Stolen from facebook and without attribution, but I never want to lose it…
There were cats everywhere. I loved that and also…they were all very young, cats do not live long there. Were I myself to live there, I would quickly become the cat lady. But still. It may be Kotor in Montenegro that has a reputation as the city of cats, but the places we stayed all seemed to give it a run for its money.
This post also must include the best picture I have taken in ages:
There are a number of Roman ruins along the Dalmatian coast. I love Roman ruins, frustrated archaeologist that I am. But some of the most beautiful things were the small things, these exquisite pieces of metal and ivory and glass.
These are from the museum in Split, look how wondrous this workmanship is.
This extraordinary hand, foregrounded against a collection of rings
fascinations of ancient melted glass (and dice)
The old city of Split is built within the walls of Diocletian’s palace itself, pieces of Roman architecture knitted within its walls and cellars. The most amazing cellars lie beneath the city, matching the layout of the palace that once stood above.
An old olive press
The cathedral, once Diocletian’s mausoleum. I read this, about the fall of Salona:
The Latin inhabitants of these ruined cities fled for sanctuary to the Adriatic islands off the coast. As a peace of sorts returned, many of them made their way back to the mainland, where they laid the foundations of two new cities. In central Dalmatia, the refugees from Salona moved into the vast, ruined palace of the Emperor Diocletian, 6 located a few miles away from Salona at Spalato. In this giant hulk with its vast walls, sixteen towers, huge mausoleum, reception halls, libraries, cavernous underground cellars and hundreds of other rooms, the survivors of the barbarian onslaught created the city of Split. They converted the mausoleum of this notorious persecutor of Christians into a cathedral and dedicated it to St Duje, after Bishop Domnius of Salona, one of the victims of Diocletian’s purges. The watchtower over the main entrance was converted into small churches, two of which, St Martin’s and Our Lady of the Belfry, survive. The refugees from Epidaurum moved a short distance down the coast and founded another new city, which was to become known as Ragusa, or Dubrovnik (Tanner, M. (2001). Croatia : A Nation Forged in War).
My pics of the dome didn’t work somehow, but here’s the space.
The temple of Jupiter.
We got on a bus and traveled to the city of Salona. From the museum’s website:
Initially, Salona had been the coastal stronghold and the port of the Illyrian Delmats in the immediate vicinity of the ancient Greek colonies Tragurion and Epetion. Along with the local Illyrian population and the Greek settlers, Salona was at the time inhabited by a large Italic community. Following the civil war between Caesar and Pompey in 48 B.C., Salona was granted the status of a Roman colony thus becoming the centre of Illyricum and later of the province of Dalmatia.
It is massive, the coliseum preserved as a memory of the violence just as central to their civilisation as the beauty and the warm baths.
One last note, there were griffons. There were a number of griffons. They were beautiful.
Kupari was an amazing place… luxury hotels built by Tito for the relaxation of military personnel. Shot up and burned out during the war. All four of them. Three are great modernist frames of still structurally-sound concrete. They have been stripped, remain full of rubble and broken glass and you can pick your way up and down stairs. Plants grow exuberant in the courtyards and into the lobbies and corridors. The four hotels sit on a cove, the beach full of local families and tourists. Occasionally some of them wandered up the concrete stairs in chanclas, sunburned bellies pouring over flowered bermuda shorts.
I didn’t blog over our trip, a terrible thing because there is so much we saw, so much that was amazing, so much that I learned. There were also so many cats.
We took a bus down the coast from Dubrovnik, terribly hot humid no windows open standing room only. We got off and walked through a bit of woods and found this. We approached through the trees and the long grass, it felt lonely and abandoned. Empty.
It used to look like this
All Inclusive! My favourite piece of grafitti.
I think perhaps these two might have been enough, but there were more to see. We continued. The next building was older, riddled with bullet holes. This is the only place we went, I think, where the conflict felt real.
The last building, the most interesting perhaps but I already felt full.
Coming to them from the beach full of baked bodies and primary colours felt so much more unreal. We walked from shadows to bright sunlight to shadow again. We found a bar at the end of the sand blasting Beyoncé. It could almost be any beach, though sandy beaches were rare here, and perhaps it is the looming hotels that made these a bit less crowded.
I’ve never read Waugh, I found this a hilarious, biting satire, and enjoyed it greatly to my no small surprise.
They should have told me about marriage. They should have told me that at the end of that gay journey and flower-strewn path were the hideous lights of home and the voices of children. I should have been warned of the great lavender-scented bed that was laid out for me, of the wisteria at the windows, of all the intimacy and confidence of the family life…Our life is lived between two homes. We emerge for a little into the light, and then the front door closes. The chintz curtains shut out the sun, and the hearth glows with the fire of home, while upstairs, above our heads, are enacted again the awful accidents of adolescence. There’s a home and a family waiting for every one of is, we can’t escape, try how we may. It’s the seed of life we carry about with us like our skeletons, each one of us unconsciously pregnant with desirable villa residences. There’s no escape. As individuals we simply do not exist. We are just potential home-builders, beavers, and ants… (102)
And an extra thrown in:
for anyone who has been to an English public school will always feel comparatively at home in prison. It is the people brought up in the gay intimacy of the slums, Paul learned, who find prison so soul-destroying.
We are going to Croatia today! Dubrovnik for a week and then Split, and a conference on… I’m not sure.
Gravity assist is a slingshot move, when one object uses the gravity of another to propel itself out of orbit. This concept from space travel, first used with the Mariner 10 probe in 1974, functions as a metaphor for escaping the constraints of the present to create change for the future. The conference, to be held by the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Split, Croatia, 14-15 September, 2018, aims to examine strategies for challenging the limitations of the present in order to escape from them.
I’ve been at RGS all this week, I presented a paper on rural homelessness in Wales, I spoke about how austerity is tearing its way through people’s lives and concreting itself into the landscape and service provision. This is why I do not have a paper for Split, which is really Mark’s bag of course, but it would have been fun to think about this. I will enjoy being there and seeing old friends again, but mostly I look forward to exploring a new space and place and have, of course, been reading a great deal. I read a short book on the history as it was all I could find in our library, it was all right. I most loved the maps that trace this much-contested area over time, and they are presented in order here. From Tanner, M. (2001). Croatia : A Nation Forged in War. New Haven: Yale University Press.
You can get the train to Freshford, I don’t know why we had never done this, for it looks like there are several lovely walks to be done from here. There is also a lovely pub with the best lemon crumble I have ever had in my life. It is, you know, redolent of rich people, but for a day that’s quite all right. And really, this walk was all about the violence hidden in the tranquility of the countryside, made possible by wealth inequality really.
You follow narrow lanes from the station to Ilford Manor — I didn’t think the gardens would be open but they were. A description from the website:
The Grade-1 listed gardens were designed by Harold Peto during his tenure at Iford from 1899-1933, and represent one of the finest examples of steeply terraced hillside gardening in the UK. They are characterised by colonnades, pools and steps, and offer magnificent rural views over the valley.
They are beautiful gardens though a bit small perhaps. I particularly loved the millstones set into the paving stones, the stairs up hillsides with their cascades of daisies, lovely borders, the smell of rosemary, wisteria everywhere. Quite a wonderful sculpture of a dog scratching itself.
But behind it you can see the sarcophagus — whose? There is a pond full of waterlilies, wisteria growing in bush form in a great circle around it which is quite beautiful — I haven’t seen it like that. And then suddenly you realise the statue of the old sage is actually holding what looks like a dog and the water pours from the wound in its breast.
There is a cloister, and likewise it is full of carvings of hawks and kestrels hunting hares and partridges, that moment of capture and cruel claws seen also in a lion holding a pig, and suddenly this beautiful garden felt quite a cruel place. Not least from the worry over the provenance of these old scraps of carving, columns and statuary collected from around the world…
From there we followed footpaths down the side of the River Frome to reach Farleigh Hungerford Castle. There is not much of it left, it is true, but more than would appear upon first glance. A quite incredible chapel, I am still not entirely sure how it fits within these ruins, approached as you might the center of a snail shell through a walled garden behind which rise the ruins.
There are burials here too, but at least you are quite sure that they belong here. The old, unexpected colours restored, but this families disappointing obsession with their own ancestry also on view.
Underneath a crypt, rather terrifying lead coffins. The kid who came down behind us legged it.
This family has only violence to make it stand out, really. It was built in the 1370s but Sir Thomas Hungerford, steward of John of Gaunt — I do appreciate that he was the first recorded speaker of the House of Commons. Yet he destroyed the local village to make way for the park alongside the castle. The family did well in the 100 years war, made a fortune through kidnapping Frenchmen and demanding ransom. The beautiful chapel had been a parish church, but became a private one when the walls were expanded around it. In 1523, Lady Agnes Hungerford was hanged with two of her servants for murdering her first husband, John Cottell. They waited to bring her to trial until her second husband Sir Edward Hungerford died (a natural death it seems, but his desire to marry Agnes was, of course, her motive). Given her first husband was strangled and burned within the walls of the castle itself — well.
The ‘Lady Tower’ here is so called because it was used to imprison Elizabeth Hungerford, wife of Sir Edward’s son, over a period of months. She also accused him of attempting to poison her. Sadly, this is not the reason he was executed. He was executed on charges of treason and ‘unnatural vice’ (almost makes you like him) after his patron Thomas Cromwell fell from grace with Henry VIII.
His grandson would go on to accuse his wife of adultery and an attempt to poison him. He lost the court case, refused to pay her costs and went to jail. The castle was lost to the family by Sir Edward ‘The Spendthrift’, who gambled and frivolised away the fortune under Charles II and was forced to sell it.
I don’t really know why anyone thought aristocracy a good idea. But someone here did own this lovely little thing created to tamp down tobacco in the bowl of a pipe:
I do also love ruins, probably because they are ruins and reminders that all tyranny must pass.
Though it felt good and fresh and clean to escape into the countryside, down along the other side of the river.
We also passed the site of an old priory where the lay brothers once lived attached to the Carthusian Priory of Hinton. Little remains but the practice of farming (pigs, bees, lovely vegetable gardens) and some of the old cottages (now with solar panels) and this sign showing what it once resembled:
And then back to Freshford. The countryside is so beautiful here, but sprinkled about with absurd mansions being too close to Bath for comfort.
But the Inn at Freshford, as I say… incredible cakes, ales, full of dogs and beautiful in itself.
We started in Buxton — old spa town, regency architecture, mummers and dancers in fancy dress in a square (Mark murmured about the horror but I rather like them), lovely park suitably filled with follies and screaming children and people with money. It does have an old sacred well spilling out geothermal waters — St Anne’s.
I was thinking about going to Poole’s Caverns, following in the tracks of Romantic poets and such, but you have to walk through a chintzy gift shop to get there — you don’t even get a cliff face and a gaping dark mouth to enter. It was full of people. We fled. We are getting old crabbit maybe, but that is hardly a good way to spend an afternoon. The woods just, however, are beautiful, despite being sandwiched between Go Ape and a caravan park.
I wanted moors and wide open spaces and we found them, but really it was a bit grim. I don’t quite know why it feels so different on this edge of the Peak District. The day was grey, to be fair, but this was as good as it got really…
The sheep, as always were amusing
There were remnants of mining up here in the form of pitted ground, the earth peaty and carved away oddly by water
There was a lovely little area with three bridges and a confluence of streams, that also came with about 40 french kids and a number of other walkers so we fled that too. This tower might have, thus, been the highlight.
And this beautiful glowing in the sky, which I have never seen before
Or this moment when we thought we were close to the promised land of the pub.
Like so many of our walks, we had such high hopes but the Cat and Fiddle had been closed for years and we had to make our sad, cold, hungry way back to Buxton.