Inseparable

Love and marriage.

Horse and carriage.
Pork and apple sauce.
Basil and tomato. 
Beer and BBQs.

You can’t imagine them apart. They are simply meant to be.

To an Australian, sand and sea is a given. 

Wide blankets of yellow and white stretched along the shore, wrapping around your toes ‘til you sink to the ankles… or warmed by the sun ‘til you hop from foot to foot before landing again in the waves which break for eternity. 

The beach.  The great Australian beach - loved by families, couples, tourists, surfers, swimmers, kayakers, life-savers, bird watchers, and anyone wanting fresh air, exercise and the invigorating smell of salt-soaked air.  A favourite place to walk, run, wander, rest, read, think, picnic, build castles, bury things, play music and watch the sun rise and set.  And always the reliable welcome of sand…

Perhaps you can imagine my surprise, therefore, when I found myself recently on Brighton ‘beach’, on the South East Coast of England.  Not a patch of sand in sight.  Not a place to lie and read.  Not a cushioned and inviting approach but rather a barrier of unexpected torture.  ‘Pebbles’ they say.  ‘A pebble beach’.  But that’s incomprehensible; an oxymoron; a perversion of all that’s natural.  For they aren’t pebbles, which suggest something innocuous, they are rocks – slipping, sliding, tripping, stony, sharp, torturous rocks – which cut you underfoot and then rebound and slap sharply against your ankles as you gingerly approach the shoreline.  And if, like me, you attempt your first swim at high tide, then the descending angle of this cascading obstruction will more often than not shift under your feet so that you are sucked under… or thrown off balance so that you’re tossed irreverently onto your side or hip in the shallows, only to be pounded by another wave of flying ‘pebbles’ until you realise your only salvation is to push through the pain barrier and somehow scramble into deeper water. 

My sweet boyfriend tried to hold my hand so that I remained upright long enough to acclimatise to the unusually low temperature of the water, but still I yelped and wailed with every abrasion to foot, calf and limb.  No doubt his English reserve left him slightly embarrassed and thinking my reaction was over-the-top; though the sincerity of our attachment meant he was keen to hide it.  But seriously – can cultural norms be adapted that quickly to process the co-existence of sun, summer, blue sky, sub-artic water temperatures and foot agony… when decades of prior experience has conditioned one to a warm, soft and gentle landing?

“OUCH. This isn’t a beach” I cried indignantly.  “How do people do this?... it’s TORTURE!!!”   I was not only in pain, I was in shock - that such a price had to be paid for a simple summer swim.  But that’s the thing, you see, it isn’t simple.  It isn’t an every-day-expectation in the Mother Country to skip onto the beach and enjoy the ocean without reservation.  That’s why so many Brits spend their holidays in Ibizia.  That’s why so many watch Neighbours and Home and Away.  For in all but a few counties, a few precious strips of coastline, they are seriously deprived!

Ok, I have no empirical evidence to back up that statement.  But no wonder strangers regularly say to me “what the hell are you doing living in London when you can live in Australia?”  They must have recently been to Brighton to the ‘beach’!

I admit to having a lovely time strolling along the promenade and drinking cocktails at the Grand.  I’d happily return to pretty Brighton now I’ve been warned.  But beaches are for basking, not blisters and bandaids.  The seaside is for smiles, splashes, buckets and spades, sunscreen and soothing sensations.  It isn’t meant to be sinister or complicated.

Needless to say by day two I had found myself some rubber thongs – aka flip-flops.  With this equipment, or a pair of jelly-sandals, crocs or scuba-diving shoes, you can get closer to the good life.  Then, if you really must pay to sit in those striped beach chairs, where you can read a book while saving your butt from getting unsightly ‘pebble dipples’, I get that.  Just, please, don’t look down your nose at the yelping Australians as they try to navigate a foreign boulder border, for they’re experiencing intense beach-culture-shock and deserve your empathy. 

And come on, we give more than our fair share of comfort to the visitors who land on Australian shores and forget to apply sunscreen, wear a hat, or swim between the flags.  In fact the famous rip between north and south Bondi so often captures Brits and pulls them out to sea, that the Australian Life Guards who risk their lives to save them call it the Pommie Express. 

And if the Brits have made it a national hobby to discuss the weather, you can’t begrudge the descendents of those you shipped to the other side of the world in ignominy and chains from a little whinge about Britain's less-than-ideal beaches.  

For only now does Churchill’s speech about fighting on the beaches ring with such a resonance of bravery.

  

The Games Maker Legacy

The words which come to mind when thinking about London’s Games Makers include: cheerful, flexible, engaged, optimistic, generous, confident and dedicated. 

Collaborating with Olympic Volunteers on The Last Mile has been a joy and a privilege.  I say collaborate because, despite being paid to manage an area around Greenwich Park, interaction with volunteers has not been anything like work.  Not a grumbler or egoist in sight, operations have been made fun, easy and pleasurable.  And, given half a chance, I’d hire each and every one five times over.

The Volunteer Games Makers are living proof that a positive frame of mind and a healthy dose of good-will goes a long way.  And side by side with our athletes, the volunteers have done much to inspire a generation – reigniting our appreciation for cheerful and honest service, for generosity, camaraderie and personal responsibility. 

David Cameron captured our collective admiration well when he said he wished he could bottle Games Maker spirit.  So as many of these wonderful volunteers prepare to go back to their pre-Olympic lives, and we wait to meet a new round of happy faces at the Paralympics, it leaves me wondering: what can Londoners do, individually and collectively, to try and preserve the volunteer legacy?  

I imagine there are many ways to emulate the example set by volunteers… but here are a few questions to help us kick-start: Can we continue to smile at strangers on the street?  Can we step back and let people pass rather than push and shove onto public transport?  Can we stay away from the office water-cooler and give each other the benefit of the doubt?  Can we believe in ourselves and the prospect of making a difference?  Can we give before expecting to receive?  Can we be positive despite the temptation to criticise and complain?  Can we remember that the things which divide us are less than the human needs and goals which unite us?  Can we make time to be kind… perhaps stop and have a laugh with someone we might otherwise have ignored? 

Or, can we simply volunteer?

If you think that’s pie in the sky, then choose a few paragraphs below and allow me to introduce you to a selection of the inspiring volunteers I found on the Last Mile route to Greenwich Park. 

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Grant Speed is husband to Jo and father to Jake (6) and Alex (3).  Born in Arbroath and living in Greenloaning, near Dunblane, he is a Group Financial Controller for a hotel company, the Jurys Inn.  He used his holiday leave to come to London for the Games, and bunked down with relatives.

Grant wanted to be a volunteer because he reached a point in his life where he realised he was not likely to be an Olympian in the truest sense.  But, loving sport, and wanting to get involved behind the scenes, he knew that it doesn’t get any bigger than an Olympics in your home country.  He also felt, being Scottish, that it was important the British Games were well and truly represented.

Starting out Grant kept his expectations in check.  He accepted the days would be long, and that he might be miles away from stadium, standing in the rain… but he also knew that “these things are what you make them”… and that “getting involved is the only way to make things happen”.

That open, ‘can do’ spirit, is typical of London Games Makers, so I’m pleased to share his happy stories:  “I wandered into the Greenwich Tavern one night to find the GB gold medal showjumping team with medals and full pints. What a great bunch of people” he said, “we even managed to get ourselves on to the BBC live broadcast from the Tavern with Clare Balding.  It was an awesome night!!!” 

The fun continued: Grant wore sympathetic sideburns to see “Wiggo win gold”, and delighted in the joy he observed in a crowd of Japanese spectators standing in the rain to watch the Women’s Marathon.  In his travels he reports to meeting “princesses, athletes and former soap stars” but, to Grant, the volunteers were the “greatest bunch of people”.   Finally, he added, “sneaking into the Greenwich Arena to watch competition while I ate lunch on a couple of occasions, beats any lunchtime, anywhere!”  And I’m sure there’s not a soul who would begrudge our volunteers such a moment of reward. 

Graham Charlesworth lives in Bridgend, South Wales, and works for an outsourcing company as an Operations Trainer.  He explains: “I sent my application in to be a volunteer back in October 2010. I was sitting at home with friends who were thinking of doing it, so I jumped on the bandwagon.  I didn’t really think about what would be involved but knew with the Olympics in London I would be a fool not to want to be involved in some capacity. As the selection process went on, I got more and more excited. I was given the role of Last Mile Operations (I really didn't know what it meant at the time) and have thoroughly enjoyed taking the experience for what it is. I didn't come in to this expecting to make lifelong friends but wanted to take as much out of it as possible.  But I have to say, I have met some fantastic people who I will definitely be keeping in touch with.”

Graham appreciates that, in order to have the Olympic experience, he has been “lucky enough to have a very supportive wife, family and work colleagues.”  He took twelve days off work “at a point where there really is no spare resource… but my manager was aware of the opportunity I’d been given”.   In order to honour his volunteering commitment, Graham needed to move down from Wales to stay with family on the outskirts of London, and most impressive is that this involved leaving behind his loving wife with their five year old daughter, Evie, and their twelve week old son, Archie! 

“To say I am immensely proud of what I have been involved in, is understatement.”  Graham’s had lots of text messages of support from friends and family but admits to getting slightly emotional after reading a text from his dad on the golden Saturday night after Team GB won all the medals.  The message read: “Proud to be British today, but more proud of you for volunteering x.”  Graham concluded our discussion with: “I can't wait to get home and bore people with all the stories - over and over again!!!”  And no doubt he’ll generously thank his patient wife and boss for their contribution!



Donna Beckford-Smith lives in Luton, Bedfordshire.  As this was too far to travel to Greenwich for each shift, she told me “I am blessed to be able to stay at a colleague’s home in Chorleywood, which is only 2 hours from Greenwich”.  Staggered by her commitment and unfailing smile, Donna explained:

“I always wanted to be an athlete at the Olympics, but volunteering is the next best thing. To be involved in the atmosphere and to say I was there is unbelievable.  In my every day life I work as a Blood Transfusion Nurse Specialist, at Stoke Mandeville Hospital.  I have enjoyed my volunteering experience, no words can describe how amazing it has been - meeting so many wonderful people has been breathtaking.”

Donna is a woman well accustomed to a profession of service, and first hand I greatly appreciated the good cheer and quiet professionalism she brought to the Last Mile Team!

Aurélien Urbanek (27) is a French national who grew up in Paris.  Pictured here with myself and Eva Paterson, another dedicated volunteer from Scotland, when Aurélien isn’t working on the Last Mile at Greenwich Park he works in Marseille as a Civil Engineer.  

When asked why he got involved in the Games, Aurélien showed why the volunteer spirit we’d like to bottle is so precious:  “Good question - especially when we all know that Paris, my favourite city, was in competition for hosting the 2012 Olympic Games!  But still, I really wanted to be a part of it and to serve as a volunteer.  I believe that London 2012 does not belong exclusively to the UK but to the entire world and the 205 countries represented during the Games. It is a worldwide event and it doesn't matter where you're from as long as you want to make the Games the best experience for everyone.  More personally, I wanted to become a volunteer because I realised, that at 27, I wasn’t doing very much for others. I think I was a little bit too selfish during the last few years and that I wasn't generous enough.”

When asked about the nature of his Games experience, this self-effacing and impressive young man went on to say:  “The experience has been great. When I applied to become a volunteer, I didn't imagine that the atmosphere would be so intense. People are just amazing. The public is showing a great sympathy toward the volunteers and especially with the Last Mile team members. But above all, it's been such a pleasure to work with the other volunteers. I've discovered so many different people, so many different cultures and experiences. I was a little bit surprised when I found that many volunteers are not coming from London… but from all over the UK and even from abroad. I have learned a lot during the Games and I will miss all the volunteers with whom I have worked.  But my next step is to go back to France and share my incredible adventure with my family.  I'm also thinking about volunteering for Rio de Janeiro in 2016... so I better start learning Portuguese before the interviews start!"

 Rhian Jones lives and works in Cardiff, Wales.  She is a solicitor with her own legal practice. This summer she took two weeks annual leave from work, and embarked upon her first real experience of volunteering:

"I clearly remember when London was awarded the Olympics back in 2005, and I wanted to try and be in London to see the greatest show on earth. I've always had a passion for sport, and always spend many hours watching wall to wall coverage of the Olympics. When I heard they were looking for volunteers to help, I thought this would provide an excellent opportunity to be in London to experience all the buzz and excitement. I instantly sent in an application and crossed my fingers that it would be successful!”

“I've spent my time at London 2012 based at Greenwich Park, and I couldn't have wished for a better venue. It is simply a breathtaking venue, with the views across the park towards the city providing (in my opinion) some of the most iconic images of the Games. I was part of the Last Mile team, and it was great to be part of such an energetic team which interacted extensively with the public. It was impossible not to get drawn in by the excitement of the spectators as they came in and out of the venue. I loved hearing about their day, and seeing the children so excited about attending the Games and supporting team GB. Whilst some of the shifts were long, I was lucky enough to see some of the sporting action. Being in the arena as team GB won the Dressage Gold was spine tingling… watching the Show Jumping was just so tense… and catching the GB Eventing Team win Silver, just amazing.”

“Clearly I couldn’t commute from Wales, but the cost of hotels in London during the Olympics was high if added up over a couple of weeks. So through www.campingatthegames.com I stayed at Blackheath Rugby Club.  It was fantastic, and even better was that the revenue raised is to be put back into the running of the rugby club; thus benefitting the local community and creating a lasting legacy.  The camp site was excellent, and packed with Games Makers. There was a cafe providing breakfast and hot meals throughout the day, and a fabulous bar where we could watch the Olympics and meet fellow campers. This bar had a wonderful atmosphere, and when GB won a medal the roof was raised! The campsite was only fifteen minutes by bus from Greenwich Park which was another bonus, especially as some people were commuting for several hours each day.

I can honestly say that I loved every minute of my volunteering experience at London 2012.  We were a motley bunch but I've made some fantastic friends… had a photo with a gold medal (and its owner)… and been in London at probably the best time. The Olympics in my home country is a once in a lifetime experience, and one that I didn't want to miss, and in years to come I can look at my photos and souvenirs and remember that "I was there".”

Stephen Clarke lives in Blackheath, near the Greenwich Park Last Mile operation.  He is a Chartered Surveyor, running his own company based in Dartford:

 “The company was started by my father in 1982 so we are celebrating our thirtieth anniversary in this most special of years. I work with solely residential property and I still remember exactly which house I was in when the decision was made to give the Games to London in 2005.  I surprised myself with how much this seemed to mean to me (and the strangers I celebrated with), and decided there and then to try and get involved. At the time I was a callow 42 year old with a successful company, and I naively thought I’d be able to easily afford to take two weeks off to volunteer.  As it happens... business took a significant downward turn in 2008 and though the company kept going, my Dad retired, and my wife went up to the city to work rather then managing my office. 

 Nevertheless I kept my promise to myself and applied to be a Games Maker as soon as it was possible. I chose Greenwich because I love it and know the area well.  I have no sporting qualifications really (except as a scuba diver), so I knew I had to be prepared to do anything and that seemed just fine. What I was looking forward to was the team spirit and I have not been one bit disappointed in that regard.  I work on my own an awful lot and so miss the camaraderie (if not the politics) of having workmates.

Again it is the generosity and lack of ego which shines from Stephen’s next comment:  “Each shift I do on the Olympics costs me a survey which is about £350.  But hey ho! It’s summer. And I probably would not have managed to book a job on every single day anyway!  I don't regret it.  The volunteers are great; and some of the paid staff too.  But the public has really made it for me.  We are mirrors of each others moods and the mood was always good.  When I look back on my whole life I am sure that this will be one of the most worthwhile things that I have done.”

‘On post’ I watched Steve repeatedly work his magic with the public, with a delightful combination of easy hospitality and charm, so though I was supremely jealous to have missed it myself, I was happy to hear him report he gained one particular reward from his volunteering: “I would even have done it all just for the ticket to the opening ceremony dress rehearsal. That experience will stick with me for ever. One of the greatest live shows ever and only performed three times. Never to be repeated.”

David Lungley (65) lives in Exmoor, Somerset.  However during the Games he stayed with his daughter, in Haringay, North London.  A retired Chemistry Teacher and Sports Coach, David volunteered for multiple reasons:

“Firstly, I knew that, being retired, I would have the time to help.  Secondly, I believe everyone should do charitable things when they can. Thirdly, I hate the effect the pursuit of money has on Sports like Football and Indian Premier League Cricket… because for me that's not ‘sport’.  By contrast I love the Olympic Games, where people compete in the more traditional way for the glory.  And fourthly, I believe very strongly in the benefits to the world of all the countries competing in friendly rivalry, with mutual tolerance and respect, rather than fighting foolishly over unimportant differences.”

David has not been disappointed.  He has been “thrilled with the sporting atmosphere which has emerged in everyone, so refreshingly unmaterialistic…” and with his experience of the ethnic diversity of London.  His experience, he says, has been “absolutely brilliant”, and again he reminds us of the positive energy which emanates from people when they are tuned in to the notion of ‘giving something back’.   

Originally from Manchester, Derek Lucas, 67, lives in Congleton Cheshire.  He’s been married to Lorna for 45 years and has 2 daughters, Rachael & Rebecca; both married with children.  Derek took retirement in 2000 from his position as Agricultural Manager with a major UK bank. He has also lectured in related banking topics for over 35 years.

Involved over many years in running clubs and athletics, in 2002 Derek volunteered to work at the Manchester Commonwealth Games. As a driver, he acted as a chaperone for athletes who were randomly chosen to take a drug test. So when London was awarded the 2012 Olympic Games he knew immediately he wanted to take part in what he described as a “momentous event”.  Though initially disappointed not to be placed in a role closer to the athletes, Derek’s story of relocation and throwing himself fully into the spirit of the Games is typical of so many resourceful volunteers, that you could almost say he experienced The Real Olympic Park. 

Living over 200 miles from London, finding accommodation quickly became a priority for Derek.  Due again to cost, hotels were out of the question.  Nor did he know anybody in the area who could offer a spare room.  Yet Derek came across Ninja Camping who were arranging with sports clubs across London to use their facilities for camping.  Like Rhian, he arranged to camp on Rugby Club grounds, this time at Eltham, where, for a mere £10 a night, he had 24/7 hot showers, meals, bar, and access to a bus which took him directly to Greenwich in thirty-five minutes.  Of the 250 tents at this site, Derek reports about a third were volunteers, the rest Olympic tourists.  And cleverly the volunteers were placed all together on a quiet part of the field and bonded accordingly.  

Derek describes his experience thus: “My first shift was 7.30am on Saturday 28^th July and I was designated to meet the ferries from central London near the Cutty Sark.  Initially I was quiet and reserved (what do you expect from a retired Bank Manager) but after a short while decided that I had to throw myself into the role.  I became determined that nobody went past me without acknowledging me, and all children, up to the age of 90+, had to high-five my big pink foam finger. As time went on the comments became louder, but more challenging to try and raise a smile.  Interactions like “welcome to the ferret and elephant racing” sometimes did the trick.  In addition he committed himself to the “Smile Mile”, where he encouraged everyone to smile as they where shepherded into the venue. The best part Derek said “was that the spectators had come along to enjoy themselves; and British reserve became a thing of the past.”  

 He reports “the shifts were long, tiring, and talking, shouting and singing for four hours can be wearing”.  But confirming we tend to get out of things exactly what we put in, he added “but the comments, handshakes and hugs we received made the sore throats and sore feet worthwhile, and meeting so many people from all over the world was the highlight.  It was a brilliant sixteen days which will live in the memory.  I will be boring my family and friends for weeks with my tales and, like a fisherman’s stories, they will grow and grow.” 

So where does the volunteer who went home with an officially presented certificate in his bag declaring “The Most Energetic Last Miler” go from here?  His reply: “The Commonwealth Games, Glasgow 2014.  If they want volunteers I am their man!”  And all evidence shows they’d be lucky to have him!

JoAnne Hughes (known as Jo) was born in Hong Kong.  Based for over 30 years in the UK, her home town is Guildford, Surrey.  She works for a networking systems company as a communications manager: “I help senior people in my company communicate in a way that inspires people and get the point across in a clear and succinct way”.  When asked why she volunteered for the Olympics, she explains:

“I've been volunteering to support equestrian sport for many years, at local riding club events as well as national events run by the British Horse Society and Association of British Riding Clubs. When London 2012 called out for volunteers, I didn't hesitate. I just wanted to be there to do my bit to make London 2012 successful, and to soak up the atmosphere. I'm a keen horse rider and put Greenwich as my top choice when I filled in my LOCOG application form. From the first day, seeing all the spectators at Greenwich, I knew it was going to be great fun. Everyone was in a good mood (even when the torrential rains came) and I just loved interacting with people from all around the world. Everywhere I went in my Games Maker Uniform people spoke to me, wanting to know where I was working, what I was doing. But the biggest highlight for me, were my fellow Games Makers. They were all amazing, wonderful people.

I wish the Games could go on - I really don't want the experience to end!”

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And right there, I guess Jo says it all.  Despite our Last Mile blisters and rolling Olympic hangovers, we’re sad it’s over.  We’re feeling a lull.  But let’s harness that wonderful spirit, and trust our city and community can grow from strength to strength.  It simply begins with a smile…

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Volunteer Spirit

As far as I can tell there are three elements which make volunteers and volunteering so special: the first, is the generosity itself; the second, is the spirit of the giving; and the third, is the quality of the individual as a contributing and capable member of society.  In the majority, these factors combine to create a most valuable collaborator, ready to perform all manner of tasks and roles with a first class attitude. 

Take the Olympics for instance: the volunteers, otherwise known as ‘games makers’, are second in importance only to the athletes.  Individually and collectively they are making the wheels turn and adding not only immense practical value but the je ne sais qois we’ll all remember from 2012.  Anyone who experienced the Sydney Olympics will understand what I mean.  Already Londoners are talking about a different kind of friendliness evident on the streets, the warmth (literal and metaphorical) which is seeping under people’s skins and opening them up, such that Londoners suddenly seem less reserved, less suspicious.  No longer am I the only person talking to others on the train unprompted.  People are smiling, nodding, chatting, and for these precious days we feel less like strangers and more a part of something bigger than ourselves. 

Funny that competitive sport brings that on – when it’s the reserve, usually, of spiritual reflection – but on that count churches adjacent to most venues are also opening their doors to visitors for free cups of tea and the use of amenities (something highly appreciated when thousands of people converge in one location).   Father Nicholas introduced himself to me on my first day of work near the Blackheath Live Site, offering similar welcomes, and his delightful neighbours, Gail and Peter, stored a box in their garden of the coveted ‘pink fingers’ over several nights so I didn’t have to lug a large box up and down the hill. 

The Police are out on horseback and bicycle, cracking jokes and ready to help.  The Armed Forces are not only well dressed and easy on the eye, but also poised to help with whatever comes up.  Yesterday, for example, a Marine by the name of Stu Hamilton resolved an access issue for about one hundred guests in my zone with some quick lateral thinking and a big smile.  And all this rubs off on the spectators, who invariably greet and thank the volunteers (and the lucky paid staff amongst us) as they pass through The Last Mile in the thousands to get back on the trains and buses which are also operating with wonderful smoothness.   When you call out “did you have a great day?” they reply with confident cheers, and only a few odd sods have teased me about Australia’s uncharacteristically subdued medal tally.  Even on the busiest cross-country day when 50,000 spectators left Greenwich Park simultaneously, I stood on a raised section of pavement to announce in my loudest theatrical voice “no delays at Blackheath Station ladies and gentleman… TfL are doing a great job”… and they laughed and whooped… not one scoff amongst them! 

But back to the volunteers: you’d think it'd be their skill and professional experience which make them so valuable… and though that's palpable, it is first and foremost their attitude which is magical.  Many are highly skilled: I’ve had doctors, teachers and senior managers in my team.  Many live in other parts of the country and have negotiated to take leave from their jobs (and families) to come to London.  Many are staying with friends and family, just as many others are camping on the city’s outskirts… ready to get up early in the morning or stand on their feet for shifts of up to ten and twelve hours.  Yet still they wave those ‘pink fingers’, give directions and engage with the crowd, making anyone who is interested in the Olympics, in this once-in-a-lifetime-London experience, cheered and proud to come across them.  Sometimes I get to mix and learn about the volunteers while on duty.  Other times I meet them in the pub after work where the least I can do is buy them a pint (well, I’ve got Irish heritage and can’t possibly let them drink alone).  But I never fail to be impressed by their character, enthusiasm and the complex arrangements they’ve had to make so as to be available for London over this period. 

So, I’m wondering: what does this evidence of Olympic spirit, and the volunteers in particular, tell us about humanity?  I think it shows that people will rise to the occasion, give of themselves, tap good humour, look to give (rather than receive), when they are given half a chance to express optimism – to express the best of themselves.  I also think it shows the supremacy of positivity and hope over negativity and suspicion, when we raise our sights above the horizon to embrace the big picture.  Call me idealistic or romantic, but the evidence is there.  And in the wake of a difficult financial climate across Europe, not to mention bad weather in Britain prior to this delectably-sunny aspect turned on for the Games, it is truly heartening to experience. 

I only wish I always got to work with people who are so universally positive!  But I suppose it’s the lack of $ and ego in the equation which keeps it pure. 

Just for the record I would never say volunteers don’t deserve to be paid. In fact the opposite is true if you evaluate the general quality of their contribution.  Where would charities and arts organisations be without such generosity?  And I particularly think carers need to have financial relief and safety nets so as to take a break when they need it.  

But there is something unique and socially important about the extensive volunteering which takes place across many aspects of our ‘commonwealth’, for in many ways it’s a measure of the social health, generosity and vibrancy of a nation. 

And if that is the case, even anecdotally, then I suppose I must strive to be gracious about the fact that Britain and New Zealand are currently sitting higher than Australia on the gold medal tally.  It’s a struggle, but I’m channelling the volunteer spirit…

       (In my next blog I hope to introduce you to some specific volunteers,
          for theirs is a story which warrants a hearing.)

Matters of the heart

I’ve recently returned to London after a holiday in Italy, and for much of the week my heart’s been in free-fall.  It is simply impossible to leave my love of Tuscany behind.  Her ambience, her bonhomie, her bright colours and daily promise of beauty are too deeply etched.  I miss my friends, my favourite wine, coffee, food, restaurants, galleries, piazzas, routines and spectacular vistas.  For there is little to compare to the towers of San Gimignano, and in the valley beneath the cross-gartered lines of vine, olive and cypress, to whom I threw open my shutters every morning for the best part of three years.  It never failed to wrap around my heart and draw me in – the searing blue skies and white fluffy clouds an endless invitation to smile.  I feel I’m destined to long for her in perpetuity.  And for David, Michelangelo’s David, my friend and erstwhile travelling companion (though that’s another story.) 

But alas, there is little work in Italy during this international financial crisis.  So it’s to London I’ve returned and, more specifically, to my new apartment in Wandsworth.  In response to my ‘post-holiday-blues’ I’ve been nesting: one of the things girls do to make themselves feel better.  After finding somewhere for everything to go, I roamed Clapham Junction for an assortment of colourful cushions.  I put sunflowers in my bedroom, hung pictures on the walls, my hat on the door, and unpacked a pile of music I carried back from Tuscany.  Tinkling the ivories for a few hours helped wake up my rusty vocal chords, but there’s a regime of training to come before I get myself back to full voice.  It’ll happen though, as will my commitment to exercise and fitness, now I’m again in my own space with an opportunity to ‘settle’.

As I continue to make this space my own – something I’ve done thousands of times when moving around the globe over the years – the sentimental but most important things come last.  Opening the cylinder in which I’ve carefully protected a collection of children’s drawings, every nuance of the precious little faces of my nieces and nephews are vivid to me, shining, eager and full of affection, as Frankie Jean, Harry, Darcy, Molly and Oscar run into the backyard to present me with their farewell messages.  My heart lurches with the memory, the sense of separation intense, and I know this is the heaviest weight to carry when living “on the other side of the world”.  For, unlike Tuscany, the little ones change so quickly; and what is missed is gone forever.

Please indulge me.  I have twenty-nine nieces and nephews (if you count steps and partners) and they have long been the light of my life.  I remember the first time I held number one, my nephew Iain, in my arms.  I simply couldn’t believe such a miracle were possible.  Tears poured until my eyes puffed out like balloons and my father took a photo to immortalise the moment.  I remember too the feeling of never wanting to let him go… of being completely committed to protecting him… in the same second as I felt utterly unworthy to be responsible for something so tiny and delicate.

It’s been the same every time I’ve been introduced to a new package of soft squirms and wriggles… delighting at the tug on my finger and their wee individual features… as they struggle to open their eyes and check out who’s holding them… perhaps already aware I smell different to their mum.  A miracle, each and every one, who I adore with so deep a part of my being I wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for them.

After all, Aunty is such a cool role.  I'm an ever-enthusiastic baby-sitter.  You get to give (and receive) buckets and buckets of unconditional love.  You get to share joyous occasions, create unforgettable memories with every encounter… and the worst that can happen is that they stamp their feet and say “my dad doesn’t make me eat vegetables”… or (sob, sob) “but my mum said we don’t have to clean our teeth every night….”.   Yeah, yeah, I say.  Well I’m not your mum or dad so if you want to hang out with me then you have to clean your teeth.  And invariably they do.  The tears are quickly gone and the fun begins again… with cuddles, stories and songs… playing penguins and smurfs… playing piano and guitar… or with waking up to them jumping into my bed; which is profoundly appealing even in the same instant as my head pounds that it really would have been better if they’d waited a couple more hours.  And when they are picked up to go home, or I drop them off after another delightful sojourn, again I don’t want to let them go. 

Indeed if having nieces and nephews is one of the fundamental joys of my life – rich, pure and utterly fulfilling – then saying goodbye to them as I leave to cross the ocean, is reliably worse than parting from any guy.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had more than my fair share of passionate farewells and romantic pining, but nothing compares with the thud I feel when a niece or nephew says “miss you already Aunty Ju Ju”… or “but why can’t you find a job in Australia”… “why do you have to go away again”… or “you made us promise not to grow up… but you stayed away too long…”.   

Somehow I have learnt to live with it, despite the struggles, as I guess I must learn for the moment to live without Tuscany.  But happily there are compensations.

Little nieces and nephews grow up into big nieces and nephews.  (Go figure: I don’t know how that happens when I can’t possibly be ageing at a similar rate?!).   And last month I had the pleasure of a visit in London from Jay, the eldest son of my beautiful brother, Rohan, and his wife Julia.  Jay is a young man of significant value and promise in his own right, but his (and his brothers’) ‘stock’ has gone up immeasurably of late, for he embodies much of our dearly-loved brother, who we lost in the last year to a dreadful cancer and who we miss more deeply and sadly than words can express.

When Jay arrived in London, however, with his delightful girlfriend, Alexis, and good friend, Garrett, we were determined to make it a happy time.  He’d just graduated from High School in San Diego and it was an appropriate time to celebrate.  And we did – with walks on the Thames, dinners, drinks, laughter and of course theatre.  A good production of Jekyll and Hyde in the little Union Theatre went down well for an intimate experience, and an adaptation of Alfred Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps inspired us to think about what clever actors can achieve with little set if the concept and direction is imaginative.

The first evening Jay walked into my friend’s lounge-room and immediately picked up a guitar and casually started to strum as he spoke.  It was such a ‘Rohan’ thing to do that I nearly burst into tears, but I grabbed instead onto the comfort it brought and kept myself in check.  Then when Jay started ribbing my (then) relatively new (but already serious) boyfriend about his unwise choice to smoke… he seemed to be conjuring my brother Damian who is renowned for teasing… and oceans of distance (and the recent history of family sadness) faded for a while into a sea of familiarity and joy – joy that yet another nephew was branching out into the world to make his own way, to discover where he might best develop his unique talents.  I felt proud to be a part of that.  Proud and supremely happy to share a little of his adventure, knowing, as always, that my nieces and nephews, and indeed my brothers and sisters, are as important a touch-stone to me as I may be to them – wherever other hungers of the heart may take me. 

And with that I must put aside nostalgia, get myself out of this chair and into the park, which is Blessed today with sunshine and which, in London, one must never take for granted. 

The Olympics is coming and the city’s heart, like a child’s at Christmas, is bursting with anticipation…

I do hope she’s rewarded.

Boustrophedonically

Without looking it up, I bet you don’t know what boustrophedonically means.  If you do, you must be super smart, really pedantic or you cheated.  I mean it sounds like a made up word; a drug induced construct.  Or something only an engineer or scientist would understand.  But actually, it’s a quasi literary/artistic term which, until I explored Paris with my sister-in-law Julia, was well beyond my grasp.  The experience went like this.

As Paris is one of those cities you can never expect to complete, I was delighted when Julia took me somewhere special in the French Capital that I hadn’t previously visited.  Sainte-Chapelle is a gem of High Gothic architecture situated not far from Notre-Dame, on Ile-de-la-Cité, the small island in the middle of the Seine. Along with the Conciergerie (the Prison) and Palais de Justice (the Law Courts) it is all that remains of the oldest palace of the first Kings of France; established by Clovis and developed by his son Childebert from the sixth century. 

Sainte-Chapelle itself was founded by Louis IX in 1248 to house the relics of the Passion of Christ.  The most famous of these relics was the Crown of Thorns, acquired in 1239 for an amount of money that apparently exceeded the cost of building the chapel itself.  Though Sainte-Chapelle was completely restored in the mid-nineteenth century, it is quite remarkable that the original stained-glass windows, which are the reliquary chapel’s unique signature, survived a wave of destruction throughout the revolutionary period and two world wars. 

If you’re inclined to think “oh yeah, seen one stained-glass window, seen them all” then think again.  The first floor of Sainte-Chapelle is adorned with fifteen of the largest and most spectacular windows you will ever see.  And as the buttresses and supporting columns of the building have been positioned externally, when you step out of the spiral staircase into the single nave chapel you are entirely surrounded with bright-coloured glass.  It is literally like finding yourself in the middle of a kaleidoscope.  And you have to pinch yourself to be sure it isn’t a dream. 

I’m sure I’m not the first or last tourist to well with tears at the sight of such magic.  Yet before I could begin to comprehend the detail of the 1,113 bible scenes depicted in the glass panels, my pleasure was enhanced by my nephew Noah’s hand tugging at mine: “isn’t it beautiful Aunty Julie… I nearly cried too when I first saw it”.  Out of the mouths of babes - for children’s ability to perceive beauty and embrace tenderness in all its forms is another thing of great wonder. 

I spent considerable time in Sainte-Chapelle trying to follow the bible stories, which on fourteen windows are ‘read’ from the bottom upwards.  Unfortunately my Old Testament knowledge is not as good as it should be and I got lost somewhere between Ezekiel and Job.  Nevertheless I thoroughly enjoyed the images for their own sake. 

Particularly fascinating is the window which tells the story of the relics, from their discovery by Saint Helen in Jerusalem to their arrival in France.  It is this window which is read 'boustrophedonically' - which I learnt means to be read from the bottom upwards but with alternate lines read in opposite directions, right to left then left to right.  I have no idea who invented such a practice, or why, but it was rather like playing snakes and ladders and continually losing your place.  Or perhaps trying to read the newspaper after the chardonnay has gone to your head.  With a little effort, however, I think I got the general gist and frankly enjoyed the challenge. 

Afterwards I sat down on a bench and sank into the stunning atmosphere which is actually the more important point.  Then I noticed other attractive decorations in the chapel, such as thirteenth century statues of the apostles, and a diverse array of carved capitals, painted ‘arcatures’ and attractive ‘quatrefoils’… more context specific lingo, this time of an architectural nature.

After a blissful period of time wrapped in this unusual kaleidoscope of colour and sensation, I eventually moved downstairs to find a Lower Chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary.  The beautifully restored polychrome decorations with an azure background covered in fleur-de-lys, is much simpler than the main attraction upstairs but it is quietly pretty.  I was interested to see a thirteenth century Annunciation fresco above the door to the former Sacristy, for it’s reputed to be the oldest wall painting in Paris.  And on the chapel’s columns, decorated with towers on a purple background, are the Arms of Queen Blanche of Castile, Louis IX’s mother.  I soon learnt Louis IX’s reign was marked not only by the highly commendable construction of Sainte Chapelle, but for numerous Christian Crusades and general piety.  In fact he was the only King of France to be canonized, referred to thereafter as Saint Louis, so as his mother was devout one imagines she must have been very proud of him. 

I left the elevated culture of Sainte Chapelle and adjourned across the Seine to a pet shop with my nephews Noah and Cameron.  We were soon determined to take home the cutest little Border Collie puppy with eyes which called out to be loved.  But I suppose someone had to act like a grown-up, so when Julia joined us she put a stop to our pleading by giving me ‘the look’ – the one which says “it’s all very well to be the cool and indulgent aunty but someone around here has to shepherd these children along the straight and narrow”.  I have a lot of nieces and nephews so I’ve seen that look many times before. 

Can anyone think up one word which might describe it?

Albi

The beautiful and ancient city of Albi is situated on the River Tarn, in the southern wine-growing region of France known as Gaillac.  I’ve visited often as my brother, Sean, lives nearby, and have gradually absorbed details about the area’s history.  Just in case you think the only thing I do is eat, drink, flirt and play havoc… this blog is more serious tourism.

One of Albi’s famous children was Jean-François Galaup, Comte de Lapérouse (1741-1788), the Pacific Explorer who disappeared in mysterious circumstances when his two large vessels, the Astrolabe and the Boussole, were shipwrecked and subsequently attacked off the islands of Santa Cruz. 

I’ve always found it interesting that Lapérouse’s French Fleet arrived on the East Coast of Australia at practically the same time as Britain’s First Fleet, led by the Englishman Captain Arthur Phillip.  So much would have been different if their timing had been ever so slightly reversed… but as it was the great seamen met in Botany Bay on the 26^th January 1788, just as Phillip was preparing to move the new colony north into the harbour to settle at Port Jackson (ie Sydney’s Rocks district). 

By all reports it was a cordial meeting and the brave French explorer’s name is honoured in the southern Sydney suburb of La Perouse.  Very thankfully, Lapérouse gave his important letters and documents to a ship heading directly back to England at this time, so despite his tragic end the historical records of his voyage prior to Botany Bay were saved for posterity.

Another famous son from this part of France (his courage of the artistic variety) is remembered in Musée Toulouse-Lautrec.  Like most people, I enjoy Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s vivid portraits of characters such as Yvette Guilbert and Jane Avril.  I admire, too, his self-portraits and brothel paintings, particularly those which allow you to observe multiple treatments on a theme - such as the different renditions of Salon de la rue des moulins, revealing much about the artist’s deliberations over fusion and colour. 

The Art Posters designed for Parisian theatres and musical cafés like the Moulin Rouge, always keep me entertained.  Famously, they include: Ambassadeurs; El Dorado; La Goulue; and Bal Masque, in which I adore the man with a distinctively crooked nose surrounded by silhouettes of spectators and dancers doing the can-can.  I also find memorable various sketches done on cardboard.  The most charming to my mind, by virtue of its subtlety and gentle evocation of sensuality, is Etude pour femme tirant son bas (1894).   A dear friend, Fiona, gave me a souvenir fridge magnet of the image after visiting Albi together and it never fails to make me smile.

The Toulouse-Lautrec Museum is situated in a section of Palais de la Berbie on the edge of Le Tarn immediately below the impressive French-Gothic styled La Cathédrale Sainte-Cécile.  This historic part of Albi is not to be missed - its militant architecture intended as a statement of strength by the Catholic Church against the Cathar heresy which raged in the south of France in the 13^th century. 

Extremely impressive are the thick towering walls of the Cathedral and Bishop’s House, standing fortress-like over magnificent gardens and shading Albi’s oldest bridge, Pont Vieux, constructed in 1035.  In addition to sheer walls and towers there are protective fortifications or ‘curtains’ built by Bishop Bernard de Castanet (between 1277 and 1306) during particularly tense times with the ‘Albigensians’.  They provided him with a safe escape route via the river in the event the peasant hatred of him turned riotous. 

I haven’t uncovered yet why they hated him so much… but anyway this part of Albi is, for me, a romantic place, because Sean and Muriel had their wedding photos taken in the Bishop’s lovely gardens.  I always go to the corner viewing platform and watch the mighty Tarn River surging against ancient rocks overlooked by verdant branches bursting impatiently into life. 

It’s a nice counterpoint to the inside of Albi’s Cathedral, where a dramatic Last Judgment scene (circa 1477-1484) is situated on a two hundred square meter rood screen immediately behind the modern altar.  As it hangs close to the congregation - unlike, for example, Vasari’s Last Judgement inside Brunelleschi’s Dome in Firenze - it is likely to fill even the least pious visitor with humble dread.  Indeed the scene is so confronting I wonder if it’s counter-productive.  For sheer fright drives any recollection of the seven deadly sins straight out of your head!  (Well, that’s my excuse anyway.) 

My mother pointed out that one of the reasons for this ominous impression is that there’s no image of the Saviour to balance the vileness of hell and its devils.  For a hole was cut into the rood screen to make way for the repositioning of the modern altar, and consequently it lacks the figure of Jesus and therefore hope for Redemption. 

It provides an insight, anyway, into the sobriety of the Old Testament and dour Medieval-Christian interpretations of the Bible… before subsequent generations, particularly post-Vatican II, were encouraged to trust in the overwhelming love of Christ and a generous, forgiving Father.  Thank God for the timing of my birth is all I can say.  Until I’d seen that screen I thought my twentieth century advantage had been the discovery of penicillin!

Albi’s Cathédrale Sainte-Cécile is also memorable for its flamboyant chancel screen and Grand Choeur (circa 1477-1484).  Situated in what is now the rear of the church, it contains an abundance of Gothic statuary, polychromatic figures, carved motifs and filigree to rival the famous Notre Dame Choirs in Paris and Chartres. 

Also of significance, is that a number of chapels and the striking azure-blue ceiling vaults (coloured with dye from the locally grown woad plant) were covered between 1509 and 1512 with frescoes, putti and other Renaissance motifs.  One of the largest collections of Italian paintings in France, it is a legacy of the city’s Renaissance Bishops, Louis I and Louis II of Amboise. 

If this isn’t enough to make you think Albi’s one-hundred-and-thirteen metre long Cathedral is auspicious, you only have to stand outside Sainte-Cécile and consider the engineering feat of holding up incredibly sheer walls without flying buttresses; buttresses being typical of later Gothic design.  A notable point is that the imposing forty metres to the roof, and seventy-eight metres to the top of the tower, were made from thousands upon thousands of small, red, baked bricks.  Indeed Albi has the world’s largest brick Cathedral and the old city retains much of its character by virtue of the widespread use of these bricks in areas including Bourg Saint-Salvy, Castelviel, Castelnau, Lices-Vigan, Lices-Georges Pompidou, and the Cathedral Close and Tarn Riverbank districts. 

In warm weather I’ve often been lulled into a stupor by wandering along attractive, shaded riverbanks, looking at rusty reflections of the old town in the water, and on each occasion wondering how time, in many ways, appears to have stood still in Albi.

Watching

A couple of weeks ago I was jogging along a country road outside Marssac sur Tarn in the south of France, and had to duck behind a bush to pee.  As I stood from the squat, happy to have avoided peeing on my shoes, I looked up to see a crowd of cows watching me from the opposite paddock. Seriously, every single cow had its head turned in my direction.  As cows go they were lovely: a uniform, warm orange/red, the colour of a King Charles Spaniel, fine boned, apparently meek in nature, and probably dairy.  (I later tried to identify the breed but not even the internet could help.)

As I moved off up the road they turned their heads and continued to follow me, as if I were the most interesting creature to pass all day.  It was siesta, and too hot to be running, so perhaps they were waiting for me to keel over - which I very nearly did, on account of the alcohol streaming through my bloodstream from the night before, chased by an excessive amount of cholesterol from cheese, sausage and the dessert I just had to have to avoid offending my hosts. 

I turned and ran up a dirt lane unsure where it would lead.  Right along the path a man half way up a tree was watching me.  I thought he was spreading nets across the branches to keep birds from his fruit, but in fact he was waiting to tell me that it was private property and I needed to turn around and go back.  Well, he spoke in French so I guessed that’s what his gesticulating meant. 

Back I trod and found the cows waiting.  They weren’t very talkative but I found them endearing, especially as they were bordered by green fields, rich with golden-topped crops on account of all the rain, and a soothing smattering of listless red poppies.  For not the first or last time I wished I could paint, as the scene was idyllic.

It got me thinking about the fact that actors and performers love to be watched.  Maybe that’s why I loved the old Guinness commercials so much… peering eyes from the guy who only ever said “I like to watch”… the pint itself taking on the characteristics and aura of a watchable star.  Indeed many artists are crippled without an audience… which is perhaps why we fill our non-working time writing blogs or telling funny stories to our friends.  This is hard for introverts or non-exhibitionists to understand, except of course if you get them onto a subject about which they are passionate. 

Take my brother Sean, for instance, he loves to be watched when playing the guitar or Rugby.  But put him in a shop or at a party and he will do everything to sink into the furniture.  Seriously, in all the years I’ve visited him in France I have never been allowed to speak English to him in a bank or shop.  He wants to be French and I, it would seem, am a huge handicap.  So he makes me tell him what I want and then shushes me as we walk through the door.  As if I hadn’t yet learnt this routine, he did it to me again recently.  In fact I suspect he doesn’t really want me to go into ‘his shops’ at all unaccompanied, for fear they’ll make the connection.  He doesn’t say that of course… probably knowing I’d tease him too much and the thrown gauntlet would be far too tempting.  I am impressed he has assimilated well into this community by being so stubborn, dare I say French?  But I did have to laugh when his lovely wife, Muriel, came back to the house with a packet of Vitamin C - for Sean had known I was planning to pop into the local Pharmacy for it.  Oh well, saved me a trip and a few Euros so I wasn't complaining. 

At a party it’s much the same, for Sean is not a big conversationalist – in fact a man of rather few words.  Indeed I think he’s spent his life wondering how the hell he got such a loquacious sister.  God love him though, for he’s happy to take me to meet his friends, proud even, but he really does not want to have to spend the evening translating for me.  He’s a little more accommodating when the dinner party is at his own home, or if we meet just a couple of people, but if it’s going to be a large group the strain of the threatened need to translate is etched on his brow as we mooch toward the threshold.  I tell him not to worry, “I’ll be fine”, but he knows I won’t be able to keep quiet for long. 

His strategy for one evening - a surprise party thrown by my Muriel’s cousin for her Aunty - was that I use sign-language and a gaggle of disconnected French words to talk to the person immediately next to me; rather than try to join the big table conversation if I didn’t understand it.  “Fair enough” I said, particularly as Sean hasn’t been at all well lately and it’s not the time to provoke him.

This approach was a good idea in theory, but of course I’m a performer whether or not the lights are on me and social butterfly could be my middle name.  So if I pick up on a joke or am attracted by the energy of a conversation, I simply can not hold back my curiosity and inevitably look to someone for clarification.  Thus it was this evening, and to my relief (as much as Sean’s) the lady beside me at the table for a time spoke Italian!  She was delighted to translate the conversation into Italian, then translate my comments back into French for the table, such that I got the requisite number of laughs from the evening’s banter not to feel like a social outcast; or God Forbid boring.  Sean just shook his head in disbelief every time my side-kick and I managed to hold centre stage, but at least he’d not been directly implicated.

 This was how I always got by during my early months living in Italy.  I’d find someone who spoke even a little English and would wind up my social interactions from there.  It’s how I get on still when I’ve been away from Italy too long and forget much of what I’ve learnt.  Nevertheless manners often decree that an evening be allowed to take its natural flow without a constant demand for translation, so I did what I always do when I don’t have sufficient language in a foreign country: I found something to read in English; I played with the children (always a winner for they are without judgement and wonderfully imaginative); I ate and drank to excess; and then fell asleep on the sofa near midnight. 

At 2am I woke up.  And they were all standing above me, watching.