll down to the beach. I loved it so much that during a stay in Lyme Regis I had to go back.

There is something about coastal walking. There is so much variety as the views change all the time. If you do the same leg, then the views will be different everytime as the light and the tides change as do the seasons. It can be easy as you stroll gently along the seashore or it can be brutal as the path follows the contours without the comfort of bridges. Before I learnt to map read, I asked my then boyfriend if some of the Cornish coast was brown. Once he finished laughing, he said contours! Now when I'm planning a walk these are the first things I check along with the weather. If you can help it then there's not a lot point of getting soaked and it can be dangerous if the wind is high. Personally I sometimes think that contour lines should be in red, the further they are together then the steeper and the harder it is. Why do I check contours? Two reasons: the more contours, the longer it will take. If I have a choice of direction, they can also influence me in choices (along with bus times!).


Ocean socks came with me to one of the highest points - Golden Cap. It was a bit blustery that day but coast walking at its best with views, flowers and no rain. Socks a good choice as they are so easily portable unless you are using wooden knitting needles and then you can run into other problems! Nothing more annoying than finding that one's snapped. The difficulty of course is that you can drop one. Somewhere on a SouthWest Trains train, is a beautiful knitting needle dropped down a grille. I could see it but not touch it. AAAgh!

And so the SouthWest Coast path continues and deserves several posts of its own. In the meantime, in Winter I have enjoyed the warmth and memories of ocean socks.

A Tribute To Paris : 08/09 January 2015

I n October I booked a very cheap train ticket & my favourite hotel in Paris for a night and then wondered if I was being extravagant. A stressful Christmas reassured me I was doing the right thing in getting away. The date was 8 January 2015.

I have to admit that being without a television meant that I hadn't taken in the full horror of the Terrorist attacked on 7th. On arrival at Gare du Nord I didn't perceive too much difference. As the day unfurled that changed. I was asked to take part in a minute's silence at the Orangerie. I was contemplating a Cezanne at the time. A revolutionary painter and an appropriate place to mourn.

On the way to the Hotel I was struck by the windows in what were obviously the offices at the Louvre with their "Nous sommes Charlie" posters. Being very tired I crashed for a bit at the hotel (I had got up at 5.30am). When I woke up I found myself glued to BBC News. It was so very real being there. I didn't head up to the Place de la Republique. Somehow it felt an intrusion although the whole world was shocked. I felt it was a place for Parisians to mourn their own. I watched on the television as the lights went out on the Eifel Tower. I did go out for supper but the place was quieter than usual.

On the Thursday there was sadness. On the Friday there was tension. You could feel people flinch at the sound of a siren. The shops had their "Nous sommes Charlie" signs so did the Musem tills. What moved me the most was the spontaneous cardboard signs "Je suis Charlie" in front of a beggar who had a tea light and an Eastern European group of buskers.

I have to admit that the only solace I felt that day was in a yarn shop. Lang Yarns and some pure alpaca Worsted (thanks very much). A visit to the Picasso Museum was overwhelming and possibly because of my mood for the first time I realised how cruel he could be towards women. If you look at a collection of his cubist nude women you might see what I mean.

I returned to the hotel to pick up my small overnight bag (even travelling light I could see I hadn't been to popular at the Musee d'Orsay. You can't blame them). In the reception there was television coverage of the siege and I exchanged a few words with the Manager.
"Paris c'est une ville tres courageux. Nous avons beaucoup des problems en Londres". A bit simplistic I know. To which he replied there is trouble all over Europe. Sobering when you consider it is only 100 years since the War that was supposed to end all Wars.

I was ready to leave Paris. As a last tribute I decided to take the bus up to the Place de Republique and pay tribute to a sad but brave city.

Bravo Paris. Je suis Charlie.

The Yarn : A Story of Christmas Socks

I don’t do internet porn. Well, that’s not quite true. I get my kicks from coasting various web-sites and ogling yarn. Mostly it’s wool but sometimes it’s cotton and I have been known to get my kicks from imaging the soft feel of silk between my needles. OK I admit it I am a yarn addict. My flat is coming down with the stuff. Chunky & bright red, fine pinks and blues and the translucent haze of fine mohair. I own more yarn than I will probably ever knit and I am even quite relieved when I don’t win another auction on ebay.

It’s always hard over Christmas. I desperately try not to add to my stash (a well-known term amongst knitters for wool they keep to fondle) and try and knit my Christmas presents from it. I vow to do this every year but last year I failed. I was on this web-site and the yarn waved and winked at me. I swear it did. If it didn’t it certainly said

“Your Aunt Isabel would love me!”

“But my Aunt Isabel doesn’t knit. That’s my Aunt Helena. “

“But you do.”

Two days later I was opening the package and there it was 100g of sock yarn. Rich browns, reds, a touch of crimson and a contrast of green.

“You win.” I sighed. “Now what do I do with you?”

The yarn nestled in my hand and stroked my cheek.

“Stop that! You aren’t helping! If I don’t get an idea soon, you’ll just linger on the sofa and now I am going to be late for work.  Where did I put those socks? Socks? Yes. I’ll just get my needles. Well, when I get home ”

I couldn’t concentrate at work. All I could think of was how the golds and reds would make the perfect simple sock. No need for a complex pattern, the yarn would do the work but on my way home doubts began to set in as I remembered I didn’t like knitting socks that much. The cast-on was fiddly, it was too easy to lose needles when knitting in the round & was for turning the heel? Was it worth it.

Back home, the yarn grinned at me with the delight of someone who hadn’t moved all day, smug, knowing that they were so attractive. One stroke and the die (or should I say dye) was cast. 2.5mm needles out, the yarn eased out of the ball-band and we were off.

Cast on 64 stitches, divide across 3 needles, swear lots as yarn twists as if in discomfort. Swear more, yip out stiches and cast on again and again. Why socks I moaned. Yarn looked at me triumphantly but this was a battle I wasn’t going to lose. Try again and this time knit a row of rib and then divide it. Yes, it’s worked and I was off.

Yarn, needles, fledgling sock and I became inseparable for a week. I got used to picking up stitches, managed not to cry when one of the needles fell into a grille on a Southwest train and with gritted teeth pulled out another one. We saw the sights, yarn, sock and I. We sat on the tops of buses, kept each other company in the intervals of concerts, and even visited the sea where we sat on a bench admiring the angry grey sea. People told us stories of their knitting. It was our honeymoon.

Sock grew and grew and then its twin materialised. Knitting needles down, darning needle to tie in those ends. Brown, red, gold & green socks already for Christmas. I held them to my cheek one last time, a final stroke and then surrendered them to the silver wrapping paper.

“Good-bye dear socks.”

Christmas lunch over, the family gathered round the Christmas tree, black plastic bags of wrapping paper were bulging. Finally Aunt Isabel opened her floppy silver parcel.

“Socks.” She said. “How nice. Thank you dear. Oh, Juliet how clever of you to get me this vase. It’s so like the ones that the twins broke. I can already see it with the first daffodils of the year”

The socks and I looked at each other.

“Don’t worry,” they chorused “she won’t know what hit her. We’ll make her feet the most grateful feet in London as they’ll be the warmest and best dressed.”

They did and they were.