Bloody-minded

British people can occasionally be spectacularly stubborn. They call it being "bloody-minded," a phrase that, when I first heard it, sent me into uncomfortable, nervous giggles, as I imagined a sort of visible stroke, gloopy brain muddled with blood.

This bloody-mindedness means that once you've decided you're going to enjoy something, you don't just force yourself to do it no matter what-- it means you're going to force yourself to ENJOY IT. To my friend Geraint, this means that when you've planned a picnic, even if it rains and hails on the day of said planned picnic, you will still go. You will sit in the car, in situ, and eat your damp sandwiches and your cold Scotch eggs, with your mum and your brother and sister and you will enjoy yourself.

I don't know if it's because I'm American, or because I'm from a town that can generally expect better weather sometime soon... but I just don't buy into this.

Consider this, from my friend and former flatmate:

made a rhubarb pie especially - was determined to have a picnic despite the rain and cold!
— The Shrieking Violet (@Natalieviolet) May 11, 2013

And this response:

@natalieviolet This is why I can only live in this country. Rhubarb & bloody-minded picnics. Excellent work :)
— Matthew Whitfield (@mwhitfield80) May 11, 2013

I mean, seriously. What is going on? How is there an entire nation of people deciding to have fun and then somehow managing to force themselves into having it despite all circumstances pushing against them? It's an act of will that I simply don't have the effort to manage.

I'm American. I like the sun and warm days and I will WAIT to have a picnic or a barbecue until a sunny warm day comes along.

If they don't come along, I will go without. Enjoy a warm living room and a cup of tea and a duvet, instead. Because these things, the picnics, the barbecues, they are not worth the effing hassle without lovely weather. But that's my take. Pretty much everyone I know in this bizarre country does not agree and can attest to happy childhoods spent wearing raincoats and gloves, standing in blustery wind, eating rainy food, because we are on a picnic and you will be happy about it.

When my friend Tommy invited me to a birthday weekend in the Lake District, I was a bit worried I'd have to take on some bloody-mindedness, for group harmony. They might not let me just sit by the fire in the cozy cottage and drink tea and read... they might cajole and coerce me into  some wet, hail-ridden, muddy, cold fell walking. They might all tell each other what a lovely time it was, and how it wouldn't really be better if it were warm and sunny, because it wouldn't be really British, or something. And then they'd look at me, expectantly, wondering when I was going to join in the group delusion. And I'd have to pull one of those faces that looks like a smile but is actually a grimace and say, "This is great! Happy Birthday, Tommy! Let's eat some damp food now!"

Luckily, this didn't happen. Instead, a huge group of Tommy's friends, about 13 of us in total, had a lovely weekend with some beautiful crisp sunny weather. We did a stunning walk up Helvellyn. I didn't go all the way up Helvellyn.

Gorgeous. We stayed in a very remote cottage in Coniston. It used to be a slate and copper mining town, and its lake has been used many times for setting the world water speed record. Donald Campbell beat his own record in 1966, getting to 320 miles/hour, and then immediately lost control of the hydroplane and lost his life.

The views from our cottage were breath-taking.

Our second day there was a bit grayer, so I decided I didn't want to go canoeing. I decided to take a suggestion from Jonti's mother and go to the Ruskin Museum. John Ruskin was a leading Victorian-era art critic, who championed JMW Turner. Ruskin owned Brantwood, a house on Coniston Water, and lived there for years. Apparently, it's a beautiful old home, turned into a museum and art gallery.

But I didn't go to Brantwood. I got confused and went to the (somewhat misleadingly named) Ruskin Museum. I would argue this museum is incorrectly named because it is actually just a bunch of rooms filled with stuff vaguely related to Coniston.

It is an excellent horrible little local museum. I highly recommend it. The room devoted to Coniston doesn't feature any sort of general history or chronology. It's just several unconnected displays: Copper! Slate! A poem someone wrote about Coniston! A boat that inspired a book about Coniston! 

There's a room about Donald Campbell and his hydroplane, the Bluebird-- with interactive touch screens! The slide titled 'A Generous Man' had me and Claire in fits. Rather than a list of Campbell's charitable work or donations, it was just a list of gifts he had given people. For Christmas once, he had cowboy suits made for a friend's sons. An acquaintance's wife enjoyed a poem he recited and wanted a copy of it-- so he stayed up all night to type it out for her. I mean, what. a. guy.

Creepy mannequin hands in the Bluebird room.

A fantastic provincial museum, full of wacky curiosities. It's what I imagine a Stars Hollow museum would be like. Brantwood might be a better museum, or even an actually good museum, but it's probably not at all funny.

Throughout the weekend, we also saw our fair share of adorable sheep.

They really are sometimes just black! Some of you, who grew up in rural Britain, already know this. I'm a city girl. I never realised there was actual fact behind children's songs.

I made new friends (hey y'all!), and I really enjoyed breathing all that crisp air. I'd like to do more fell walking this summer. 

The night we all got into the hot tubs and drank sparkling wine (which we insisted on calling 'champagne,' because maybe we did get a little bloody-minded, after all) was one of the goofiest experiences I've had in a long time. 

It was a lovely weekend, and I can't wait to visit the Lakes again. Though, since that weekend, the weather has taken another turn for the worse, suggesting that weekend might have been all the summer we'll get this year-- meaning, if I want to go to the Lakes again this year, I just might have to get a little more bloody-minded.

The Real Story

I cannot be trusted with my free time. I have learned this through years of spending free time watching Prick Up Your Ears and certain Bollywood movies over and over and over. Given free time, dear reader, I will waste it.

I don't have much free time these days. And yet. To avoid ever possibly having any, I've started yet another new project.

A few years ago, I entered a creative nonfiction writing competition, called The Real Story, and I was one of five winners. The competition was run by Kate Feld, writer of The Manchizzle, blooger extraordinaire, and general champion of the North.

Recently, she and I have re-launched that website, to celebrate the vast world of creative nonfiction. If you like good journalism, essays, and things about the real world: check it out.

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And I have another real story to tell you, as well, dear reader. Previously on this blog, I've told you about a lovely, shiny new gentleman; last week, he and I had a short weekend frolick in London, seeing friends and drinking and eating. Otherwise known as the rather nice Mr Internet Man, allow me to introduce you to Jonti (a common short for Jonathan round these parts, apparently). He's unlike any other.

We had brunch at a crazy place that glowed with pink neon. Mimosas made with rosé prosecco. I think Jonti had never had a mimosa before. I think he liked them, which bodes well for the long, warm, summertime Atlanta brunches I hope to eventually, somehow, recreate here in Manchester. Just waiting on the weather...

I picked up a new Tatty Devine piece: meet my new foxy! I haven't named him yet, though it is tempting to go with 'Knoxy.' Don't worry. I won't.

And we went to an amazing natural wine bar. I'd never heard of natural wine until Jonti extolled its virtues. No sulphates, no preservatives. A place called Terroirs, this place inspired Jonti to volunteer on an organic vineyard in France last summer. The wine is amazing, unlike any other wine I've ever sipped in my life. If you get a chance to have natural wine sometime, take it. It tastes more like grapes, more like where regular wine actually starts off. I can't believe I'd never encountered it before, considering my obsession with whole food, free from preservatives and additives...

I think we followed up the wine bar by walking directly to the London Gin Club. As you do. One of Jonti's friends joined us there, and the three of us tasted and talked through 2 gin flights. Jonti has the loveliest, cleverest friends. Each flight featured 4 different gins with different garnishes and came served with Fever Tree tonic. Big-bowled, green-glass stemmed glasses with large, irregular chunks of ice.

My favourite was Bathtub Navy gin, garnished with blood orange. Because I am a dork and a super-organised one at that, I kept a chart. Because I am a bossy woman and a persistent one at that, I made Jonti and his friend keep a chart, too.

Then we headed over to Dumplings Legend, my favourite dumpling haunt in Chinatown. Sichuan cucumber salad, vegetarian steamed dumplings and soup dumplings, and your average Japanese lager. I could not ask for a better meal. Which was then followed up by cider at some gorgeous little pub.

Given that amount of drinking on Saturday, I was not surprised that we didn't manage much on Sunday. Jonti did some work on a paper for his Masters, I edited it for him. He had a mismanagement with a knife and rather too stale end of breadloaf, leading to deep, spurting cut on his index finger, which still, nearly a week later, looks absolutely terrible. I'm beginning to think we should have taken him to A&E.

And then, he asked if I'd ever seen St. Pancras Tube Station.

I fell in love with it, curvy and carved stone, red and orange on the outside, black and white and grey inside.

Next thing we knew, we were on a train back to Manchester, tired and happy. I thought about how nice it is to live in the same town as the person in whose company you want to spend every moment. He still seems rather nice. Look at him being goofy.

I like goofy.

Sheffield!

Though I've lived in Manchester for nearly 3 years now, until last weekend, I had never visited either of its nearest city neighbours: Sheffield or Liverpool. Both are only about an hour away on the train, but I suppose I've never really had need to explore them. Manchester always fascinates me; there is always so much to do here...

But the other day, I read this article on the Guardian, about a pub in the Sheffield train station... a pub that is so nice, locals come to the train station just to have a pint! In this country of horrible train station cafes and uncomfortable waiting rooms, some twisted part of me just had to go see this anomalous Edwardian real ale microbrewery.

Yes, I wanted to take an hour-long train ride, to have a drink.

Mr Internet Man had asked me to come up with some ideas for an outing. I thought, "If he doesn't also want to go to Sheffield for a pint, well then, maybe he's no good."

Turns out he's twisted, too. He couldn't wait to get on that train to Sheffield. (As of this post, it's been a little more than two weeks since I first met Internet Man. I can confirm that he still seems  rather nice.)

A huge, clever water feature, just outside Sheffield train station

 

Its curvy, mirrored design makes it so that when you stand right close to it and look up, you feel like the water is going to come down on you. The sight of rushing water filled my view, and made me a little dizzy, a little unsure of my balance.

And the pub itself was amazing.

Internet Man and I sat in the newly renovated dining room, which houses a microbrewery.

I don't know why the children on these Edwardian tiles look so sad. 

With glass after glass of lovely ales, we whiled away a whole afternoon, talking and watching people, watching the trains come and go. We saw a group of men teaching a young boy how to be a trainspotter; he was so into it, with his little notepad, writing the numbers out.

We saw couples flirting and big groups of friends hanging out for hours. It was nothing like the brightly-lit cold and ugly train station waiting rooms we're so used to... This is a station where you'd feel lucky to miss your connecting train, and get waylaid for a few hours.

Salford the Surreal

Winter still hasn't let up for us here in Manchester; we've been told it's something to do with a weather pattern over Russia. It's been awful, around 2˚C most days, rain and grey and windy wet. It's exhausting.

March should be milder, especially after the vernal equinox.

I can't help but think that the planners (NVA) of Speed of Light thought it would be a little warmer by now, too. An art project, involving a hundred volunteer runners dressed in remote controlled light-suits, it seems better-suited to a dark summer's night.

But on Friday night, blistering winds were tearing through Media City. I can't imagine being one of the runners. Why would anyone run in this weather? WHY?

They warmed up for about 30 minutes. They ran by me in silence.

Watching people run by, in their lit-up suits, with only the sound of wind and the waves of the canal, was a weird experience. The runners were like aliens. I didn't want to get too close. 

The only thing that would have been worse than running in that stinging cold weather would have been standing around waiting for the grand finale! Lucky for me, I work in Media City, so when I couldn't stand the cold anymore, I went up to the 3rd floor of my building.

There were moments, during the wait, when I wasn't sure it had been worth waiting around at Media City until 8pm. But then, all the runners crowded together, a huddle of blue lights on the dark, wet ground... and suddenly, their lights turned red and they ran apart, exploding like a firework. They were stunning, glittering, and the whole night made sense. This is why people would run in this weather...

But I'm still unreformed. I'm really glad I was indoors and warm to see it.

**The laughter in that video is courtesy of Internet Man, as I now refer to him. He seems nice.

Narnia

I step off the train into one of the worst snow storms I've ever seen, like wandering into another world.

On my first visit to Oxford, a windy, otherworldly snow seems apt.

As the icy slush seeps into my boots, I look for Christ Church College, where I'm meant to hear a talk on CS Lewis.

"Oh, how very apt," I mutter, feeling my toes recoil from the wet coldness.

Then, I see this giant mound.
I'm not sure what this mound is about.
But there are signs telling me to not even think about climbing it.

I wasn't thinking about it. At all. Really.

Christ Church turns out to be a breathtaking beautiful castle-like college, not unlike the Cambridge colleges.

But I can't explore it, not today, because it is snowy and windy and my feet are turning blue. Well, brownish-blue anyway. 

Luckily, there is a lovely little cafe, with big picturesque windows overlooking Christ Church. I sit, order a hot coffee. Eventually, warm to the view, even if my feet are still frozen.

While I had planned to explore Oxford's renowned beauty, I content myself with a brilliant talk on CS Lewis by Alastair McGrath.

Later in the week, back in Manchester, I hear about a pub in Oxford called The Bookbinders' Arms. Must plan another trip to Oxford, I suppose!

Writing on the Wall

I used to live about 2 blocks away from the Whitworth Art Gallery, on Oxford Road, near Manchester University, so I caught all its exhibits fairly regularly.

These days, though, it's a bit out of my way, as I rarely have need to even go to the university, much less further south. Walking down long, trafficky, loud and smelly Oxford Road is not a delightful prospect, so I avoid it as well as I can.

But today... I was meeting someone at the Whitworth Cafe. Someone from the internet. EEP. I don't know why this made me so nervous. I've met loads of people from the internet before. I have a nasty habit of bullying people on Twitter to meet me in real life. But this person... well, he wasn't from Twitter. He was from a dedicated dating site. EEP!

Wandering around the gallery, though, my nerves calmed upon coming to the Richard Long show.  His work is largely landscape art, which includes stuff like using stone that's already in a landscape to create artwork in that landscape. He reminds me a lot of Andy Goldsworthy. Needless to say, a lot of his art installations can't really be brought into a gallery.

A quartz stone path was laid down the middle of the room, and on the walls, there were bits of text inspired by his walks (see picture above). The whole room had a sense of calm and quiet, despite the jazz quartet warming up downstairs. It was like he'd brought the quiet he'd found on his nature walks into the space, somehow.

I breathed the calm in and realised it was 2pm. Time to start my internet dating adventure... What could possibly go wrong in an art gallery, right?

ps It turns out you're not technically allowed to take pictures in the Whitworth. Woops!

A Winged Monkey Army

When I first moved to Sydney, I remember visiting the MCA regularly, but since I've been in Manchester, my art gallery visits have significantly diminished, for reasons undiscovered.

But, one place I try to check out every time they have a new exhibit is the Manchester Art Gallery. It's home to fantastic local art and craft collections, and I find their temporary exhibits to be truly wonderful.

Founded in 1824, the MAG is a publicly-owned art gallery, and in the fashion of Victorian paternalism, features an inscription along the side that makes its purposes entirely clear: "For the Advancement and Diffusion of Knowledge."

A few months ago, I went to the First Cut Exhibit, a show based entirely on paper-based artwork, the kind of thing that has recently been popularised by Rob Ryan. The kind of thing that won Kara Walker a MacArthur Genius Grant not so long ago.

Andy Singleton's delicate curving storm spun with the drafts in the room, casting mesmerising shadows against the corner.

James Aldridge's intricate lacey work reveals, on close inspection, lurking sinister creatures.

And today, I went along to see the Raqib Shaw exhibit– it was incredibly beautiful. Part of his exhibit was outside the gallery.

He installed tree branches and plants, daffodils and bulbs, intertwining along the fencing that borders the footpath outside the gallery. Inside the gallery, the greening continued.

His paintings shimmer with stunning enamel and rhinestone. There's a South Asian sensibility here; the influence can be seen not only in the gaudy glittering of the pieces, but also in the depictions of human/animal chimeras, which make up a huge part of Hindu mythology. Hinduism subverted is rare joy to see in Western art galleries– so often, it seems Hindu mythological art is subjected to the Western gaze more uncritically.

That's not an issue with Shaw's work. Irresistibly pretty, they draw your eye in...

And what do you find? Monkey-headed, teeth-loined creatures engaged in bondage situations, vomiting blood onto each other's crotches.

I know. I mean, my word. It hardly bears thinking about.

My friend Geraint and I walked around the entire exhibit, giggling like children and pointing out weird bits of paintings to each other.

"What's coming out of that one's butt?"

"No, wait, that one has a crotch where his head should be and a screaming gibbon head at his crotch??"

There is a goofy childish element to it, but it's also deeply disturbing, sexually charged, weirdly aggressive. I didn't take many pictures of his paintings, partly because pictures wouldn't really do them justice–hint hint! Go see them yourself!– but also because I was just enjoying them.

I did take a picture of one of most horrifying, haunting and mesmerising sculptures I've ever seen. Raqib Shaw's Adam depicts a man with a bird's head, violently held down by a lobster. Geraint and I couldn't agree on what was happening, exactly, but it was unnerving. As I walked around, I kept wondering what I would think about the work if it wasn't slightly removed from me through its whimsical medium & technique... if it wasn't slightly removed from me by depicting chimeras, instead of humans. 

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If you made it this far, I should probably also let you know that part of the reason I've been off the blog lately is because I've been spending an awful lot of time lately applying for a job and then preparing for the interview...

Luckily it was all worth it! Starting tomorrow, I have a 6-month contract as Development Producer! I could not be more chuffed and excited and nervous about it...