Midsummer in Latvia

Riga.... A Modern FairyTale....

Kendrick Lamar, he say.....

Got me breathing with dragons

I'll crack the egg in your basket, you bastard

I'm Marilyn Manson with madness, now just imagine the magic

I light to asses, don't ask for your favorite rapper

Chuuch

(He dead) I killed him (Amen) Bitch

And this is rigamortis and it's gorgeous when you die

Ali recorded and I'm Morpheus, the Matrix of my mind

I'm out the orbit, you an orphan and a hairdresser combined....

Which is not why I am in Riga.

But then.....

Life isn't that simple.  (He going to Cairo...)

A daughter flies from Belize to Georgia (as you do) and wishes to meet up with her mother (as you do) and so here we are, in a flat in Lime Street (Kaļķu iela) in the midst of Old Riga, with a temperature to fry by and over a hundred per cent humidity, with a seriously deranged cover band sucking the national grid dry in the bar below.....

Lovely people.  Long long suffering.

Ruled by Poland, Sweden, Russia, Germany, and again Russia; bombed to bits by the Russians in 1941, and then illegally annexed by the USSR in 1944, and since independence in 1991 a country unsure about its relationships with its powerful neighbours....

And now a place of communal beer bikes for rancid stag parties, and with a restaurant every other building, offering service until four a.m. 

It's sad to see the serious tourists wandering lost in the hungover mornings.....

But it's not a bad place, especially at Midsummer, when the world stops to worship the sun, and the whole of Latvia (c 1.9 million persons) and neighbouring Baltic States convene in Riga to jump the bonfires and sing and drink and laugh and defy the world to turn and darken again.....

Ladies of leisure....

Gentlemen of class.....

And couples of bygone times, preserved in parasol-infected parks by shining canals, drifting softly close to the mighty River Daugava, source of historic wealth and power....

We pay our respects to Mother Latvia (Milda) atop the Freedom Monument, 

For Fatherland and Freedom 

And then skip aboard the No 1 bus to 

IEPAZĪSTI LATVIJAS ETNOGRĀFISKO BRĪVDABAS MUZEJU (which, less-terrifyingly, is the Ethnographic Open-Air Museum of Latvia).

This is a 100 hectare pine forest by a lake where rural buildings from all over Latvia have gathered to shelter together from the ravages of modern times.  A cold coming they had of it.....

But it is wonderful.  A lady in a flowery blouse with a fulsome skirt elbows me out of the way to open the church with a huge, Grimm's fairy-tale key...

And two very modern young dryads with infectious smiles ply me with beer and borscht in a beautiful clearing where sausages and beans seem to grow on the trees.....

For just a moment, I think I could live here, my hair in a bun, my nose in a book, and my feet in elk-fur slippers.....

But then I remember some of the things that happened in Bergman films in the discontented winters of northern lands, and think perhaps not.....  There's more, perhaps, to life than a steam radio, an aspidistra and hand-painted wallpaper?

And so we take the train to Jūrmala, where decaying dachas whisper stories of Russian heydays and cherry orchards.....

Though the 20+kms of white sand beach still draw the crowds and foster a certain contentment, especially among those heading for Sweden.....

Flying back to Riga in our Zeppelin we gaze down on the tiled and corrugated roofs of the old city, jostling with the new, 'architect-designed' erections that fill the time and space between then and now....

And then we park our dirigible in one of the custom built market halls, 

Under the watchful (?) eyes of men who may  perhaps, have lived,

And behind the backs of women who, perhaps, haven't.... (the best is yet to come?)

I like the place.  Whether it's the co-ordinated head-dresses of these women by their tuk-tuk,

Or the flamboyant oak-leaved wreath of this venerable flower-seller in the market,

There are strong traditions here, and Midsummer is the time to shout about them.  Music is important to the Latvian soul, and I can only say I am sorry that this was the best I encountered....

It is a matter of eternal regret that I wasn't in Tallinn, in Estonia in 2002. for the final of the 47th edition of the annual Eurovision Song Contest. 

For the first time, a slogan was introduced. This year's theme was A Modern Fairytale, which was evident in the postcards shown between the songs, which showed classic fairytales ending in modern Estonian situations.

The contest was won by Latvia, represented by Marie N with the song I Wanna, which scored 176 points, beating the runner-up Malta by a nerve-tingling 12 points.

There could never have been any doubt.  The song, I Wanna, was not only sung by Maria Naumova, in a layered costume that held all the surprises of a clown car continuing to empty itself of shapes such as that of Putin, Trump and Johnson, with pancake cheeks and vermilion smiles, 

but it was part written by her as well.  

Classic. 

Latvian.  

A Baltic herring of a song.

It makes me yearn to return.....

I’d like to go away, but it’s easier to say

That you know all the tricks that make, that make me stay

I’m ready to support this artful game you always play

‘Cause you don’t know the fee that you will later, later pay

Oh yes.....

I wanna be the sunshine in your arms

I wanna be the light from shooting stars

I wanna be the queen in your sweet lies

I wanna be the love-spark in your eyes

Stairway to heaven 

Who needs Kendrick Lamar?

A rainy day in Paradise....

Summer in the (Garden) City.....

Hot town, summer in the city

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty

Yeah, Right!

Flaming June!

Ebenezer Howard (1850 - 1928) set out his philosophy of urban development in his publication Garden Cities of Tomorrow.  His aim was to combine the advantages of town and country living by creating towns of limited population surrounded by agricultural land.  He founded the Town and Country Planning Association in 1899, and subsequently the world's first Garden City was declared open on October 9th 1903 at Letchworth.

I am stranded for an hour or so in this time warp while my Yeti is being serviced (some people will do anything for money).....  

I've been before, but for different reasons, and haven't had the privilege of just wandering aimlessly.   

And it is raining.....

The town hall rises from the car park, reflected in the puddles......

The coloured fountains and metal sculptures near the Railway Station don't quite enliven the street scene.....

A rare shopper hurries home before melting into the pavement....

I contemplate offering my corpse for piercing just to pass the time.....

As an enticing alternative to taking shelter in the Broadway Hotel, built in 1961 and the first licensed premises in the town (from its inception in 1903 until a referendum in 1958, Letchworth upheld a ban on the sale of alcohol).

I would visit the town grammar school, 

A shining example of the vernacular architecture, though the school long since vacated the premises.  

Other schools in the town include independent St. Chris, founded in 1915 as the Garden City Theosophical School, and renowned for its vegetarianism and policy of all (students and staff) using Christian names.  Alumni include Michael Winner  and A A Gill (who was married for a while to the current MP for Hastings,  Amber Rudd....)

I would visit the town museum, housed in the erstwhile North Hertfordshire College building....  but it isn't yet open....

And it's too early to take advantage of the somewhat retro entertainment (Live on Stage - Flanders and Swann) in the splendid Art Deco Broadway Cinema and Theatre, where my mum used to watch Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in her school holidays in the late thirties....

So I content myself with wandering and wondering, taking in the sights.....

Such as Mrs Howard Hall.....

And the nearby collectively owned (I am speculating: this was the original theory, and the similitudes and reroofiness kind of suggest this may be the ongoing) houses in similar style:

Letchworth has its place in the arts and literature.  George Orwell lived nearby in Wallington in the 1930s and 40s, and in 2011 and 2012 a festival in his name was held here....

Lenin came here.

Once.

And, among other celebrants of local culture is John Betjeman, who poked mischievious fun at the arty crafty nature of the place in his poem Group Life: Letchworth....

Tell me Pippididdledum,

Tell me how the children are.

Working each for weal of all

After what you said.

Barry's on the common far

Pedalling the Kiddie Kar.

In 2013 Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg used many locations in the town in World's End.  

And there's a film festival coming up....

Which will form part of this year's Letchworth Festival....

Note to diary.  

Fairly busy already in June.....

I dribble through Howard Park, past the memorial to Ebenezer, where people may sit semi-circularly to discuss the merits.....

And out into the industrial suburbs, past reminders of the city's glorious role in the manufacture of corsets, dustcarts and fire engines..... although the largest employer here was the British Tabulating Machine Company, later to become part of International Computers Limited.....

And back to where I left my Yeti.....

Sadly, this rainy day has not lifted my spirits, but, to look on the bright side, things could be worse....

It ain't Paradise, perhaps, but....

I could have been stranded in Luton....

And babe, don't you know it's a pity

That the days can't be like the nights

In the summer, in the city

In the summer, in the city

Rain on......

Wrong place, Wrong Time.....

Once upon a time in humankind.....

Dr John and I go way back…. We were due to meet in Kendal, in the winter of 1985. Unfortunately, however, he wasn’t well and had to cancel.  He kindly sent us tickets to see Carmen instead…..

As you do.....

Now it seems like we may never meet, though in a way he will always be with me, if you con what I intend?  [Or perhaps I will join him at the Great Rent Party in the sky?] Like many would-be losers, I often think of the words of one of his best-known songs, Right Place, Wrong Time:

I been in the right place
But it must have been the wrong time
I'd have said the right thing
But I must have used the wrong line

And to seque into a sort of non-sequitur [if you will forgive me] recently my Amanda and I visited Calke Abbey, in Derbyshire, and the song sang through the strangely derelict house, especially through the exhibition on the ground floor, entitled Humankind.  To mark the 200th anniversary of the death of Henry Harpur, 'The Isolated Baronet', this year at Calke Abbey the National Trust is exploring stories of loneliness and isolation, kindness and compassion, past and present.

Just up our street.....

As the NT website explains:

For more than thirty years, the story of Calke Abbey and its significance has been built around the tale of a reclusive and socially-isolated family who guarded the estate from modern life and lived eccentric, disconnected lives. Today, as awareness grows of the enormous challenges posed by loneliness and the harmful impact of social isolation on more and more lives, [we] are looking afresh at Calke’s past, reassessing the stories told about this place and exploring their potential to foster more, and more meaningful, contemporary human connections.

Recent research has shed new light on the lives of the people who lived at Calke. This has revealed powerful, rich and sometimes surprising stories of love, compassion and kindness, rooted in complex life experiences and events, alongside the more familiar ones of isolation and disconnection.

Spanning more than 200 years, these are stories that many of us would recognise today. The people who lived at Calke needed one another and took care of one other.  [Good for them!] Their routes out of difficulty were always aided by others – by humankind and human kindness.....  [Rare commodities, perhaps?]

In 2019 – marking the 200th anniversary of the death of Henry Harpur, ‘The Isolated Baronet’ – [we] are exploring this wider and richer history of Calke in exciting new ways. HumanKind uses these new stories and insights to challenge the stigma that surrounds loneliness and social isolation, to get people talking about this pressing social issue, to foster human interaction and connection and, in true Calke tradition, to encourage small acts of kindness.  [Right on....]

HumanKind is a research-led collaboration between the National Trust and the Research Centre for Museums and Galleries at the University of Leicester.

I been in the right place
But it must have been the wrong time
My head was in a place

Henry was gossiped about for his shyness and said to suffer from a ‘disease of the mind’ by diarist, Joseph Faringdon, who’d never met him. Over the years these fragments have been woven into elaborate stories of a family who distanced themselves from society and each other. 

But I'm having such a good time
I been running trying to get hung up in my mind
Got to give myself a little talking to this time

New research has revealed an ordinary 13 year old, doodling strange beasts and writing ‘H. Harpur is a fool’ in his books. The books he bought and the journals he subscribed to as an adult tell us that he had a curious mind and was influenced by the Age of Enlightenment. He built the library, remodelled the house, commissioned music, collected political caricatures, and used experimental techniques to make cheese! He had a sense of humour and he liked fine things. He married for love. 

All of which is very nice, and was either written by the National Trust, or by Mac Rebennack, who could have been Elton John’s uncle, perhaps, or Augustus John’s niece, or even Sleepy John Estes’s second cousin.....

But why?  Why have I borrowed these words?  What’s in it for us?

Well…..

Just need a little brain salad surgery
Got to cure this insecurity
I been in the wrong place
But it must have been the right time
I been in the right place
But it must have been the wrong song
I been in the right vein
But it seems like the wrong arm
I been in the right world
But it seems wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong

I recommend a visit to Calke Abbey. It’s not an Abbey, of course, nor is it made of cork, but it is splendidly confusing nonetheless, and has the most magnificent park, and a wonderful walled garden, all of which is good for the soul, however isolated.  

And to think that I could have lived there, with the good Dottore Giovanni, had we both not been born in the wrong place, at the wrong time……

Or perhaps we could have lived at Kedelstone Hall, not too far away, also in Derbyshire, where Robert Adam advertised his talents in a spectacular way for the Curzon family.

Or, we could have been curators of the tram museum at Crich, ringing the bells of New Orleans, 

Where we really do stay with old friends [thank you Sue and Dennis]

But.....

I been in the right trip
But I must have used the wrong car
My head was in a bad place
And I'm wondering what it's good for

Right Place, Wrong Time

by

Malcolm John Rebennack 

(aka Dr John)

 (November 20, 1941 – June 6, 2019)

RIP






Peace brother peace
The doctor's comin'

Footnotes:

Dr. John told songfacts.com about "Right Place, Wrong Time", "That was my life for a long time. At the same time I was in the wrong place at the right time, and the right place in the wrong time, too. That was the problem. We're always shifting those gears."

The singer explained his inspirations behind this song by saying, "While writing the song 'Right Place Wrong Time,' I ran into Bob Dylan. He gave me the line 'I'm on the right trip, but in the wrong car'.