TJ Miles Art Works

THE QUIET MAN ART EXHIBITION

2011-05-24T11:21:00.002+02:00

Yes, okay, okay. I know. I've been neglecting my blog again.....sorry.

In my defence, however, I have been working on a major project this last few months. Namely an exhibition based on my favourite movie of all time - The Quiet Man - which starred John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara.

I have managed to organise a one-man exhibition of my latest paintings and print ranges in none other than the pub made famous in the movie - PAT COHAN'S BAR.

The exhibition will take place over the weekend of Friday, Saturday, Sunday the 26th, 27th and 28th of August 2011 in the village of Cong (Innisfree in the movie), County Mayo, Ireland. This will coincide with a festival celebrating the 60th anniversary of the making of the movie in the village.

A special year indeed to visit and be part of the festivities. It would be wonderful if any of you could make it, but be sure to book your accommodation early as the village Hotels, B&B's and campsites will fill up fast.

Have a look at my new dedicated website for this project www.the-quiet-man.net

Let me know if you are planning to attend or wish to buy a painting or print as a memento of this special year. Contact me through the contact page on the website above or my personal website www.tjmiles.com

TALKING TURKEY ABOUT ART

2010-06-13T20:23:00.005+02:00

Another exhibition, another Dollar. Now back from Turkey and working flat out on my next exhibition which is to be in......wait for it.........yes, Turkey. Coming hot on the heels of the last one, I was asked to set up another, larger exhibition of my work in downtown Alanya, by an art collector met through contacts from the last trip. So, if you are visiting Alanya in July I will be somewhere near the central Souk.

This exhibition has come right in the middle of my preparations for the grand opening of the first international showing of the long awaited 'Trans Mongolian Railway' exhibition. This first leg will take place at a gallery in Lisboa, Portugal in September. Busy times ahead but I will keep you posted.

Setting up the exhibition single-handed - with glass in hand of course.

Discussing the finer points of my work with members of the public.

EXPO'S ARE STACKING UP LIKE CANCELLED FLIGHTS

2010-05-05T22:36:00.003+02:00

The Norway exhibition is still running and already I am preparing to head off to Turkey for the next. While I am doing that ANOTHER exhibition I am involved in 'IMPRESSIONS OF SPAIN' takes place in Spain. It always seems to come like buses - three at once and then nothing for months.
Yet again the volcano in Iceland is doing it's best to disrupt the proceedings.
I will update things as they progress - ash willing of course....

SCREAMING IN OSLO

2010-05-05T22:34:00.002+02:00

The four flights went without a hitch, the exhibition launch was a success, and I can honestly say that Norway is a landscape of amazing extremes. Flying over the mountainous region after a quick stop in Oslo airport for a breathless, touch and go flight change, revealed the frozen heart of the country. Winter was still very much in evidence as vast lakes remained completely solid, the smooth skin of ice fissured only by the criss-cross of ski tracks. Touching down on the west coast near idyllic Ålesund revealed the impact that the Gulf Stream and ever so slightly warmer north Atlantic has on this part of the world. High, snow capped mountains, gaily painted wooden houses and steep fjord walls rushing into the deep water painted a canvas without equal. The ice level stopped a few hundred metres above sea level and, apart from a few snow flurries, thankfully remained there. Not an ash cloud was in sight.
In such a setting, this vast icy country was melted by the warmth and hospitality of the people met along the way. My sincerest thanks go to our hosts over the few days experienced in Norway, Alfhild and Jan Arne, Ida-Alice and Berit. As well of course, to all those who invested in all our artworks. My thanks also go to the Brodrene Vik Gallery and the culture secretary of Syvde Kommune for their support in bringing the exhibition to fruition, and for becoming the latest TJ Miles’ corporate collectors.
A flight back from Vigra airport - NOT Viagra - as most people tend to misread it (where the joke goes that all flights are guaranteed to get up without a problem but can’t necessarily come down again as quickly), took me to seriously expensive Oslo once again. A visit to the royal palace saw a full colour parade of soldiers, bands and dignitaries line the streets waiting for my triumphal return to the capital. How nice to have such pomp and ceremony laid on just for me.
Ironically, at just the same moment the President of Russia, Dmitry Medvedev, just happened to drive past and give me a wave. I wondered if he had come especially to see me as well. Apparently he was also in town to sign some agreement or other while his wife walked the streets and did a bit of shopping.
Edvard Munch’s painting was still screaming as I left for the airport before midnight to catch the early morning red-eye flight back to Spain. By 5am, while trying to sleep on a back breaking wooden bench until the check-in, I finally understood why the subject of Munch’s most famous painting was in such a bad mood. Oh, the indignity of it all! A final de-icing of the wings before takeoff did little to sooth my tired and furrowed brow. Never let anyone tell you that being an international artist is always a glamorous experience.

EXHIBITION IN NORWAY BACK ON!!

2010-04-21T17:19:00.003+02:00

Vulcan seems to be showing a gentle side after all and has, for the moment, softened his ire towards northern Europe.
Therefore, given that if we arrive safely, the exhibition is definitely back on the agenda.
Maybe I should paint a picture of the ash cloud as a final piece for the expo.
Watch this space....

VOLCANIC ASH CANCELS LATEST ART EXHIBITION BY TJ MILES

2010-04-18T13:44:00.020+02:00

Atlanterhavsveien

My latest art exhibition, due to be held near Alesund in Norway, is almost certainly cancelled until further notice due to the Icelandic volcano erupting and covering the whole of Europe with a gigantic cloud of ash this past week. I had been due to fly from Spain to Norway on Thursday but unfortunately that looks like an ever decreasing possibility. This, of course, also included the transportation of my paintings as well....

Undredal kyrkje

I will update everyone with a new date for the Norway exhibition as soon as things calm down.

The good news is that the long awaited exhibition based on my travels through China, Mongolia and Russia last year is to be shown for the first time in September, in Lisboa (Lisbon), Portugal. As long as the ash cloud has dissapated by then of course.

In the meantime, have a look at some of my images for Norway.

Lomen Stavkyrkje

Hol Stavkyrkje

Lom Stavkyrkje

Oye Stavkyrkje

A bird's eye view

Oslo stavkyrkje

Resting up

Reaching long

Behind the red gate

Here is a series of small watercolours completed for the same expo.

The Siege Of Leningrad

2009-12-18T16:58:00.002+01:00

This time in the run up to Christmas, instead of talking about my daily experiences I wanted to take you back to the siege of St. Petersburg in 1942, then known as Leningrad. I am aware that we live in a multinational society and manage to live more or less in peace without the old spectres of history past haunting our newly found camaraderie. Therefore, this is not an attempt to recall the past to score points against any nationality, race or creed, but simply a story of humanity continuing to be creative in destructive times.
During the 900 day siege of Leningrad, which lasted from 1941 to 1944, the city’s almost three million civilians refused to surrender. Food, heat and almost everything else, was heavily rationed and reached an all time low at one point of only 125 grams of bread per person per day. In just two months, January and February of 1942, 200,000 people died in Leningrad of cold and starvation.
Besides their daily struggle of defending the city, the Leningraders were also writing poetry and music. It was then that the renowned Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich wrote his famous Seventh Symphony that immediately became a stirring anthem to the world. Problem was, the Leningrad radio orchestra was now too small to play the Seventh Symphony. The score called for 80 musicians and there were only a handful of them spared by famine and the enemy bullets at the frontlines. Shostakovich made a radio announcement inviting the musicians who were still alive to join in. Unit commanders dispatched their musicians with special passes, which said that they had been relieved from combat duty to perform the Seventh Symphony by Dmitri Shostakovich.

Finally, they all got together for the first rehearsal, their hands roughened from combat duty, trembling from malnutrition, but everybody still clinging to their instruments as if for their own life. That was the shortest rehearsal ever, lasting for just 15 minutes because that was all the emaciated players could afford in energy. Conductor Karl Eliasberg barely able to stand himself, now knew that the orchestra would play the symphony.
August 9th, 1942 was just another day in the besieged city. But not for the musicians, though who, visibly uplifted, were busily preparing for the first ever public performance of the Seventh Symphony. Karl Eliasberg later wrote recalling that memorable day: ‘The chandeliers were all aglow in the Philharmonic Hall jam packed by writers, artists and academics. Military men were also very much in presence, most of them right from the battlefront…’
The conductor, his tuxedo hanging loosely from his emaciated body, stepped to the pulpit, his baton trembling in his hand, and suddenly the hall filled with the stirringly beautiful chords of one of the best musical pieces Shostakovich had ever written in his whole life.
When the last chord trailed off there was silence. Then the whole place literally exploded with thunderous applause. People rose to their feet, tears rolling down their faces.
Buoyed by the deafening success of their performance and visibly proud of themselves, the musicians were happily hugging each other. The concert was blasted throughout the streets of the war torn city by a series of hastily erected speakers. Tens of thousands who risked their lives and gathered to listen to the music were visibly uplifted by it. Today, walk along Nevsky Prospekt and you will see a small insignificant single grey loudspeaker still attached to an old lamppost near Kazan cathedral that has been left in honour of that memorable day. Triumph over adversity always creates a sense of hope for humanity. Back to the present day and another year is almost over. I want to thank all my readers and supporters over the last year. I sincerely hope you all have a wonderful Christmas and a better year in 2010.

Day 21 - 30th July 2009

2009-12-18T16:45:00.003+01:00

St. Petersburg was the dream of Tsar Peter I (Peter the Great) and was built around 1700 in an incredibly short number of years. What caused it to be located so far west were the constant incursions by the Swedish navy along the vast Neva river which flows through the city’s heart today. Peter originally built a fortress on the shores and always envious of the cultural heritage of his western royal cousins in Europe (and, it has to be said, somewhat embarrassed by the peasant population of Russia), ordained that a new cultural capital be built on the spot to outshine all other cities that had gone before in Russian history. The result was a city that grew virtually overnight at incredible expense to the crown. It’s location proved to be a major problem, with extreme cold temperatures in winter and scorching summers infested with mosquitoes. However, it continued as the capital well past the reign of Peter’s daughter Catherine the Great. After around two hundred years as the capital it was renamed Leningrad and relegated to the minor divisions after the Communist Revolution of 1917. The grandeur is now faded in many areas but the cultural heritage and remaining buildings still manage to take the breath away. Walking along the main hustle and bustle street of Nevsky Prospekt led me to the Winter Palace that was home to ‘The Hermitage’ - reputed to be the largest art gallery and museum in the world. Apparently there are so many artworks in the museum that if you were to spend one minute in front of each artwork you couldn’t view everything in the entire collection in your lifetime! The attendants never get to see more than their own sections during their whole careers. Artworks by all the well known suspects of the last century adorn the walls as you would expect and the attendants in these areas were completely bored and not the most pleasant. Understandable really, if you are asked the same, mundane questions day in, day out I suppose, as these areas are the most frequented.

I accidentally wandered into the section for the Indian and oriental arts and was surprised to find the place completely empty. Obviously no one visits there very often, save students and enthusiasts of these eras, and the attendant, an older lady, was delighted to have someone to talk to. She walked me around all the exhibits and explained in great detail about the history of each piece. I nodded enthusiastically as she elaborated but hadn’t the heart to tell her I didn’t speak Russian. She was so pleased that someone had called in to see her that she shook my hand warmly as I left.

Crossing the square and by-passing Madonna’s crew going through their routine in advance of her concert I headed for the canal and a trip around the city by water. This gives you the opportunity to view a city from a different vantage point, and also time to rest your weary feet.

Day 21 - 30th July 2009

2009-12-11T15:27:00.000+01:00

It’s location proved to be a major problem, with extreme cold temperatures in winter and scorching summers infested with mosquitoes. However, it continued as the capital well past the reign of Peter’s daughter Catherine the Great. After around two hundred years as the capital it was renamed Leningrad and relegated to the minor divisions after the Communist Revolution of 1917. The grandeur is now faded in many areas but the cultural heritage and remaining buildings still manage to take the breath away.

Walking along the main hustle and bustle street of Nevsky Prospekt led me to the Winter Palace that was home to ‘The Hermitage’ - reputed to be the largest art gallery and museum in the world. Apparently there are so many artworks in the museum that if you were to spend one minute in front of each artwork you couldn’t view everything in the entire collection in your lifetime! The attendants never get to see more than their own sections during their whole careers.

Artworks by all the well known suspects of the last century adorn the walls as you would expect and the attendants in these areas were completely bored and not the most pleasant. Understandable really, if you are asked the same, mundane questions day in, day out I suppose, as these areas are the most frequented.

Day 20 - 29th July 2009

2009-11-29T22:08:00.001+01:00

We caught the train in the late morning for the last 650km of our epic train journey. The quality of the trains had improved with each leg of our journey. I felt sorry for anyone travelling the Trans-Siberian Railway the conventional way - west to east. Their trip would only get gradually worse. This last train was the first time we had toilet paper supplied free! We even had a free hot lunch with all the trimmings. Oh, the extravagance of it all! St. Petersburg promised to be the jewel in the crown of former communist Russia. I looked forward to it with anticipation….

Day 19 - 28th July 2009

2009-11-29T22:07:00.001+01:00

Saw me visit Lenin’s tomb. Sitting in the middle of Red Square is the mausoleum where Vladimir Ilyich Lenin’s body is held, suspended for eternity. An impressive location for the man who, it could be rightly claimed, changed the course of modern history. After queuing for an hour or so to enter the chamber, and going down and down through countless sets of guards and doors into an ever colder environment I finally reached the refrigerated central chamber. I was amazed to see his glass sarcophagus was lit up in what was otherwise a dimly lit room. We were firmly urged to keep walking so managed to spend maybe 30 seconds in his company as we walked down one side, past his feet and back up the other. He looked like a waxwork dummy. Perhaps that’s all he was. I remember hearing that Mao was rumoured to have a waxwork replica that stood in for him when he was being re-stuffed. Lenin was also surprisingly small - considering the size of his brain. Outside we walked past plaques in the wall where all the previous leaders had supposedly been entombed. Stalin, Kruschev, Breshniev. They were all there. We all go the same way in the end.
Leaving the square I saw people standing on a bronze plate in the street and throwing coins over their shoulders. After enquiring what it was all about I was told it was to mark the dead centre of Moscow and throwing a coin over your shoulder was considered good luck. There were three old ladies standing around the people throwing coins and as each hopeful stood on the copper plate, made their wish and cast their money in the hope of great fortune, the old ladies would fight over the coins. They would check to see if the coin was silver or copper. Apparently the copper ones weren’t worth bending down for as they just seemed interested in anyone throwing larger denominations. They were the only ones making a fortune that day. A walk later by the Volga river brought me to the Moscow modern art museum. Nearby a gigantic statue of Peter the Great dominated the landscape. It must have been at least fifteen stories tall. An incredible sight that just took the breath away. An early night was called for as the next day we headed for our final destination in Russia - St. Petersburg.

Day 18 - 27th July 2009 Monday

2009-11-29T22:04:00.001+01:00

Churchill said it well when he described Russia as ‘a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma’. I always expected to see the country behind the curtain as a sad and grey world of long queues for food and a sense of desperation borne out of long years of hardship. Perhaps that is still prevalent in the outlying areas well away from Moscow. After all, it took me the best part of a week to barely scratch the surface of a country that covers two continents. The biggest single country in the world. Big statistics, big place, big impressions. It definitely made a big impression on me. Average monthly wages range from €150 in the far reaches from the empirical heart of the capital, and rise exponentially as you approach the political centre to somewhere in the region of €800 or more per month. As I sat there in Red Square on a beautiful sunny day fanned gently by a light cooling summer breeze I watched hordes of tourists descend on these images so well known from postcards, television and movies over the years.Pokrovsky cathedral was an architectural wonder to behold and being set at the end of Red Square acted either as the opening act or finale to what must be one of the great spectacles of the modern world, depending on which way you enter the square. Buildings so grand in style and so large as not to be able to take everything in at one or even two glances. Perhaps Russia, and more particularly Moscow, was essentially at one time a closed world to the west but as I listened to the languages and accents around me, I could see it had opened up into a cosmopolitan and welcoming space. How tolerant that would be were you to exercise your democratic rights as you would expect them to be upheld in other western countries I don’t know. I certainly didn’t intend to find out either. The day was Monday and, like Mao, Lenin was out visiting his relatives that day, so I left a note to say I hoped to get a chance to call in and say hello the following day.The numerous buildings around seemed to be brocaded in gold. I wondered how they stopped it all from tarnishing? The colours transfixed the gaze, all helped of course by the bright sunshine.Perhaps it wasn’t quite so breathtaking in the depths of winter. That night we had tickets for the last night of the season’s Bolshoi Ballet. At €125 a ticket it was expensive, but surely one of the must-sees of Moscow? We rushed back to get showered, get much wrinkled clothes as unwrinkled as possible, and headed out on the town.The Bolshoi was everything I expected it to be and being the last night, there was a full house. The old ladies in the balconies used their theatre glasses to look, not at the dancers, but at the audience. To see and be seen was as important at this cultural gathering as the dancing. No late night at the after show party for me, as the following day I had an important appointment to keep with Lenin.

Day 17 - 26th July 2009 Sunday

2009-11-29T22:00:00.001+01:00

The last day on a train for a while, thank God. A 5.30am start due to all the time changes ensured a fuzzy head. The last time change to Moscow time was finally around the corner - literally. The sun shone for the first time in a few days and we had breakfast in the restaurant car as a treat. There was less than 1000km left to go!!
The entrepreneurial kitchen assistant kept coming round the compartments selling fried doughnuts. I looked at her and said ‘Meat?’ She nodded and said ‘Meat’. It was, just.
It was very quiet on the train now with most people having left the train during the evening or night before at the large cities en route to Moscow. Plug girl and friends made themselves pretty in advance of arrival. Anticipation grew as we entered the outskirts of the city at last. Graffiti is graffiti the world over. Finally, after passing through industrial areas, the train slowly pulled into Moscow and a fanfare of music announced our triumphant arrival.
We were met on the platform by a guide who gave us all the information we needed to travel onwards to St. Petersburg after our time in Moscow was complete. He walked at about one hundred miles an hour and spoke at the same speed. I had trouble keeping up while carrying all my bags. Outside, we ran the usual gamut of hoards of poor people hanging around the entrance to the station, then as soon as he had shown us the entrance to the Metro he disappeared like magic! He gave us everything we needed but did so in about 3 minutes flat. We were left feeling bewildered as to what to do next, but eventually talked over what he had said and managed to pick out the information we needed to find our hotel.
We took the Metro to our hotel in the Arbatskaya area, a suburb of the city that had become renowned as being the cultural capital of the city. As we staggered from the Metro, the first impression of Moscow was a forward thinking, bright and colourful city with fantastic buildings and crazy traffic constantly travelling at breakneck speeds. Asking directions we were advised to use the pedestrian underpasses below the roads at all times, because the traffic was so heavy. The hotel turned out to be in the embassy quarter and was thus full of private clubs and call girls touting for business, but still pleasant and unthreatening. Harry Potter was on in the cinema, as it had been in every city en route, in every language. The magic of advertising. There were churches galore with golden towers shining, reflecting the sun and singing out their message of freedom of faith in the new regime.
After an expensive meal at the Hard Rock Café, the first western style food in a long time, we went back to the hotel to give our clothes a well deserved hand wash. I woke up during the night thinking I was back in China. The room looked like a Chinese laundry with all the wet clothes lying on every available surface. Moscow had called to us, and we had finally arrived. Red Square and Vladimir Ilyitch Lenin waited for us patiently…

Day 16 - 25th July 2009 Saturday

2009-11-29T21:59:00.001+01:00

PLUG WARS

Woke up to day three on the train at 6am. We had already passed through two time zones yesterday and upon waking today just passed through another one. My body clock was totally out of sync and my digestive system was reacting badly. The fact that I was in Russia I suppose I could have said that it’s revolting but that would have been stating the obvious! The time had changed to Moscow time minus one and I got up for a quick wash in the train toilet. The was a rudimentary sink in the toilet and a hole in the floor for spilt water. Kind of like a wet room. I used the top of my aftershave bottle as a plug to hold the water in the sink. Plugs are a rare commodity in Russia apparently. Holding on while the train rode a curve I tried to get as good a wash as possible in the cramped conditions. Three days non stop on a train get to you after a while. The scenery outside changes, although I had to admit that this last two days all I had seen was green fields, trees and rivers. Very nice but it looks just like a never ending Irish landscape. Inside the train though you try to read, write sleep and eat. Not much else to do except go to the restaurant Car and drink. Food wise you can bring your own food with you - much cheaper. Or if you don’t have your own and don’t want to eat on the train you can wait until one of the 10-15 minute stops at a little station somewhere and buy supplies from the babushkas on the platform. I have seen everything from doughnuts to crayfish for sale. I asked what was in the doughnuts and the babushka said ‘Meat’. What sort of meat? I asked. ‘Meat’ she said. Hmm. So I had some and, sure enough, it was meat. Not sure what type of meat it was but it was definitely meat.
At 12 midday we left Siberia. At 5pm we crossed the border between Asia and Europe at last. Another white obelisk marked the invisible line between the east and west. There was always a saying when boating that every day a yacht would shrink by a foot in length the longer you spent aboard. By the end of a week or so you were so glad to get away from your crewmates and back on dry land. I can vouch that a train suffers from the same reduction fever and you really need to be very good friends with your travelling companions before you begin such an undertaking.
A girl three compartments down had a habit of hogging the only working electric socket in our carriage for her mobile phone. Our Chinese guide and fellow traveller needed to charge her laptop and did so when the plug was available. Within half an hour ‘Plug Girl’ had unplugged it without warning as she needed to say lovey-dovey things to her anticipatory boyfriend waiting with baited breath in Moscow. When she arrived she looked like she had just stepped off a Milan catwalk. If her beau had seen her for the last three days with unkempt hair, no make up and wrinkled vest and hot pants and/or pyjama bottoms he would maybe have thought twice about arriving with a bunch of flowers that probably cost him half his month’s wages. Anyway, plugs went in, came out, went in and out again. No words were said but there was a slow kind of east/west attrition only warmed up by the hair dryer and curling tongs in use when the plug had been, yet again, reclaimed by the east. I told our companion that maybe she should politely ask the girl if she was finished with the socket for a while thus thawing international relations, but her point was that she didn’t know the words in Russian. I looked up the phrasebook and a little devil whispered to me…..
I showed her the Russian phonetic translation for what she thought was ‘Are you finished yet?’ which she practiced a few times before heading up the corridor. When she said it to plug girl I was later told that she looked confused at first, then had a dawning look of understanding in her eyes and finally looked quite horrified. She said ‘Nyet!’, unplugged her hairdryer and backed into her compartment while closing the door sharply. Our companion, confused, relayed the experience to me. I had to explain that I had told her, quite accidentally of course, that she had actually said something like ‘Are you married?’ Or ‘Are you free?’ or some such statement. Either way it solved the war of the plug quite succinctly I thought. It also helped pass the time rather well.

Day 15 - 24th July 2009 Friday

2009-11-29T21:58:00.001+01:00

Train stops, train starts. I wake up, look out, fall asleep. This happened a number of times during each of the nights as we made little calls to out of the way non-descript places. The guidebooks would give the names of expected stops along the route but these places didn’t even merit more than a mention of expected stopping time and subsequent journey time until the next stop. By the morning, well 6am or so, it was pointless to try to sleep any longer. I would watch the telegraph wires pass by like continuous lines drawn by black indelible marker pens across the sky, broken only by the brief flash of a supporting pole each 25 metres apart. I could tell they were at 25 metre intervals as there were always kilometre markers along the left hand side of the tracks. These would count down towards Moscow in tenths of a kilometre. Then at every two kilometres you would get the distance left to travel - 2000, 1998, 1996 and so on. How often I watched those markers count ever slower. It was always a great feeling to wake up after a few hours sleep and see that you had covered up to 400 kilometres during the night. The main excitement came from watching the numbers go from four figures down to three, from 1000 to 998. This was punctuated by time zone changes, upset stomachs and sleep patterns. Oh, what fun we had. We waited with baited breath to see the obelisk that marked the halfway point between Moscow and Beijing. The excitement built as the moment came closer and we expected to see a grandiose pillar of biblical proportions. It was so small we almost missed it. After that we settled back into our routines as best as possible until the next excitement, which in this case was the male Provodnitsas doing the vacuum cleaning around our feet. Like I said, small things become big things when there is little to do. The enterprising lady in the kitchen knew we were a captive audience and came round regularly with hot fried things - not sure exactly what they were, just things - a great way to boost the coffers. During a stop at Malinsk we bought fried doughnuts on the platform. Everything was fried. They were washed down with copious amounts of vodka which helped dull the excitement. The landscape of Russian steppes was continuous and more or less monotonous, not because it wasn’t pretty but because it went on forever. Day in, day out, the view was only punctuated by white, blue and yellow flowers interspersed between the birch trees and the small towns and villages where no-one ever stopped. Alexei, our travelling companion, made it safely to Novosibirsk and I wished him the best of luck with his English tests and with his new life ahead in space age Ireland. I would love to say that Alexei regaled us with his wit and innate charm. I really would, but sadly that was not to be.

Day 14 - 23rd July 2009

2009-11-29T21:38:00.000+01:00

Yet another early wake up. For some reason, I couldn’t seem to catch up with my sleep. The patterns were so erratic partly due to all the travels but also due to the time zone changes. The next three days would see six different time zones in total. How I would have loved a lie in! After a lovely breakfast prepared by Alex I did the shopping for the trip as the restaurant cars on Russian trains were privately run since the end of communism, and unfortunately you couldn’t guarantee the quality of the food from train to train. In actual fact, the menu tended to be written each day depending on what the staff were able to buy from the babushkas, or grandmothers, at each station. Even so, there was always the staples of cabbage and tongue, so we wouldn’t starve.
Our diet tended to consist of dried noodles a lot, but this time I tried to supplement this healthy mix by getting fresh roast chicken, cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, pickles and bread. One final and most important thing was a bottle of Chinggis Khaan 42 percent vodka. I can’t stand the stuff but all indications showed we would have to get some to fit in. Besides, with all our gear we couldn’t physically carry enough cans of beer to last three people for three days with nothing else to do. Of course, alcohol was sold in the restaurant car, or PECTOPAH, as it read when spelt in Cyrillic, but at exorbitant prices. Actually, it was only recently that strong alcohol was allowed to be consumed on trains at all in Russia. Thankfully, over the 72 hours that we travelled on the train, no one challenged us to a straight vodka toasting party as we had been expecting so we cut it with pure orange juice to make it more palatable. That said, if I never see vodka again it’ll be too soon.
Getting on the train at 4pm in Irkutsk we said goodbye to Dmitri, a most helpful guide and genuine easy going character. Normally the attendants, or provodnitsas, were women who rules the carriage with fists of iron, making sure everything was kept shipshape and Moscow fashion, and keeping a constant eye on the samovar - the wood burning water boiler always at the ready, day and night, at the end of every carriage. But this time, for such a long run, there were two provodnitsas, both men! In these days of equality, why not? Although they did look a bit funny wearing ladies housecoats when doing the vacuuming.
We found our carriage and also our travelling companion for the next 36 hours. Alexei, I quickly recognised, was a shy bookish type as soon as I had introduced myself to him. Amiable, but quiet, I managed to get some information about his journey with us. It turned out that he was an astrophysicist and was attached to the university at Irkutsk. He had to go a city called Novosibirsk for English tests to prove his English was up to scratch prior to a posting he had been offered in the UK. His English was better than a lot of ex-pats living in Spain, which isn’t necessarily surprising. I asked him whereabouts he was hoping to work in the UK and was pleasantly surprised when he said the Armagh Observatory in Northern Ireland. Less than 50 miles from where I lived! Talk about a small world? Here I was in central Asia, on a train, only to meet a local who wanted to live in my small country. When asked about my vocation I explained I was an artist and gathering experiences to create an exhibition in the future. Sadly, we realised that he had no interest or understanding of art just as I knew virtually nothing of astrophysics. Our conversation on each other’s subjects dried up pretty fast. I tried to keep a sort of dialogue up but it was hard work. It wasn’t until much later that I realised he was happy to talk when we were alone. As soon as either of the two ladies in my party turned up he clammed up tightly. I think perhaps, even though he was obviously a highly intelligent man, he was an extremely inward person and maybe a bit shy of women.
I had read that food was always expected to be shared with your fellow passengers and would be reciprocated. All except the smugglers over the Russian/Mongolian border of course. I offered Alexei bits and pieces of our purchases which he accepted graciously, but he never once offered anything back. Perhaps his money was a lot tighter, but if he had shown a little more generosity I would have returned it tenfold happily. I asked him why he was going to Novosibirsk by train and he said it was the cheapest way. Car was not an option because of the vast distances involved, and although there was a two hour flight available it was just way too expensive for him to contemplate. So he had to persevere on a train for 36 hours with three wrinkled smelly travellers drinking vodka and pure orange and eating noodles messily with chopsticks. I hope it doesn’t put him off his Chinese food in Ireland.
When destined to spend a long period on a train such as this you try to make things last as long as possible just to avoid the boredom. We spent at least one hour to make up our beds, going to the toilet to brush our teeth (still couldn’t work the tap at this stage) and getting ready for sleep. I spent the time getting caught up with some notes of my experiences of the day and we settled down as best as was possible for the night. We all slept with our heads towards the window, Alexei turned the opposite way. The train’s rocking and rolling helped lull me to sleep and I dreamt about painting pulsars and quasars floating round the head of Einstein. I wonder what Alexei dreamt of?

Day 13 - 22nd July 2009

2009-10-13T22:38:00.005+02:00

4.30am. Wide awake. Not because I wanted to be but because the four bed dorm we were in had a big glass window with no shutters or curtains. Coupled with the fact that my head was right below the window ensured I got my full early morning fix of vitamin D. The heavy rain clouds had passed on and the sun was trying in vain to burn the mist off the lake. Considering that Baikal never gets much above 15 degrees in the height of summer, being so deep and frozen for most of the year, it was hardly surprising that such a process tended to take much of the day. We got up and walked across the garden to the outhouse among the trees where a wooden shower house had been erected. Everything was wooden around this village. There were a lot of trees. At least there was hot water.
After a simple breakfast we kept the appointment we made the previous night to meet the former inhabitants of the village. The mosquitoes had calmed down enough for us to enter the hallowed ground. Each grave had a plain wooden or painted metal fence around. Some painted black, but the majority were painted bright blue. This colour seemed to be very prevalent as we had seen it at every train station on the journey. As you left the stations you always noticed that nearly all the houses had the same colour scheme, a certain shade of light blue. When I was growing up in Belfast there was an old joke that many shipyard worker’s houses were painted red inside and out from the ‘acquisitions’ of red lead paint used to prevent the hulls of great ships from rusting during the building process. You were safe as long as you didn’t lick the walls! Perhaps the same went for the former communist workers in Russia. Corporate railway colours became this year’s new black. ‘You can have any colour scheme in the house you like dear, as long as it’s railway blue’.
Looking among the gravestones we could see photographs of those reposing below. It was always better to see an old face than a young one. You knew the person had lived a long and hopefully happy life. The younger, fresher faces had had their time cut short. I wondered what had caused their demise, illness perhaps or an accident? Given my ignorance of the Cyrillic alphabet I couldn’t decipher the details, save for the years of birth and death. One grave caught my eye in particular. The grave of a Russian soldier, and his picture complete with fur hat and metal star over the furry peak. Like all graves in the cemetery, his was facing east, so the dead can see the sunrise every day. I couldn’t read his name as it had been obliterated by time and the elements but he appeared no more than in his late 30’s or early 40’s. I wondered had he died in a soviet conflict somewhere. Imagine leaving the tiny village of Bolshiye Koty to fight and lose your life in some foreign land, only to return in a box. Perhaps he was stationed in the area during conflict years and died on duty. Maybe Bolshiye Koty wasn’t his native ground? We will never know, but as these thoughts crossed my mind I could hear a certain Billy Joel tune run through my head. ‘Leningrad’ was about a Russian soldier who became a circus clown after his military service and spent his remaining days making people laugh. A poignant song that makes a valid point. We really are all the same under the skin regardless of where we come from. I have come to realise this more and more as I journey across continents.
Leaving the dead in peace to enjoy the last of the sunrise, we returned to the small dock. There is a myth that states if you put your hand into Baikal you will live 5 years longer, two hands 10 years, both hands and a foot 15 years and so on. If you immerse yourself bodily you are supposed to live forever, but knowing how cold the water was I think all you would do is shorten your life considerably from shock.

We risked our hands and feet, so hopefully will be around for a few years yet. The boat was already there and we waited for the same high heeled stewardess to untie the heavy lines with her miraculously unchipped nails. A ten minute run in the hydrofoil and we arrived in Lystvyanka, the slightly bigger little village we had seen the day before. Our guide from Irkutsk, Dmitri, arrived to meet us and gave a quick tour of the village. We stopped at a viewpoint overlooking the lake. Beside us was a tree with thousands of coloured ribbons tied to it like psychedelic leaves. Dmitri explained that although during the soviet years religion was all but forbidden, people still held onto faith and tied tokens of hope to this tree. Onwards to a little market filled with wooden stalls, and the smell of fish being smoked filled the air. A heady mix of what seemed like cigars and salmon assailed our nostrils and tantalised our taste buds. A distant cousin to the salmon, the Omul, is found in Lake Baikal. It’s the only source of this fish in the world and when smoked is considered a real delicacy. Hot smoked as opposed to cold, we bought it while still warm and moist. Delicious! It reminded me of my father returning after a successful day’s fly fishing, and hot smoking his own salmon in a converted biscuit tin with holes punched into it to let the smoke filter out past the recumbent fish.
We had lunch at a lakeside restaurant and asked Dmitri to join us as our guest. When he saw the prices he was horrified, said it was more than he earned in a day and graciously withdrew. The prices were more or less equivalent to a McDonald’s takeaway. After lunch we were asked did we want to see the so called trained dancing bears. If so, Dmitri said we would have to pay extra as it was outside his budget. We declined the offer, not because of the extra fee, but because we could see the small cages they were kept in when not ‘performing‘. I have seen reports on television in years past how some poor creatures were trained to dance. One version was to place the animal on a large flat metal plate. Chain it so it couldn’t escape, and light a gas ring under the plate. Every time they would play music they lit the gas and the poor creature would have to move from foot to foot to avoid the pain of the heat. When the music stopped so did the heat. After a while the creature became so mentally disturbed it would start to dance instantly in fear of being burnt. Pavlov’s dogs taken to extremes. Barbaric. I shuddered to think how these poor bears had been conditioned. We left Lystvyanka thinking it over in silence. Halfway back to Irkutsk we stopped at a reconstructed wooden village museum showing what life was like over the centuries for Russian people, gentry and peasants alike. From fortresses, churches, schoolhouses and private dwellings, we saw how the styles changed. The modern dacha, or country houses, we saw every day by the railway tracks hadn’t actually changed that much in the intervening years. Each of the houses in the museum had decorations that were meant to ward off evil spirits. Doorways were very small and low, not just as a heat saving device in the frozen winters, but also to force the visitor to bow down in deference to the owner as they crossed the threshold. Beds were four poster affairs but the mattress was up high to retain as much heat as possible. The children had a similar type of high bed which they shared. Each child had one plank to sleep on, so you could work out the number of children in a family by counting the planks in the bed.
We stopped by an old church where Dmitri explained something to me that I had always wondered about. Why did the Russian Orthodox Church have two extra bars on their crucifixes, and why was the bottom one always set at an angle. The explanation was that the upper small wooden bar across was to signify the name of Jesus as it is sometimes depicted - INRI - and the angled one at the bottom was meant to represent a foot rest coming outwards, like a two dimensional representation of a three dimensional object, upon which rested the feet of Jesus when he was nailed to the cross.
As we left the church a wedding party turned up. I asked Dmitri how to say good luck in Russian and passed on my best wishes to the happy couple. I forget the words now but they replied with a ‘spaceba’ or ‘thank you’ and smiles. Dmitri explained that the best man and bridesmaid also had another job to do after their expected duties on the wedding day. That of marriage guidance counsellors. If there were any problems in the marriage they were meant to help sort it out and keep the marriage together at all costs. Not a bad thing maybe. Perhaps our western societies might benefit from this approach. If the best man and bridesmaid knew they would have their work cut out for them in future years because of a couple’s incompatibility perhaps they might have tried to talk the couple out of getting married in the first place.

On the main road back to Irkutsk we were told the road was known locally as the ‘Eisenhower Road’. Apparently, well after the war, Eisenhower intimated that he was thinking about visiting the area. The then leader of Russia, President Khrushchev wanted to create an impression of great wealth and power. He ordered that the road between Irkutsk and Lake Baikal be upgraded from a rough track to a high class two lane road. Almost 70km of asphalt road was constructed in only two months at horrendous expense. Eisenhower never came.
Finally, at around 6pm we returned to Alex’s flat overlooking Lenin Street. A quick shower and we caught the last of a service in a beautiful orthodox church nearby. The harmonised voices of one man and two women reverberated around the curved and painted walls of the small church. It was a very moving experience. We stopped on the way back at an Italian restaurant for a pizza. A bottle of red wine was ordered. The first in a very long time. Sadly, a lot of Russian wine is sweet and this was no exception. Hard to get down, but as it was so expensive compared to Spain, drink it we did. The pizza was every bit as strange. The base was made from puff pastry instead of the usual dough. Different but tasty enough. Another reasonably early night was called for. The next day was the start of the big push to Moscow and we needed to get as much rest as possible.

Day 12 - 21st July 2009

2009-10-08T15:19:00.005+02:00

Another early start. Picked up by private minibus at 7.45am for the next leg of our epic adventure. We were driven out of the pretty streets in the centre of the city and taken to the hydrofoil terminal on the outskirts. By doing so we saw a lot more of the sort of buildings we had expected. Grey concrete, run down tenement style housing with old soviet propaganda symbols. Hammers and sickles abound, with the odd poster style image of triumphal workers created in mosaics coupled with slogans that I can only guess suggested how wonderful the old regime had been. That said, the place was clean and people were well dressed. Better it has to be said than some ex-pats around Spain. The silent Siberian driver sported long dreadlocks and had the coldest ice blue eyes I have ever seen. We were shown down into the hydrofoil.

The stewardess, resplendent in airline style uniform, stockings and black patent high heels told us our seat numbers. Once seated I could see the deck through my window. The seats were placed low down in the boat so the window was at shoulder height for those below. The high heeled, glamorous stewardess was visible up to ankle level and I could see her carefully untying the lines to release the boat from the dock. Perhaps she didn’t want to ladder her stockings or chip her nails. It was a curious sight from my viewpoint. A big heavy rope being coiled beside a dainty pair of feet encompassed in high heels.
Once free of the dock we quickly got up onto the plane and raced downriver and out into Lake Baikal. A vast stretch of water that is so large you can barely make out the far shore. As it is, the shoreline is out of sight at normal head height because of the curve of the earth, and that is at the narrowest point. Baikal, 40km wide by 500km long, is the largest freshwater lake in the world and totally drinkable straight from the lake thanks to filtering sponges living deep down in the depths. There are species of flora and fauna here that are not found anywhere else in the world. In a few billion years, scientists have theorised that Baikal will become the world’s next ocean by splitting Asia apart. Tectonic plate separation is increasing the area of the lake by a few millimetres each year.
After a brief stop to de-bus passengers at the little touristy town of Lystvyanka we continued about 15km north to the tiny village of Bolshiye Koty. A quaint genuine wooden village with approximately 40 permanent inhabitants. This would swell up to perhaps 500 in the summer as people would use it as a platform to go hiking or camping in the vast forests and hills surrounding the lake. We were met by a young female guide, whose name I have sadly forgotten, and walked the 3 minutes through the village’s dirt track street and along the lakeside to our private home accommodation. A rustic wooden log affair that had originally been a small house. The owners had simply built another house over and around the original to house travellers like us. It would also provide much needed insulation for winter. We were taken to our four bed dorms over the main house and had a wonderful rustic balcony with views over a misty Baikal. Basic but adequate. It’s hard to believe that, come winter the lake freezes up to 3 metres deep. Thick enough to drive a car across in some places. Each house had hoses stretched across the road down to the lake for their fresh drinking water. What do they do in winter, I asked? They simply cut a hole in the ice and drop the hose deeper down to access their winter water supply. Being in the heart of Siberia, temperatures can drop to minus 50 in extreme cases, and surprisingly in summer have been known to hit the high 40’s.

There was absolutely nothing to do in Koty, except eat and drink, walk around the village taking atmospheric photographs of yesteryear and for me, catch up on some writing. Over a delicious lunch of home made blinis we saw a device sitting on top of the old rusty cooker in the kitchen. It had a dial on it that flickered back and forth and was connected to a car battery sitting on the ground. Considering the basic conditions in which we were living we convinced ourselves the cooker was operated by the car battery and the device on top registered the charge being used. A very Heath Robinson affair. Then it occurred to me that the little box with the dial was only a battery charger and was actually charging the battery. They had mains electric. The charger was simply sitting on top of the cooker. It’s strange how the mind works when you are in an unfamiliar environment. When another of our party arrived and asked the same question about the battery operated cooker, I explained that it was actually a seismological device to warn of impending earthquakes. Given the fact that Baikal is on a fault line people had to monitor the constant fluctuations of the earth’s plates in the region. I pointed out the flickering needle on the dial and said there were hundreds of little tremors each minute and managed to keep this little ruse going for at least 10 minutes before bursting out laughing and giving the game away. Such fun when you have nothing else to do.
We sat on the rough hewn balcony on creaky old chairs and relaxed. I caught up on some more writing and we watched as big heavy threatening clouds rolled down the lake. As they hit the surrounding hills they groaned loudly and threw shards of lightning in our direction. The sonic booms of thunder reverberated around the valleys and took our collective breaths away. Tonnes of fresh water poured down above our heads and obliterated the lake. This was summer in Siberia.
There was only one shop in the village. A room had been converted into a rudimentary store in one of the wooden shacks and the only access to the goods was via the owner through a small hatch in the window. Unfortunately it always seemed to be closed. There was a sign in the hatch that informed potential customers of something, but as it was in Cyrillic we couldn’t understand.
Walking to the far side of the village, in a forest we found the graveyard but there were too many mosquitoes under the trees to get closer. We vowed to return and visit the dead centre of the village next morning before leaving. We had long since exhausted the entertainment guide the village had to offer. I would love to say I got bolshie in Koty but there was no-one to get bolshie with. It was an early night, but not voluntarily.　

Day 11 - 20th July 2009

2009-09-15T14:50:00.005+02:00

I awoke again around 6am. My sleep patterns had been erratic to say the least with all the time changes and jetlag, and still had to reset themselves. I watched as we gently rolled along through the countryside and observed it change from trees and green hills to numerous ‘dacha’ - Russian weekend retreats where the city dwellers escape to and tend their vegetable patches, used to supplement their diets and attempt to reduce their monthly overheads. As we drew closer to Irkutsk, the city described as the ‘Paris of Siberia’ the landscape became more concrete and factory based. You could feel the human influence creeping in. We slowed to walking speed as we entered the station area and crossed track after track.
About half a kilometre from the station we stopped abruptly. I thought perhaps we were waiting for a train to move off our section of track further up and sat looking out of the window at the people in the train beside me. They sat disinterestedly for a few minutes then slowly one by one they moved over to the windows on my side of their train to look out at the carriage behind ours. I moved over to our compartment window to see what was of interest and saw a small crowd of people being ushered away across the tracks by state police. When I looked down onto the ground I was shocked to see a dead body lying next to our train. It appeared to be the body of a man and going by the state of his clothes had possibly been homeless. His dirty bare feet pointed towards me and he lay face down but I couldn’t see his head from my viewpoint. His left foot showed some trauma as though it had been hit by a train. It was sad to see such an end for someone.
I don’t know how or why he died but if it had been our train that had hit him I think all passengers would have been interviewed. This wasn’t the case, so shortly afterwards we left this man alone, save for the investigators to trace his last movements, and slowly and solemnly we pulled into Irkutsk station.

The sun was shining but there was a heavy mist rising from the large river that ran through the city. A sombre impression on our arrival into this new place and our first major contact with Russia.

We gathered our rucksacks and were met by Dmitri, our main guide on and off over the next few days. A friendly character of former soviet military stock who seemed far too laid back for a career in that field. Instantly we were made to feel welcome and he dispelled the myth that all Russian people displayed a coldness that we in the west found standoffish. After a quick tour through the city we were taken to our accommodation. A home stay on Lenin Street. We were met by Alex, also a young former soldier but now a computer programmer. He took us into his parent’s apartment which was a mix between Soviet era style décor and the beginning of a move towards western eclectic tastes. The mother, we later found out, was at the family dacha over the summer, while Alex and his father worked during the week and supposedly went to the dacha at the weekend.

Although you could tell there were certain restrictions in lifestyle, whether money based or simply personal taste, this felt like a middle class family home. A few more luxuries than you would have expected to see. The home stays provided much needed income and I noticed that the bedrooms that we stayed in had new PVC windows fitted while the rest of the apartment was still awaiting much needed renovation. A very comfortable stay and a vast improvement on our Mongolian experience. Once settled in, and with Alex’s permission, we put our clothes in the family’s old washing machine for some much needed laundering. We made a reccy of our position in the city. We were right in the town centre on the crossroads of Karl Marx Street and Lenin Street. The buildings were colourful and ornate, and such an unexpected surprise. We found prices jumped up significantly though, compared to our previous countries, when we went for a coffee - €4 each!

Walking down by the river Angara later we stopped in a flashy hotel that we knew had internet access. While we sat outside with a coffee a bullet-proof security truck pulled up. Three burly, heavily armed guards with automatic weapons jumped out and made sure the area was clear for their clients to safely enter the hotel. We waited to see who it was - some aging politician perhaps or a fat-cat industrialist? No, just a young couple, her with handbag and him curiously with a small vacuum cleaner. They were followed by one of the armed guards with a large rectangular shaped canvas bag. The guard and young man came back out about 10 minutes later, this time with the canvas bag and a computer keyboard, but minus the woman! What did it all mean? Intriguing…. Perhaps the young man was a multimillionaire eccentric or a cleaner-upper after a major espionage incident? I like to think he was the latter.
Either way we got bored of speculating and left to enjoy other pursuits on Karl Marx Street, namely sushi. We were finding prices went up the further west we went and this bill was no exception. We could barely have had enough to fill a hole in your tooth and the bill came to exactly 1350 Roubles (about €40) which was ironic as I had been reading about Lenin during the day and the little known fact that the registered weight of his brain after death was also exactly 1350 grams.

Also ironic was the fact that we were staying on Lenin Street and that outside the apartment was a statue of the man himself. The link between Lenin, Irkutsk and raw fish has now been welded into my brain. Anytime I think of either of these subjects in the future I will always mentally relate to the others in my head involuntarily.

Sitting out in the little park below the apartment while being overlooked by Lenin’s oversized brain, we drank beers and counted Lada cars as the sun went down. An exciting night. There was at least one Lada a minute drove past Lenin’s statue. That‘s 1350 Lada’s in 22½ hours (a little known fact you can use at dinner parties - courtesy of me).

Day 10 - 19th July 2009

2009-09-15T13:04:00.008+02:00

Woke up in SukhBaatar on the Mongolian/Russian border. Another hot day with 25 degrees toasting us in the compartment. It was 6am and all movement had ceased. The station area was quiet and I wondered how long the train would wait at this place until we went through our customs checks. I stepped off the train to find that not only were we not going, but that all sections of the train, the engine and all carriages in front and behind had gone! We were sitting in the station alone - just one carriage!

What was going on? Asking the attendant (or Provodnitsa) how long before we would get going, she said ’Five’. ‘Five minutes? That’s okay then’ I showed her my watch. No, no - five hours was the impression she gave me. Five hours in nowhereville? Such are the train timetable differences between countries; and so we sat for hours as the heat became oppressive.
We could get off, and frequently did, but there was nowhere to go and nothing to do except watch an old man stand on the platform looking at the carriages.

He was undernourished and poorly dressed and appeared in need of sustenance, but seemed too proud to ask for help. He never once put his hand out or pleaded for alms, just stood waiting for something to happen. A Russian man in the next compartment went out to him and they started talking. After a minute the Russian motioned to his wife to pass down some cigarettes which he then gave to the old man. Later, before we left the station, the same Russian passed some bread rolls to the old man which he gratefully received before opening his overcoat and putting the rolls under his armpit to keep for later. All the time he kept his dignity. A far cry from the ‘professional’ beggars that we so often come across in towns and cities across Europe.

By 11am it was all go and the platform filled with lots of people with even more bags. Our carriage had been reconnected to an engine and we even had a couple of other carriages join us. A load of big buxom Mongolian women got on the carriage with bag after bag after bag of purchases. Everything from knickers to flip flops, and large inflatable beds to cured sausages similar to giant chorizos. The woman who came into our compartment was amiable enough and seemed pleasant. She would say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you very much’ over and over again in English. Admirable words and enough to make friends anywhere. I could only say thank you in Mongolian so I was at a slight disadvantage.

She was sweating profusely and seemed quite excited and agitated. She would jump up and down and run from the compartment to talk to her compatriots in other carriages. Then as we started to make our way to the border crossing through green fields and tree lined waterways I offered her some of our food. I had heard that sharing your food and drink was normal practice on the Russian rail network, so I figured it would be welcoming for me to offer her first. She graciously accepted and wolfed down everything offered and finished with a ‘thank you very much’.
Within 15 minutes she began tipping out her bags and produced 10 whopping great foot long sausages on strings. She handed me three of them and I thought what a wonderful gesture. I said ‘for me?’ She nodded and said ‘thank you very much’. I said the same and was touched by her generosity. Then she shook her head and pointed to the window. I didn’t understand. She removed the sausages from me and took the curtain pole off the window frame, then slid the strings along so the sausages were hanging from the pole. After replacing the pole in its holder she pulled the curtain around the sausages so they couldn’t be seen from the inside of the train. As she did this for the other side of the window it finally dawned on me that she was a smuggler.

Sausages were hidden all over the compartment along with bottles of booze, clothes and electrical items. She moved them around the seats so it looked as if they were ours as well. We watched incredulously as she smiled and kept saying ‘thank you very much’. As the first set of customs officials came around - Mongolian - she talked her way round any problems as did her partners in crime in the other parts of the train. Passports were taken in no-mans land and scrutinised as before on the China/Mongolian border. We sat for ages waiting for their return. During this time more soldiers and border guards stood outside the windows to prevent escape. Searches of every possible orifice in the train was carried out again and again, just to be sure. This smuggling was even bigger business than the monastery!

Finally, passports returned, we slowly moved into Russian railspace and just as slowly stopped a few hundred metres up the track. Passports were studied and taken, customs clearance forms filled and refilled and stamped, questions were asked of the regular and obviously familiar faces of the smugglers.

Cabins were searched and re-searched. Yet no-one saw the sausages behind the curtains! One bag remained unclaimed in another compartment and a Mongolian man was taken in for questioning. Our girl, whose bust size had now increased dramatically with 20 pairs of knickers stuffed in her bra, got away with it. She relaxed and stopped her sweating as we pulled into the little station of Nauski, our first Russian settlement. I thought that maybe she would have given us one of her sausages at least considering that she had used us as a human shield for her pork products, but no. All she said was ‘thank you very much’ took everything away and scurried off to leave us with curtains smelling like a butcher’s shop.
We got off the train to be told that we were stuck there for another few hours. There were little wooden stalls outside the train station. I recognised one of the things that were for sale - SAUSAGES! The same sausages I had just shared my first Russian border crossing with. Another long wait in the relative no-man’s land of border crossings and we were eventually re-connected to another train. It was 4.30pm. It had taken us 10½ hours to cover about 5 kilometres. A long day doing very little. Before this we had been on GMT+8 hours to tie in with China and Mongolia.
We went to the restaurant car, an old fashioned affair like something out of the old movies; all dark wood and heavy green velvet curtains. The man who ran it, a big Russian with a deep vodka voice informed us we were now on Moscow time. In fact it was MT+5hours, which was the equivalent of GMT+9. An hour extra even though we were further west.

We passed our first Russian graveyard, all fences and light blue paint. Incongruous, but pretty in a way. Why blue paint we wondered? We retired to bed with the window slightly open to take out the last sausage fumes and during the night it rained in on our heads. Ending the day with thoughts about the Russian dead in the graveyard, little did we know that we would begin the next morning with death on the rails upon our arrival in Irkutsk….

Day 9 - 18th July 2009

2009-09-09T08:02:00.007+02:00

10am start. This was another train day but not until 9.30pm. We walked into the city centre for some brunch after our last lovely warm shower for a while and left our bags with reception to be collected at 6pm. After taking the necessary snapshots we had a delicious brunch overlooking an ancient monastery right in the centre of the city.

It was tucked behind some modern buildings. At least they were when the Russians built them in the 1960’s. After handing over 55,000 tugrugs (the Mongolian currency) for lunch I felt heavier in my stomach but a lot lighter in my pocket.
We walked through the city in scorching heat, such a difference to the cold, wet night in the ger. Again, there was absolutely no point in trying to decipher the Cyrillic hieroglyphs to work out where we were going. The map had pictures of buildings that we used as pointers and we made our way up to a wonderful old monastery still in use. 150 monks live and work in the surrounding buildings and it was interesting to see them going about their traditional business. What was strange was to see monks in full regalia and a mobile phone stuck to their ear.

A direct line to God perhaps? I hope their credit was good. We continued into the grounds after paying an entrance fee and looked at all the people either spinning row upon row of prayer wheels, or holding onto what looked like a telegraph pole without the wires.

Each building was in a certain state of disrepair but still quaint and colourful. The older people looked as if they were perhaps potentially making their last pilgrimage to the place. They were respectfully dressed and hobbled along with their families to help guide them.

Finally we went up to the main monastery and went into the darkened doorway. Inside the body of the church, in fact filling the body of the church was another giant body.

The biggest Buddha I have ever seen, 26 ½metres tall. That’s approaching 100ft! It was incredible. Absolutely breathtaking and totally unexpected.

Golden in colour, it rose over four floors high, going by all the little balconies built around it and was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of prayer wheels. In such a relatively small space, by church standards, this was no mean feat. We walked around the clockwise flow of people turning the wheels and praying. On some of the prayer wheels people had taped the names and birth and very recent death dates of their loved ones so that each prayer whispered by devotees could somehow transfer good feelings to their newly deceased.
In one corner a monk was making large beeswax candles, obviously to order, as there was a lot of cash changing hands. The candle was then put on the altar and lit for the customer. Big business. You were not allowed to take photographs of the Buddha in such a religious place - unless you paid the attendant an absolution fee first of course. Everything has a price, even access to deities.
We left the monastery and took a short cut through the Mongolian equivalent of the Beijing hutong. A mix of shacks and lean-to’s on the outskirts of the city. Although this area was pretty rough the majority of people seemed quite well dressed considering. The first street we started walking down had a group of young men standing pestering an old Mongolian in national dress. He was slightly drunk and one of the men pushed him roughly away while his friends laughed. We backtracked and took the next street instead and arrived back at the main road without mishap.
Still too early to collect our bags we stopped in a local restaurant just to kill time. A coffee and beer later, we returned to the hotel for our bags and took a taxi to the train station.

Another two hour wait twiddling our thumbs and the train arrived. During that time we were able to watch the comings and goings of train station life in Ulaanbaatar. Nomadic herdsmen in traditional dress waited for trains with their families.

One man had skin like an old leather jacket. He looked about 60 but his wife was barely 30 and his children were not much more than toddlers. Perhaps he wasn’t all that old himself but the harsh lifestyle obviously took it’s toll. Stalls lined the platform selling all manner of dried foods and soft drinks. Bright, colourful bottles filled with E-numbers and additives lit up in the setting sun. We entered the train and thankfully we were lucky again to have a four berth compartment to the three of us. Much more relaxing than having to share a space. This was the train that would take us into Russia in seven or eight hour’s time. I wondered what to expect.

Day 8 - 17th July 2009

2009-09-08T23:51:00.009+02:00

2am - The heavens opened and Chinggis was on the warpath. Torrential rain soaked the felt gers and drips started to come in through the roof at the central point. I got up and lifted all the bags and rucksacks off the floor and onto one of the empty beds to keep them dry. The fire was out and it was decidedly colder. I gladly got back into bed to warm up and promptly fell asleep again. 5am - I dreamt I could hear drips of water very close to my head and could almost feel the odd splash back circle my head. Then the real thing started dripping on my head like a Japanese/ Mongolian trade agreement water torture. I jumped up with a start and my pillow and head were soaked. I had to use one of the other empty beds and tried to get some sleep with what was left of the night. After a basic but adequate breakfast, we went to a ger museum where the attendant, an old man in traditional costume, showed us around the equivalent of a camp used in the time of Chinggis Khan. The main ger was surrounded by nine other gers, four on one side and five on the other. Each was dedicated to elders and relatives of Chinggis throughout the years. It was interesting to see all the artefacts but the guides grandchildren stole the show as they insisted on coming with us into each ger.

It’s possible of course that they were his children. Life was hard there, so perhaps he was actually a lot younger than he looked. The older boy was dressed in traditional costume and his little sister was a natural poser with her cute chubby Mongolian features. The old guide passed me some snuff to try and I felt like it burnt all the hairs off the inside of my nasal cavity. The snuff was passed around and one of my travelling companions mad a faux pas by trying to pass it back to the guide between the two upright posts. He was horrified but thankfully explained that nothing should be passed between the posts as this signified the entrance to heaven.

We went outside and were asked if we wanted to try our hand at archery. Of course, we said, and I did wonder about the safety of the offer, as where the targets were, we had previously entered the arena area. What if some other groups arrived as we let go a volley of badly aimed shots in their direction? Thankfully, the arrows had rubber tips so no danger there. After a few false starts we managed to at least get the arrows to go in the general direction of the targets, but we would never make great marksmen in the next Mongolian invasion. As we were leaving a wild and dangerous bareback horse race started with mostly young boys as the jockeys. This was part of the Naadam Festival that is held every year in July.

We had missed the main event by days but this was one of the country offshoots that would take place during the rest of the month outside of the capital. Every year horses and riders were killed in these literally breakneck races across the plains. To die in a race like this was considered a great honour. I passed on the chance to be so honoured. A bumpy ride back to the capital saw us dropped of at our dream hotel. Again there was a guard armed to the teeth watching the door. Was it so dangerous here?

The clouds began gathering again as we headed into town to look around. The second deluge of the trip hit us just as we passed a restaurant bar and we ducked in out of the way. A good excuse for an early lunch. Okay but not great, but at least the local beer was decent. We sat for two hours until the rain eased and ran down the street into a bookshop. Some art book purchases and coffee later we ducked and dived between the cars determined to soak us in the big lying puddles. We had a dilemma. Do we go back to the hotel and lie down or just go on out for dinner?
The large Irish pub on the corner ‘The Grand Khan’ called out to us and beckoned us in. Four hours and three bottles of wine later, each at a cost of 23000 tugrugs, we staggered out thinking how wonderful Ulaanbaatar was. One of our party, a 23 year old student got a note passed to her in the bar by one of the waitresses with an invitation from another customer and with a telephone number on it. She was a bit embarrassed but decided that maybe that was the way that dates were arranged in Mongolia. Needless to say she didn’t phone the number. Later, the author of the note built up the courage to come over and speak to her in person. An amiable Mongolian man around his early thirties introduced himself as Mogi. After a brief exchange he got the message that she wasn’t interested and wished us a pleasant onward journey anyway. We left the bar and headed towards the hotel. Then we got lost, couldn’t work out the street names and drunks and slow passing cars were calling out to us in the darkness. I like to think the drunks were just amiable drunks, and the car drivers were no more suspicious than illegal taxis but we took no chances and made our own way back as quickly as possible. Glad to be back behind the door watching guards we went to bed tired but happy and expecting the hangover from hell to come knocking at the door in the morning.

Day 7 - 16th July 2009

2009-09-07T16:01:00.008+02:00

07.30am start. Warm shower! Dream hotel. Breakfast not supplied. Our Mongolian guide picked us up at 8am for an overnight stay at a ger camp. Garditours - the tour company of the previous day’s accommodation had arranged for minibus pick up and run to Terejl, the national park some 80km from the city. The roads were even worse than in China, and that’s saying something. We bounced and bumped and weaved and swerved our way through the traffic of four wheel drive jeeps and old wrecks of Soviet era trucks. It was a society of two halves. Very noticeably so. The haves and the have nots. I wondered though, those who had the money to buy big jeeps, did they live in fancy apartments of gers on the outside of the city. After bumping along for half an hour or so we stopped at a very flash hotel that had even created it’s own beach on the side of a river that ran through it’s grounds. Prices were the equivalent of a four star in London or Madrid. Expensive, but not out of the question. However, by Mongolian standards it was a month’s wages for each night’s stay. We picked up a Danish and Romanian couple, lawyers who were doing the Trans Mongolian the opposite way to us.
Another hour and we arrived at the national park. A breathtaking region of big rolling grass hills punctuated by rugged peaks and rocky outcrops. The further we went into the park, the more dramatic the rock formations. They grew in stature until they dominated the hills in the valleys. The sun was shining and it was a crisp day. Perfect for ger living. We stopped at a mound of rocks with a wooden pole sticking out of the top. This was covered in colourful pieces of cloth that were tied on. The guide explained that people would make wishes to the air and water gods for good luck and then tie something to the pole, walk three times round the stone pile in homage and lift stones from the bottom and throw them somewhere near the top of the pile. This was meant to cement their wish and helped create a living statue of sorts that would always change shape according to the people who made wishes and took part in the little ceremony. On the hilltop, just behind the stone mound were three tourist gers selling the usual tat that you would expect to see at any tourist spot.

Then it was onward to our next tourist style destination. The aptly named ‘Turtle Rock’. This rock stands proudly in the basin of the surrounding mountain range and is very impressive. Weathered and shaped by winds and winters it looked like a gigantic turtles head. Around it flew a number of majestic eagles.

They flew with such ease, not a wing beat, simply riding the thermals rising from the surrounding rocks. The would swoop down as low as our heads before rising sharply up again on the lookout for fresh food. Of course there were the usual tourist attractions as well, dromedary camel rides and horse rides. I was surprised there weren’t turtle rides as well.

With no takers for rides, or fridge magnets, we finally moved on towards our ger camp. On the way we passed the ger camp advertised on the Garditours website. We were expecting a traditional ger camp set up - and got it - so no complaints there, but their website showed photographs of access to a nearby hotel / guesthouse with, I quote ‘exotic hot swimming pool, Jacuzzi and sauna, bar and restaurant’ That wasn’t what we went for, so we weren’t disappointed with that., but more with the false advertising. We kept going however, past other reasonable camp sites. They were dotted all over the valley. We were wondering how much further we had to go. The camps got thinner on the ground and a little bit rougher the further we went.
Finally we turned into one of the camps. A simple site with a communal circular wooden hall for meals, a toilet and shower block with the shower door locked so we couldn‘t use them, and about twelve or so gers, each brightly painted with linoleum on the floor. Felt circular tents that had a fire and chimney stack placed in the middle between the two upright posts holding up the ger. Around the perimeter were placed five single beds with one inch thick mattresses. The pillows were sealed cloth bags filled with dry beans. Comfortable enough actually. We were called to lunch - a little salad, then some kind of soup and followed by a beef (or horsemeat) stewy thing and a scoop of rice. We had to buy beers at an exorbitant price to help wash it all down. Edible but not spectacular. The Mongolian people, primarily nomads, do not as a rule grow vegetables. They eat meat in winter that they have fattened up during the summer grazing, and come summertime, they eat dairy products mostly - milk, butter (usually rancid), cheeses, natural yoghurts and of course drink AIRAG - fermented mares milk. Airag, when stored for a few days, goes sour and lumpy. After straining the curds off through plastic bags with holes punched into them, the liquid becomes mildly alcoholic, about the same strength as beer. It was sold unregulated by the bag or bucket on just about every street corner, but I just couldn’t bring myself to try it.
The troops decided to go on a horse riding trek for an hour while I caught up on my journal. Peace and quiet. After they returned walking like John Wayne, we went for a walk up the nearest hill. Amazing rock structures heavily weathered over thousands of years gave me wonderful ideas for my paintings. At the top of a flat section of rock I found a skeleton. The backbone and ribs and hips were visible but no skull that I could see. Not sure what sort of animal it was, but for a moment it occurred to me that this was what happened to troublesome tourists. They just disappeared if they complained too loudly.

Back down in time for dinner, a couple of beers and then afterwards sitting outside the gers to drink in the scenery. We invited the couple we had travelled with into our ger, now officially called the ‘Party Ger’ along with a couple of Dutch girls who had been at the camp when we had arrived. Supplies were short but at least we were long on laughs. A bottle of vodka or a few beers would have been better but the official kitchen / bar was shut and in darkness. One of the local kids came in and lit the fire for us. Earlier it had seemed we wouldn’t need a fire lit but the nights get cold so high up, even in July. Wild party over by 11pm, we were glad of the heat when we settled in to our beds for the night to dream of being Chinggis (not Gengis) Khan’s warriors.

Day 6 - 15th July 2009

2009-08-21T09:48:00.012+02:00

6am - Early start again! I thought this was supposed to be relaxing? This time I was started from a deep sleep with the arrival into a small somewhat insignificant village in the Mongolian section of the Gobi desert. Yet in a way it was the first and most significant place in Mongolia for me. I looked out of the carriage window from my bed to see a row of little wooden houses unlike anything I had seen before in real life. It was like something from the American Wild West. A rough unforgiving landscape of dry brush and houses dotted around a barren platform. There were a few workers in view although most seemed to be nursing the leftovers of yesterday’s drinks. Quite a desolate place and yet at that moment it felt like the richest place on earth to me. China was behind me and who knew what was to come? Although we were officially in the Gobi desert, it was not what most people would associate with a desert type landscape, by Sahara terms at any rate. After the initial excitement of waking up in a new and undiscovered land of unknown potential I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay looking out of the window and taking in the dry and slaked landscape, took photographs of nothingness and read up on the shape of things to come. Almost immediately I noticed Gers, or felt yurts or tents dotted around the landscape, along with the ubiquitous rolling clumps of bushes, like tumbleweed, you see in the dustbowls of the movies. Coupled with this was he vision of what seemed to be free running wild horses across the plain.
Apart from the obvious facial differences of the locals I wouldn’t have been surprised to see ‘the Duke’ ride into view packing his six shooter and Winchester. Eventually I got up from my daydreaming and tried to do something constructive. After wakening one of my compatriots, we went for breakfast in the, now Mongolian, buffet car as much to let the rest of the compartment continue to sleep in peace as for sustenance. Breakfast consisted of two pieces of dried up bread, a pat of butter, some jam, and a cup of pre mixed coffee, milk and sugar - no choices. Strangely, it also included pickled carrot shreds with garlic shards as well. An unusual combination. A far cry from the delicious Chinese meal a few hours before. Already I could feel a western influence on the diet, but was it a good one? Time would tell.
We had to walk the whole way from the back of the train to reach our carriage at the front. I hadn’t noticed any problem with smoke from our carriage when I got up but as I walked back along each of the other carriages I noticed each one was absolutely filled with smoke! Maybe smoking is ‘de rigueur’ in Mongolia I supposed, but why not in carriage number 1? Was there such a thing as a non smoking car policy? As I moved forwards choking slightly, I noticed a lady whose head was wrapped in a towel covering everything but her red rimmed eyes. Perhaps a Muslim lady sporting a burka? No, just to escape the smoke. I realised as I went further forward that the smoke was coming from the engine labouring to pull us through the desert. For some reason the heavy thick smoke was being redirected into the carriages behind. Being in carriage number 1, we were too close to catch this residue and thankfully escaped suffocating during the night. The more we travelled into Mongolia the more the landscape became desert like. Green foothills struggling to survive in adverse conditions - dry and a blisteringly hot 30 degrees in summer, down to minus 40 degrees or even minus 50 degrees in extreme winters - just beggars belief or understanding from a temperate European dweller like myself. It was still very hot: hot enough to have just a pair of shorts on - and barely that. The only way to survive was for the compartment door to be fully open to the views of all and sundry, and the aisle windows to be open also. What we didn’t realise was that the more we ventured into the country the more the Gobi encroached.
Within a couple of hours the landscape had changed to little villages sparsely placed amid full desert plains. With all the doors and windows open we were slowly engulfed with a mini desert of our own. Some of the party who had fallen asleep looked as though they were testing some kind of new facial exfoliate product on one side of their face, given that it was covered in a fine layer of sand. The sandy layer covered bedclothes, seats, pillows, anyone sitting long enough in one place and just about every other surface imaginable. It was a stark choice. Get hot and uncomfortable, or sand blasted and uncomfortable. Some choice. We opted for the mid ground. We made a brief stop in the dreadfully challenged village of Choir (probably pronounced CHO-EER as opposed to a collection of heavenly voices) and saw some children trying to sell crystals and coloured rocks on the platform. The moral question arises - do you buy or not? I personally think any help is better than no help. The majority of people who sell ‘The Big Issue’ in the UK need a helping hand. As they say, it’s a hand up, not a hand out they want. This is my philosophy also. We bought some of the stones much to the chagrin of our fellow passengers, a French couple. I felt that they disapproved of our haggling for a better price. Still, the kids went away some money in their pockets for what was essentially lying around on the ground in the village.

As we approached Ulaanbaatar in the final 100km or so the landscape began to change again to rolling green hills marking the end of the western edge of the Gobi. Horses and gers began to make their presence felt more noticeably on the landscape. Trees began to appear as we rose slowly higher and higher, to the highest capital city in the world. With each upward curve came a drop in temperature. Shorts alone became shorts and T-shirts, then T-shirts and jeans, then jumpers as well. By the time we began to enter the approaches to the city it was raining lightly and decidedly colder. The most surprising fact about Ulaanbaatar was that the written guides only gave about 10 or 20 main streets on the map of the city. This gives you the false impression that it is extremely small. Actually there is about 600,000 or more people living there - approximately half the population of the whole country. That’s about the population of my home city of Belfast. In reality though, the outskirts are nothing more than hundreds and hundreds of ger camps. The round felt covered tents that the nomadic people favour. The city centre itself - the city centre of permanent buildings that is - is slightly bigger than the maps suggest but is in such a rough state that it’s very hard to consider it as viable for inclusion in the map. Roads are almost as challenging as the driving. I shall never complain about driving in Spain again….
Stepping off the train we gathered our backpacks and extra bags together and looked for the guide who was supposed to meet us. No show. That was okay though, as we had directions as to how to find our accommodation. The regally named ‘Tiara Guesthouse‘. Surely a jewel in the crown of Mongolian guesthouses? Sadly no. We walked with a couple of other travellers who informed us that they already had a run in with bag slashers at the train station. Thankfully nothing of value was taken but it was sobering lesson nonetheless. Never let your guard down. Following the directions to the letter we arrived at an extremely run down and garishly pink coloured apartment block in one of the back streets of the city. A mistake in the directions perhaps? No, over the main entrance door of the post-war communist block of flats was a small sign saying Tiara Guesthouse.

The tour guide company that held our onward train tickets to Russia was in the next apartment to Tiara. The guesthouse itself, and I use that word very loosely, was multiple dorm accommodation. I had no problem with that really but the fact that the front door was in all but pieces and barely lockable didn’t encourage much faith in their security. The toilet facilities were atrocious, with holes around the pipe work, and to top it all no hot water… My party went to complain about this last issue - we had been sweaty and dirty and sandy across one desert and two countries and really needed a shower badly. They were told by the management that there would be no hot water until mid August! Cold showers were had all round but I’m sorry to say I had to complain in person about the situation. I used all my diplomatic skills but got nowhere and am slightly ashamed to say that I felt obliged to mention that I was writing about the trip for a certain newspaper. Instantly the doors of hospitality opened and we were showered - metaphorically - with goodwill gestures. Another young Dutch couple told us they had complained the day or two before had been offered a couple of free trips and accepted them in lieu of hot showers. We were offered the equivalent of a four star two roomed suite at a city centre hotel. I accepted the offer graciously and we were taken by the managers in person to this hotel for top class treatment. WITH HOT WATER! I can’t help but feel that these tour operators take a chance on the unsuspecting young traveller who hasn’t the sense, or the authority of age to argue their point. The operators then charge ridiculous rates for poor quality conditions and make a relative fortune on the backs of the usual student traveller types.
The new hotel room, while not the Ritz, was a dramatic improvement on what had gone before. Why did they bend over backwards so much? Well, we found out the next day, but that’s another story. Back to today - as a traveller you always try to be aware of your surroundings and your first impressions are usually right. The hotel reception was on the first floor of yet another downtown apartment block and the door was guarded by a heavily armed private security guard hired directly after the completion of the latest Rambo film. The upper floors contained the hotel rooms. We were on the top floor and I realised that apart from the main staircase outside out door, there was no other escape route in event of fire. We were so tired by this stage that we just didn’t care any more. We had a hot shower in the new hotel room just because we could! Wonderful. Then out into the Wild West streets of Ulaanbaatar.

In all seriousness, there was a threatening feel to the place. A lot of drunken persons about and most things in disrepair - cars, buildings, roads, paths, people. On day one I felt vulnerable. I had no guide, and a language that I couldn’t read or understand. Streets became alleyways, cars slowed down to look at you, especially at night leading to a certain level of paranoia that was probably unjust. By day two in UB (as it is called by ex-pats) we had settled down and accepted the place somewhat, at least during the day. I would say that after a week it would seem home from home. Learn some of the language, learn to read the signs and the place would open up before you. So don’t always go by your first impressions. The guide map we purchased was so haphazard that you went by pictures of the buildings you were looking for. They tended to be down side streets and alleyways or behind buildings in out of the way places you could never find. We had dinner in a recommended restaurant ‘The Silk Road’, named after the route we were more or less following from China towards Europe. The old camel drivers route for transporting silk and tea to the European teahouses and shops of cosmopolitan Europe. A terrific meal totally out of keeping with the style of the rest of UB and way beyond the normal price range, but on our first night in town it gave us some much needed westernised comfort. After an uneventful early walk back to the hotel while still daylight we retired to bed instead of finding another bar for a drink. Just too many culture shocks for me in one day.

Day 5 - 14th July 2009

2009-08-21T09:22:00.014+02:00

5.45am - Early start. Today the real journey begins. A taxi to Beijing central train station and 25 degrees temperature. Already there were crowds of people and major traffic jams en route. The two sets of doors leading into and up towards platforms were opened out onto the street. Each door was cordoned off on either side with barriers to funnel everyone neatly and uniformly through the portal. A young man who was feeling a little tired of so early a start had climbed over the barriers between the doors to have a sleep, head on bag. Literally thousands of commuters and travellers pushed slowly past him and stared. In a strange way I felt this made up for missing the Mao mausoleum. The young man a substitute leader lying in state while we were filed past by the pressing crowds and paid our respects. Once inside, the excitement built as we prepared to move through to ‘Waiting Room 2’ on the upper floor. Surprisingly, at that time we were one of the few people there. In anticipation for boarding and not knowing what restaurant facilities would be available, we purchased various packs of dried noodles, drinks and biscuits to sustain us in the event of abandonment in the Gobi desert. One packet of noodles stands out in my mind especially, as it had a whole, complete boiled egg included in the packet. The egg was dark brown in colour, after having apparently been buried in the ground for a week or so after boiling, to help ferment it’s subtle yet enticing flavours. It was considered a delicacy in knowledgeable circles. I tried it. I wish I hadn’t. It tasted like a week old fermented boiled egg that had been buried in soil.

Waiting Room 2 is a vast hangar of a room capable of holding hundreds of pirouetting passengers. Numbers built up quickly and we were checked onto the platform by unsmiling uniformed staff. On the platform in front of us was the much anticipated train.

The first of many on our odyssey. It represented a mind shift and a new experience of our journey westwards. Photographs were taken and given and we entered the train breathlessly. It’s strange, but over the coming weeks hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs were taken, but the fervour of those first few hours of constant snapping of new images and impressions tended to become a more relaxed affair. The train would be photographed again and again as it turned yet another gentle curve through the countryside. A curvaceous metal coil snaking it’s way across the Chinese suburbs and wilderness of the Gobi desert.

As we left the centre of Beijing, the relatively prosperous areas gave way to makeshift communities made from Blue Peter leftovers and sticky back plastic. Poverty was rife. Detritus and filth covered everything. I have wondered why people in such poor conditions can’t clear away some of the left over leftovers and, if not live in rich opulence, at least try to live in relative cleanliness. Perhaps they were so busy trying to stay alive that they cannot spare the time to keep their habitable space disease free. Perhaps their apathy at their life leads to a resignation and acceptance of fate. Or perhaps it’s simply a case of ignorance and cultural difference on my part as much as theirs. I remember back in Belfast, the middle and upper classes always kept their homes and surrounding areas at a certain level of harmony and cleanliness. Whereas the back streets tended to be less cared for. That’s not the case for all the people living there of course, just a general observation. Humanity works in cycles of social acceptance. The higher the social level, the greater the pressure to be accepted. In China, I saw people standing in Tiananmen Square asking people for empty plastic drinking bottles, that they would then recycle presumably for money. In the hovels on the outskirts, everything that could be recycled had been recycled. Nothing was left but useless waste. I felt to some degree that this included the people as well. Recycling on a human scale.

The suburbs, still, hot, steamy and thick with smog slowly opened onto fields of rice, vines, trees and grasslands. The heavy air, slowly and reluctantly, released us from it’s grasp to be replaced by sunshine and blue skies with fluffy marshmallow clouds, taking the shapes of Chinese dragons riding on the backs of frolicking seahorses.

Quite often, train journeys can be tedious unless it involves new horizons and experiences en route not yet envisaged. Small things become big things, and unusual buildings become monuments of wonder. We passed through a mountainous region and the train sliced it’s way through the rock via a series of tunnels. Fifty at least, of varying lengths. To help pass the time we started a little competition. Each time we would push into the inky blackness of a tunnel one of us would quickly get into an unusual position on the seat, the floor or hang upside down off the overhead beds. Until you came out of the darkness you had no idea what position you were likely to find your travelling companions in. This became more and more outrageous as the tunnels became longer and longer. Virtual yogic flying in the darkness ensued. Anything to help pass the time. Signs in strange hieroglyphs become fantastical words of wisdom, Confusian advice to the unwary. In reality of course they probably said ‘Go to Lin-Chung’s Water Margin Restaurant for the best sweet & sour in the region’ Talking about food led me to the restaurant car and a wonderful stir fry. Sweet and sour pork looked and tasted nothing like what passes for the same thing in the west. A strong pungency of vinegar guaranteed that even a diabetic could be sure there wasn’t an over abundance of sweeteners for the western palate. Accompanied by hot sticky rice and cold Chinese beer, this proved to be a delicious combination. There was a distinct absence of MSG and artificial colouring which meant that the dish didn’t have the garishness of Chino-European dishes but the flavour was fresh and clean to my jaded taste buds. Settling down in the four person sleeper carriage a little later, the tastes, smells and memories flooded back as I realised I would have all but left China by midnight.

“Please return to your carriages!” The English version of the Chinese message was boomed out over the tannoy at around 9pm. We had just pulled into Erlian - the last contact with China on the trip. Piped orchestral music declared that we would be in high spirits and leave with good impressions of friendly Chinese officials. I felt a certain tension in the air. Soldiers filed outside each carriage window to block our possible escape in the event of our papers not being correct. In reality, this was geared towards Chinese and Mongolian traders who used this route to sell their black market goods across respective borders. We had completed customs forms for each country and waited for the various official bodies to come and allow us safe passage. Customs officers arrived and took the forms. “Stay in your carriages!” We sat like lambs facing the unknown. Large peaked caps created authoritative airs that you dared not cross. Entry and exit visas were checked, re-checked and finally stamped. All the while passports were studied by each officer and faces scoured to make sure each passport and face matched. I felt that my face was changing to a more grey shade with each passing minute. It was quite disconcerting when our passports were then taken away by the procession of communist pillars of society for further checks to be carried out. Searches were being undertaken by guards on each carriage. We were ordered out into the corridor while the place was strip searched for contraband. Nothing. Then ordered back into our carriages for the process to happen to the next compartment.

The time had come for a decision. This was the point at which the train was taken to a shed to have the bogies, or wheel units, changed from the Chinese (and European) size to the gauge used by Russia and Mongolia. This would take approximately two hours during which time you could stay with the train and watch the process from your compartment or get off at the platform and visit the local supermarket/shop that conveniently stayed open to sell you over inflated priced food and drink to keep you going until you reached Ulaanbaatar - the capital of Mongolia some twenty hours later. We opted for the latter and stocked up on food and a few cold beers to join other travellers and talk about their exploits around Asia. I find that talking to seasoned travellers is simply a case of checking off a list sometimes and I wonder how involved people get in the cultures they visit. Thailand? Oh yeah - been there - it rained a lot. Vietnam? Yep, but the beer was warm. Phuket? Nah - too many mozzies! Not going back there in a hurry.
The train reappeared to a fanfare of music over the brain washing loudspeaker system and we were ordered back to our compartments. Another search of each carriage took place and then we waited for what seemed an eternity. Outside the window stood an armed guard and we watched an Indian file of Chinese officials traipse from the main building. They entered the train, and with a final check to make sure our faces hadn’t changed from those in our passports in the intervening two hours, they handed our paper lifelines back to us. The final triumphal wave of music signalled for the train to slowly pull away from the station. That’s it, we’re free! I thought. Short lived, as we stopped only five hundred metres up the tracks within sights of the actual border crossing. Yet another set of guards climbed under the train to check for potential asylum seekers escaping from China for the dubious benefits of living in Mongolia. I suppose for those that get out, Mongolia is hopefully the first step into another country and a better way of life. Final checks completed, and we slowly edged our way out of China. More like a dog with it’s tail between it’s legs that with a triumphant roar.
Almost instantly we were stopped at the checkpoint of Zamyn-Uud and the whole process began all over again. This time as we pulled into the station the guards that were posted to stand outside each window, all stood to attention and saluted the train as it pulled to a stop. An incongruous welcome to a newly formed democratic country. Almost as if each was trying to outdo the other. Welcoming music on the Chinese side and endearing respect from the other. All the same checks were completed in more or less the same way. “Into your carriages!”, “Out of your carriages!” Searches, passport checks, re-checks, removals and returns. Process after process which took almost six hours between both countries. When our passports were finally returned to us, we slowly pulled out of the border checkpoint and back into the Gobi desert en route for Ulaanbaatar and the next adventure. By this time it was 2am and everyone was exhausted. Sleep followed fast.

DAY 4 - 13TH JULY 2009

2009-08-17T13:14:00.010+02:00

Day 4 - 13th July 2009 8am - Picked up by a local guide for a long drive to the great wall of China. The section we were going to was Badaling, seventy or so kilometres from Beijing. There was a closer section to the city but it would have been full of tourists and stalls where we would have been pestered by stall holders to buy T-shirts and knick-knacks for ‘one dollar - only one dollar!’ No, instead we paid for a more personal experience and went one and a half hours in a private car to another section of the wall that was full of tourists and stalls and where the stall holders pestered us with their one dollar knick-knacks and T-shirts.

The good thing about this location was the cable car that took us all the way up to the wall and back again. The section of wall at Badaling is renowned for being one where you can see mile after mile of wall and tower after tower of each section stretching over hillocks into the distance. Once up on high however, we realised we couldn’t see more than 100m in any direction, such is the smog around greater Beijing. Having walked down a few of the towers and sections, up to maybe three kilometres distance, we started back. There was another cable car further on that you could use as an alternative route back down the mountainside but not knowing exactly how far it was we decided against it. Another hot and extremely sticky day soon made its impression on our clothes and bodies as we perspired profusely. An Indian gentleman who had been leading his mother and father on a tour of the wall asked my travelling companion how much further was it. Being a bit of a wit, she said about 7200km. After the laughter died down he explained that he meant to the next cable car, but how we guffawed! Simple pleasures for simple people, I suppose. I wonder how many times a day that joke is played out on the wall? As we walked we were observed closely by giant but wispy gossamer winged dragon flies. They flitted around the castellated wall with curiosity and moved with an elegant hum that breathlessly whispered a timid ‘welcome to our wall‘. Back on the cable car sweating, we were glad to go back into the heavy mist below. Again, given my fear of heights I was quite happy that I couldn’t see the drop in front of me all the way down the mountainside.

Stepping out of the car we ran the gamut of the T-shirt people. Sidestepping one dollar offers of life changing proportions. Che Guevara images on red stars and hammer and sickle emblems. I didn’t know Che had been so instrumental in China as well as Cuba! We made a quick stop at a pre-arranged meeting spot by a souvenir shop to look for our driver. He had a habit, we later found out, of wanting to stop at restaurants that co-incidentally happened to be next to factories for lunch, pee stops etc. These were of course a ruse to make us go into the said factory to buy something. Presumably he would then get commission on any sales. Okay, so we bought a few things. The fascinating things were the factories. This particular one that we visited was unlike any other we had seen. Maybe only fifteen workers producing these beautiful enamel bowls and other items for sale. The factory was straight out of the 30’s and 40’s and hadn’t changed one iota in sixty or seventy years. Basic hand produced goods, each section completed in a dingy little room in poor conditions. A personal guide gave us the short but extensive tour. Taking a well earned break from hammering out each section of pot in sheets of copper and then soldering them together, the workers sat at their workstations staring at us while eating their lunch of rice with well worn chopsticks. After the joining, the next room was where the copper wire was connected like fretwork, in scrolls and shapes, and fused to the main body of the pots which created a framework for the liquid enamel to be poured into. After each section is filled with enamel in yet another room, it is fired in a fourth room to fix the colour and then begins the slow laborious job of polishing in the fifth room. After various grades of polishes are used a burnished finish to the copper fretwork is completed by using lumps of charcoal as a rubbing agent. The whole process is finally completed by electroplating each finished pot in 24 carat gold. Sounds expensive but in reality the gold is so thin that it takes just pennies to get the desired effect. Once we had seen the process we were taken to the shop across the factory courtyard and tempted to buy a few things from one or two Euros up to €20,000 for vases bigger than the average man. After a bit of wheeler dealing we came away with some small items and also the conclusion that this small factory unit could not possibly complete all these varieties and styles of enamel work. There must have been an industrial sized unit nearby with mass producing machines to create such an array of products. The poor looking factory we had visited was just a tourist sham to make us feel sorry for the poor workers. Still it was interesting, and so was the fact that our driver miraculously re-appeared as soon as we had made purchases. When he saw that we had bought something he disappeared as quickly back into the shop to claim his commission. We returned to an even thicker, pea soup, smog laden and sticky 30 degree Beijing a little shaken as his driving was erratic to say the least. Considering that the other drivers on the road were every bit as erratic, it beggars belief that we arrived in one piece at all. After flying us past the ‘Bird’s Nest’ Olympic stadium and front crawling through heavy traffic past the ’Water Cube’, we stopped at a bank to change Renminbi to American Dollars for use in Russia - bureaucracy gone mad, with quadruplicate forms being filled out by section after section of humourless worker ants with no name, only numbers for identification. We came across that a lot. A number instead of a name badge seemed to rob the worker of their humanity. “So, number two five seven three six six four, did you do anything interesting at work today?” “ Nah, five one six nine four three eight, the same old forms - in quadruplicate of course.” After 45 minutes we finally had all the stamps completed and got our currency. We high tailed it outside before they found another form needed to allow us leave the building.

The driver dropped us off at Tiananmen Square in the beating heart of Beijing to experience the spectacle of Mao’s mausoleum (it was closed and he was out visiting, apparently) , the square itself and the Forbidden City. The heat was oppressive and was compounded by the crowds of people milling around. Hawkers tried to sell you everything under the sun including my favourite - a Mao watch - his arm waved up and down to count off as each second passed. Unfortunately I talked myself out if buying one and waved bye-bye to Mao in return. In hindsight I wished I had bought it. It would have been a nice, if tacky, memento of touristy kitsch. Next, we walked to the forbidden city where the emperors used to live in complete isolation from their people. So called because unauthorised entry would mean certain death for any individual. The emperors of the Ming and Qing dynasties spent their days in spectacular surroundings and relative safety inside the walls. Keeping themselves occupied in their Chinese harem of concubines apparently filled their days. After leaving by the back gate the sky looked extremely ominous and heavy with rain. People who knew better were grabbing every available taxi and rickshaw in an effort to avoid the coming deluge. We decided that it would be more fun to walk in the heat and proceeded towards our hostel on foot, approximately 1km away. The skies grew darker and darker and rumbles forewarned of greater things to come. Common sense finally won over and we managed to get a little motorised rickshaw to take us back to the area of the hostel. The rickshaw was a wonderful if unnerving experience. We faced backwards side by side with no cover or door - or seatbelts! Riding by the seat of our pants, literally, we hung on for grim life as the driver crossed through the streets and threaded his way through the traffic like a sewing machine on speed. Cars came within inches of our feet, so much so that I could feel the cooling fan sucking air into the engine. I could have actually counted the flies on the front grill if I hadn’t been concentrating on holding on to the seat so hard. Once or twice the rickshaw hit a bump or pothole and sent us skywards towards the roof of our little motorised metal coffin. I noticed that the roof was filled with upward dents. Unfortunate previous occupiers who arrived at their final locations in a semi-conscious state perhaps? Having been dropped off around the corner from the hostel in Wangfujing Dajie (meaning ‘Well of Princely Places) on the main designer shopping street of Beijing we paid 20 Yuan fare only to be told it was 20 each. As I said, every possible chance to overcharge westerners was taken. The price had been agreed previously so we knew the driver was just chancing his arm. Having been told “On yer rickshaw mate!” he accepted the agreed fare without another blink. We were just stupid white ghosts to be taken advantage of if we were gullible enough to accept it.

Then the skies opened! A curious situation as the temperature was still well into the 30’s. We stood under a shop overhand and waited and waited and waited for it to die down enough for us to walk the 100m back to the hostel. Waited and waited.... Waited some more as the streets flooded and cars stopped with water ingress. People waded through the river and those with umbrellas (not us unfortunately) turned them upside down, climbed into them, and floated down the street. I’m sure I saw Noah go past in a golfing umbrella with a pair of pandas under his arm….
The rain finally eased a little so we decided to take a chance and walk back. My neck was still giving me terrible pain and we happened to be passing a massage parlour. No, not that type - the real thing. We went in and both got a deep body massage that helped sooth away the pressures and tiredness of jetlag. When the masseuse climbed onto the bed and stuck her knees into my back I thought my eyes would pop out under the pressure but the overall effect was a good one and I all but fell asleep. The massage didn’t involve any oils as you would usually expect, but simply a towel placed on top of whatever area of the body the masseuse was working on. Far cleaner and every bit as effective. Another room off the massage room revealed multiple bunk beds where the staff lived when not working. A far cry from our lifestyle in the west. A short hop across mini lakes to our hostel, and an hours sleep put me in form for our next adventure. We were whisked off by our student friend to a fantastic Japanese tepanyaki restaurant curiously on the fourth floor of a skyscraper. Our personal table chef was attentive and dextrous and produced a ballet of hand and arm movements that would have made Bobby Crush jealous. The piano was replaced by prawns and scallops but the melodious sauces sang sweet in the air and were accompanied by strange, exotic vegetables not seen in the west. A feast for the eyes and a first for the stomach. Satiated with satay and the like, we made our way back via the underground for a well earned rest and dreams of Hughie Green, Opportunity Knocks and umbrella juggling rickshaw drivers……

Day 3 - 12th July 2009

2009-08-10T15:54:00.006+02:00

I managed to get the odd 15 minutes to half hour sleep which just gave me enough to carry on. My discomfort with flying is just too strong for me to relax completely. I think night time only lasted around 3 hours considering the easterly direction in which we were travelling. With the shutters down the impression of night was extended artificially as we tried to sleep. Eventually people started to stir and we were served glasses of ice cold, fresh orange juice to wake up before being served a cooked breakfast. A couple of agonising hours later and we started our descent. It was ironic that I had covered virtually the same track in 10 hours that I would be covering over the ground in 3 weeks to get back home again. Watching the underbelly camera as the ground approached was amazing, yet disconcerting. As you got closer to the ground you appeared to go faster. By the end it seemed to be too fast to stop. The fields and roads flew past so rapidly! The cloud cover seemed to be total. I had hoped for a sunny day, but realised that that was not to be.
Landing successfully, I released my grip of the lady next to me and apologised for invading her personal space. Strangely, she seemed to warm to me more after that. I was happy to know that I wouldn’t have to fly again for at least a month. As soon as we taxied to our allocated gate we were instructed not to move from our seats until the quarantine people had checked our temperature. Of course, there is always someone who has to get up and try to get a head start by getting their bags down from the overhead locker. In this case they were sharply told to sit down again by the masked authorities who had by now boarded the plane. No messing around here. An electronic device was pointed at our foreheads and bleeped satisfyingly to confirm our body heat to be in the normal acceptable range. I wondered what would have happened if it wasn’t. Is the whole plane, passengers and crew, quarantined for days? Actually no, the offending person is removed to hospital for further tests and all the passengers will receive a different coloured stamp on their entry papers instead of the normal one and will be monitored throughout their journey over the following week. This is one of the reasons that I had to declare all my movements during my time in China.

After that it was off the plane and into the marvel that is Beijing airport. A massive building concept that filters you via internal tram lines to the baggage hall to end all baggage halls. It was around this time that I began to realise the extent of the heat and humidity. Although air conditioned throughout, the high ceilings and vastness of the building couldn’t cope with the body heat of thousands of travellers. Having jeans and a shirt on didn’t help of course. Once I collected my rucksack, which I had had visions of being lost en route, I left the conveyor belt area. Can you imagine explaining about a missing bag to ‘Beijing Lost & Found‘? No, no I will be in Beijing for two days, then if it hasn’t arrived by then you can try to catch me on the Chinese/Mongolian border 36 hours after that. If that’s no good then try Ulaanbaatar two days later. Still no good? Then try a Ger tent in the national park or failing that the Mongolian/Russian border a few days later. In fact just forget it, I will buy new clothes in Beijing and you and your colleagues can share my stuff when it arrives. Sia sia (Chinese for thank you)
Thankfully, this wasn’t a problem I had to deal with and I simply walked through the public area to meet up with my friends. They were easy to find as all you could see was a exotic sea of Chinese faces and black hair, many covered with white masks, and levelled at about my chest hieght. The only tall people were my waiting friends. After the greetings had been exchanged we took a taxi in the now sweltering heat, straight to the art quarter of Beijing - Factory 798.

Remember that although it was 1pm local time, for me it was 6 o’clock in the morning and I had hardly slept for the last two nights. After a change of clothes in a little art café toilet into t-shirt and shorts - and two double espressos I felt decidedly better. Well enough to take in the enormity of the art district. A former factory area that had fallen into disrepair, the government had given the area over to encourage the arts. Artists were allowed to take up residence and the result is an incredible array of work, talent and creativity to equal or outshine most of what I have seen in museums in Europe. How on earth they survive financially I cannot work out.
I looked at exhibition space after exhibition space, but no one had any prices displayed. I had heard that when westerners asked the price of anything the sellers would at the very least double the normal price and quite often triple or even quadruple it. However, in this case, although the gallery owners were showing the work of an artist they were somehow taken aback when asked the price and had to root around papers to find any sort of a price list - if there was one available at all! A further double espresso pepped up my flagging spirit and we left to make our way back to our hostel, within walking distance of Tiananmen Square.

Traffic was hectic with cars ducking and diving in between bicycles and rickshaws. Peasants alongside the road at traffic lights begging for money and food were ignored by the constantly moving hordes. No one paid any attention to traffic lights let alone observing lane restrictions. Noise and glaring neon signs, even in daytime, blasted out their messages and sales pitches. Any recognisable letters in signage was restricted to the large multinational companies that we all use in the west. Everything else was a complete mystery. A culture so different from our own. In the hostel, a dimly lit three bed room was home for the next two days. I was tempted to lie down but knowing I would never make it back up that evening I resisted valiantly by having a hot shower and a cold beer.

Using the tube system, we made our way over to Ghost Street, renowned for authentic Chinese restaurants. Rows and rows of lanterns lit up the entire street amid more neon signs which presumably stated the name and speciality of each establishment. One of our friends had spent the last year studying Chinese in Beijing and guided us past all the obvious front of street places with their staff trying to tempt us in, and instead took us down a little dirty alley with out of the way cafes dotted along the passage. We had to hop over muddy puddles and detritus to reach our goal.
One of the front restaurants on Ghost Street had their kitchen door open onto this alleyway when we passed. The scene was one of mayhem and carnage. Chefs standing in horrific surroundings with woks and flames going full blast. Stained walls and dirty floors were a Gordon Ramsey nightmare. What finished it for me was the old man, who was squatting on the floor, disembowelling a chicken carcass and stripping every vestige of recognisable life from it. The amount of possible diseases from this kitchen was staggering! They could have had a separate menu for this alone - sweet and sour salmonella, deep fried typhoid, diphtheria and rice, yellow fevered noodles…. And this was a front of street restaurant! Thank Mao I had received all my inoculations before I left Spain. All free, thanks to the Spanish health system. We took a quick photo and understandably had the door kicked closed in our faces by the chicken man on the floor without even getting up.
Hopping further along the alley we finally came to our destination. A little local restaurant that specialised in skewered meat barbecue. Not clean at all in the conventional sense, it still had a certain charm. On the dark green walls were strips of coloured paper with Chinese symbols that perhaps signified prayers to the gods of the stomach bugs, to be gentle in the advance of the offerings about to be received. I made the mistake of visiting the only toilet in the place before the food was served to relieve myself of the earlier beer and found myself back in the kitchen of the front of street restaurant I had passed earlier. Not actually of course, but the carnage was more or less the same - minus the chicken gutter on the floor.
The expected squatting toilet was in evidence, and so was what the previous tenant has left. For those not aware of what a squatting toilet looks like, think of a small square-ish porcelain shower base flat on the ground, with an oval sink placed in the middle, either side of which are two indentations to encourage you to where to place your feet. Reverse carefully into the footplate, undo your trousers, skirt etc. and squat, trying to hold onto your wallet and mobile phone so they don’t fall into the business end along with everything else. It’s enough to give you severe constipation. Unfortunately the toilet brush appeared to harbour even more germs - and that was just on the handle! So I just aimed a little off centre to avoid the unwanted splash back.

Back in the restaurant I sat down to a fortifying beer as the wine was not to be recommended at all. By drinking bottled beer you could always tell that at least something was drinkable. Eventually the food came out and it was a delicious mix of skewers of spicy mutton, chicken wings with sweet sauces, barbecued meats and pickles and salads that were absolutely wonderful. I shudder to think what the kitchen looked like but at least everything came out well cooked and no ill-effects were felt the next day. A couple of more beers back in the hostel and I had to fall into bed after a virtually sleepless 72 hours and three flight schedule. A deep sleep ensued only occasionally broken by dreams of headless chickens trying to escape down alleyways being chased crablike by squat bald skinny Chinese men who couldn’t walk upright…..

Day2 - 11th July 2009

2009-08-10T15:49:00.003+02:00

After going early to bed and not sleeping as expected, I got up on time at 5am and took the bus to Heathrow for my 9am flight to Vienna. I travelled with Austrian Airlines and was impressed with the quality of their service. Delicious food and wine was included in the price. A far cry from the Easyjet and Ryanair flights I’m normally used to. If this was the level of quality of the short flight, I hoped for even better on the long haul as I was continuing my journey with them all the way to Beijing. The flight was uneventful and passed reasonably quickly and soon I was sitting in Vienna airport with another eight hours to kill before the flight to China. I was quickly learning that this journey was going to involve a lot of waiting around and doing very little at times.
Vienna airport was a good size but not big enough to spend eight hours in when not eating and drinking. I had been tempted to take a run into central Vienna for a quick look as my bags had been forwarded through from Heathrow direct to Beijing but I decided against it in case I was held up in traffic and started to panic about getting back to the airport in time. Vienna can wait for another trip. I had a light lunch and walked around the airport. That morning I had pulled a muscle in my neck and shoulder lifting my rucksack and was in agony so couldn’t relax. I walked around and around until I knew every shop and every special offer available. Finally the call came out for the Beijing flight and I made my way to the check in. As this was a long haul flight the waiting area was crammed with passengers. I was surprised by how many European faces were on the flight. China is obviously fast becoming a place to visit.
Once on the plane - the biggest I have ever been on, announcements were given in Chinese, German and English. Each seat had a movie screen and the seating was arranged in a 2-3-2 formation across the plane. I had an aisle seat. I sat beside a Chinese lady whom I heard speaking English to the hostess but she declined to speak to me apart from a hello when pushed. I had decided not to have a drink because I knew I would have to go straight out sightseeing as soon as I arrived and didn’t want to have a bad hangover on top of jetlag. However, when offered a free drink I couldn’t resist and had my usual red wine, followed by another and, over the space of a few hours, finally a third. The third one was sharply curtailed though, by the fact that the lady beside me who wouldn’t talk, was forced to ask me to move so she could go to the toilet. As I shifted my blanket and pillow I spilt the whole of the third glass of wine over the blanket and my declaration cards for entry into China. Oh dear, I hoped that the red stain across the card wouldn‘t cause me any problems with the bureaucrats in customs.

I was impressed by the fact that Austrian airlines had an actual chef on board the flight with white hat et al. We had a choice of hot food and service was very attentive. I decided not to have any more to drink because of my pressing schedule and watched a movie. It was possible to watch different channels on the screen and there was also a channel that let you watch the progress of the plane, the temperature, altitude and distance to go etc. This was great for me as I hate to fly at the best of times so an almost 10 hour flight was sheer purgatory. I spent a lot of time watching that screen and urging the plane onwards. With a tailwind we were doing something like 800km an hour over the ground.

Day 1 - 10th July 2009

2009-08-10T15:45:00.002+02:00

A 4am start from Belfast International airport to Stansted began the journey. By 7am I was happy to be off the plane and went straight to the bus for Heathrow. So far so good. After 1½ hours in the bus I arrived at Heathrow and booked my rucksack into the left luggage. I was prepared to sit in the airport for 20 hours, then thought better of it and booked into the Marriott hotel close to the airport. It was a beautiful hotel and meant that at least I could relax later in the evening even though I knew I wouldn’t really be able to sleep very well that night with a 5am alarm call pending.
I took a bus to the local tube station and then the tube into Covent Garden to enjoy a few hours of sightseeing. It seemed a shame not to use the time as productively as possible. Not wanting to overdo it on that first day I went back early to the hotel and relaxed in the central foyer and bar area with a glass of wine and a light sandwich and contemplated the journey to come. A daunting prospect but one I looked forward to.
At least I hadn’t needed to organise a visa for this leg of the trip. Unlike the other countries involved, each of which needed a separate visa to enter their heavily restricted spaces. We had been in Denmark a few weeks prior to this journey to teach a painting course and therefore couldn’t send our passports to the relevant embassies to organise the visas in time, so used a courier company that specialises in visa applications. Problem was, that for three visas they required between three weeks and a month to guarantee everything would be completed on time. We had 20 days… Extra payments were made to each embassy to ensure the paperwork was given priority, yet even then the Mongolian embassy managed to wangle more money out of us by claiming the passports couldn’t be returned before the day of the flight - unless we happen to pay them another €100 that was. It’s strange how the passports turned up first thing the next day after payment was made… All part of the pleasures of travelling I suppose.

START OF THE JOURNEY - IRELAND

2009-08-10T15:36:00.002+02:00

QUICK NOTE - Although the trip didn’t start properly until I made the first real move towards Beijing on the 10th July, I wanted to get the ball rolling with some quick notations I made after arriving in Dublin. I deliberately made the notes without punctuation or grammatical correctness to sum up the instant thoughts I had as I experienced them.

I leave it to the viewer to decipher where the breaks are meant to come to make sense of it all…..How very Joycean of me! Don’t worry - the rest of the journey will be more viewer friendly.

Day 1 - walking through dublin streets rucksack weakening back price of food crazy on the bus back to belfast pass street corner backstreets of dublin 2 boys mock fighting to the encouragement of 3 old men in worn clothes sad looks of days gone by and a youth misspent or not spent at all but a high price paid sun shining with dina washington playing and singing beggars on the streets big issues tramp playing on a toy guitar and no chords just strumming tunelessly and making more money than me belfast looms Day 2 - belfast sun shine short skirts and fake tans soft top cars and designer gear wheres all the money coming from catch up with the family exchange money parades and trouble as usual flags on the streets proclaiming sides paisleys in the news again wedding present commissions getting out of the city for the night no trouble in the news again romanians targeted in belfast whole families leave the country see jim and have lunch chasing money tomorrow dollars for russia Day 3 - into belfast mother to hospital the falls road murals from both sides sell paintings in city collect cheque from county meath riots in belfast parades etc eating far too much wine in apartment bar in central belfast over looking city hall paintings on buses glamorous tomorrow dublin chasing money again Day 4 - notes from a train journey 8am double espresso to wake up on my way to dublin on the early train to chase money cold wet and heavy drizzle ushers in the new irish summer morning a soft day as we would say the familiar back streets and garden views as I leave the city yet again the air hangs heavy as if suspended in the globules of raindrops only the train contact seems to agitate them into the action of release passing hilden brewery the smell of early morning hops assails the nose as the next batch of real ale is laid down the green countryside takes over soon after as we push clockwork like towards the borderless line between countries and cultures 61 window empty flashing level crossings are the only witnesses to our arrival at each step of the way then lurgan people dressed in winter clothes drab and black against the sky the strong green of the countryside the only strike of colour in this otherwise drab grey world of blacks and lesser shades numbers I notice that there are countless numbers along the trackside I will make a note of them and see what order man tries to bring to nature warehouse 14 trackside ROCS 20 station platform 61W time 0830 temp +16 car no 3 train no 3309 signal PD48 speed limit 70 no of cows in a field 43 a big field no of fields with cows 27 a lot of fields a lot of cows getting bored scarva flashes past canada 498 newspaper of man opposite trackside XD293 fairy ring dead tree in middle of a field POYNTZPASS fantastic old church tall and narrow looks like there are only six pews inside reminds me of my paintings tall thin finger reaching into the sky I wonder where it was flags and emblems showing the usual demarcation zones NEWRY like trains they cut through the countryside up on high over valleys and through mountains workers out on smoke breaks a friend of my daughters actually took up smoking to get extra breaks at work bypassing traffic jams in newry at a gentle speed 21 lambs in a field with their mothers that’s 84 legs of lamb for icelands special boil in the bag dinners colours on the flags 3 different colours all sides equal 1 punched ticket just over the border CATCH POINTS DUNDALK full speed no one on the platform 52¼ heavy rain streaks across the window parallel to the motorway a red flatback lorry kicks up a large cloud of spray on the cars behind a splash of blue sky at last gone again in minutes another church spire reaching towards the unobtainable lines in fields of bright yellow rapeseed wild rhubarb on the embankment 33¾ the age my mother was when I was small for 10 years she never aged CATCHPOINTS again a bucket impaled on the fence peoples bedrooms and back gardens again tidal waters at laytown sunshine on the sea and over the beach approaching skerries martello tower reminds me of buck mulligan in ulysses stork in the water at donabate while a helicopter flies overhead man flies while bird dreams of flight role reversal trendy malahide dublin life in boxes again Day 5 - no money forthcoming thousands owed and recovery doubtful in the near future damage limitation time new gallery called for owner avoiding me how strange life is flying from spain to ireland and then leaving for china mongolia and russia the life of an international artist last night bohemian bar glass of wine 7 or 8 euros cant afford to live here now in shelburne hotel for glass of wine €8 barman first class super attentive better quality than other one re the gallery 20 paintings counted in two galleries take paintings in lieu of money last resort a changing picture of sunshine today in dublin turned into a watercolour with the frequent heavy showers wee gracie and janet off shopping for a while waiting for phone call of total paintings in stock paintings taken away sold 4 in galway one for 5G

'THE LAST SUNBATHING'

2009-06-29T14:26:00.004+02:00

Today is the day I make the first step of the journey.
As my flight doesn't leave until late in the day I have been taking in my last bit of sun to carry me through until my return. As always I hate to waste time, so while I was lying there I had images, words and phrases popping into my head as usual. As I sizzled and shortened my life, I wrote a short poem to sum up the day. It's called 'The Last Sunbathing'. A nice way to start the journey......

THE LAST SUNBATHING

Looking up I survey the pock marked azure
Of a tie-dyed sky scarred by aeroplane trails
The sonic boom’s an intrusive roar
That catches the wind on it’s fixed metal sails

I blot out the sun with my thumb at a glance
While the heat beats down upon my worn skin
Squeezing each second from my last naked chance
And lying back sweating I breathe it’s rays in

Demarcation lines fading away
With each toasted minute under microwave glare
The zenith is mirrored in the heat of the day
Reflected in light of celestial flare

TRANS-MONGOLIAN MINUS ONE

2009-06-28T09:57:00.002+02:00

A quick explanation of the title for those of you just here on a week’s holiday or only arrived back for the summer to your summer villa. You know it’s amazing how many people come out on holiday to their one bedroomed apartment or casita only to find it has become a villa by the time they get on the plane to go back to Blighty. It’s interesting how a bit of distance can change one’s perspective of things. Back to the explanation and a nice link to the distance and perspective. If you’re not aware, being a professional artist, I normally write the CoastRider’s weekly arts based article ‘A Splash Of Colour’ about up and coming events that may be of interest. Over the last few weeks I have been building up to the launch of my latest trip/adventure which I intend to write about in this article as an alternative subject for the next few weeks. While you are reading this I, hopefully, should be finishing the last leg of an epic character building journey across China, Mongolia and Russia via the Trans-Mongolian Railway. Sometimes called the Trans-Mongolian Express, I tend to think of that term very loosely as the average speed will be something like 50kph-60kph during the whole trip. Taking into consideration that the journey is almost 8000 km long, you can see that the word express is not to be taken literally.
The reason you will be reading these reports after the event so to speak, is simply because I cannot guarantee to have continued access to the internet en route to email my daily blog entries and weekly articles for the paper, especially considering - 1. the Chinese firewall restrictions, 2. the fact that while in Mongolia - and not sleeping on the train - I will have to sleep in a yurt (a felt circular tent that is used by the nomadic Mongolians - and potentially home to lime disease carrying ticks), and 3. while in Russia, the unhealthy interests of the state police throughout the journey. Therefore I have decided to while away many languorous hours on the train by writing longhand about my experiences and thoughts, and transferring them to my laptop on my return. In theory, by today I should be in St. Petersburg - if all has gone according to plan, and I haven’t been arrested. Although this and previous articles were written weeks in advance, knowing my luck I will get to travel back in the train from Moscow eastwards free of charge to spend the next five years in a Siberian gulag.
Next week’s article, the first of the journey, will briefly chronicle my journey from Spain to Beijing via Dublin, Belfast, Stansted, Heathrow and Vienna airports before the big hop across countries and cultures. A world away from everything most westerners, myself included, are used to. What it won’t record is the journey covered by my passport between courier’s hands from the Chinese, Mongolian and Russian embassies in Madrid, Barcelona and Paris. This process was a very rushed, hectic and expensive one as the issue of visas was left, partly my own fault, just a week or two too late. Be warned, the embassies require at least one week to ten days each or maybe more to process the documentation required. Yet it’s strange, they can fast track things by a couple of days each when they know you are desperate and will pay anything to get your passport back before flight day. A handy way to boost the coffers… Red tape was well named when travelling in communist and former communist countries! Combine this with inoculations for hepatitis A (two), hepatitis B (three), cholera, tetanus, typhoid, diphtheria and malaria, and I feel I have been in a love tussle with an over-amorous porcupine. Enough pricks to fill parliament. Well almost, but don’t quote me on that. Upon my return to Spain I hope to amalgamate all the sights and experiences into paintings, sketches, photographs and words for a major art exhibition later this year if possible.
If you have been reading the build up to the trip over the last few weeks, this is simply a final overview for anyone just joining us now. I hope I have got your interest up enough so I can bring you along on a journey of adventure and experiences outside our normal cultural understanding. This train journey begins at Beijing and travels westwards through China, to Ulaanbaatar, capital of Mongolia. Onwards to Irkutsk and Lake Baikal in Russia before travelling through Russia to Moscow and St. Petersburg. I will cross 8 time zones over the trip as I return to Europe and would like you to join me. So sit back in your seats, strap yourselves in and enjoy!

RUSSIAN SALAD

2009-06-28T09:56:00.000+02:00

Continuing on from my last few weeks report about expectations on travelling on the Trans-Mongolian /Trans-Siberian Railway I wanted to round up with a brief overview of Russia, which is the country I should be travelling through by the time you read this. Totally inadequate of course, as I will be covering seven time zones in Russia alone during the trip. While stopping for a couple of days around Irkutsk, I will be going to Lake Baikal - the largest unfrozen fresh water lake in the world. A little known fact is that Baikal has been created from the slow splitting of the continent apart from north to south. In a few million years, if we haven’t destroyed the place ourselves first, it will become a new ocean.
Before the Trans-Siberian railway, it was quicker to travel from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok by crossing the Atlantic, North America and the Pacific than by going overland. Coasting along on a wave of petrodollar profits, Russia is in far better economic shape than at any time in recent memory. Inflation is under control and three quarters of state run enterprises have now been fully or partly privatised. Despite these improvements, Russia’s economy has a long way to go before fully capitalising on its astonishing natural resources. The boom and bust period of the late 1990’s as well as the abandonment of the social safety net provided by communism, has left many people worse off. The way of life of a Nenets reindeer herder in Siberia is radically different from that of a marketing executive in Moscow or an Islamic factory worker in Kazan. As Russia grows more prosperous, the gap between rich and poor becomes larger. That said, there are common features to life across Russia. For the majority of urban Russians, home is within a drab, ugly housing complex of Soviet vintage. These apartments are typically cramped and have no attached garden, however a large percentage of Russian families have a ‘dacha’, a small country house. Moscow and the like can be seen to empty out at the weekend as people head to the country. Around Irkutsk, it is possible to see the dacha along the sides of the railway tracks.
Railway stations, especially in Russia, are said to be an interesting experience where you can purchase all your food from babushkas (grandmothers) who sell on the platform and through the windows of the train. This is less obvious in China and Mongolia apparently because they have enough supplies on bard to suffice for the journey. The difference is that although there is supposed to be a reasonable selection of food to choose from on the menu in the Russian trains, in reality many items are not available, so the babushka then becomes the most important person in the travellers life, if he or she is to survive the long run up to Moscow. Finally - some etiquette in case you ever find yourself there and don’t know how to behave.

Russian Etiquette

If you are invited to a Russian home, always bring a gift, such as wine or a cake.
Shaking hands across the threshold is considered unlucky. Wait until you are fully inside.
If you give anyone flowers, make sure there’s an odd number as even numbers are for funerals.
Remove your shoes and coat on entering a house.
Once the festivities begin, refusing offered food or drink can cause grave offence.
Vodka is for toasting, not for casual sipping. Wait for the cue.
When you are in any setting with other people, even strangers such as those in a train compartment, it’s polite to share anything you have to eat, drink or smoke.
Traditional gentlemanly behaviour is not just appreciated but expected, as you will notice when you see women standing in front of closed doors waiting for something to happen.

MONGOLIAN HOTPOT

2009-06-28T09:54:00.000+02:00

If you remember, I should currently be somewhere between Mongolia and Russia on my train journey, so this week to keep up to speed, I am going straight into the brief overview for Mongolia. In stark contrast to China and Russia, Mongolia has developed into a paragon of democracy since the end of communism in 1990. Free and fair elections have become the norm here, with voters overturning the ruling party three times in succession since 1996 - a fact that has made Mongolia a darling among international lenders and the donor community. Mongolia’s reversal of fortune is most evident on the streets of Ulaanbaatar, where Korean taxis and Land Cruisers have all but erased the Russian Lada, and where fashion boutiques and elegant restaurants have made ’dollar shops’ a distant memory. Despite this only half of Mongolians have access to clean drinking water and one-third still live under the poverty line. Infrastructure across the country is rudimentary and important economic sectors such as livestock husbandry have proven susceptible to natural disasters. 11 million heads of livestock were killed between 1999 and 2002 in the wake of bad winter storms. Increasingly Mongolia has turned to countries such as Japan, Germany, the US and the UK for assistance in redevelopment. Whilst in Mongolia I hope to experience the changes as the society becomes, if not westernised, at least more open to world influences, and also experience the traditional side if life for Mongolians both in the capital city of Ulaanbaatar, and by living in a Ger (yurt) camp for a number of days.
I must explain that although I am travelling on the Trans-Mongolian Railway, the main track leads across Siberia and is known as the Trans-Siberian Railway. The Mongolian section is one of a variation of offshoots that takes the traveller into a realm of unknown possibilities and cultures. However, most of these countries are so strictly controlled, you cannot move around as freely as you would in Spain or the UK for example. Plans have to be made in advance and invitations to stay in hotels must be purchased otherwise you can’t move anywhere legally.
Starting in either St. Petersburg or Beijing, the whole Trans-Mongolian Railway journey takes 7 days non-stop and covers a distance of 7,865km. I will be travelling east to west against the normal trend (and therefore losing an hour on average every three days as each time zone is re-crossed back towards GMT). I have scheduled stops planned in each country to break up the journey, in an attempt to understand the myriad of countries, landscapes, peoples and cultures of such a vast area of the world. I hope to include images, photographs, colours and views taken in along the way, and even touch on the culinary experiences at out-of-the-way stations, with the possibility of menus and cookery tips for readers interested in trying something new. Finally - some etiquette in case you ever find yourself there and don’t know how to behave.

Mongolian Etiquette

When meeting Mongolians or visiting a ger (yurt), note the following customs and habits:
Avoid walking in front of an older person, or turning your back to the altar or religious objects (except when leaving).
If someone offers you their snuff bottle, accept it with your right hand. If you don’t take the snuff, at least sniff the top part of the bottle.
Try to keep ger visits to less than two hours to avoid interrupting the family’s work.
Don’t point a knife in any way at anyone, when passing a knife to someone ensure that the handle is facing the recipient, and use the knife to cut towards you, not away.
Don’t point your feet at the hearth, at the altar or at another person. Sleep with your feet pointing towards the door.
If you have stepped on anyone, or kicked their feet, immediately shake their hand.
Don’t stand on, or lean over, the threshold, or lean against a support column.
Don’t touch another person’s hat.

SWEET AND SOUR CHINESE

2009-06-28T09:52:00.000+02:00

Now back to my travel build up. If you remember I was telling you about where I hoped to travel, God (and authorities) willing, when I get to the other side of the world. This week I thought I would begin to give a very brief overview of each country to compare and contrast each week. As I am starting with China, obviously it makes sense to start there. In China, the communist party remains solidly entrenched and unchallenged. In 2003 a new president and Premier took charge, but any illusions that this would herald a move towards political liberalisation were dashed when the National Peoples Congress denied Hong Kong the hope of choosing its next leader, flying in the face of the Chinese-British deal. State censorship of everything from Shakespeare to Rolling Stones lyrics continues and Internet access remains rigorously monitored, with a firewall ‘protecting China’s citizens from BBC news in Chinese and other foreign pollutants. In Beijing a heavy police presence saw the 15th anniversary of the 1989 Tiananmen massacre pass with little incident. There are still other problems for the authorities to contend with - China has the largest disparity between urban rich and rural poor in the world. Considering the 750-million-strong peasantry it is no surprise that so many illegal Chinese immigrants still turn up on European shores. Nonetheless, big changes are afoot. You can rocket from shanghai’s Pudong airport into town at 430km/hr on China’s first Maglev train (though your hair can turn grey waiting for your rush hour bus to move on Beijing’s congested streets). The Bejing Olympics in 2008 was the culmination of a move towards acceptance of the regime into the world outside (albeit tentatively). China is a vast country with a culture still shrouded in mystery to most Westerners, and the differences are what I hope to experience and record in both written word and artworks in the coming weeks. Finally - some etiquette in case you ever find yourself there and don’t know how to behave.

Chinese Etiquette

When beckoning to someone, wave them over to you with your palm down, motioning to yourself.
If someone gives you a gift, put it aside to open later to avoid appearing greedy.
Always take off your shoes when entering a Chinese home.
When meeting a Chinese family, greet the eldest person first, as a sign of respect.
Always present things to people with both hands, showing that what you are offering is the fullest extent of yourself.

SOME EXERPTS FROM FUTURE ARTICLES

2009-06-28T09:46:00.003+02:00

I thought I would take the opportunity to release some excerpts of the future articles for the newspaper while I still have access to the internet. I may not have access in a few days so I will include overviews of each country in a few quick blog entries now. Here is the first...... but no photographs yet of course.

Over the last few months I have been planning an extended train journey that will shortly see me fly to Beijing and take the Trans-Mongolian Express through China and on to Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia. My journey continues onwards to Irkutsk and Lake Baikal in Russia and right across the vastness of the Russian Steppes to Moscow and St. Petersburg before ending in Copenhagen in Denmark in August. The trip shall take approximately five to six weeks and cover eight time zones, and I have agreed with the CoastRider to publish a weekly article on my experiences while making the journey for you all to read about. The first leg of the journey will have already started by now with a trip back to Ireland initially, but in the coming weeks I hope to give you an insight into countries and cultures quite alien to most westerners. Sometime towards the end of the year, in conjunction with fellow artist and travelling companion Rita Hee, we intend to put all our experiences together to create an exhibition of images, words and sketches based on the trip, so watch this space.

THE 'TRANS-MONGOLIAN EXPRESS' BEGINS SHORTLY!!

2009-06-26T12:51:00.010+02:00

Hello to all

This is the first entry I have made in a long time on this blog. Mainly because I have been writing a weekly blog for an expat magazine in Spain about, strangely enough, the expat life in Spain. I have also been writing a weekly arts based article for a leading English expat newspaper on the Costa Blanca. With all these things going on as well as my normal work of painting and more recently, teaching art to adult students, coupled with the fact that I have been involved with international exhibitions in different countries, my life has been a bit hectic to say the least.

My next project is a major one. I am off to China, Mongolia and Russia in a few days and travelling by train with the Trans-Mongolian Railway across all three countries over the period of around 5 to 6 weeks to do a bit of research for an art exhibition around the end of the year. During the trip I shall be hand writing a daily blog which I shall upload whenever I have an opportunity en route, and have agreed with the newspaper to write a weekly article about the trip on my experiences and adventures.

So please keep an eye on this blog address for more entries in the following weeks.
Here is a link to my weekly article in the newspaper for you to keep up to date with my progress as well.
The CoastRider Newspaper

PAINTING WEEKENDS AND HOLIDAYS

2008-11-25T14:26:00.003+01:00

Just a reminder that the painting weekends to the cave houses of Galera, Andalucia are now operational. If anyone is interested in finding out more just click on the link here -

http://paintingweekends.blogspot.com/

Also if anyone is interested in week long painting holidays on the Costa Blanca please get in touch by email as the website is still under construction. When the website is complete you can visit it at this link -

http://www.artinspain.eu/

In the meantime click on it and store the address for your future reference.

Hope to hear from you soon.

EXHIBITIONS BEGIN THIS WEEKEND!!!

2008-10-01T21:10:00.003+02:00

I have finally made it back to Ireland with my new paintings for the exhibitions in Dublin and subsequently Cyprus in the following days. Sorry for not updating this blog, but I now write a weekly blog for an ex-pat magazine called, strangely enough, The Xpat Magazine.

Here is a link - http://www.thexpat.com/blog/

Hope you like my meanderings, around Spain, and my head.

Here are some images - one from the exhibition, one of my life drawings and one of me posing for a magazine article at my studio. I know, I know - all the world's a stage etc. etc.

NEW WORKS FOR UP-COMING EXHIBITIONS

2008-08-02T14:34:00.013+02:00

' Deflated Dreams' - 8"x 24" SOLD

I have been working on new paintings for my up-coming exhibitions in Dublin and Cyprus in October. Haven't finalised what is going where yet, but I thought I would let you see a couple of them anyway.
Hope you enjoy.

The Gilded Cage - 8"x 24" SOLD

'Almost No Limit' - 18"x 24" SOLD

'PINK LAKE BLUES'

2008-07-26T09:36:00.002+02:00

I finally took time out of my busy schedule to visit the salt lake in Torrevieja this week. Just a short stroll from my studio, and visible from the top of the house. Down by the waters edge a crowd of mud people gathered like extras from a Star Wars movie. Everyone was caked in the stuff. Some with mud around their swollen joints, some from throat to gusset, while one lady of former Soviet states origin - going by the accent - had the novel idea to take all her clothes off, slap on a thick oozing organic bikini and proceeded to stand with her arm and legs flung to the four corners of the earth seemingly to offer an all encompassing bear hug to anyone walking within her grab range.

This was all very well until - a) she stood still until the mud dried and she tried to move, creating fissures between north and south that would have made the ‘Rift Valley Conservation Team’ proud, or - b) she waded wide legged into the water and the twin muddy peaks of Kilimanjaro slowly slid down her navel to join the now equally viscous map of Eurasia working its way towards her kneecaps. A sight imprinted on my memory forever.

If you have never been to the salt lake, I would recommend it thoroughly. Accessible through various holes in the fence around its perimeter, make your way to the waters edge, and make sure you have tie on shoes as they tend to float away otherwise. I don’t recommend trying to stand up on the salt crystals without them. Feels like walking on broken glass - I wonder is that where Annie Lennox got the idea for the song…..?

Anyway, back to the instructions - place a blow up air travel cushion around your neck, inflated of course, and slowly lie back in the water. The lake is so full of salt and minerals that you float without effort and can let the stresses and strains of the day disappear along with all the money you forgot to take out of your pockets before you got in. By all means take a book, but I-pods are not advised as you may inadvertently create a circuit between you, your batteries and the salts, and slowly fry your grey matter while listening to the mating calls of south Pacific whales. Who needs all this expensive, alternative dark tank therapy when you have everything right here on your doorstep? If you want the dark part just use the old blackout eye mask that probably came in the same package as the blow up air travel cushion. See? Easy peasy!

Word of warning though! Make sure you check wind direction before you lie down or you may end up at San Miguel de Salinas or, worse still, sucked up into one of the barges scraping the salt from the lake bed to send to those poor people in northern Europe to put on their roads in the winter. I didn’t check the wind direction of course, and ended up with a three kilometre hike back home with a deflated cushion round my neck, an eye patch skewed over one eye and an ear, a talcum powder coating of salt covering me from head to toe and strange but enticing looks from the girls on the roundabouts. Not recommended, but friends said my skin glowed beautifully for days afterwards.

The only downside to lake bathing? Shaving. If you have had a shave within twenty four hours of going in, by God you’ll know about it! It’s like dipping you head in a bucket of Fahrenheit aftershave. Your skin starts to turn the same colour as the water and feels like you have just applied a fresh lava facemask. It’s no wonder the flamingos are the shade they are!
God help ladies who depilate!

The rain in Spain - and the rest!!

2008-07-16T22:54:00.005+02:00

SPECTACULAR!

The thunderstorm had been building all day and the broody skies were threatening as darkness fell over the city.

The yellow streetlight glow was punctuated by super-bright forks and flashes for at least an hour. The roar of the thunder was all-surrounding and ultimately awful.

I stood outside in the warm rain and clicked, clicked, clicked away with the camera until I finally captured the images you see here.

The power of nature at full force.

Well worth the effort!

'THE SUN SETS IN THE EAST'

2008-07-16T10:22:00.002+02:00

It was such a lovely evening yesterday that I decided to take a trip on my trusty rusty bicycle down onto Torrevieja seafront. The sun was about to say it's daily farewells, taking with it the worst of the summer heat.

I had heard that the new marina had a couple of newly opened bars and decided to give them the benefit of my experience. From the waterside they all looked pretty much the same, so I went for the one that had the most comfy seats, tied up my steed, and relaxed in a pool of sweat until the bartender passed me the much needed artificial relaxant.

It struck me that something we don't have as a rule here on the Costa Blanca is a sunset over the sea, since we more or less face eastwards. So it was a pleasant surprise to see that, as we were on the outer arm of the breakwater we could look back over the town and watch the sun go down, while it's reflections were shimmering over the Mediterranean sea - albeit in the harbour. It was stunning. I remarked that it felt as good as being on the Côte d’Azur, only better, because I actually lived here! I watched it until my corneas were irreparably damaged.

The sun was almost gone when I realised that I had forgotten my lights to wend my way safely home again afterwards. So I came up with a surreal idea to wait until the sun was just about to dip over the horizon, therefore at it's weakest and unable to fight back, and capture it in my bicycle basket to help me see in the dark on the way home. It worked! After a few more drinks and tall tales I slowly headed for home in a snake-like fashion. With my way so well illuminated I made it back in one piece, and released the sun back into the wild as soon as I got home.

I would like to point out that no constellations were put unduly at risk in the telling of this story.

ALERT - TJ MILES PAINTING STOLEN!

2008-07-10T20:46:00.005+02:00

I received word today that one of my paintings was stolen from the 'White Image' gallery in Hillsborough, Northern Ireland (just outside Belfast for those that don't know it).

Title: 'One of the multitude'
Size: 18" x 24" (45cm x 60cm approx.) plus gilt frame with white slip
Price: 2000.00 Euros (£1350.00)

The police have been informed and are dealing.

Gallery details : White Image Gallery
34 Lisburn Street
HILLSBOROUGH
BT26 6ABUK
Tel: 028 9268 9896
Email: info@whiteimage.com
website: http://whiteimage.com/

If anyone comes across it, or are offered it for sale, please inform me or the gallery concerned immediately.

Thank you all for your assistance.

- COMMISSION FOR QUEEN'S BIRTHDAY -

2008-06-06T18:47:00.017+02:00

Invites are currently winging their way around the country for quite possibly the party of the year, here on the Costa Blanca in Spain.

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's

82nd birthday party no less!

As mentioned in previous blog entries, I was commissioned to paint a picture representing a modern, forward looking Britain with an emphasis on music and multiculturalism. I created a surrealistic scene of different ethnic groups coming under the umbrella (quite literally in this case) of British nationality. All in celebration of diversity and acceptance within todays society.

'REIGNING UMBRELLAS' 18" x 24"

With an obvious play on words, the umbrellas seem to be raining down on the people and the levitating musical instruments. In this case of course, the 'reigning' relates to the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

The painting will be on show on the evening of the party and I shall be in attendance. I look forward to meeting anyone interested in knowing more.

Dali & Me

2008-05-26T22:15:00.007+02:00

Cadaques - May 2008

No words - just pictures

Another in the life series...

2008-05-26T10:39:00.003+02:00

Here is another in the series of nudes I am undertaking at the moment. I like the idea of lines defining the images, and a certain rough spontaneity of quick 15 or 30 minute sketches.

Sitting nude - Charcoal on paper - 12" x 20"

Life series continued...

2008-05-25T12:57:00.008+02:00

Another couple of the latest life series I am working on. This time in charcoal. Hope you like them. They are all for sale by the way - just contact me by email for details.

Reclining nude - charcoal on paper - 8" x 16"

Hip raised nude - charcoal on paper - 8" x 16"

Better late than never....

2008-05-15T10:49:00.006+02:00

Apologies yet again for not updating before this. I have been working on an important commission piece for the last three weeks solid, as well as finally succumbing to requests to start art classes for my fellow artists here in Spain.

The commission is now finished and I will hold off until the official unveiling before exhibiting it here for you all.

I thought that I should put something up for you to look at today to prove that I have been working. It's one of a series of nudes I am presently working on.

Green Nude - pastel on paper - 12" x 16"

In the meantime, anyone interested in adult art classes in the southern Costa Blanca - the TJ way - please don't hesitate to contact me by email initially for more details.

Look forward to hearing from you.

WINNER OF COMPETITION ANNOUNCED

2008-04-04T10:45:00.004+02:00

Press release March 2008

TUAM RESIDENT WINS INTERNATIONAL ARTWORK

Local business woman Mary Blake, who owns the Horizon Beauty Centre in Tuam, Galway, Ireland (tel: 093-28685), was astounded to be informed recently that she had succeeded, over hundreds of other entrants, to win a coveted original painting worth 2000 euros, by Irish born artist TJ Miles. Already a TJ Miles collector, Mary entered a competition to win the artwork in the leading homes and lifestyle magazine - ‘Ireland’s Homes, Interiors & Living’ in which TJ Miles was the March issue’s ‘Artist of the Month‘.

The prize was even further highlighted by the artist flying in, from his home and studio in Spain, to deliver the artwork in person. Mary said “I’m absolutely thrilled to win this painting, it’s a wonderful addition to my personal art collection.”

Note from TJ - 'Mary, hope you enjoy the painting for many years to come!'

Yet another TJ Miles Corporate Collector

2008-03-24T17:12:00.004+01:00

KINCORA HALL HOTEL, KILLALOE, COUNTY CLARE

While passing through County Clare on my regular trip round Ireland I received a request to call with Muriel and Matt Sherlock, owners of the Kincora Hall Hotel, Killaloe, after they had seen my recent article in 'Ireland's Homes, Interiors and Living' Magazine.
I am pleased to say that I can now count them among my corporate collectors, and wish them good luck for the future with the business.

Link to Kincora Hall Hotel

Many thanks Muriel and Matt.

I hope you and your guests enjoy the painting.

New Corporate Collector for TJ Miles

2008-03-23T21:26:00.003+01:00

I have just heard this week that I have a new corporate collector. VHI Ireland - the leading healthcare insurance provider in Ireland - has just purchased a number of my paintings for their Cork branch. Many thanks for your support, it is always welcome when the corporate sector takes notice of an artist's work.

5 star accomodation in Dingle, Ireland

2008-03-23T18:56:00.006+01:00

Link to 'Castlewood House B&B, Dingle, Ireland'

Whilst back in Ireland with new works for all my representing galleries, I had occasion to stop in the breathtaking village of Dingle on the west coast of Ireland. I came across a fantastic bed and breakfast called 'Castlewood House'. Although it is officially a bed and breakfast (5 stars), I believe it is more accurate to think of it as the equivalent of the latest boutique style hotels you get in major cities at the moment. Stunning themed rooms, jacuzzi baths, artworks galore on every wall, all the extras you could wish for, and to top it all - unbelievable breakfasts that deserve to be michelin starred. Give it a try if you are in the area.

Thanks Helen and Brian, I will be back soon.

Featured Artist of the Month - TJ Miles

2008-02-15T15:21:00.006+01:00

This week saw the launch of the March 2008 edition of Irelands leading homes and lifestyle magazine - 'Irelands Homes, Interiors and Living'.

I am featured 'Artist of the Month' with a four page spread on me and my work. In all good bookshops now. There is also a competition to win one of my original paintings worth 2000 euros, being held in conjunction with the magazine, if anyone is interested in entering.

International Inaugural Success!!

2008-02-15T14:36:00.010+01:00

The opening of the 'take 5' exhibition was attended by well over 200 people from what seemed to be at least seven or eight different nationalities, going by the languages spoken. Two Spanish Television companies arrived along with representatives from the Torrevieja Ajuntamiento, and there were reporters from at least five international newspapers that interviewed me personally, never mind the rest of the artists. My thanks goes to Elizabeth Bell who attended as a representative of the British Consul Juliet Maric, who unfortunately couldn't make it on the night.

Thankfully the newpaper interviews were in English, but I am afraid my interview with the Spanish TV might be better left on the shelf, given my still, quite poor, grasp of the language.

All in all, I think it is fair to declare the inauguration a great success. The momentum has continued building with a constant stream of interested people coming in each day since, wanting to meet the artists involved. Although there is a consierge in attendance for the whole exposicion, all artists have agreed to attend at least some part of each day in order to answer any questions posed by curious members of the public.

The show will continue for another 4 weeks approximately. Opening hours should be (Town Hall permitting!) from 11am - 2pm, and 5pm - 8pm, Tuesday to Sunday (closed Mondays). Please feel free to come along and introduce yourselves to the artist on the day.

Change in the Line-up for 'take 5'

2008-02-13T09:47:00.003+01:00

LINK TO 'TAKE 5' WEBPAGE

It is with regret that two of the artists due to exhibit in the 'take 5' exposicion - husband and wife team, Ricardo Hanna and Gabriela Navarré - have had to pull out at the last minute due to personal reasons. However, I am pleased to inform you that I have found two Spanish artists of high calibre to replace them at short notice.

Antonio N Serralta and Rosa Fernanda Sanchez have both had exposicions in Torrevieja in 2007. In fact, I was so impressed with their paintings at the time, that I made a note of their contact details at the exhibitions with a view of purchasing something from each for my own personal collection at a later date.

Both were extremely helpful and understanding at such a late stage in the proceedings and have worked wonders over the last two days in the run up to the opening tonight.

Click on the link to the 'take 5' webpage for more details of each artist and some samples of their paintings.

Doors open 6.30pm. Hope to see you all there.

2008-02-02T17:42:00.001+01:00

Here are another couple of pictures earmarked for the 'take 5' exposicion. Hope you all like them - one is a panoramic version of my trademark style of quirky landscape.

'Memories of Home' 120cm x 40cm

The other is also in my usual style, but this time I have created it as a mosaic from broken tiles. Quite an interesting challenge, and something I quite enjoyed doing, especially when it was so different from painting.

'Mosaic of Life' 30cm x 30cm

REMINDER OF 'TAKE 5' EXPOSICION DATES

2008-01-22T13:04:00.001+01:00

Just a quick reminder to you all of the dates
for the 'take 5' exposicion in 2008.

Inauguration date is now -

Wednesday 13 February 2008

Exposicion runs from 13 February - 23 March 2008

Wine Reception 6.30pm on Wednesday 13 February

LINK TO 'TAKE 5' WEBPAGE
LINK TO MAP/LOCATION

New paintings for 'take 5' exposicion

2008-01-18T14:33:00.000+01:00

‘Seascape on a windy day’

I have always been a great fan of vibrant colour and vivacity. Sometimes though, the colours alone are not enough to represent the movement and force of nature for me. The wind and sea are not a fixed thing. This is especially true, and all the more relevant on a boat, when you realize that you are only a tiny little dot in the vast expanse of nature. Here I wanted to show a scene of pure movement and force, and therefore emphasised this with fast moving clouds and waves crashing around the rugged coastline, threatening to break out of the picture.

‘Regatta day’

Again vibrant colours and heavy textures are singing their songs in a celebration of life. I have always loved that feeling of anticipation when coming into harbour for the first time. Especially if it’s for a day of celebration with other like minded people. Coming from an island nation where you are never more than 50 miles from the sea, instils something in the blood. A blood that is made up of much history and many nationalities. The Vikings, Normans, English, Spanish, and many others besides are all part of my DNA.

Ceol na Mara (Music of the sea)

2008-01-15T09:15:00.000+01:00

Here is a painting I have been working on for my latest exhibition in Spain. It's called 'Ceol na Mara' (Gaelic for Music of the sea). You can see it in the flesh so to speak at the inauguration at the RENFE Sala de Exposiciones in Torrevieja on the 13th February - see below for location map, GPS co-ordinates etc. Hope to see you there.

Confirmation of 'Take 5' Exposicion

2007-12-14T10:11:00.001+01:00

I have just received confirmation of the dates

for the 'take 5' exposicion in 2008.

Inauguration date is now -

Wednesday 13 February 2008

Exposicion runs from 13 February - 23 March 2008

Wine Reception 6.30pm on Wednesday 13 February

LINK TO 'TAKE 5' WEBPAGE

LINK TO MAP/LOCATION

'take 5' International Art Exposicion

2007-12-10T16:59:00.001+01:00

Just back from Ireland doing yet another delivery trip for my galleries. A hectic time as always, more so because of the Christmas rush. Then all this week I've been very busy getting organised for my next exhibition here in Spain. It's a joint exhibition of five artists, all of different nationalities, and is to be held here in Torrevieja, on the Costa Blanca in February.

We have called it 'take 5' and I have set up a separate webpage to use as a link to each artist, namely:

Ricardo Hanna (Spain)
Maurice Murrel Thacker (England)
Rita J Hee (Denmark)
Gabriela Navarré (Argentina)
and not forgetting myself as the Irish contingent.

LINK TO 'TAKE 5' WEBPAGE

An exact date for the launch is still to be confirmed. I will keep you all posted.

New Gallery on board

2007-11-27T11:03:00.000+01:00

I now have a new gallery representing me in Northern Ireland. 'White Image' is a contemporary art gallery in the beautiful village of Hillsborough, not far from Belfast. The owner and director Bill Morrison was keen to take my latest works into the gallery and I look forward to seeing what the reaction of local art collectors will be in due course. Bill, many thanks for your interest. I hope this is the beginning of a long and successful business relationship.
To view the website please click on the link below.

White Image Gallery

Hello Danny

2007-11-14T16:42:00.000+01:00

The night of the Danny La Rue show has come and gone and the Benidorm Palace was filled to capacity for this one-off event. I was very proud to be one of the guests of honour at the event and thoroughly enjoyed the whole proceedings. Whilst waiting to present my limited edition print as the first prize in the fundraising raffle, it was amazing to see behind the scenes and meet the other stars of the show during the interval.

My thanks go to all the organisers, but especially to Steve Ashley who was instrumental in bringing the whole thing together for the benefit of the Costa Blanca Samaritans. I hope a large amount of money was raised to help keep the phone lines open for a long time to come.

The younger Danny was played by Jerry Lane who wowed the audience with his singing, dancing and costumes, and was accompanied by a plethora of other great talented singers and dancers, too numerous to mention, on this special night. Then Danny came on to much applause. He sang a fantastic range of his own well known songs as well as songs made famous by friends from glamorous era’s long since gone. An interview session followed with radio presenter Beverly Stewart during which Danny regaled us with stories of his younger days. A night of nostalgia and celebration of a life steeped in show business. The show finished with a bang as all the singers and dancers joined together for the grand finale, making this into what must have been the event of the year in the Benidorm Palace’s 2007 diary.

It was a pleasure to chat to everyone concerned and also to catch up with Danny La Rue when he arrived at the after show party. I am amazed at the amount of British (and Irish) talent now living full time on the Costa Blanca.

An experience to remember for a long time to come.

Danny La Rue

2007-11-08T11:57:00.001+01:00

'Significant Changes Within' 18"x24" Ltd. Edtn. Print
Raffle prize for the Costa Blanca Samaritans fundraiser event

TJ, Danny and Judy

What a wonderful day I had yesterday!

I had been asked to donate something as part of a fund raising evening taking place in the Benidorm Palace in aid of the Costa Blanca Samaritans on Remembrance Sunday (11th November, for those of you who don't know).

The production arranged for the night is the life story of none other than the great Danny La Rue. Danny has flown in especially to host the night in his own inimitable fashion and it promises to be a fantastic evening.

I was asked to attend by my sole representing gallery here in the Costa Blanca - The Fusion Gallery in Altea, by owner and director Judy Webber to hand over the limited edition print to a 'very special guest'. The coastal drive from Alicante to Altea is spectacular. It was a beautiful day, 2o degrees or so, car windows down enjoying the sunshine, with Michael Buble singing in the background. After a delicious lunch with Judy and Jenny in the old square of Altea I thought, this is one of those perfect days. How can it get any better? Who turned up shortly afterwards as the special guest?

It was Danny La Rue himself!

Danny signing the visitor book

What a character he was! He entertained us for ages with stories of his experiences both on and off the stage, but the time flew and the next thing we knew it was dark. With the business of the day, the handover, completed satisfactorily for the television company, Danny showed a great interest in a number of my original paintings hanging in the gallery.

Before he left he insisted in taking a TJ original home with him to remind him of our time together. Two Irish lads from the opposite ends of the island, meeting up in a foreign land to reminisce about the old country. It's called 'A Gathering Sky' 4"x16"(10cm x40cm)

TJ and Danny with Danny's very own TJ original painting

I will be attending the show in person to hand over the print to the winner on the night. I can't wait to see the show, if yesterdays fun and games were anything to go by. I believe there are a number of limited tickets still available, so phone and book them while you still have the chance!

Link to the Fusion Gallery

Link to Danny La Rue Website

Link to the Benidorm Palace

A present for Santa Claus

2007-11-05T13:43:00.000+01:00

A funny little story that I meant to publish last week.

I was at the exhibition of a Norwegian artist Tor-Gunnar Riise who lives within the Norwegian Arctic Circle and was amazed when Tor had a surprise guest with him...

None other than Santa Claus himself!!

It turns out Santa has a holiday home here on the Costa Blanca. After we had chatted for a while I told Santa that I wanted to give him a present to say thank you for all the presents he had given me over the years. I gave him one of my limited edition prints and he was really touched by the gesture. He told me he would hang it in his workshop to remember me by. Although the photograph attached isn't the 'actual' Santa Claus, I thought it would represent his joy at receiving my gift!

Tor's exhibition was of subtle colourful scenes from the Arctic Circle including paintings of the Northern Lights over mountain tops. Beautiful work. You could feel the shivers running up your spine in his representations even though it was twenty degrees outside. Apparently spring, when it eventually comes, only lasts a week before their short summer takes over. Tor's other paintings described the dramatic changes between the seasons in what must be a barren landscape for much of the year. I wouldn't mind seeing that sometime. I'm not sure I could handle the six months of complete darkness though.

Link to Tor-Gunnar Riise's website

Link to Santa's website

The Day Of The Dead

2007-11-03T15:47:00.000+01:00

All Hallows Eve has, of course, always been known as the night when the witches and hobgoblins come out to have some fun. This is because it was widely believed that the 31st of October was the night when the worlds of the dead and the living were at their closest point of the year. Whilst we in the north of Europe tend to use it as an excuse to dress up and party, the inhabitants of Spain use their time for fiesta's to welcome the dead into the family again, just for one night.

On November 1st we decided to visit the local cemetery to see the outdoor Mass and spend our time thinking about our own lost family members from years gone by. During my travels in various parts of Europe I have seen some strange cemeteries. So different from what we are used to in Ireland. I thought I would include a couple of photographs of our local cemetery here to let you see how it's 'done' in Spain.

Instead of being put into the ground, the bodies are incarcerated into sections of a wall - each one just wide enough to slide the coffin into - and then sealed up. Visiting family members may have to climb up the ladders provided to replace dead flowers or clean the plaque, depending on where their loved ones are positioned in the wall.

Isn't it strange how we struggle through life, measuring our successes by moving to bigger and bigger houses, only to 'downsize' over and over again as we get older and realize that we don't actually need all that space after all. When we head for the final downsize in life we don't actually need a lot of room at all, just a two-by-two-by-six foot square hole in a wall. It's strange how many 'foreigners' are now buried in our local cemetery.

English, Irish, German, Russian, Dutch, French and Scandinavian to name but a few.

It comes to us all eventually.

A walk in The Park Of Nations

2007-10-25T13:56:00.000+02:00

A walk in The Park Of Nations (115cm x 75cm approx.)

I Have decided to put one of my own latest paintings up today for perusal. It's for a potential joint international exhibition here in Spain yet to be confirmed.

It's based on a walk I made recently through my local park in Torrevieja. The park in question is called 'The Park of Nations' and depicts the multi-cultural city in which I live. The small lake in the middle of the park is shaped like the map of Europe and the visiting families can take a boat out on the water and 'circumnavigate' Europe in about five minutes without getting seasick! Often used for concerts and events, it is a wonderful mix of languages, culture and a riot of colours which I find most pleasing to the eye.

I tried to capture the vibrancy and movement of the park in this painting as I felt it while out walking. As usual, the photo doesn't really do it any justice as it's more of a three dimensional piece, and therefore best seen in the flesh.

Flowers in NYC - Artist Marj Vetter

2007-10-23T10:26:00.000+02:00

Got this lovely bright picture from Marj Vetter, a friend and fellow artist from Alberta, Canada. Taken from a photograph on a recent trip to the Big Apple. I love the angular look of the buildings and, of course, the colours jumping out of such an urban scene. It just goes to show there can be quiet, tranquil corners in such a major bustling city.

As Marj says - "There's no reason not to have flowers in your home when you live in that city."

Link to Marj Vetter - Check out her other work here.

Vibrant African Art

2007-10-20T19:34:00.000+02:00

link to Kudakwashe Gavi

I received an email from an African artist - Kudakwashe Gavi - today looking for advice as he prepares to exhibit outside Africa for the first time. I have pasted his email and my answer, along with one of his excellent images here. His work is wonderful. I think he will go far!

Hallo TJ Miles

My name is kudakwashe, I am a young artist from Zimbabwe in the southern part of Africa,but now I am based in cape town south Africa. Marion Zimmerman gave me your details, she told me that you had an exhibition in June, how did it go? I hope it was good.

The reason I'm writing is that I am looking for an artist that has exhibited at The Marziart Gallery in Germany to critique my work and maybe give me some advice on what to improve or to work on.

I will be exhibiting at Marziart studios next year in October and it will be my first solo exhibition, I am very excited. I have attached some artworks for you to look at. Please, I'm asking you to help me build my art. I will be happy to hear from you, I'm also looking forward to your reply. I was on your website and must say your work is amazing.

Kind regards from Africa

Kudakwashe Gavi

Hello Kudakwashe
Many thanks for your kind comments about my work. My exhibition went extremely well, with a number of sales during the month. Well worth the effort.
I can recommend Hamburg as a city worth visiting if you are planning to go, and Marion will make you feel extremely welcome I'm sure. I think you will have a very successful exhibition with your wonderful paintings.
I don't think you need any advice with the quality of painting you are producing. You have a great mix of colours and movement, and both mixed together create a vibrancy that is exciting to look at. I really like them, especially as colour is my thing.
I think Marion will be thrilled to exhibit your highly evocative artwork.

Good luck for the exhibition next year!!
Let me know how it goes.
Best wishes
TJ

The loss of a dear friend

2007-10-17T13:16:00.000+02:00

I lost a dear, old friend this week in a road traffic accident. An adventurer and man of strong and generous character, Bernard Fison will be dreadfully missed by many. I felt moved to write a poem as a reminder of our travels together. A loss deeply felt.

Bernard

It rained today.
We’d talked
of art trips down to Spain,
the wine we’d drink,
the bread we’d share.
The easels sit anticipating
in the corner now unused.
It rained today.
My world is smaller than before.
What colours we saw
when we sailed north,
hues of blue and green and pink,
in the same sky
at the same time.
Magical!
And all the while
the music played.
The lark ascending
lifted our hearts and spirits.
Singing, as you played
the grand piano,
made grander still
while you were here.
I’ll play the song
just one more time,
and reminisce
the laughter shared.
It rained today.
The clouds are full.
I’ll paint the colours,
and remember.

The rain in Spain - again!

2007-10-13T12:44:00.001+02:00

http://www.hotelcenajo.com/

I really must make time for this blog. I keep putting it back and back on my list of priorities as work piles up and deadlines approach. I was so exhausted the other day that we decided that we would go to an isolated hotel inland just to rest for a night.

The Cenajo Hotel is set amid beautiful mountain scenery and beside the Cenajo Dam (hence the name). Very Italianate in design, it reminded me a little of Portmeirion in Wales - where 'The Prisoner' was filmed. The nearest village was 25 kilometres away.

About an hour after our arrival it began to rain. It rained, and rained and rained and rained, and this was only punctuated by thunder and lightning in between the rain. The photo of the front of the hotel is taken from the restaurant door which was across the striking courtyard.

A great spot to rest and relax as there is nothing to do but eat and drink and sleep, which was perfect for me on this brief trip. If the weather is more clement there are lovely walks and free use of bicycles, indoor and outdoor pools, saunas, gym etc.

But at least I've caught up on my sleep a bit and am back to work a little perkier than I was last week. I can recommend it, and hope to go again soon.

TJ's 'YouTube' Mini Movie

2007-09-27T12:16:00.000+02:00

A short entry today as I have been so busy as usual. Will fill in gaps in the next few days. In the meantime, here is a short movie I created to let people see a painting from creation to completion. It's not very detailed but I did it in a rush one day to test how it would work. Maybe some day I will have the time to create a more detailed movie of the processes involved. Just click on the link below to be redirected to 'YouTube'.

Click here for
TJ's mini movie

PS- bring your own popcorn.

Pacific Yachting Magazine

2007-09-06T14:55:00.000+02:00

Yesterday I received a copy of 'Pacific Yachting' magazine from editor Jeffrey Briggs. If you remember, Jeffrey asked for permission to use my words and images as part of an article for his magazine tying in boats and art. Along with Robert Genn and another 13 or so artists he has created a nice feature based around the subject and I thank him for the opportunity to participate.

I'm not sure what range of countries, or areas of the world the magazine is available in apart from the USA, but if any reader of this blog can get hold of a copy, by all means do so.

Many thanks to Jeffrey and Robert for your input and support. It's much appreciated.

John Connery Exhibition, Galway

2007-09-01T19:22:00.000+02:00

A good artist friend of mine has just begun a new exhibition in Galway, Ireland. John Connery has been painting professionally for what must be 15 years or more, though I'm sure he will forgive me if that information is not totally accurate. I always enjoyed John's company whenever I lived in Ireland and have been a great fan of his work for some time. Actually I have one of John's paintings in my personal collection.

Unfortunately, John has been a bit poorly lately, so I'm not sure if he even managed to get to the opening of his exhibition in person. I will hopefully get to see the show when I return to Ireland in a week or so, but in the meantime I have downloaded one of the images for all to see here. John, if you read this, I hope your feeling a lot better soon, and the best of luck with the show!

It's entitled 'The Quiet Man Bridge'. This little bridge situated a few miles outside Galway city was made famous in the film 'The Quiet Man' starring John Wayne. It's my absolute favourite film of all time and one I never get tired of watching over and over again! Can't wait to see it again.

Check out John's exhibition at the Kenny Gallery, Galway. http://www.kennys.ie/

Coney Island, Van Morrison and Art

2007-08-24T08:46:00.000+02:00

This week I received a number of responses to an email I sent to Robert Genn in regard to 'Bonus Creativity'. Robert's compatriots used an old image of mine 'Coney Island' as an illustration of my work. One person who responded with an email, John McLean, particularly stood out for me. With his permission I have included his letter and the subsequent replies below.

Dear Mr Miles,

While perusing the 'clickbacks' of Robert Genn's latest newsletter I was surprised and delighted to come across your painting 'Coney Island' which I recognized as the place where I had spent all of my summer vacations as a child (about eight weeks) for the ten years or so between the early 1940's and the early 1950's. I grew up in Belfast and my grandparents had a summer house at Coney Island. Those were halcyon days of leisure, swimming, fishing, lobstering, and playing cricket on the beach when the tide was out. What fun to have them suddenly brought to mind again! I was back in Northern Ireland a couple of years ago, visiting my sister, and went to Coney Island to see some old friends who now reside there year round. The place hadn't changed much - some more and newer houses but the same quiet, peaceful atmosphere. When did you do this painting? I remember very well the house with the added-on front porch. I have some old photos which I have thought of using as material for watercolors, but haven't gotten round to that yet.

Anyway, thank you for sharing this painting, and I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time with my reminiscences.

John McLean, Trenton, Georgia, USA

Hello John

Many thanks for your kind comments! It's so nice to receive feedback on my work, and wonderful to hear your reminiscences about your halcyon days. My brother lives near that area and I painted that particular picture what must be 5 or 6 years ago when I had only been a professional artist for a year or two. I have moved on somewhat in slightly different directions with my art since then, especially since I came to live in Spain. Although I will be in the area again in 2 weeks time with my next batch of paintings for my representative galleries around Ireland. Maybe I should take a look at the area myself and see if it has changed even more in the last few years. It's interesting to hear your comments about the fishing, swimming and lobstering etc. and it brought to mind a song by another Belfast boy - Van Morrison. Not everyone's cup of tea perhaps, but I do feel a sway towards his music, particularly since leaving the country. Your words made me think of the song's lyrics, and just in case your not aware of the piece I have copied it below so you can read it. It sounds just like your memories. If you don't have a copy of the song, you should try to get yourself one. Then get the paints out John - and start painting that scene with the music as inspiration!

Thanks again John for your time, and good painting.

With kindest regards

CONEY ISLAND - Van Morrison

Coming down from downpatrick

Stopping off at st. johns point

Out all day birdwatching

And the craic was good

Stopped off at strangford lough

Early in the morning

Drove through shrigley taking pictures

And on to killyleagh

Stopped off for sunday papers at the

Lecale district, just before coney island

On and on, over the hill to ardglass

In the jamjar, autumn sunshine, magnificent

And all shining through

Stop off at ardglass for a couple of jars of

Mussels and some potted herrings in case

We get famished before dinner

On and on, over the hill and the craic is good

Heading towards coney island

I look at the side of your face as the sunlight comes

Streaming through the window in the autumn sunshine

And all the time going to coney island

Im thinking,Wouldnt it be great if it was like this all the time.

Hi TJ,

I enjoyed hearing from you and thank you for sending the lyrics of Coney Island. As I read through it more and more memories came back to me - I guess at my age (73) I'm starting to live more in memories! The list was so inclusive of the part of the country that I knew so well -Downpatrick, St. John's Point with it's horn that blew so dolefully through the summer fogs, Strangford Lough where I raced a small sailboat out of Whiterock for a few years before emigrating in 1960 to North America, Killyleagh where there was a fleet of Lightenings that the locals had built themselves, and of course Ardglass which we walked to for shopping and where I loved to go and watch the herring fleet come in on mornings that were windy and rough. Soooo... many memories that the song elicited. I had not ever heard of Van Morrison so went to the internet and saw that he had made a lot of recordings. I will try to hear some of his music. I looked for a CD that might have 'Coney Island' on it, but so far have been unsuccessful. I'll search more when I have more time.I looked at your website and see that you have a wide variety of paintings; I looked mostly at the landscapes, which is what I tend to paint, and enjoyed all of them, though I especially liked Coney Island. How is living and painting in Spain? And, how is painting for a living? In my case I don't think I would be eating too well if I was depending on my art to support me!! I admire you being able to do that.

After sending yesterday's e-mail I was trying to tidy my "studio" (I don't know how it gets in such a mess so fast!) and in the process came across a copy of a clickback you had sent to Genn regarding a critic's comments on your boat paintings. I think I had kept it because the address was Belfast, and because you obviously were an enthusiastic, confident sailor who was willing to undertake the delivery of other people's vessels. I've been an enthusiastic sailor all my life and though I've done some ocean passages, I've never been in command; I don't think I have the confidence for that. So I admire you for that!

Well I've rambled on enough for now, I guess. Don't you enjoy Genn's newsletter and the opportunities it provides to interact with artists all over the world?

With my best wishes for wonderful paintings,

John.

Go Large With Your Medium

2007-08-21T13:57:00.000+02:00

When two artists of a similar calibre, one working in oils or acrylics and the other in watercolours show together, people tend to compare them, and quite often the watercolourist can come off worse. No reflection on the artist, of course, simply a case of oils having a more dramatic effect on some viewers. Watercolours can, of course, be used to create dark, foreboding and breathtaking works of art as well, but here I am talking about fledgling artists starting on the rocky road to Paintsville and I am trying to warn them of potential stress along the way.

Now before letters come rushing in to protest at the hard done by watercolour artists, or tubes of gouache are squirted at me by ‘W.A.S.P.’ - the ‘Watercolours Are Supreme Party’ - I am merely stating a fact about the boldness of materials. If you want a light colourful wispy feel to a painting then watercolour’s your man. For bold and heavier work, whether it be textured, layered, watered down, oiled up, impastoed, impregnated, adulterated etc. then for me it’s oils or acrylics.

It really is one of those chicken/egg things. Most people when they start painting, myself included many years ago, tend to go for watercolours first as they think will be an easy way to get started. Untrue. How many times I had paintings almost completed, only to ruin them with a careless stroke of the brush, I honestly can’t remember. The problem then is one of constant frustration that only the most dedicated of artists can persevere with, to get past first base and produce something meaningful that is considered good enough to be put on show.

The secret to watercolour painting is the quality of the drawing. If the drawing isn’t up to scratch, with perspective, balance and content for example, then the opportunity to correct these errors later may not be available and the individual will be back to square one again. Very off-putting when you’re just beginning. However, oils and acrylics, and to some extent gouache, forgive the artists little foibles before he or she actually begins putting pen to paper or brush to canvas so to speak. I changed to acrylics about ten years ago and have never looked back.

Why acrylics over oils? A number of reasons actually. I am an impatient painter. When I am working I don’t want to wait for hours on end before I can get the next layer of paint or texture on the board, I find that my paint dries extremely quickly here in the warm weather, and almost instantly in summer! This is good practice for me as it hones my skills to a point where I have to work fast and with enough confidence to get the paint on before it sets off. It also helps to create terrific textures you wouldn’t get if the paint was put on fresh or directly from the tube.

Acrylics are extremely versatile. Depending on your mood, you can water them right down and use them as an alternative to gouache (opaque watercolour) - or throw dirt, sand, broken eggshells and general kitchen waste into the mix to create textures beyond your wildest imaginations. Note - try not to use any kitchen waste that is bio-degradable as this may leave you with a smelly, oozing mess running down your walls when you hang your finished work! Although in some avant-garde circles this can be misconstrued as art in itself. Here I’m thinking of a pretentious couple who supposedly went into a capital city modern art gallery and raved about the violent red tubular installation in the corner of the room and discussed loudly what they believed the artist was trying to say about modern societal values, in an attempt to show they were ‘cultured and knowledgeable’. It’s a fire extinguisher you plonkers!

Finally, and most importantly, acrylics are more forgiving when you make a mistake. Give it a minute or two and you can repaint the area without running the risk of ruining the whole picture. If you have left raised areas of paint when making the mistake simply take a razor blade or similar implement and gently shave off the raised areas to return it to the same level as before, then recoat with a neutral base colour before changing it to what was originally planned before the mistake was made. Alternatively, just leave the raised paint in place and use it as a texture to enhance the final finished piece.

A Room With Many Views

2007-08-16T15:05:00.000+02:00

It is always a pleasure to sit in the Casino on the Paseo Alegre in Torrevieja. Over a strong wake-me-up cortado I took in the latest two-man exhibition. The artists concerned, Victor Leal i Francés and Antonio N Serralta, are both Spanish, live in Elche and have been painting professionally for a number of years. I met them both at the opening and discussed their work in more detail.

The paintings being exhibited are mostly locally based scenes of Torrevieja and the surrounding areas of the Costa Blanca, but I was surprised to see a familiar looking coastal scene of Dun Laoghaire from my native Ireland among the brightly coloured Mediterranean scenes on show. I was intrigued to find out why a Spaniard, Antonio Serralta in this case, was exhibiting an Irish scene in Spain. Usually artists use the excuse of capturing the light, ambiance or flavour of the Mediterranean to justify a trip to Spain rather than the other way round. I know I did. Antonio informed me that his son is presently living and working in Dublin and he painted the scene when visiting on a planned holiday earlier this year. I noticed a couple taking a great interest in the exhibition and introduced myself to them. David and Helen Coles, currently living in Torrevieja, are both amateur artists and were very taken with the Irish painting. They said they preferred it because it captured the muted colours of Ireland so accurately, making such a strong contrast to the other works on show.

What I found interesting was the fact that each artist works in a different medium. Francés in watercolours, and Serralta in oils. Instantly I tend to side with the oil painter, which is unfair at times, as the use of oil or acrylic is not always the best option. It really depends on the subject, but I am biased, and I make no apology for that.

That said, the watercolour work of Victor Francés is delicious. Sharply detailed street scenes with subtle colouring and shading in muted warm tones are counteracted with willowy, shadowy, almost wispy natural elements of trees and plantings that appear to be deliberately less defined than the surrounding buildings. There is one painting in particular of the market stalls that works really well. Almost to the point of sensing the smells of the churros frying and the sounds of the stall holders cries for attention, that you would normally associate with a ramble along there on a gentle autumn evening. I always judge a street painting by its ability to make me want to know what is around the next corner. If it draws you in at that level then you’re hooked. Victor has that ability and puts it to good use in a number of his paintings.

The oils of Antonio Serralta are detailed and quite textured, and yet still have a great sense of depth to them that has been captured with skill. In the foreground textures of the seascapes, he has managed to create a feel of where in the landscape he actually painted from. I particularly liked one that showed a slightly confused sea and dark underbelly of clouds, which in turn, creates a nice underlying feeling of movement mirrored in the gently breaking waves in the foreground. The horizon is normally roughly judged to be approximately seven to ten miles away when standing between five and six feet off the ground - the supposed height of the average human being. In this case, it helps to create a depth of field for the cloud cover of perhaps five to six miles, breaking up before they hit the horizon line.

I have always played a game when going into an art exhibition with friends or family. Separate, and then look at each painting on your own without discussion between each other. Take as much time as you like and don’t be rushed by your non-art loving, possibly bored companions, then meet up back at the start and discuss which painting you would buy if you were so inclined to do. It doesn’t matter if you never intended to buy or cannot justify spending a certain amount of your pension, or children’s inheritance, as it’s just for fun. It’s interesting how different peoples taste in art can be when not influenced by those around them. Go into the Casino this week and give it a try for yourself. You may even be tempted to take one home.

Paintings In Flight

2007-08-10T09:25:00.000+02:00

As well as both abstracts packed and en route to Northern Ireland as requested, I have finished off four of my more usual style of paintings for one of my representing galleries in the Republic of Ireland.

I have included one here for you to look at. If you want to see it 'in the flesh' so to speak, just call in to Munster Fine Art, County Limerick, Ireland. Say hello to Maureen Delaney for me.

It's a night scene entitled 'A Valued Insight' 12"x16".

August Abstractions

2007-08-04T17:46:00.000+02:00

This week, in between my usual work, I have been creating two abstract style paintings for a venue in Northern Ireland.

Simply named 'Landscape' and 'Seascape' I wanted them to talk for themselves, so I deliberately won't explain any further but leave you, the viewers, to decide for yourselves whether you like them or not.

Plaster-Cast Profanities

2007-07-27T09:14:00.000+02:00

Forgive me. It's been two weeks since my last conf...- oh sorry, blog entry. Sometimes I have so many areas to work on at once I find I just get a bit manic and try to cover all bases a little bit every day.

Over the last two weeks I have been working on upwards of thirty new paintings, have completed three poems about my thoughts and experiences, and I have been continuing a series of short stories which I hope to publish sometime in the relatively near future.

Coupled with this I squeezed a morning painting session down by the salt lake with four other artists. I think for me it was important to do this, as I spend so much of my time locked away in my studio. I got such a buzz of having like minded company and for the first time in a long time felt free to paint without restrictions. I completed two paintings during that two hour 'en plein air' session, the first was relatively recognisable if you know the area, while the second was a loose, quite abstract version of the same scene. The lack of restriction for me was liberating and actually fuelled me with more enthusiasm when I got back to the studio. My thanks to Maurice, Ron, John and Mike for the company. We will do it again sometime.

All this done amid the usual daily email queries from galleries, newspapers and the public. To prove I have been busy and not just supping coffee I will let you see one of my latest poems. Your opinions are welcome.

PLASTER-CAST PROFANITIES

Often talked, but last in line,
eaves dropped on deafened ears.
How can we listen with re-turned backs
against the current of lethargy?

Hope against hope is lost

Each day with hesitations on the rise
carbon footprint, blackened earth.
Sun bleached walls leave traced outlines
of shadows sharpened edges cut.

Caustic comments cut deeper still

Alpha male leads from the front.
Shards of momentary madness flicker forth
and cyclic splashes crown the path.
The old have rounded shoulders now.

Contrition is its own reward

Bright colours trumpet times of joy
then fade with lack of sun.
Round holes in squares in rounds again,
in a thousand different ways succinct.

Life’s internal struggle

Pillars brace the frailty felt.
Comments meant to reach on high,
reality is boxed and put away
and bars deny the few a link.

While chained to imperfection

Locked into a fish bowl life,
observations noted down.
Prying out with cushioned force,
left well enough alone, gives all

an elemental peace

The tri-light laws that govern us
reflect a softer seam above.
Mine it well with careful words
lest its gone in emblematic smoke.

A frame on which to hang

Metered moments ticking by, the
click-clip-clock rhythmic beats aloud,
umbrella’d under internal shafts
and netted close, like spiders web

of deceit and incredulity

Pleasing turns of pages beckon.
Strings align and pull together.
Pink overtones lift melodic curves,
all given freely with a sagging love,

a love that knows its bounds

And yet the sadness washes by
while splashed with urban dreadedness.
“Beat the time lordly now boys!”
With processionary pride it takes

a whining, winding path

Baked and desiccated life
awaits the drip, drip, drip effect -
“All hail!” the handbagged letters cry.
“Release our agony!” they plea.

Performance in the key

Spiked enhancement of the truth
impales the lesser class,
table-topped and speared below.
Drawn blood a crimson pool.

Efforts all in vein

Talk of effortless attempts,
waste the best of what is left.
Cost alone prohibits thoughts.
The pressure of old turgid time

rolls on, for all the same

Give a thought as light begins to fade,
a darkness closes fast.
Columns stripe their colours high,
clear indications make the text

an uncomfortable read

Wearily dragged down by banal reports.
Lives drummed into the ground.
Look square, into the oblong light
littered hopes and dreams lay down

plaster-cast profanities

Paperwork!

2007-07-13T17:04:00.000+02:00

It's Friday and I have been catching up on paperwork after arranging for my latest works to get shipped back to Ireland this morning. The response to my enquiry about gallery space has been amazing. Artists from all over Europe and America have responded with positive comments and interest. Time will tell.

In the meantime, I have been catching up with my representing galleries around Europe to see how the art world is doing at the moment. All good at present it seems overall, but you can never rest or take anything for granted.

That's it for now. Please continue to send me your emails and information requests. I am always happy to receive them and will do my utmost to answer promptly.

Vanity Galleries

2007-07-10T10:21:00.000+02:00

In response to a letter from Robert Genn's twice weekly musings at 'Painters Keys', I emailed a reply relating to pay-for-space art galleries. Due to editorial cuts not all of my email could be printed (lack of space etc.), so I have chosen to show it in full here for all those curious readers clicking through from the website. Also, I have included one of my more recent paintings to let you have a look at. It is called Altea Con-fusion (the road rises). Let me know your thoughts....

Dear Robert

It's interesting to hear your comments about paying for wall space in galleries as 'ego' and 'vanity' based. Of course it is! What is an artist if not driven by ego? We constantly put our hearts on our sleeves and expose ourselves - and our insecurities - to either ridicule or adulation depending on your circle of admirers/detractors, of which there are legion.

I have used the pay-for-space type gallery successfully in the past, although not in the Agora gallery, and have come out ahead financially, egotistically, broadened my travel and artistic experiences, and have succeeded in lifting my own profile on the international stage because of it.

Why not? If you hide your light under a bushel of brushes and wait to be discovered, chances are you will probably give up through disillusionment and get a 'real job' again. There are two types of canvas in my art world. I paint on one, but I canvas votes also, by pushing myself constantly into the public realm. As fellow countryman of mine, Oscar Wilde, once said "The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about."

Yes, it costs money. Yes, it can be thrown in the water if you choose to look at it that way. It's the chance you take. I don't see it that way, however, as I get a bigger buzz travelling to the country concerned and relish all the adventures, artistic or otherwise, I have along the way. For me that is the pay-off. I get to write about it in my blog, I get people talking about me and my work, I lift my profile higher, I collect new collectors of TJ Miles' artworks. The bonus is when I sell a numerous paintings as well. I then have new advocates of my work, who will in turn talk about me in other circles, in other societies, in other languages, in other places around the world. You have to feed the beast to make it hunger again. If you fail to feed it in the first place it cannot recognise what hunger is and will wither and die before it has had a chance to fully come to life.

I have found the pay-for-space style so successful that I am toying with the idea of starting my own gallery along the same lines here in Spain. By renting wall space, I don't consider it taking advantage of struggling artists at all, in fact I think it gives them an opportunity to exhibit in a location, and at a time in their careers where a hand up is better than a hand out. The pay for space idea, in my mind, would be a way for me to cover the rental of premises, which in turn would enable me to exhibit potentially important artists of the future who could have fallen by the riverbank of despair and lethargy because they failed to get that first opportunity.

I am curious to see how many artists who read your letters and subsequent replies would be interested in exhibiting in Spain. With the possibility of throwing in a few days of Spanish history, architecture, art and a holiday at the same time. Please don't think I am looking for a free advertisement here, I'm not. I am very capable of contacting all the artists on the 'painters keys' website and countless others advertising their egos on the web, just like myself. I would just be interested in knowing what proportion agree with my views and would consider my thoughts to have merit.

A gallery owner and long-time exhibitor of my work, and also a good friend of mine, once had a group of teenage art students organise a trip to ask his advice about the art market and how they should go about forging a career. When they came in (always the Irish wit) the first thing he gave them was a clove of garlic each. They looked puzzled until he told them to carry it in their pocket when visiting a gallery owner for protection. The premise being that most gallery owners were vampires and this should protect them from the gallery owners getting their teeth into them too early before they have a chance to establish themselves as individual artists.

The pay-for-space type of exhibition just means your buying a service which, if things go according to plan, you should get back through sales anyway. You are aware the bite in the neck is coming, but it has it's benefits in other ways. A sort of love-bite instead of a full blown arterial letting, shall we say?

With best wishes as always

TJ Miles

Back to the drawing board

2007-07-02T13:23:00.000+02:00

I was barely back 24 hours and already orders were coming in from galleries in Ireland for new works. I'm not complaining mind - but the realisation that the month on the road was finally over meant that exhaustion kicked in immediately and sleep became a priority.

News of multiple sales at the exhibition in Germany also helped to kick me back into gear, and I have made a start on my next series of paintings.

Coupled with that, interest in my work has been shown by art lovers from other European countries, independent of any promotional work instigated by me or my representing galleries. Always a good sign. Pre-orders have been taken subject to approval. If any viewers out there are interested in seeing previews of new works just let me know, and I will happily send you a jpeg.

That's it for now. Sitting in the hot sun slaving away. I find it good practice, as my paints tend to dry extremely fast in this heat, and I have to work quickly to blend colours before they cake solid.

Oh well, back to the drawing board.

Home to Dali

2007-06-25T10:57:00.000+02:00

Travelling via Cannes and the artisan village of Biot, the afternoon brought me back to my most inspirational place in the world.

Cadaques was the home of Salvador Dali for many years - actually Port Lligat to be precise, which is a five minute walk from the village over the hill. A haunt of artists for many years because of its remoteness and inaccessibility, Cadaques still holds a certain aura and fascination for all who visit.

I could quite happily have stayed forever among the whitewashed houses countered with the view of surrounding hills, blue water and brightly coloured fishing smacks. Mentally I always take a lot of shapes and colours back with me to feed my next collection of paintings.

While there I again made contact with a gallery for a potential exhibition. For me it would be the ultimate location to make a pilgrimage with my works - to the home of the master. Lets see what the future holds for next year or so.

The last evening was spent on the hotel balcony looking down over the boats bobbing in the bay sipping Cava and listening to the cadent water whispering ’dali, dali, dali’ by the shore in homage to the artist.

The Nice life

2007-06-25T10:49:00.000+02:00

Travelling down and across to the south of France via Genova, a short stop in Monaco was called for. While there, a super yacht was berthing with attendant crew dressed in corporate livery. The port bristling with bodyguards and bullet-proof jeeps of the rich and famous. Another world into which I could only glimpse.

Onward to Nice, and more art based experiences. The Negresco hotel along the seafront is a marvel. Everywhere you look there are artworks adorning every space. Older, more classical pieces jarring alongside bright, colourful, in your face artworks from right up to the modern day. A truly eclectic mix and a joy to behold. I only wish I could have afforded to stay there.

I was initially disappointed however, to see that the beach was mostly stones and pebbles, but on the second day I was there I think I understood why the coastline gets the name the Cote D’azur.

Normally, when the waves kick up on a windy day the water on a sandy beach gets muddy and confused, but in Nice the action of the waves breaking onto the pebbly beach aerated the water so much that it turned a mix of aquamarine and vibrant blue.

As night approached a phosphorescence became apparent that reflected the colour along the whole promenade. Young people sitting on the stones their laughter wafting along the shore, mixed with the sound of jazz from the beach bars, helped set an idyllic scene. With more gallery contacts made it was time to move on to my spiritual home…

The Italian Job - Jam in Milan

2007-06-19T20:14:00.001+02:00

Under no circumstances try to get round Milan’s ring road system on a Friday afternoon. It took me 2 hours to cover 10 kilometres!

Arriving in the Lago D’Iseo area about 7pm meant a break in driving for a while. After what must be the largest pizza in all of Italy - at least 60cm across - so big in fact there barely a table big enough to accommodate it never mind a plate, I was more than ready for an early night.

The stunning area of Iseo, in my mind, can give Garda and Geneva a run for their money anyday. The hills and mountains run steeply into the dark green/black penetrating lake and create a haven for artists and locals alike. I have been here on occasions before and never tire of sitting by the waters edge looking across at the majestic island dominating the whole area.

While here a number of leads made on previous trips were followed up in regard to galleries and exhibition spaces and hopefully will produce significant results at some point in the near future.

Great weather for ducks!

2007-06-19T20:12:00.000+02:00

Having left Paris with a number of new gallery contacts, as well as fresh inspiration, it was time to hit the road once more. After a few hours drive we crossed the border into Switzerland and spent the night in Geneva. Another late arrival meant that hunger and exhaustion overtook curiosity, and exploration was delegated to the following day.

However, awakened by the sight of yet more torrential rain meant that the sightseeing was reduced to that of a crawl through heavy traffic on a steamy lakeside thoroughfare. In the grey lake I could just see the famous water jet spouting in protest as the heavy rain tried to dampen its ardour.

Just beside the main bridge, as I prepared to crawl across, the traffic came to a complete halt. As I watched, a duckling and its protective mother came waddling across the road oblivious to all eyes that watched this amazing rush hour spectacle. An interesting way to remember Switzerland, don’t you agree?

After a return crossing back into France, a respite from the rain was only possible by entering the Mont Blanc tunnel. There were various signs indicating the beautiful views of the mountains all around but, sadly the signs were all I could see with the weather.

Having entered Italy, I stopped and looked back at the much heralded viewpoint of the Mont Blanc Glacier. I think I glimpsed the leading edge of it through the rain and mist but can’t be certain that it wasn’t just an optical illusion brought on by a terrible thirst!

Return to Paris

2007-06-13T10:27:00.000+02:00

It’s been approximately seven years since I was in Paris. When here before I visited my art heroes in the Musee D’Orsay and looked up at them in awe and longing. I was still a struggling artist at that time and felt that I could never attain the intensity of colour and form shown in the museum.

Another age of this man is gone, and maybe I can now say that at least I am on the first rung of the ladder - still looking up, but at least now perhaps I can observe the paintings with constructive envy and no longer idolatry.

It was wonderful to visit again with such artists as Van Gogh, Monet, Pisarro, Bonnard, Millet et al, as I much prefer the ‘train station’ to the Louvre in content. The building itself is an inspiration for me and for over four hours I wandered between the decades, countries, movements and psyches of my antecedents.

I cannot wait to get back to Spain to work now I am fired up again with enthusiasm. I think it is important to ‘plug in’ to the art charger every so often to reinvigorate oneself, but also to revaluate the direction you feel you are heading in. I often say there are no wrongs in art, just different points of view. If you are passionate enough, and determined enough to push through the hesitancy sometimes felt, then your efforts must be justified in the long run.

The adventure was continued with a visit to Shakespeare and Co. by the Seine to purchase some reading material for the onward journey. The beds between the books were littered with tomes of modern classics and the tap-tap-tap of an old typewriter helped set the scene for perusal of Hemingway and Joyce. Ironically Jack Kerouac’s On The Road came to hand. I wonder what the relevance is there?

Finally the day was finished off with a beverage consumed in the Hotel Meurice frequented of course by Salvador Dali and Gala for many years. As I sat in the salon area I’m convinced that I saw his spirit slip silently past with an entourage of surrealistic elephants.

They seem to follow me everywhere!

Rooftops of Liege

2007-06-13T10:06:00.000+02:00

After a late arrival in Liege, Belgium, sadly there was not much time for any sightseeing before catching a meal. What daylight there was showed a city of crumbling grandeur mixed with new architecture rising from the ground in sympathy with the surrounding buildings.

A street side café on a beautifully characteristic cobbled street transported me to the 1940’s - an era I have long loved for fashion and art. Accordion music whispering through the terraced streets set the scene further as a meal was taken outside on the pavement by candlelight.

Then the heavens opened, and thunder and lightning washed the music away with the extinguished candlelight. A quick retreat made across the Place Du Opera to the hotel seemed to beckon the end of the night.

The view from the hotel room had seemed pleasantly atmospheric looking over the rooftops during check-in as it faced away from the main streets, but we were left breathless when all was lit up at night. The scene of the church rising out from the rooftops immersed in floodlit splendour, coupled with the flashes of lightning and rumbles of protesting thunder proved to be a blessing after all.

Sadly the night-time photographs didn't come out so I have included the daytime shots to give some sort of idea of the view, however muted.

Hamburg exhibition begins

2007-06-09T20:00:00.000+02:00

The Artist and Director of the Marziart International Gallery Marion Zimmerman, opened the exhibition to a crowd of well wishers and art lovers alike on a balmy Friday evening with an introduction of each artist represented.

There were actually five artists out of the seven exhibiting who turned up on the night. Nationalities ranged from Belgian, Dutch, French, Danish, Indian, Chilean and of course Irish. Much jollity was had over sips of champagne, and a lot of new contacts and friends were made in the international art world. The interest from the crowd attending was wonderful and I spent a lot of time answering questions about the origins of my work and the influences that shaped them.

My thanks to Marion for her attention to detail and I look forward to perhaps having a return exhibition sometime in the future. The exhibition runs until the 5th of July 2007 in Eppendorfer Weg, Hamburg for any viewers of this blog who happen to be in the area in the next few weeks.

A frankfurter in Hamburg

2007-06-09T19:58:00.000+02:00

The prophecy was fulfilled as expected when a frankfurter smothered in mustard was consumed by the famous docks area of Hamburg. Bilious, but wonderful. This was of course followed by ‘lashings and lashings of ginger beer‘!

Hamburg itself is more reminiscent of London with its various quarters and suburbs. A very cosmopolitan and modern vibrant city. I have to say, apart from obvious problems with my lack of the language (although almost everybody speaks English!), it is a city I could happily spend a lot of time in. Eppendorfer - the area where the exhibition is being held reminded me of Notting Hill in London with ladies who lunch, chic designer shops and cars to match. It is also a city burgeoning with art and culture.

Having visited the modern art museum near the Hauptbahnhof (central station) I was astonished to find paintings by Otto Dix, Max Beckmann, Paul Klee, Edvard Munch and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. These were artists I have had an affection for since I started painting. What I found was breathtaking though was the fact that my early art was reminiscent of Max Beckmann’s early naïve seascapes. I couldn’t believe the similarity. Previously I was only used to his post war depictions and hadn’t experienced this work before. What was also interesting was the fact that his work seemed to become more involved and less naïve as he progressed through years of experience.

This is also something that people have noted with my own work. I have found it easier never to look at older paintings as reference points to my progress, rather let the skills develop anew each time I work.

Recently I had the opportunity to look at some of my earlier works from a collector of mine and was amazed at the difference a few years had made. It was like looking at two different artists! Yet, the early works had an innocence about them that still drew me into the pictures.

Snowing in Hannover

2007-06-09T19:52:00.000+02:00

Note - In case of confusion - the next few entries were made over the space of a few days travelling but due to lack of access to internet connection they have all been uploaded on the same day.

While walking by the Maschsee (a large lake in the middle of Hannover city) under the shade of mature trees to stay out of the hot sun, I was struck by a surreal image of snowfall all around me. It was actually the shedding of floating seeds from plants all around the lake that were carried high in the air by light winds. As they returned gently to earth, the image created was one of a winter scene tempered by the yachts sailed by crew in their summer wear.

Passing by a ruined church in the centre of town, I saw stained glass windows where none had stood for many decades. The church in question was called Aegidienkirche and was destroyed in 1943. Today it serves as a memorial, and artist Inge-Rose Lippok has placed a number of painted panels in the open window spaces to recreate the image of windows in an empty space full of memories.

This is countered by bright colourful quirky creatures called ‘Nanas’ by artist Niki de Saint Phalle along with striking sculptures placed around various points of the city. In my mind, the embracing of such imagery aligns itself very well with the pleasantness and generosity of the German people I have met on my travels.

Scraping the sky with colour

2007-06-05T20:13:00.000+02:00

Apfelwein, cold sausage and sauerkraut - quite a combination. Interesting, but not something I feel the urge to try again in the near future.

The skyline, however, was much more palatable on the return to the hotel. Locally it is known as ‘Mainhattan’ as the city was virtually demolished during the Second World War and the city fathers have decided to push forward with technology and modernism with great effect.

A virtual light show brightens the sky as each tower basks in it’s own personality, reflected in the smooth flowing river Main.

Breathtaking!

A hamburger in Frankfurt

2007-06-04T11:01:00.000+02:00

Our initial impression of Frankfurt was a strange one. The shopping area could have been any city centre in the UK or Ireland, and yet it was countered with back streets and side streets of non-descript municipal housing blocks. Something I imagined that Eastern Europe was like in the late 1960’s.

The traditional old town seems to have been swallowed up to a degree by bland utilitarian modern blocks that smack of East Berlin in the movies. This is tempered by soaring semi-skyscrapers in the financial district (just a short walk from the centre), but for all the money being pumped in, sadly there is a more than average amount of people lying about drinking and begging on the street.

That said - there seems to be an undercurrent of vibrancy here, especially for the younger crowd with a big clubbing scene, alternative entertainment acts in out-of-the-way places and major groups, musicians and art movements. Definitely still a happening place for Dada fans like myself. Dada being the movement that brought us an anarchic view of art such as ‘Fountain’ the turned on it’s side urinal, or the Mona Lisa with a moustache and the letters ‘LHOOQ’ written underneath (when spoken in French it sounds like it is making a derogatory statement about the lady in question).

Quite accidentally I came across a run-down unremarkable street just off the river filled with run-down shop fronts. Virtually each one was an art gallery! They had the strangest mixture of paintings and sculpture I have seen in a long time. What was so refreshing for me was the fact that these were commercial galleries and obviously had the clientele to appreciate this type of art. Then I realized it was just around the corner from the modern art gallery and it all seemed to make sense.

When I arrived I wasn’t sure about Frankfurt, but I think it’s growing on me.

Time for an apple-wine pub crawl I think….

PS - with reference to today's obscure title - always one to be different - I had to have a hamburger in Frankfurt and, yes you’ve guessed it, I plan to have a frankfurter in Hamburg!

It’s Saturday - Therefore it must be Strasbourg!

2007-06-02T20:09:00.000+02:00

Strasbourg - a stunning city that has grown up over the centuries and has been at the heart of the trading routes of Europe.

After becoming a free republic in the 15th Century, it attracted free thinking reformists who helped shape the city culturally after seeking asylum there. Caught in the middle of warring countries right up until modern times, Strasbourg, as capital of the Alsace region, has had control passed back and forward between France and Germany a number of times in the past.

This has helped create the uniqueness of a city blending history and architecture, along with international culture, languages and art in good measure. After the end of World War II Strasbourg regained its position at the crossroads of Europe when in 1949 it was chosen as the headquarters of the Council of Europe. Since 1979 it has been the base of the European Parliament, and the European Court of Human Rights since 1994.

A must for all who pass through this region. Don’t miss it. Back on the road tomorrow for the next cultural adventure.

Stars In His Eyes

2007-05-31T22:41:00.000+02:00

Whilst en route to Hamburg for my latest joint exhibition, we decided to stop off in Arles in the South of France. Art lovers among you will of course remember that Vincent Van Gogh spent over a year in Arles, between 1888 and 1889 and produced his most famous works during that time. Perhaps because of the personal turmoil he suffered during that time, these paintings have become, in my humble opinion, the most powerful paintings he ever produced. Sadly, just over a year later he was to take his own life in tragic circumstances, and a great light of the art world was lost forever. I have always felt touched by Vincent’s work and, along with millions of people the world over, wished I could have known the man personally. As I wandered the streets of Arles, I felt an affinity with a man tortured by instability and yet drawn to a life filled with passion for a lifestyle few can imagine to be all consuming, even to the detriment of his own physical and mental being. I sat in the now named ‘Café Van Gogh’ and imagined him painting the night time scene oblivious to all who passed. Then we wandered along the banks of the river Rhone to find the spot where he painted the ‘starry night’ so wondrously more than a century ago. I am filled with awe at the sacrifices made in the pursuit of his greatest love, and wish I could have been in his company just once before he died. Sadly, the yellow house is no more, but the colour lives on in many of his paintings. Thank you Vincent - for all your encouraging words in my dreams.

Crowds flock to the show to meet TJ

2007-05-28T09:52:00.000+02:00

Well - The Homes And Gardens Show is over! An exhausting but rewarding two days of meeting people from all points along the Costa Blanca. My thanks to Judy Webber, director of The Fusion Gallery - www.thefusiongallery.com - for the invite and, more importantly, for her much warranted support over the weekend. Not to mention the unfailing dedication of her second in command Begoña who tirelessly kept up our flagging spirits with a kind word and lots of encouragement. It was also wonderful to see the international artist Eric Zilverberg - www.ericzilverberg.com - again. We have a lot to catch up on and I look forward to meeting up with him on my return from Germany.

I wish to say a big thank you to all who attended and showed an interest in mine and other artists’ works on the stand. Your comments were wonderful and greatly appreciated. Quite often an artist doesn’t get to hear directly from the public as they tend to spend so much time in isolation, so it was a welcome change to get such positive feedback on such a large scale (I estimate we had upwards of a thousand people through the stand over the two days!).

Special thanks goes, of course, to Heidi Wardman of the Round Town News for her perfectly timed article in the paper which brought so many TJ fans to the show. I was overwhelmed by the amount of visitors who had come specifically to meet me and see my latest works in the flesh, so to speak.

Also, I wish to thank a couple of visitors to the show who purchased the limited edition print I donated to the charity auction. Maggie and Pete - your generosity was amazing! I thank you so much and hope you enjoy the picture for many years of retirement to come.

Finally, although the paintings put on show were actually meant to get their first viewing in Hamburg (Judy insisted we exhibit them in the show as soon as she saw them), I have to say the positive reactions received over the images have encouraged me to publish them here for all the viewers of this blog to have a peek at as well. A sort of pre-exhibition if you like. If any of my regular readers happen to be in the Hamburg area in the next week, I would be delighted if you called in to the gallery on the opening night (Friday 8th June) and said hello.

'Breaking The Habit' 50cm x 61cm

'To A Silent Assembly' 50cm x 61cm

Homes and Gardens Show - Alicante 2007

2007-05-19T19:20:00.000+02:00

Next week is the much awaited commencement of the Homes and Gardens Show in Alicante (next to the airport) featuring special guests and presenters of popular UK television shows. The likes of Jilly Goolden (my favourite wine expert!), Kevin Woodford (Ready, Steady, Cook), 'Handy' Andy Kane (Changing Rooms etc.) and Eric Knowles (Antiques Roadshow), will be on hand to give demonstrations and offer advice to interested parties over the weekend.

The Fusion Gallery's director,(my representative gallery on the Costa Blanca) Judy Webber, has taken a stand at the show and asked me to attend in person over the weekend to 'meet and greet' artistically minded members of the public, or anyone else who may feel inclined to say hello to TJ Miles.

If any of the regular readers of my blog are in the area, by all means come to the show and say hello. Perhaps we may even interest you in a new artwork or two.

Show runs from:

Saturday 26th May to Sunday 27th May - 11am until 9pm each day

The Fusion Gallery is at stand 'A5'. Just ask for TJ.

I look forward to seeing you all there.