The year truly begins with a swim

Though a very effervescent New Year's Day concert crowned the afternoon of 1 January, my senior swimming companion Catherine and I were only satisfied once we'd celebrated our first dip of 2026 yesterday (3 January) - and it will be the last for a while, as this was extreme. 

Yes, the sun shone on Sandycove, and it was packed, not least because people weren't prepared to risk the much more exposed Forty Foot around the corner. But a strong north wind was blowing, and any consolation I sought from folk coming out of the water that it was warmer in wasn't forthcoming. Sea temperature c. 8.5-9, outside around freezing. So, straight down the ramp within the bay and a quick swim across to the steps as two little turnstones rushed to greet my emergence. Wore sea socks and gloves, but feet felt like blocks of ice, as one old guy said of himself, and remained so until half way through our coffee and (for me veg) sausage roll at Sandycove Store and Yard.

Never seen it packed before, with much conversation about prior loss of sensation in hands/feet. But how jolly it was, and another memorable meeting with a Gleason's regular at Booterstown further warmed us up. 

Frost on the bedroom window (outside, I hasten to add) at c. 9am had made me question my sanity, 

and I think all those folk at Sandycove were slightly mad, especially the ones who bobbed around seemingly happily. But we did it, and the rising of the Wolf (actually waning gibbous) moon over the Bord Gáis Theatre, again from the comfort of the bedroom, made a satisfying end to daylight. 

Slivers of light for 2026

This is Siena's Fontebranda, mentioned in Dante and other Italian classics, built in the 13th century by the Guild of Woolmakers. We revisited it in brilliant sunshine on St Stephen's Day after a splendid Christmas feast which began with a Swedish breakfast, 

and still the light broke through in patches. If I use it as a metaphor for where we are now, it's a loose comparison: we try to swim in the strips of light, aware that millions around the world are confined to the darker patches (where carp and goldfish glide, nevertheless). 

I know that my own life, for all its setbacks in recent years, is a lucky one, not least in the freedom and the resources we have to wander Italy and discover new places in the weeks leading up to Christmas each year. But the darker patches have become muddier for Americans, Ukrainians, Sudanese, trying or failing to lead their own private lives as public disaster engulfs them. There's some hope that the light may expand in the mid-terms, that this horror that the USA is going through, to which so many of its citizens don't seem to be fully awake, may be at least partly reversed and its perpetrators may face some kind of justice. 

Not sure whether Zelenskyy's New Year message is posted on Xitter or not - what the hell at this particular point - but it has special eloquence in stating 'what keeps us going: experience and memory, the world of home, hope and faith'. We all understand that, except perhaps the tyrants of the USA and Russia, wishing each other a happy new year full of further destruction and loss of life. And hopefully more people will realise the possibility of collective action.

America may turn things round, but I fear the UK is heading towards the worst, currently reeling under a Labour government persecuting protesters, refusing to call the Israeli murder of Palestinians what it is - genocide - and banging on about growth. Who will take over from all this - Deform, or the hope offered by the Greens? Anyway, Ireland beckons, where marching for Palestine still doesn't leave anyone in danger of arrest, where despite problems things are relatively good right now. We see how that can all change. On the personal front, the fire-destroyed disaster that was my London study, photographed here by Bill Knight,

is finally being cleared, and there's some order in the new flat insurance have provided on the other side of St Andrew's Church. 

In the meantime, here's a last glimpse of early morning light in Torino on our last morning, in the square where we stayed, with the Alps seeming so close at the end of the street,

and the 30th looking over to Dublin's Vesuvius, the Sugarloaf mountain, from Sorrento Park in Dalkey - Killiney Bay = the Bay of Naples... 

Athbhliain faoi mhaise daoibh! And yes, I had to look that up, but I fully intend to take Irish lessons in 2026. What comes more easily to me is the quotation from the end of Dante's Purgatorio, which Sophie painted on to her brilliant hallway floorcloth with a reference to the contrada to which she has been admitted, Onda. 

In English, straightforwardly (there are some very fussy translations out there):

I came back from that holiest of waves
   remade, refreshed as any new tree is,
   renewed, refreshed with foliage anew,
pure and prepared to rise towards the stars.

May we all find access to that 'holiest of waves' in the midst of our dark wood. One last quotation, the most potent of all if not necessarily the most poetic, from Aeschylus's Agamemnon: αἴλινον αἴλινον εἰπέ, τὸ δ' εὖ νικάτω - 'Cry sorrow, sorrow, but may the good prevail'.

I'm still here

...as Bonnie Langford is the most recent show singer to tell us, and so well (yes, really), in Stephen Sondheim's Old Friends, which I'm glad my old friend Simon encouraged me to go and see before Xmas. Actually the odds were very low on my not being still here, since the diagnosis of bowel cancer in November 2022 yielded a verdict of Stage 1/cuspal 2 and no metastatizing.

Nevertheless it's been quite a year, full of inspiring people like the heroic folk of Charing Cross Hospital - I can never get tired of seeing this pic -  

and I choose the top image, at one of my happiest places in the world, S. Apollinare in Classe outside Ravenna, since between my six weeks of radio and chemotherapy back in February, which coshed the tumour but not all cancer cells, and the big op to remove my lower bowel in July, I cycled to this glorious place just before temperatures went berserk in Italy. And here I was 10 days ago with my best beloved, cycling not an option for the foreseeable future but slow walking with stick always possible. finding it similarly deserted a few days before Xmas, though about to host a big wedding with a sumptuous reception set out on the upstairs level of the nearly-new Classis Museum, converted sugar-beet factory, nearby.

I'm having too full and rich a time to blog much right now, but let's have a token shot from each of our cities. A first night in Bologna revitalised my love of the place (any city which has a naked god in its main square, courtesy of Giambolgna, can't be bad),

while adored Ravenna yielded the best three nights of Italian opera, courtesy of honorary Ravenato Riccardo Muti, and allowed a day trip to Rimini, which was more fun than I'd imagined, 

with one of the greatest Renaissance interiors ever in the Tempio Malatestiano (must spend more time on that), and plenty of homages to native Fellini. Then it was on to Ferrara for Xmas itself: we ate well and saw much, met some charming people, but a certain grimness takes it cue from the fortress-become- palace (no wonder the Estes sought out cosier retreats in the suburbs), and the two main exhibitions were of 20th century Italian artists admired by the Fascists (no prizes for guessing who's in power here). Plenty of green on the 12 mile circuit of the walls, though.

Vicenza awed us with its theatricality - it helped that we turned out to be staying in Palladio's Palazzo Valmarana Braga, a huge bargain, right in the heart of things - and the Basilica in its square simply gobsmacking.

I'm happy we did a seven-mile country walk to take in villas and a giant Veronese - climbing steps on a wooded hillside was a major achievement. And now we're in the bosom of Siena again, in Sophie's stunningly designed top-floor guest house with views one dreams of - she can see this from her bedroom and bathroom.

And so, buon'anno, buon comincio, auguri, whatever takes your fancy. I have the task of leading Italians in "Auld Lang Syne", which has very different words in its best known Italian form, but Milva carries it off:

Italian retreats gave me time to labour love-wise over the best of 2023 on The Arts Desk. Opera is here; classical music concerts here.  May 2024 be as good, musically speaking; and may the world give us a bit less need to seek optimism in arts alone.

New Year's Day at Shrieking Pit

For the second time this year, in the depth of winter rather than the height of summer, we passed a dark place of legend on our way from Southrepps to the North Norfolk Coast, going on this time from Overstrand to Cromer to catch what turned out to be the most enjoyable fireworks display I've encountered, not least because of its circumstantial spirit. Of course we'd connected the two points in reverse, via a much bigger loop, on our 2015 Norfolk Churches Walk.

Monday was a brief interlude of sun between a general drama of what my godson used to call (aged five) 'horrifying wind and rain'. The eve had been spent travelling, not too painfully, by tube, coach and train to Norwich to visit our companion Cal's friend Gail in the cathedral close. We headed for Evensong, which turned out to be evening prayers, as I'd expected - 15 minutes of liturgy which at least gave time to find where my favourite roof boss from numerous cards I've sent was actually located - in the Choir. Noah's ark, of course. Gazed upwards at this while a potentially jubilant psalm and the Mag, Nunc and Creed were all droned rather joylessly.

Not my photo, but this one, of the Green Man I always salute in the cloisters, is - albeit taken in the summer.

For once I left my camera behind, so I was dependent on Cally for a few images. None to post of our jolly time eating and chatting at the party held by Kate and Fairless in the Old Rectory up the hill, but a few of our NYD walk. The plan for which evolved nicely between the four of us: why not head for the pub in Southrepps proper, 10 minutes up the hill - where they squeezed us in for fish and chips between folk celebrating the New Year more lavishly - and then press on, ending up in Cromer so that we could take the train back to Gunton?

Which is what we did. The green lanes and quiet roads between Southrepps and the sea, a secluded zone embracing a valley and a very lovely wood, are already ones I dream about. So Shrieking Pit shouldn't be seen as too much of a blight - in fact on both occasions I never found it threatening, though the overhanging oak on the path side and the trees casting black reflections opposite are atmospheric both in August

and January.

The legend is proclaimed on a nearby board, told in colourful language (you can imagine a Northrepps local historian having fun), though it seems in many respects quite specific.The year was 1782, the fatal romance the one between an 18-year-old village beauty (was she really called Esmeralda?) and a feckless farmer who was told to stay away and cheerfully obeyed. One night by full moon our doomed heroine wandered along Sandy Lane, thought she saw the reflection of her lover in the dark waters and threw herself in, uttering three piercing shrieks which woke the village before she drowned. At midnight every 24 February you may hear them again...

We hit Overstrand in time for tea (needless to say our favourite shack is shut - crab and lobsters are not in season), then struck out along the cliffs (yes, Norfolk cliffs) towards Cromer. The grey pall that had spread in late afternoon looked about to lift with the sunset in the distance at the lighthouse,

and as you can see from the film of the 5pm fireworks, taken from a drone and quickly up on the Eastern Daily News website, it did: late blue skies are apparent here. Probably best with the sound turned off; one of the nice things about it was the absence of pumping loudspeakered music which had made a 5 November effort in a London Square such an endurance test. Here people were remarkably quiet; we were the only ones in our zone going 'ooh' and 'aah'.

The display could hardly have been better choregraphed, but just as memorable was the buzz in town - most shops open, mulled wine and a barrel organ outside St Peter and St Paul (so high is the tower that Cal's shot couldn't quite squeeze it all in).

Inside, the church was alive with folk buying refreshments and consuming them in the pews while big screens showed images of last year's fireworks. Here's one future for our ailing ecclesiastical buildings - they've got to be more welcoming, more open to social use. Fortunately there was nothing as lavish as a livescreening; any of the 10,000 folk who flocked into town could get a good view of the pyrotechnics shooting up from the pier. And the packed train journey back (for us only 10 minutes to Gunton) was jolly good-humoured too. Just what a community event ought to be.

Our 2 January was good, too - a walk along the beach from Mundesley some of the way to Happisburgh, where we started last September's churches walk, the light this time out at sea and giving way to prospective rain clouds just as we headed back, as this photo by Cally reveals.

A wet afternoon was spent cosily back at the cottage before we took the train to Norwich, and on to London. Needless to say we didn't have the courage for a New Year dip in the North Sea. Maybe at the start of 2019...

Burning off 2016 on a Dutch beach

It was a bit of a jolt, coming out of a friendly New Year party of seven - gezellig is the Dutch word for such a happy time, a less overused equivalent to 2016's Danish hygge - and heading at around 2am for the promenade at Scheveningen with its eight-mile sandy beach. I'm sure our lovely hosts Cornelius and Marina, great people doing fine work for the world, and their daughter Emma won't mind a contrasting shot here, with friends Machteld (Max) and Nick left and right and J's legs, just to show what we left behind.

After an inadvertent tour of The Hague, Max drove towards the big bonfire Scheveningen holds every year, but the harbour routes were blocked. Which meant a detour through a slightly scary-seeming part of town - deserted braziers flickering in a cul de sac of rather mean-looking houses by egalitarian Dutch standards - before she could park the car to let us get out and overlook the beach. I had that urge one gets when spellbound by big blazes to walk down and get a closer view.

Most of the fireworks which had given us such a spectacular display from the balcony of Emma's bedroom

had been spent, leaving a red mess underfoot

and the champagne, too, had been consumed

but the fierceness of the fire could hardly have been much diminished from its midnight status

and I guess it was only possible in an open space of this magnitude, with folk still walking along the sea's edge (don't ask me why this untouched-up red is so pronounced).

The impression will remain, pictures regardless: a sort of paradigm for our current uneasy time of coming out of our bourgeois comfort to face an angry world (with shades of Brunnhilde's purifying Immolation at the end of Gotterdammerung). Having looked up a report of the full event, I see that the pre-fire pile-up, which always has to be the highest in the Netherlands, is even more substantial, a tower of wooden crates: have a look at this report. Meanwhile, here are a few seconds of fire in action.

Would love to have seen the following morning's ritual, where thousands of swimmers in orange caps rush into the freezing-cold sea. But Amsterdam called; we got back at about 4am, where godsons Frank and Charlie were winding up a modest party. Here's another domestic shot of gezelligheid at the apartment on the lovely Sarphatipark, where the boys are working on marking in their many travels on a big map (mother Max has worked for KLM for many years now).

And a morning shot of adorable li'l Johnny, an engaging cross between Shih-tzu and Maltese Terrier, in one of his two favourite spots. The fireworks had rather traumatised him, and the crackers were still going off the following day.

I owe hopefully not too laborious accounts of our first-time excursions to Delft, Den Bosch, Gouda, Utrecht and the enchanting village/town of Buren on the only sunny day of our stay. But let's end this one with our New Year's Day trip to the Rijksmuseum, to see the transformation and more of the collections.

There were some stunning, unpostcarded objects I want to picture here eventually, but let's stick to two which are topical, from the new medieval and Renaissance galleries on the ground floor. As yesterday was Epiphany, how about this carved-wood riot of Magi and attendants from Adriaen van Wesel's altarpiece in the Chapel of the Confraternity of Our Lady, St Janskerk, Den Bosch?

And as a symbol of sorrow for the woes of our world, here's a Mater Dolorosa in the centre of the gallery.

Despite such pensive moments, it was a happy way to spend three hours of an otherwise lazy day between late rising and more gezellig gatherings with Max, her two sisters Eline and Dorette - friends we've known almost as long as Nick and Max - and Orfeuo, travelling in from Arnhem to see us, at the Concertgebouw Cafe.