Tom Hall: travel, London, other things

This quote is pinned to the noticeboard in Highgate Men’s Pond and I wanted to copy it here.

As I envisage it, landscape projects into us not like a jetty or peninsula, finite and bounded in its volume and reach, but instead as a kind of sunlight, flickering unmappable in its plays yet often quickening and illuminating. We are adept, if occasionally embarrassed, at saying what we make of places – but we are far less good at saying what places make of us. For some time now it has seemed to me that the two questions we should ask of any strong landscape are these: firstly, what do I know when I am in this place that I can know nowhere else? And then, vainly, what does this place know of me that I cannot know of myself?

I have spent Saturdays plunging into green, frigid water. Though not what some visitors to the Men’s Pond in Highgate would call a regular, I’m there often enough to get used to, and love, the cold. This winter has been extra long, and extra cold. Here are a few pictures.

January 1. The waters of the Fleet that gather in these ponds offer renewal and hope for the year ahead. Note the presence of the sun in this picture: it has not been seen often.

Not everyone wanted to bid farewell to winter. As February rolled into March signs of Spring were evident in slowly warming water. The lifeguard who wrote this sign got his wish: winter came back and temperatures cooled again.

‘There aren’t any women here, are they?’ John Cleese need not normally worry, the Men’s Pond is usually true to its name. On this Saturday Ladies from the (where else) Ladies Pond were invited along. I envied their staying power in the water though to be honest some of them dilly-dallied about getting in.

Anyone who’s been through the endless British winter of 2013 knows how snowy it has been. I should have known that at some point I’d have a snowy swim. This was the marvellous scene as I got changed, alone for once. Believe it or not the water was warmer than it ad been for some time.

My sole concession to the cold water, neoprene gloves, kept my fingers warm but the snow numbed my feet as I walked along the jetty.

What a wonderful winter. The pond is civilisation, tranquility and wide-eyed wonder at nature.

For reasons I haven’t quite fathomed out, people who loved travelling to new places and exploring independently retreat into a shell of all-inclusive resorts and old school Mediterranean destinations when they have kids. Maybe they discover a new-found taste for seaside spots they would have avoided like the plague before, or maybe they just play it safe and have slightly less fun on holiday than they used to.

Choosing Switzerland for our family holiday last year (2012) raised a few eyebrows among some of these people. Its appeal in winter was obvious. Black runs in Wengen, fondue parties, bottom-smacking games with the chalet hosts and all that. But go in summer? With kids? It was like unfurling a map with ‘here be dragons’ on it. And wouldn’t it be horribly expensive?

We had arrived at the decision to go to Switzerland, though, through a process of elimination. It was June, and we didn’t want a long flight, so it should be Europe. Small boys like trains and their parents like swimming, which made us think first of Iceland, then Norway, then settle on the high Alps. We were aided by the discovery of this campsite, which convinced us we could sleep cheaply, in an idyllic location, and get around using public transport. After committing this far, as we planned so the delightful possibilities of the Berner Oberland revealed themselves.

The next bit is in some ways the most complicated. A Swiss travel pass is an essential part of any visitor’s arsenal, conferring as it does not just a varying range of discounts on what non-Swiss would term public transport but also cutting the price of most cable-cars, funiculars and other unusual ways of getting up a mountainside. Not only that, but passes cut the cost of entry into many visitor attractions. In short, if you have one flash it everywhere. There are quite an array of passes out there. The Swiss Pass is the simplest and most flexible and also the most expensive. The Half Fare Card is cheaper and almost as useful if you’re not planning to ride trains every day but still want to do some roaming around. Note that while the Swiss Pass gets you most places it only offers a 25% discount beyond Kleine Schiedigg on the Jungfraujoch – the best way to get up there is to go either early or late in the day, or pick up the Jungfrau Pass. You need to get these passes before you go, so be organised. Full details at Swiss Travel System.

Once in Switzerland, camping gives you a great excuse to economise. With views of the Jungfrau from just outside our tent we were more than happy to barbecue a few sausages or have simple meals as a family. Interlaken has three big supermarkets where you can stock up. Some things cost more than in the UK – meat was one of them – but basics were about the same and beer and ice cream, rather marvellously, were cheaper if you got them in a shop rather than a bar. Packed lunched helped too, and small boys with picky tastes were fuelled on several mountain yomps by endless cream cheese and cucumber wraps. They didn’t go a bundle on local cheese, but parents did, and a picnic next to a fast flowing stream, sitting in a flower-covered Alpine meadow seemed to make everyone happy.

Other wonders were waiting. At the top of the Allmendhubel cable car, reached from Murren, was an idyllic kids playground. Another one was to be found at Bort, uphill from Grindelwald, bigger and better and – for the brave – with a Trottibike, a grown-up scooter you could ride with a child in front of you, to whizz down again on. We weren’t allowed to go on these with kids on the Niederhorn, by the way, but officials were happy for us to do so, with helmets provided, at Bort.

I’m almost loathe to mention how deeply lovely the public swimming pool in Wengen is unless anyone else goes there. On an early summer morning we had it to ourselves. It has a perfect kids paddling pool, lawns to laze on and a high board to jump off, all to a backdrop of simply astonishing Alpine views. There was great swimming also to be found at riverside pools in Zurich and Thun and at Habkern near Interlaken and in Interlaken itself. In fact, just going from pool to pool could be a great holiday in itself. And that’s without even mentioning Lake Thun, clear and cool and always changing.

Lastly, a few other points in Switzerland’s favour: it caters for kids, doesn’t charge the earth for them and has a very high standard of pretty much everything. If your children are under 16 they’ll travel for free, and discounts for those under 16 are universal. Those who feel their passion for the world’s great experiences should be enhanced, rather than diminished by having children would be wise to consider it. It is more than financially possible and will probably be one of the most memorable holidays you’ll ever have.

Legendary football statistician Albert Sewell penned the Observer’s Book of Soccer, a suitably pocket-rocketesque contribution to the canon of Observer’s books.

I picked up a copy of the fifth edition, with powerhouse striker Malcolm ‘Supermac’ Macdonald in his Arsenal pomp gracing the cover, on holiday in Lyme Regis from the wonderful Sanctuary Bookshop. More on Lyme to come soon.

The inside is a collection of facts and figures from around the world of football in the late seventies and includes a wonderful colour insert detailing the kits of the league clubs of the day. Sorry for the grainy pictures but you should get the idea.

The highlights of this retro kit bonanza start immediately – note Blackburn Rovers’ harlequin collar and neck line.

Burnley’s blue chevron must have made many a Lancastrian lass’ heart skip a beat on an otherwise drab Turf Moor afternoon. And surely Cardiff would have graced the top flight a little sooner had they stuck to the natty number above rather than cashed in and changed colours altogether. In fairness, the colour change appears to be helping somewhat at the time of writing.

Coventry’s motoring heritage is reflected in their dazzling Autobahn-esque sky blue special.

Of all the kits here only Middlesborough are still rocking a round neck. Ayresome.

Port Vale’s sleeves are quite breathtaking. Was there a short-sleeve version?

This was the Tottenham kit worn by a young Glenn Hoddle. They didn;’t win much then either but they looked good.

West Ham have surely never looked better. As for York City, Y not?

This page deals with goalkeepers and international kits. The best ever Welsh kit, bar none. And the yellow goalkeepers top severely marked ‘internationals only’.

You often find this and other ‘Observer’s’ books knocking around for a few quid and there’s always something new to learn in them. Highly recommended.

Here are a few photos from Kraftwerk’s show at the Tate Modern that I was lucky enough to go to last night. They played Radioactivity pretty much in full, plus plenty of their best-known songs to a light and 3D effects show that made for one of the most astonishing concerts I can remember.

On entering the Tate Modern we were given wristbands, 3D glasses and an information sheet explaining the band’s importance and how the show would work. It said they’d be on at 9pm. They arrived at 9pm on the dot.

The show took place in the middle of the Turbine Hall. This is an immense space and less than half of it was used. The stage was at the foot of the slope on the western side of the hall. Cushions were issued  but everyone stood up and danced when Kraftwerk came on.

The sonic accompaniment to the backdrop above was typical distorted vocal sounds, like the first sound of ‘Ohm sweet ohm’. These got more frequent and louder as 9pm approached.

The first song was We Are The Robots, accompanied by amazing 3D effects – words and symbols flying over the heads of the crowd.

We were right at the front. Only 1000 people were in the venue (someone else said it was 700, I’m not sure) and there was lots of space at the front.

Ralf Hütter, the only original member of the group still performing, is on the far left.

We’d been promised a Gesamtkunstwerk (full artistic synthesis), but the two-hour set felt more like a regular concert than I was probably expecting. Contrary to the image, the four chaps on stage danced about a bit – though they never left their control panels. Hütter sang the vocals on several songs which I also wasn’t expecting. There’s a lot of humour in Kraftwerk and it was hugely fun.

Friends who had seen them before felt that hearing more obscure sections of Radioactivity was the real treat of the evening. This is the visual from Radioland .

Bonus points for Kraftwerk-enthusiasm go to the man in a knitted Man Machine jumper. From Russia, he told us, but bought in Sweden for him by a friend who was a ‘moderate’ Kraftwerk fan. I figured I would not get too high up his scale of mania for the band as I did not own a pair of Kraftwerk socks.

At the end of a hugely enjoyable set the band left the stage one by one, the sound reducing by a clear element at each point of departure. Hütter was left on his own for a minute, then the electro-pioneer exited the stage.

Part one: Major Marindin and Queen’s Park FC

The further I dig into Victorian association football, the more its strangeness and distance from the modern game becomes clear. The early years of the organised game were played by amateurs, initially pulled from public schools, then rapidly joined and surpassed by working men who learnt the game on public recreation grounds in industrial cities.

Before the Football League was founded in 1888 the game revolved around the FA Cup, then competed for by clubs from all over the United Kingdom. Glasgow Rangers reached the semi-finals of the (English) FA Cup in 1886-7, losing 3-1 to eventual winners Aston Villa at Nantwich Road, then the home of Crewe Alexandra. It was the club who today are their Glasgow rival in the Scottish Third Division, Queens Park, who have the finest playing record of all Scottish clubs in the FA Cup.

Queens were the pioneers of football north of the border and great movers in the shaping of football overall, and were for many years members of the Football Association. They played in the semi-finals in the first two FA Cup tournaments, losing twice. On both occasions they did not play a match before the semi-finals due to the logistical challenge of travelling to England to play.

After a gap of several years, during which time Queens entered the cup but withdrew without competing, the Spiders (or ‘senior club’ as they were referred to) went one better and reached the final in 1883-4. Here they met Blackburn Rovers, and, the man in black, referee Major Marindin.

Blackburn Rovers were something of a crack side, but Queens Park fancied their chances and were expected to do well at the Kennington Oval. 14,000 were in attendance to see Rovers triumph 2-1, but it was not without controversy.

Marindin

Enter Major Francis Mandarin. A player with the Royal Engineers (with whom he served in the Crimean War, which rather highlights the ancient era we are discussing), he had lost in the 1872 and 1874 finals. He was clearly the right sort of chap, as he served as President of the Football Association from 1874 to 1879. As if that wasn’t enough, he refereed the finals in 1880 and from 1884 to 1890.

Prince William is the current President of the FA. I can’t see him reffing one cup final, let alone eight of them.

Marindin is, then, a key figure in the early history of the game. In Glasgow, though, his name is muddied by his decisions in the 1884 final Richard Robinson, in his superb history of Queen’s Park 1867-1917, laments how Marindin cost the Scots the cup.

It is true the Queen’s Park were “refereed” out of the game by Major Marindin, whose views on the “off-side” rule were peculiar and vain…

The heart of the matter was the offside rule, and the difference between English and Scottish interpretations of it. Robinson notes two Queen’s goals disallowed were “from a Scottish perspective, legitimate.” Or was this the nub of the issue? Marindin also disallowed one goal for Rovers, and the final score of 2-1 to the Lancastrians remains a contentious one. The referee then did something interesting.

On the Sunday after the match he came to the hotel (that Queen’s Park were staying in), and told the team they had the ball through the Rovers posts a foot, and did not claim, and also that the first Rovers goal was offside, but no appeal was made.

One suspects Mark Clattenburg would not offer Chelsea or Manchester United. such bitter-sweet feedback the day after a Cup Final defeat.

Queen’s Park made the final again the following year, and again lost to Blackburn Rovers, 2-0 this time. The Major appears to have not invoked Scots ire this year.

Marindin disappears from the record books after the 1890 final, when Rovers again won the Little Tin Idol. He had to contend with a pitch invasion at the end of the 6-1 drubbing of Sheffield Wednesday, but lived on until 1900. He is buried in Torryburn near Dunfermline in Scotland, somewhat appropriately as his name is forever tied in with that long-lost era of Scottish heroism in the English Cup.

**UPDATE**

Martin Tyler’s Cup Final Extra, published in 1980 and compiling reports from every Cup Final up to that point, offers some further glimpses of Major Marindin.

The Major, as noted above, took charge of the 1887-88 final, which saw Preston North End take the cup to go with their Football League Championship. Before the final tie was played, North End were, legend has it, so confident of victory that they asked Marindin if they could be photographed with the trophy. Marindin is said to have replied: ‘Had you not better win it first?’

I recently confided in a colleague that I was utterly unable to decide where to eat while travelling alone. The miles I had trudged, unable to commit to one perfectly adequate place to eat over another, convinced me that I was deeply mad, and wholly alone in suffering from this condition. To my surprise, being an entirely normal person, she said that she did the same, which I found both delighting and concerning for the human race. I was not alone, but if there are too many of us being possessed by inexplicable reluctance to plunge into a restaurant, when very hungry, then there is little hope for humankind’s continued existence.

And yet, tonight, I may have seen the first rays of light. Peckish after a lengthy journey to Valencia, I found myself, against every instinct in my body, walking into a lovely-looking bar serving tapas. It was small and intimate and full of couples and small groups. Terror gripped me. I wanted with all my fibre to flee for the hotel room and a big bag of Doritos.

And at that point something else gripped me. The hand of the manager of the bar, who was on the phone taking a reservation as I stood next to him being awkward. He continued, firmly, to keep a hold of me, and then seated me at the bar. I ordered something quite at random. It turned out to be a rather surprising dish of black pudding spring rolls served with a beetroot dressing in a kind of cream sauce. I’m no foodie but it was fabulous. And, after paying, admittedly rather swiftly, I strolled home feeling very pleased with myself.

The moral of the story? Fight the instinct to flee. Order anything. Take a book or fiddle with your phone if you’d prefer. Eating out, alone, is hard, but the rewards are better, possibly, than too many Doritos.