Going for The Burn

Mrs Tyhurst is a great fan of Artichoke. 

Not the vegetable sillies - the creative people that put on artistic events (think the Sultan's Elephant, the plinth in Trafalgar Square.....)

She went up north a few years ago to see 'Lumiere' in Durham and was moved to tears several times seeing so many ordinary folk queuing up to see light installations across the city. 
The soppy old thing. 

This time she is  at  'Temple 2015' with her dear travelling companion and financial assistant, Mr Lord.

Thousands of  people have visited Kelly's Field high above the city of Derry, where artist David Best and his crew have built an enormous 70 foot high wooden temple. Local youngsters have been helping cut the intricate fretwork, contributing their own ideas. 

Mrs T started getting emotional again seeing so many people climbing the hill. 
Quite like a pilgrimage she thought, snuffling into her tissues.

The temple was absolutely buzzing......everyone squeezing in, holding children up to write things, leaving pictures of lost loved ones, reading inscriptions, standing, looking,marvelling. 
The temple will be burned, a massive communal letting go.

Yesterday Mrs T had rather impulsively responded to an email request for those attending to share objects and memories that they were leaving in the temple. She wasn't really sure what The One Show was, but she does enjoy the odd dalliance with the media.

So she took that old copy of the Elgar Cello Concerto along - many years ago she had a rather nasty experience playing it. 
Mr Lord was shooed away and the interview took place in the fading light.

Mrs T is now bezzies with the lovely Lucy Siegle and would like to point out that Lucy started following her on twitter first.


The burning happened.
It was Tissue Time again as the flames leapt into the air, engulfing the construction. It was all over in about an hour. 
Mrs T made a mental note to check on the house insurance when she got back. 


Many of the locals said it was a pity to burn the temple, but Mrs T thinks it's so much better to get rid of all that nasty old stuff. 

A brief pause for sleep

We actually planned an entire community arts project whilst waiting for the recovery vehicle in the Brecon Beacons.

Mrs Tyhurst met Mrs Deeth at at 1 o'clock on Sunday and chattered incessantly (with a brief pause for sleep) until Monday at 7pm. 
We were so thirsty we had to stop off at the TOAST shop in Llandeilo for fizz and Welsh cakes. Mrs Deeth poured herself a large glass and proceeded to raid the rails. 

Moments later, clutching their lovely tissue wrapped purchases, the ladies calculated that they had saved their husbands over £300 with their judicious spending (sale prices and another 20% off today ! )

We continued, still jabbering, all the way to Mrs Tyhurst's small country residence near Llandysul. Sitting amidst the Bloomsbury-inspired coziness, the two continued their discussions with a short picnic tea.

In the morning - and what a glorious one too, they travelled to Wrights Food Emporium for a spot of breakfast. 
Mrs Tyhurst showed her dear friend around - where one could refill one's wine bottles, buy a nice pie and so on. Despite several woes previously expressed about 'the state of the waistline' the  two ladies ( by now resplendent in their new purchases) managed to deal with delicious bowls of Tartiflette.

And so onto Hay on Wye....or so they thought.
A sudden loud clanking noise caused the two to pull rather quickly into a lay by.
Mr Lord had kindly placed details for such emergencies in a little folder in the glove compartment, so no time was wasted making the necessary calls.
Luckily the two had plenty of wine and the remains of the previous evening's little picnic.
So they continued.
Yes, why not a community arts project ?
Mrs Deeth made notes.

At last we continued onwards to Hay.
We made it with just enough time to buy a dear little copy of 'Mrs Dalloway's Party' and a quick spin around the antique shop.
Then home....talking all the way.

More selfie madness

Mrs. T has always thought that taking 'selfies' to be ever so slightly narcissistic: here's me at the bottom of the Spanish Steps, here's me halfway up, here's me at the top, here's me coming down..........

We saw a woman doing just this today in Rome. The endless need for self-validation. 

Mr. Lord and I feel rather quaint with our circa 1990s old digital, and have vigorously resisted all the attempts by the proliferation of hawkers trying to sell a selfie stick. 

Still we had a wonderful day.

We were possibly too early for hipsterish Testaccio (everything seems  to open after 8pm) but we did enjoy a little trip around the outside of Macro (very trendy contemporary art gallery in a reclaimed slaughterhouse) viewing a bamboo helterskelter. And Mrs T continues to astonish with her knowledge of Italian foodstuffs.

Things threatened to turn a little nasty when her wee legs started to give way after the Pantheon. Mr. Lord wondered whether the poor thing was overcome with emotion but a visit to the loo and a bowl of very al dente pasta seemed to revive the poor old thing.

Up and down the Spanish Steps, a moistening of the eyes around our dear Keats last resting place and back to the hotel for a reviving glass of Sangiovese.

She has been extremely well-behaved today.

Selfus stickus

Rome seems to have been infected with a plague of 'selfi sticki'.

Mrs. Tyhurst is visiting the city sadly senza her dear companion Mrs. Lawton. She is instead in the company of her faithful and devoted husband, Mr. Lord.

A slight disagreement at the airport : Mr L refused to buy a tiny biscuit to accompany coffees causing a protracted queer turn lasting several hours and protestations of 'I'm never going on holiday again' etc.
Mrs. T was eventually restored to something (vaguely) approaching normality after an early night and a lovely breakfast.

Back to the subject in hand, or rather, on the end of a pole.

It's always interesting observing tourist items for sale - you know, little sunhats, fridge magnets of the pope...those sorts of things. 
Now it's selfie sticks. 
All over Rome simply everyone is smiling into a phone on a stick.  
Mrs. T has health and safety concerns.

Mr. Lord has bravely directed her over the Forum and the Palatine Hill.
Mrs. T is rather taken with the pines and has developed several amusing little ideas for photographs (seagulls in various places, and pictures of Mr. L's head with columns.....)

A few bottles of vino rosso and the silly old thing should be right as rain.

Train of thought

Don't you just HATE it when you're eating out and the staff keep checking every 5 minutes to see if everything is OK?
Completely destroys the train of thought.

It's been an exceedingly long time . Not that Mrs. T and Mrs. L have been staying in. Oh no, far from it. 
Mr Lord intervened. Moving. Bath. Moving again.Piglet. 

We are happy to announce that Activities Have Resumed now that Mrs. T has come to her senses and is back in town having cast off the limitations of a 'proper job' without a care. Work does rather interfere with one's social calendar. 

But where in Chepstow to meet ?


The Boat Inn was closed (ON A FRIDAY) so we turned left following the small blackboard sign to The Riverside Wine Bar. 
A very smart young man ushered us into the restaurant area, our heels sinking somewhat into the plush carpet.
We had at least 3 days of glittering chat to catch up on since our last meeting at the Italian class  on Tuesday (Mrs. Lawton IS getting out these days).

Which brings me to my opening point about being interrupted in restaurants:  checks about our well-being, being referred to as 'GUYS'....you know, that sort of botheration.And the imperative 'ENJOY !' (I'm retching into my hankie). 
Well, there was very little of that at The Riverside.
Two coffees. Then some rather pleasant beef on skewers. We would have preferred it a tad more rare and Mrs. Lawton struggles a little with the current fad for serving food on anything but a plate (boards, slates, leaves...). But, mercifully we were left alone.Afterwards we had two delicious affogati.
Mrs Lawton shared a big secret......
Now that would be telling wouldn't it !

Mrs Tyhurst attends the amphitheatre at Epidaurus

Mrs. Tyhurst has been slightly off the rails for a while recently and poor Mrs. Lawton has been rather wickedly neglected.

In fact, Mrs. Tyhurst is currently in Athens thinking about everything and wondering why on earth her (rather shapely) legs are resolutely resisting any suggestion of a change of colour?


So here is a little report of a recent jaunt:

Mrs. Tyhurst joined thousands of Athenians thronging into the amphitheatre at Epidaurus (yes, in the Peloponnese - do try and keep up).
Rather like a well-heeled Greek football crowd, it was to attend a performance of Euripides' "Trojan Women'.


Whilst waiting for her dear friend Evi to return from the loo, Mrs. Tyhurst quickly scribbled down some fashion notes: brightly coloured maxi dresses, very lavishly accessorized...sometimes tending towards a slightly 'tranny' look ?
She noticed a distinct tendency for Greek women to dress to attract. Is it that British women are more lazy? Or something to do with the weather? Or simply that we don't generally mingle with shipping millionaires ?

The amphitheatre has a capacity of nearly 15,000 and it was nearly full, apart from the late arrival of various visiting celebrities - a round of applause, flash of cameras, as another well-known actor arrives (yawn).
People perching on the rocks.
Mrs. Tyhurst was so glad of her sensible daps, although felt a tad under-dressed in her M & S holiday shorts and Indian print top.

The performance was entirely in Greek. Mrs. Tyhurst felt very moved sitting underneath the stars, gazing out to the mountains, thinking that she was doing something that people had been doing over 2,500 years ago. She really is a silly old sausage sometimes.

Earlier Miss Evi Papanikolau, Miss Irini Psalti, and Mrs. T. had taken lunch at a roadside taverna. Fried cod with a deliciously naughty garlic puree, mussels, squid served with local greens and crusty bread. They also visited the beautiful old town of Nafplio, former capital city of Greece. Mrs. Tyhurst showed an admirable level of financial restraint, despite a proliferation of amber shops (well, it is a little hot for amber, don't you think?) Miss Papanikolau slipped out her credit card rather suddenly - something urgently required to accessorize that little kaftan, apparently.

The previous evening (or had Mrs. Tyhurst missed a whole day??) had been spent at a rather charming penthouse apartment belonging to a film producer friend of Miss P's.
Lovely Steinway grand piano and a double bass. Mrs. Tyhurst made her finger a little sore playing it, but enjoyed it nonetheless.
Things were going rather well, until Elisavet ( the extremely kind and generous hostess) suggested some margaritas.
Now, Mrs. Tyhurst is rather partial to a cocktail or two, but unfortunately, the combination of a hot day on the terrace/jumping in and out of the jacuzzi wearing next to nothing and consuming the entire month's alcohol units in a few hours resulted in such naughty shenanigans that they simply cannot be repeated. Ever.
Well, Mrs. Tyhurst does have her reputation to think of doesn't she?

Mrs. Lawton falls in love

Yes, the intrepid two ladies have been off gallivanting again after their long winter hibernation.

They set off last weekend - Mrs. Lawton steering the Green Goddess in her habitual foot-on-the-floor style. Mrs. Tyhurst talked through current events as usual, including the story about her estranged husband's recent tabloid photograph at the G20 protests (wearing a flat cap and a decontamination suit would you believe?).

They stopped en route in Totnes. With a sudden rush of blood to the head, Mrs. Tyhurst sinned rather badly in 'Conker Shoes', buying not one, but TWO pairs of handmade shoes.
How very naughty.

Later, whilst walking along the quayside in Dartmouth, it was a little chilly and Mrs. Tyhurst regretted the decision not to take a pashmina. Well she was just getting over her Easter illness.
They quickly located 'The New Angel' restaurant...and shops-to-make-a-beeline-for in the morning. Then it was time for a simple, unpretentious snack ....
Beating a hasty retreat from the Royal Castle Hotel (having noticed a woman setting up her minidisc sound system...what kind of singer sings to backing tracks and feels the need for a smoke outside beforehand ???),
the two ladies settled down for several pints of wine and a pub dinner elsewhere.
They are certainly not too posh to frequent a local hostelry.

The next day was the much anticipated ferry trip to Greenway, former home of novelist Agatha Christie.
After a short climb through magnolia-strewn gardens the gorgeous Georgian building revealed itself through the trees.
Ladies who volunteer for the National Trust are so very pleasant don't you think?
Mrs. Lawton and Mrs. Tyhurst are seriously considering signing up, although there is rather a dearth of properties locally.
They were very careful with lunch, just a cup of tea for Mrs. Lawton (Mrs. Tyhurst, however just had to sample a piece of National Trust cherry shortbread).
Dinner was to be at the Michelin starred 'New Angel' restaurant back in Dartmouth that evening.

Mrs. Lawton wore a fetching pewter coloured kurta, and sensibly wrapped herself in a dark green handwoven kullu shawl (this had been brought back from Mrs. Tyhurst's travels in the Himalayas). Mrs. Tyhurst was wearing a simple linen 'Flax' dress (just because she is the kind of free spirit that the label suggests) and some rather cheeky little black 'Red or Dead' pumps.

Now, their evening started rather well: squeezing past Mr. Burton Race (who was outside), and taking a pleasant cocktail in the fabulously furnished upstairs lounge. Orders taken. One simply cannot stick to the 'set menu' can one when faced with so many delicious dishes ?
Mrs. Tyhurst was rather surprised at the simple nibbles on the table - marinaded olives and toasted seeds. (Was there a 'Lakeland Plastics' in Dartmouth?)
The food was divine...as one might expect, and it was so exciting seeing the plates dressed by John B-R himself in the open-plan kitchen. He was at arm's length from Mrs. Tyhurst, shouting instructions auctioneer-style to his minions. There was much leg kicking under the table, especially when Mrs. Tyhurst threatened to take a photo...it simply would not do, what with all the scandal.
But. (oh dear Mrs. Lawton) This particular establishment has failed Mrs. T's napkin test, and both Maitre D' and several other staff failed to identify the shallot puree that accompanied the roast veal kidneys.

Now Mrs. Tyhurst, being perhaps the sterner critic, has seriously questioned whether the 'New Angel' really merits a Michelin star. The service, although polite, was exceptionally fast. Perhaps the 'cr**** cr****' (don't you just detest that phrase?) has adversely affected business?
Either that or Mrs. B-R is digging her alimonius heels in. Quite frankly the two ladies would also dig their little pumps in hard.The man is an absolute bounder.... but one could so easily be swayed by his pannacotta.

The next day Mrs. Lawton fell in love.


Mrs. Tyhurst noticed that Coleton Fishacre, home of Mr. Richard D'Oyly Carte, was just over the other side of the river. With small whoops of joy they simply revelled in freedom and spontaneity as they popped over (in the car) on the ferry.
Coleton Fishacre is an utterly divine Arts and Crafts style house, with gardens leading down to the sea. Mrs. Lawton quite excelled herself clambering about in a heady mix of wild garlic and bluebells. The attention to detail inside is exquisite.
Savouring the experience later in the tearoom, Mrs. Tyhurst and Mrs. Lawton shared their mutual tendency towards voice intolerance ( stupid young woman in HEELS just blathering on in a ridiculously pitched voice) and they both laughed about Mrs. T's earlier disclosure about her 'behavioural hernias'.

But Mrs. Lawton is seriously in love.