Medieval musings

Blogged in longhand last night; this is my morning catch-up.

Clocking off from a days adventure surrounded by plastic dinosaurs, Incredible Hulk giant fists and educational posters; Spider Man is eyeballing me from the foot of my bed. Air travel is for me a liberating experience when undertaken alone, removing the need to adjust for or worry about another. Small decisions seem like treats - Q: which food outlet to over-spend in?, what airplane seat to choose?, book or magazine?, stand in queue or sit in chair? All of these seemingly simple decisions become irritants with even just one companion, let alone more. Gazing out at rainy airplanes through the mist with Wacky Races Anthill Mob mechanics and 'throwers' preparing planes I felt a real inner calm; there is an untouchable quality to sitting alone in an airport that lets me commune with my inner recluse. A: Crossant and San Pellegrino from Boots and Costa; 9A; book; sit on chair. Sorted.

That time travel experience kicks in when, having woken at 6.00 in Edinburgh, I am walking down Winchester High Street, pasty in hand for lunch. We ate under a tree due to persistent rain, but all the more memorable for it, and excellent budget points accrued.
Winchester Cathedral offered a plethora of artistic inspiration. I love the really old cathedrals and with Italy still fresh in mind I was surprised to be so impressed with this 'little' UK number. Green man miserichords, lovely vaulting and ceiling bosses and awesome 1300s tiles all over the show in a dizzy array of patterns and terracotta tones. Also a lovely old fresco that was painted in the thirteenth century and kept hidden, so the colours are really fresh but a lovely chalky tone; figures beautifully simplified, as were some reliefs on the font which were also very odd and majestic.
A surprising addition in the crypt was Anthony Gormley's 'Sound II', showing a superb use of space and public sculpture display; really moving and timeless; the cellar often floods, so at different times the lone figure is on dry land or reflected above water. As we debated, walking back from the West Gate, where my tall friend tried to brain herself on a low doorway, public art and particularly sculpture can be such a thorny bed and so often end up as something else to fall over, lost in the higgledy piggle of street furniture.

Discovered the phrase 'door furniture' today and my little mind went whirring off into a perfect set of Sylvanian Families dressers and suite at 90 degrees to the pillar box red gloss paint, in between the knocker and the letterbox.
Spent the evening sketching for 'The Ferryman' - a picture that has shape shifted through many incarnations so far, but this may be its final state - a combination of carved figures in wood that I saw today, African/Picasso masks, Russian icons and a Breton shirt. For some reason I seem to have fireworks in the background but that works for me too; Charon has become a touch Gallic and wandered into a new years eve party on Portsmouth Harbour, but I can see it working...
Walked around the harbours edge tonight at that magic twilight hour when all stretches of water, estuary. ocean and pond are at their most meditative; the stone of Porchester Castle behind served as a reminder of all the souls who had stood before me and whose steps I traced. Always a humbling perspective but also reassuring in its repetition of rhythm and cyclical life.
Besides the very tasty pie for lunch we dined on a fine budget favourite of sausages, mash and onion gravy, much appreciated after sea air, history and contemplation. Later I partook of soda water in a pub called The Cormorant, having watched one of the stately birds fish the waters of the harbour on our evening stroll.