Travel for work Part 1

Surely much more prosaic than foreign travel. Yes and no. I do go to a fair number of places in the UK all employer paid. With the state of finances generally this often prompts me to try and economise in various ways.

I often get home quite late in the evening because I can't make myself charge up £65 one way from London when I can wait another hour and do the same journey for £19. But I really don't like getting home at 8.45 in the evening. Last week I took that train it was 59 minutes late. At the preceding station it was logged at 61 minutes overdue and the passengers escaping there were told to get hold of compensation claims. But in the 15 minute ride on to my stop, they made up two minutes. So no compensation offers.

We are supposed to book our hotels through a booking agent; I am never convinced this saves money. Occasionally I visit a town that is not covered by the agent. One such was Wigan.

Now if you have heard legends of Wigan Pier; that does not actually indicate that it is on the coast. Sometimes I go to Southend on Sea; it is kind of by the sea, well up the estuary but it has a splendid pier and splendid views of an expanse of water. However Wigan is about 40 kms up the mouth of a river, no salty air here. The pier pokes out into that river.

I was meeting up with two of the team of writers that I work with and we were spending a couple of days together. One, Bev, comes from Wigan and we decided to meet up at her home town. I asked Bev for a recommendation for somewhere to stay. She surprised me by firmly suggesting a Wetherspoons pub with rooms. Wetherrooms.......I caviled. How about somewhere else? No, she knew people who had stayed there happily.

I was picked up at the station by the second writer, Lynda; she is a tonic to work with and sees the humour in every situation. We arrived at the pub which is on a main road and looking very careworn inside. It gives a very different impression from the current Laterooms entry. We walked through the bar that looked like herds of cattle had been scuffing the carpet with their hooves ever night for a year, I clocked the chipped woodwork.

But the reception guy was pleasant. As I always do, I asked for a quiet room. Duly noted. Lynda expressed no preferences.

Getting to my room I noticed a strong smell of damp. Looking out of the window I saw my room faced onto the main road. I gazed out glumly and had to concede it was not burdened with much traffic. A few minutes later I met up with Lynda in the bar. I mentioned my front of house view; this set her off in peals of laughter. She was tucked away right at the back of the building. She suggested that perhaps she would be woken up by the bins being collected and that was why I was not at the back.

Now we had arrived at an unfortunate time for Bev. Just that day her much loved and house trained, elderly pet rabbit had died. There had been many a rabbit trauma over the couple of years I had known Bev. I can be very stony hearted about pets. But I was sorry about the rabbit, though the upside was that luxury holidays would be possible now that the vet was not taking them out of the mind boggling bills Bev had been paying to keep the animal comfortable.

But Bev is a trooper and she had determined, bereavement or not, we three would meet up and have a night out. She appeared and asked if we wanted to eat at the pub. NO! I did not want to eat at the pub. I suggested it would be round to her house for rabbit pie......this could have been a tricky moment, but we ended up rocking with laughter as we imagined how to keep a bit of the pet as a memento. My risky approach had broken her mood and we decided to go to an Indian place for a meal.

We parked right outside, a rare event these days. The place was modern-bland, clean lines, cream walls. We sat down and unusually in an Indian we decided on a bottle of wine. We had the house white delivered. It was screw top and instead of offering anyone a taste, the waiter plonked the plonk into the glasses. We were chatting about how to sort out the work; I tasted the wine. It was vile, tasted of tin and was bitter. I said nothing and wondered what the others thought.

They were off into a plan for how we design the piece of writing we were considering, but I noticed that Bev was chatting and sipping and not falling over in shock. They breed tough girls in Wigan. Eventually I had another taste. It was every bit as bad as I had remembered. I asked how the wine was....the answers.....bogging, terrible. I called the waiter over. I said that we did not like the wine and would he please take it away and take it off the bill. He looked worried and disappeared.

We were left to our own devices for some time. In the interim, Bev was still holding the glass, chatting and taking tiny sips from it as though by reflex. Eventually the manager appeared.....he was clearly in no mood to pander to customers. I explained that we thought the wine was not drinkable, it was tinny, tasted awful and would he please take it back and take it off the bill.

He pointed at the half empty bottle and demanded. "Well if you did not like it, why did you drink so much of it?" I frowned and indicated that the wine from the bottle was sitting undrunk in the glasses. He then raised his voice and told me there was nothing wrong with the wine, could be nothing wrong. It was the house wine and popular. I told him I did not care how many bottles he sold, he was not selling one to me.

He then grabbed the bottle and then each of our glasses in turn and poured the wine back into the neck of the bottle. He then pointed to the fact that there was some wine missing. I was losing patience by now and just curtly told him that it had better not appear on the bill.

We then watched in amazement as he ceased the bottle top, screwed it back onto the bottle, stalked over to the bar and put the bottle behind the bar. His parting shot was a loudly muttered, "If you did not want to pay for it; you should not have drunk it."

It was clear that the wine was going to be sold by the glass with the added ingredient of our sputum and at a higher profit. This set us off in a combination of shock and amusement. We did consider disappearing and leaving him with an ordered meal, but we decided to stay put; we were hungry. I felt reassured that I had kept an eye on the manager to make sure he did not go near the kitchen; as I was not about to risk him adding his sputum or worse to our food. The food arrived and it seemed fine.

Back at the gracious Wetherspoons, things were in full swing; they sell it cheap and pack 'em in. We had a couple of bevies and Bev's sister arrived to give her a lift home. Somehow it seemed not in the least odd that Bev's sister had turned up dressed for bed, wearing her favourite teddy bear patterned pajamas and furry slippers.

The evening and an open window had not allowed dispersal of the damp smell from my room. I had earlier noticed there was no hot water....still none. I fell asleep and at what turned out to be 2am I was woken by a loud grinding noise, it certainly made me jump. I lay there exasperated having worked out exactly what it was. The draymen had arrived and were dragging the empty metal beer barrels across the cobbles in front of the pub and dragging full ones in. This lasted about 20 minutes.

Lynda had had a very peaceful night at the back of the building. She was sympathetic to my having to wash in cold water, but got me laughing yet again about the entire set-up.

Later when we met up with Bev we told her about the accommodation. "Well", says Bev, "next time you come there is a lovely sort of small mansion house hotel out near me and it is within the cost limit." Stunned I asked her why then she had stuffed us into the crappiest place in town. "Well, it was close to the office."

I said; "But Bev, we had Lynda's car!"

Bremen: In the steps of Napoleon...again!

I am quite decided: sometime soon I am off to Vietnam. I know that Napoleon was never there, never annexed it, never plundered it. He did not make any of his relatives king, nor fought battles or took lovers there.

Although I know a fair bit of history, I had not known that the little emperor had at one time attached Bremen to his empire. I often feel I dog his steps, 200 years after he has passed through, left his footprints and grabbed his spoils from everywhere, Venice to Egypt, Naples to, well, Bremen!

Unusually for anywhere he 'visited', the furniture remains intact. I assume that by this time Paris was simply stuffed with artifacts and chairs and desks, sideboards and thrones from the various cultural centres of Europe. Even from the Vatican he purloined 100 art works to be dragged back to the Louvre: one reason for his excommunication. Though, making his new born son, Napoleon, king of Rome probably did not sit well with either Italian prelates or politicians.


What we see in Bremen is a well organised, prosperous city with a medieval centre and a great transport system. But not all is as it seems. During the 2nd world war the Allies flattened 40% of the city and 60% of its port. A lot has been restored to seem old, but some significant buildings escaped the raids. One such is the Rathaus, the town hall. Going round this on a guided tour is to join an exercise in the civic pride of heritage and in what the city has become.

This was one of the Hanseatic ports. A mercantile arrangement around the Baltic that was a distant precursor to the European Union. It lasted less than 100 years from the 1350s; but echoes of the arrangement continue even to this day.

Subsequently there was a tussle between the Roman church and the Protestants, the latter of whom protested in the cathedral in favour of reformation sermons. The Archbishop promptly upped sticks and, locking the cathedral, it fell into disuse and disrepair. It was abandoned for many decades. Today walking into it the signs of reformation exceed mere removal of any signs of idolatry. The axis of the church has been changed, not just bringing the altar forward into the nave; but swiveling it so that where the altar would once have been is now an elevated seating area that looks onto the side of the altar.

 This break with Rome was the signal for local politicians to grasp power and set up their own government along ancient republican lines; with two 'mayors' holding their posts simultaneously, like tribunes in Rome. The idea was to prevent the concentration of too much power into one pair of hands.

Further, the Mayoral  posts circulated round the entire council. It was a democracy of sorts, male, moneyed, but with distinct checks and balances that minimised corruption. To be weighed in the Bremen balance and found wanting would shut the doors to you from any and all trade right across the Baltic. Despite the occasional rounds of fisticuffs with empires, royalty and invaders, the city retains its unique position with its own parliament. A frowning new slab that  sits uncomfortably aside the ancient buildings of what is otherwise a handsome old square, it is the current seat of power. 

Kings got short shrift here. The smallest room in the Rathaus, smaller than a toilet, was that which had been set aside for the exclusive use of Austro-Hungarian royalty. The main council chamber holds great hanging ships and its declaration of freedom inscribed round its walls. In the tiny royal annex there was not room for the emperor to twirl a coronet, let alone swing a sceptre. I got the impression he would be left very much to his own devices there while the burghers got on with their business.

 During the Renaissance the exterior of the Rathaus was given a spectacular face lift echoing the seafaring architecture that has brought so much wealth to the city. It contains a room dating back to the 14th century which was unaccountably redesigned early in the 20th century in the Art Nouveau style with embossed gilt leather walls. This inner sanctum is kept like a shrine.

We were permitted only to stick a head around the door to gaze and the guide several times referred to it as a "sacred space" and thus suitable for the most important men to make the most important decisions for the city.  This guide was full of sincere sentiment, not pompous, but clear in his pride in his German heritage. His enlargement on the subject reminded me very closely of the German Art and German Traditions that Wagner espoused so proudly in 'Die Meistersingers von Nuremburg' and which were adopted and pushed as national pillars of secular faith under the Third Reich. The admirable turned into evil. Here I had to rethink this in order to see it as appropriate pride in culture and heritage.

Ancient heroes, Roland and Charlemagne are both deployed like mascots in some kind of legendary sponsorship of the city. In neither instance could I tie up just what the actual connections were. But there is a splendid statue of Roland in the main square, encompassed in the Unesco heritage site that also embraces the Rathaus.

 The wealth here is to do with successful trading and the locals were wise and adventurous; taking a lead in trading with the New World trade almost before it was mapped. Something like 70% of all German wine passes through Bremen, some of it reaches the extensive cellars beneath the Rathaus, which contains a much loved restaurant with a vast wine list and a blocked up staircase that once lead straight to the council chamber in order to provide liquid refreshment. The food is excellent all over the city, heavy on both meat and fish, wonderful thick soups and sauces, my kind of eating. I made sure I only drank wine that was German right through the visit. I did avoid the many kebab houses, as ubiquitous as McDonalds.


There is a very lively arts scene here, including classical concerts seemingly at least a couple of nights a week. I was very fortunate. I caught two. First of all: a Wagner, Strauss and Shostakovitch concert by the visiting Amsterdam Concertgebouw; Andris Nelsons conducted. Amazing sounds, marvellous music making, but has there ever been a more miserable symphonist than Shostakovitch? I am sure areas of the first two movements are scattered with the instruction, 'aural assault' and the Dutch players went balls-deep obeying it. At times the sheer volume was uncomfortable, but the committed playing pinned one to the seat.

Nelsons opened with the Wagner Reinzi Overture; which I find almost comical in its Lloyd Webber overuse of the main theme in the first half, then it goes all Rossini and ends like a Strauss Polka. Of course, it was played for all it was worth and was a real crowd pleaser. What followed was a marvelous 'Dance of the Seven Veils' from Strauss's opera Salome. It could have been more down and dirty, but it worked well, the layers of sound and detail were remarkable. The conductor was simply terrific and it was clear the orchestra totally enjoyed working with him. They watched him, very significant, and were very warm in aplauding him. Ironic that I travel to Bremen to hear him; when he is the principal conductor in Birmingham.....on getting home I made speedy arrangements to hear him locally. I don't remember the last time a musician excited me so much.


The second concert: (It would have been better had they been the other way round.), was the Bremen Orchestra: Strauss 4 Last Songs and Bruckner 4th. The local outfit is fine, but it was a big step away from the previous night. The Strauss was soupy with the strings too loud, submerging the woodwind and harp. The soprano Kristine Opolais, (wife to Andris Nelsons), was OK, she did not do anything wrong, but I did not connect with her singing, the crowd appreciated her enormously.


I did therefore wonder how the orchestra would manage all the very quiet string work in the first movement of the Bruckner 4th. It managed just fine; which made me wonder why the Strauss had been so clotted. The orchestra could not match the sheer quality, the bottom heavy sonority and sweet, sweeping strings of the Amsterdammers, but it was good.

Their chief conductor, Markus Poschner, whose platform manner was positively inexpressive up against Nelsons, had not found that way of making you listen through the Brucknerarian silences, they became merely absence of sound. Those silences are vital, like windows in a building. We ought to hear the silence as part of the grand scheme. He also let the first movement disintegrate in places, where it occasionally ground to a halt. 


All that makes it seem I did not enjoy it; but I did. Then the stroll with stop-offs through the open air winefest on the way to the hotel, yet more enjoyment and more music. Though not the umpah kind, a rock group playing to a full square of swaying, drinking and grinning folk.


One big selling point to Bremen is the Kunsthalle gallery. About a month before I landed, the Independent made a big splash about this major art venue. Seemingly, (Note that word 'seemingly'.), it has a first rate collection of Renaissance works. The building has just been been refurbished and extended. It was also to cost 18 Euros to get in. I kept it for the final full day. Blow me, it was free.....but it was also basically empty. Only one Renaissance work, a statue of Venus. She looks like part of a cut price S&M exhibition; confined inside a box and tied up. I am still not sure whether she was waiting to be decanted, or whether she was part of the sparse installation art that provided a bit of summat to look at, and disdain, in a couple of the large suites of echoing, empty rooms.

 I was one of several people who were stalking round looking at blank walls, striding through empty rooms and coming away puzzled. The 'art' we saw for free consisted of a miniature Venus de Milo with a close-up camera trained onto her face. Across the wide low podium was an upright death mask....no idea whose, sadly not the artist's I assume. Likewise, this had a small camera trained on it. Between the two sculptures two TV monitors sat facing one another. The two static heads gazed out from the screens directly into one another's eyes. Mind bogglingly facile. Presumably the regular collection will be hung in due course. The postcard shop provided insights into what I missed. The Indie needs to get its facts straight.



Carrying on out of town past the Kunsthalle you come to a bohemian area, lots of large wall paintings, boutiques, vegetarian restaurants spilling onto the pavements, small art galleries. Off this thoroughfare run some very charming tree lined streets with attractive 19th century houses. As you travel out along this street, pass the manikin of the bride hanging over a first floor balcony, pass the large roof line relief of Buddha and beyond Bohemia you encounter louche, from louche you arrive at positively seedy. But along that road to ruin there is this very relaxed cafe society ribbon that belays the misconception many of us have of the uptight Germans.

I encountered only friendliness and politeness. No stern voices or pushy or dismissive attitudes. I found people helpful and so many had some English and none bothered to mention The War. I wandered into a men's clothes shop. A woman assistant strolled over to me and in a very nice way let me know that there would be nothing in the shop to fit me; she looked me up and down and said, "No, it is for big fat men." I raised my eyebrows and she smiled and confirmed, I did not qualify, not anything like fat enough. I was much cheered, I wear large or even extra large in England. Another blow to the German reputation for rectitude was a manhole cover in one square, drop a coin down a slot in it and it emits loud farm animal noises. 

 Just outside the splendid palace-like rail station is another newly refurbished museum. Let's call this rag-bag an ethnographic museum. I wandered this building outnumbered by the staff. A fascinating miscellany from preserved fish to oriental jewellery, bits of factory machinery and writings of immigrants; all brightly but confusingly displayed. Several of the staff were keen to chat to me: you can only look at those African tribal totems for so long before you need to interact. Again, English fluidly spoken and I was made to feel welcome, invited to photograph what I liked without using flash. 

Walking away into town, you cross the canal and see a large windmill on silted-up land. The city walls were flattened after Napoleon had invaded. He did not pull them down, but the locals thereafter saw no purpose in them and by removing them, they instead produced a narrow, long park that runs along to the river. Water and shipping have been vital here in the cohesion and prosperity of the city. A city that feels very much at one with itself, a thriving air about it, but not grasping, no hard sell anywhere. I was told that Autumn had arrived along with me. Winters round the Baltic can be severe, thus the agective; Baltic. I noticed one painting from around the 1920s where ice breakers were being used on the river. It is vital here that The Show Must Go On. Trade is lifeblood and cannot be impeded by the mere, mean, moodiness of Mother Nature. 

Next stop Poland.......Napoleon swept through and interfered there too!