Category: Historic Sites

Let The Ancient Games Begin

After a restful night and a bountiful breakfast buffet, we were back on the road for our morning reccy of the sanctuary of Olympia, birthplace of the Olympic Games. Just like their modern reincarnation, the games were held every four years and featured a series of athletic competitions. However, rather than the pursuit of national glory, with all that jingoistic flag-waving, the first games were a religious festival to honour Zeus, top god on Mount Olympus.

According to Demetrios, our all-knowing guide, the entire enterprise was a licence to mint money, with gifts to the gods flooding in from across the Greek world. Unlike most Olympiads these days, it made the hosts filthy rich.

The male competitors always competed in the buff. Imagine the sight of sweaty fellas in their birthday suits dripping in olive oil without a jock strap between them, their family jewels swaying from side to side like weights on a grandfather clock – surely they must have done themselves a mischief. But I guess that was the price they paid to be poster boys of their time, to be feted and fantasised about.

Women were not permitted to participate in the main games but had their own, separate events known as the Heraea Games, in honour of Zeus’ missus, Hera. They had to be unmarried, and unlike the ripped blokes, they kept their kit on.

The games ran for about a thousand years, from 776 BCE until 393 CE, when they were abolished by that Christian zealot, the Roman Emperor Theodosius I. The buttoned-up killjoy probably thought all that homoerotic nude wrestling was the work of the Devil.

It takes imagination to visualise the once magnificent temples and civic buildings. Nevertheless, the setting is stunning. And the museum is pretty good too. Liam was thrilled to be able to place his big toe on the ancient starting line at the very first Olympic Stadium. He kept his knickers on, much to the disappointment/relief (delete according to taste) of the gathering crowd.

Postcard from the Peloponnese

Our three-day whistle-stop tour of some of Greece’s most famous historic sites was both tiring and inspiring in equal measure. We were blessed to be in a small group of just five in our (mercifully) air-conditioned minibus. Our fellow travellers were all Australians. I like Aussies. We share a similar irreverent sense of humour.

Demetrios, our well-versed tour guide – an archaeologist by trade – really knew his onions. He spun a good yarn, bringing the ancients to life by blending fabulous fact with fantastic fiction. Throughout our odyssey, he told tales of war and heroism, murder and mayhem, loyalty and treachery, greed and generosity, morals both highbrow and gutter – a no-holes-barred mythical soap opera on acid. All the vices of gods and humans were laid bare, literally in the case of the many fine chiselled statues of beautiful young men with their willies hacked off by scandalised Christians.

Our first stop was the Corinth Canal – not an ancient site per se; it was completed in the 1880s. But it was a welcome comfort break after the long slog escaping the urban sprawl of Athens. And the canal, cut through the hard rock of the narrow Isthmus of Corinth that separates the Peloponnese from the mainland, is impressive, despite being a bit of a white elephant.

Second stop was the spectacular and well-preserved 4th-century BCE theatre at Epidaurus, with its reputation for almost perfect acoustics – ably demonstrated by Demetrios as we stood in the orchestra pit. The echo was remarkable and a little spooky. Unsurprisingly, the theatre is still in use today.

We pit-stopped in modern Epidaurus for a bite. It’s a handsome port town on the Saronic Gulf. Sadly, it was way too hot to explore, though we thought the old British classic phone box in the café was a welcome touch.

Fourth stop was Mycenae, an acropolis almost as old as time itself, sitting on a hilltop 900 feet above sea level. An entire period of Greek civilisation between around 1,600 BCE to about 1,100 BCE is named after it, so it’s no wonder it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Mycenae is inextricably linked to Homer’s Iliad and the fanciful tales of Troy. Arguably, the most impressive structure still standing is a beehive-shaped building with a pointed dome known in modern popular folklore as The Tomb of Agamemnon, the legendary warrior king who led the Greeks during the Trojan War. It’s highly unlikely to actually be the treacherous old bugger’s final resting place, but never let the truth get in the way of a good myth to lure in the eager punters like me. Liam said I looked like an over-excited boy scout as I gazed in awe at the 3,300-year-old roof.

After a sweaty and exhausting first day, we were only too pleased to be dropped off at our digs for the night, just in time for a well-earned dip, followed by a glass or three of tasty local plonk to watch the sun go down.

Tomorrow, Olympia beckons. Let the ancient games begin.

Greek Intermission

While we’re away on our Greek odyssey clambering over old tumble-down stones trying not to break a hip, here’s a few of my pics that didn’t quite make the cut, mostly taken in or on the way to one drinking den or t’other. Yamas! 🥂

Our Greek Odyssey

I’ll be off-air for a week and a bit. We’re embarking on our very own Greek odyssey – by coach – taking in the ancient sites at Epidaurus, Mycenae, Olympia and Delphi, topped and tailed with overnights in Athens. I’m a sucker for an old ruin. After our exhausting reconnoitre, we’ll be recuperating on Aegina for a few days, just a short ferry hop from the Port of Piraeus.

It’s our debut pensioners’ coach outing. At this late stage of our life cycle, I can see a pattern developing. Many fridge magnets will be purchased.

Third Party, Fire and Theft

In the medieval era, the rag trade made Norwich rich, making it England’s second city. But it wasn’t to last. The steam age killed off traditional weaving, and old Norwich gradually slipped down the rankings, unable to compete against northern upstarts and their dark satanic mills.

Down but not out, the city reinvented itself with a new trade – making money, lots of it. And what better way to make money in a city largely built of wood than fire insurance? And what better way to reduce expensive pay-outs than to employ your own fireman? And thus, in 1797, a canny banker with an eye on the main prize, Thomas Bignold, founded the Norwich Union Fire Insurance Office.

Fast forward a couple of hundred years and following a complex series of mergers, takeovers, re-names and rebrands, Aviva is now the largest general insurer in the land – and pretty big in other lands too.

The company dominates the city centre with offices everywhere. But none are so grand as Surrey House, the purpose-built head office opened in 1905. Designed by celebrated local lad George Skipper, the lavish interior is richly decorated in marble, some of which was originally intended for Westminster Cathedral.

Marble Hall image courtesy of Pat Jacobs.

The classy Edwardian pile shines like a diamond among a forest of run-of-the-mill utilitarian Aviva office blocks.

To find out more, we joined a friend for the Marble Hall tour run by The Shoebox Experiences*. The people at Shoebox know how to tell a good tale, punctuating history with tasty nuggets and fun facts – and their tour was simply brilliant.

*The Shoebox Experiences run a number of city tours. All profits go to their social enterprise which creates supportive places for vulnerable people. We last joined a tour on their fascinating Hidden Street gig.

Oh, I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside

What better way to spend a sunny spring afternoon than a trip to the seaside? We’d never been to Southwold, the classy resort on the Suffolk coast because, without our own wheels, it’s a bit of a trek. So an equally classy neighbour took pity on us and offered to take us. We had a fine time frolicking around on the eccentric antique arcade games at the old pier, strolling along the beach and scoffing scrumptious scones topped with the must-have clotted cream and jam at the posh Swan Hotel. Liam even went for a paddle. The bracing wind blowing in from the North Sea didn’t put him off.

First mentioned in the Domesday Book* of 1086, the pretty town is notable for several things, not least a bunch of bible-bashing, buttoned-up puritans who, in 1637, emigrated to Hingham*, Massachusetts. Southwold was also the teenage home to author George Orwell. His most famous novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four, warns of the slide into totalitarianism. I see a connection.

On a lighter note, the town is also home to the famous Adnams Brewery. These days, I prefer the grape to the grain but Liam tells me they brew a quaffable ale. The afternoon ended with traditional fish ‘n’ chips down by the old harbour. All in all, a fun day out.

Some images courtesy of Pat Jacobs.

*The Domesday Book was commissioned by that bastard William the Conqueror to price up the realm he stole.

*The Massachusetts town was named after Hingham, Norfolk, from where most of the new settlement’s first colonists came, including Abraham Lincoln’s ancestor, Samuel Lincoln. A bust of old Abe takes pride of place in Hingham’s St Andrew’s Church. The Norfolk Hingham is also where Liam worked at the medical practice for a few years to keep the wolves from the door after we returned from our Anatolian misadventures. It’s a small world.

Banged Up at the Bridewell

The various galleries of the Museum of Norwich at the Bridewell chart the city’s journey from its humble beginnings as a few muddy huts by a river bank to a UNESCO World City of Literature. As I wrote when we first visited in 2017…

“It’s a ripping yarn of churches and chapels, friaries and priories, martyrs and merchants, weavers and cobblers, chocolatiers and mustard makers, fire and flood, black death and blitzkrieg.”

The Museum is a splendid way to spend an afternoon, come rain or shine. But it wasn’t the exhibits we came to see on our most recent visit, but a guided tour of the Undercroft, the vaulted cellar beneath the Museum. Norwich is stuffed with medieval undercrofts – they often escaped fire and the wrecking ball. Whereas the current Museum is mostly 18th-century Georgian, the Undercroft itself – the largest in Norwich – dates from the 14th Century.

The Bridewell Undercroft was originally used to store and display the precious wares of the filthy-rich merchants who lived in the fancy mansion above. It was a dry and secure place to show off the goodies to potential buyers and keep out thieves. But ironically, after the monied merchants moved out, the building became a ‘bridewell’ – a ‘house of correction’ – where those who had fallen on the hardest of times would find themselves incarcerated – the ‘criminalisation’ of the poor, as our guide put it.

Our guide certainly knew her stuff, bringing the story to life with gossipy titbits from the past blended with the serious stuff as she walked us through the suite of underground rooms. The tour provides a fascinating insight into not just the building but also the ebb and flow of the city’s fortunes. The Undercroft was even used as a bomb shelter during World War II.

From a strong room to a prison cell, a place of punishment to a place of safety, the Bridewell Undercroft tells it all. And yes, I bought a fridge magnet.

Lest We Forget

We joined the enthusiastic crowd of locals gathered on Church Plain in front of the Loddon War Memorial to celebrate the 80th anniversary of VE Day – the end of the Second World War in Europe. The organisers did a splendid job. So too did the kids from the local primary school who serenaded us with a medley of wartime songs made famous by forces sweetheart, Vera Lynn.

On the very first VE Day, millions took to the streets for a monster party which was followed, no doubt, by a monster hangover. It’s hard to imagine the immense sense of relief that must have been felt on that momentous day by those who’d lived through six long years of conflict. And also the immense sadness for those who didn’t make it. There are few people still alive today who have direct experience of that terrible war. And soon there will be none.

‘Jaw, jaw is better than war, war’ is a famous Churchill misquote from the Cold War. But with so many hot wars burning around us and the disturbing rise of nasty fright-right nationalists, I wonder what those brave souls died for. Lest we forget? Tragically, I think we have.

On a much lighter, brighter note, the good burghers on Loddon Town Council have compiled a fantastic history trail of local WW1 and WW2 sites hereabouts. It’s a fun and fascinating glimpse into all our yesterdays.

Wartime TrailDownload

Lift 109 – What a Ride!

We like a spectacular view, and they don’t get much more spectacular than the view of old London Town from the top of one of the chimneys at Battersea Power Station. Back in the day, the coal-fired turbines lit a quarter of the city. But by the eighties, dirty old King Coal had been deposed by cleaner (though not clean) energy. Fully decommissioned by 1983, the magnificent building – one of the largest brick structures in the world – fell into near ruin. That was then.

This is now. The building has risen from the ashes, phoenix-like, repurposed for the modern age as an upmarket playground for the well-heeled. The magnificent turbine halls have been restored and are now stuffed with posh shops and designer eateries, with price tags to match. Take your plastic, you’ll need it.

The cathedral to power is the centrepiece of a Thameside renaissance along a lengthy stretch of the once-destitute riverbank. We alighted at the brand spanking new Tube station to an avenue of fancy flats, no doubt obscenely priced and not meant for ordinary folk. As we passed, we spotted a gang of hunky modern-day steeplejacks in hi-vis, hanging around and rubbing their shammies.

We were there for the main event, to ride Lift 109 up that chimney for that view. And we weren’t disappointed. With hardly a cloud in the sky, we could see for miles and miles. It was amazing. Liam had planned on whistling Chim Chim Cher-ee from Mary Poppins as our egg-shaped glass conveyance emerged from the stack, but he got distracted by the jaw-dropping wow factor, much to the relief of our fellow riders – and me.

And yes, we bought another fridge magnet.

Gay Paree, Ooh La La!

We had a ball in Paris for our double anniversary. It was my first trip to the City of Light since 2003, and I’d almost forgotten just how drop-dead gorgeous it is. Back then, I was wandering along the side of the Seine taking in the view when Lindsay Wagner – yes, I do mean ‘The Bionic Woman’ – cycled past. Since then, the whole cycling malarkey has really taken off. The locals, young and old, big and small, have hopped on their bikes with typical Gallic gusto, and many of the wide avenues now have dedicated cycle lanes. Best keep your wits about you.

We chose well, hôtel-wise, a distinctly quirky and deliciously personal boutique B&B in the Marais District. Our innkeeper’s mother had a pair of French poodles which spent their days curled up on the bottom two steps of the trés élégant staircase like flokati scatter cushions. I was amazed no one trod on them, particularly after a few sherries. Ok, I mean I’m amazed we didn’t tread on them after a few sherries.

This trip, we didn’t sight see – been there, done that, bought the fridge magnet. Besides, the weather was way too good to spend time on high-brow pursuits. Instead, we people-watched in pavement cafés. Unlike many big cities these days, everyday people still live in the centre of Paris and it was fascinating to observe ordinary Parisians going about their business weaving through the wide-eyed camera-clicking set.

Our favourite watching spot was opposite the gloriously industrial-looking Pompidou Centre – or Popadom Centre, as Liam likes to call it – which looks like someone’s gone a bit mad with a giant Meccano set.

Much over-priced plonk was consumed and I got a touch of sunburn. Parisian waiters have a reputation for rudeness. This is something I’ve not experienced either this time or before. A smile and a few words of schoolboy French can help oil the wheels and fill the glass.

So, no Eiffel Tower or the Mona Lisa and no Arc de Triomphe or Sacre-Coeur. But there was one must-see: Notre Dame Cathedral. Lovingly rebuilt, with no expense spared after the devastating 2019 fire, Our Lady has risen from the ashes reborn and renewed. We just had to take a peek, along with the thousands of others. It was well worth the very long queue.

The old girl looks magnificent. And yes, we bought another fridge magnet.