Saturday 23rd November 2019

Dr Who's 56th Birthday.

Jools's 56th birthday.

56 anniversary of the slaying of John F Kennedy.

Quite a day.

I first heard of William Blake when reading Red Dragon by Thomas Harris, that introduced the literary world to Hannibal Lecter. I read the book in a day and a half before the BBC showed the film. I would rather have read the source material and got my own ideas rather than the film director's impressions. The Red Dragon of the title is a painting by William Blake.

Next was in Bull Durham when Annie quotes Willam Blake to a stunned Kevin Costner, as Kevin plays stunned men quite well. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,”

And then I found out Blake wrote Jerusalem, my Father's and my own favourite hymn.

And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon Englands mountains green: And was the holy Lamb of God, On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine, Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, In Englands green & pleasant Land.

I thought I knew Blake. But it turned out no one really knew Blake. Least of all me. As with all exhibitions, you learn not about his art, but the man. And his mind.

But first, we had to get to London. Which should have been simple enough. But it turned out this weekend was when Network Rail chose to close two of the three main lines into London from Kent. No High Speed Services, and none into either Charing Cross or Cannon Street. Leaving one direct service from Dover into Victoria, a journey that would take some two hours and twenty minutes. Frankly, I could get to Paris quicker.

So, drive to Ebbsfleet, catch one of the High Speed servies into St Pancras.

Which is what we did. After finishing coffee, we set off for north Kent, up the A2, in heavy drizzle, making the drive horrible. At least it was getting light.

We turned off just before the M25, and parked near to the station. It would cost an arm and leg, but coming back there would be a train every 20 minutes, so not too bad.

Into the station, down the steps and after buying our ticket, we had just a ten minute wait for the train to arrive.

From the station you can see the remains of old flint mines and workings that ravaged the landscape. The new high speed line cut through that to vanish to the north into the tunnel that takes trains under the Thames into Essex before turning west into London.

I take some shots, then more as a train heading to Margate pulls in, before ours arrives from behind, allowing us to climb on and find empty seats on the 12 coach train.

From there it is a 14 minute run into London, and arriving with 90 minutes before the gallery opened, time for breakfast. We chose a "French" cafe in the station, and I had croque monsieur, coffee and we shared a plate of dainty cakes, all filled with lemon or chocolate Fondou.

Yummy.

And then the final leg of the journey, a short ride on the Victoria Line to Pimlico, stopping to show our passports at the Burgundy border, we were in

! The Tate stands beside the Thames, opposite the HQ of UK's secret services, just up river from the Palaces of Westminster. But we stepped out into more drizzle, too wet for snapping it seemed.

And the signs for the Tate vanished, so we wandered around a bit, before the lay of the land made sense. And then we saw Graham.

Graham is a GOWUK frined, and he was snapping some detail beside the river, we were to meet him for the exhibition, and maybe some additional snapping afterwards.

We waved, he waved back and we met up.

Not the weather for wandering before opening time of The Tate at ten, so we go to wait in line at the gallery door, in the lea of the building, and do some chatting and catching up.

The door opened, so we swet in and walked down the scalloped stairs into the basement to the Blake Exhibition area.

Those in front of us start at the beginning with Blake's earliest drawings and etchings.

I soon give up and walk through the rooms until I had those with his colourful later works. It was mind-blowing.

I took lots of shots of these works, and the plates in his tomes too. Many paintings and plates featured several paragraphs of words too. All in all so much to take in.

Too much to take in.

Many years ago, Jools and I had our first date at The Tate for the Constable exhibition, and that had a handful of his most famous works, along with the prep-work for each.

For Blake, each room had dozens of works, many packed with images and symbolism, that would require hours of study and interpretation on each.

90 minutes later we meet back up at the exit, and leave only to be drawn into the works of JWM Turner, whose new displays first brought be to the Tate with my Father one summer day in 1987.

And they still have the power to dazzle and take your breath away. Some filled with detail and colour, others just a blur of movement and suggestion of something. Both Blake and Turner had no peers, and still don't.

We leave.

And walk to the river, at least it had stopped raining. Just. So we walk downstream towards Westminster.

On our minds was somewhere to have a drink, and the Marquis of Granby was the choice.

The pub is hidden away on a backstreet just off Milbank. We arrive two minutes after opening time. Sadly, the Old Ale had just finished, but I made do with a pint of festive ale.

We share more beers, and a bowl of nachos, before walking to Westmister, where as we have to get to Charing Cross, we bid Graham farewell, and we dive out of the crowds down onto the Circle line to Embankment.

Villiers Street is heaving, nothing compared to Charing Cross Road, but we have to go up both, until we dve down a side street to a small shop, the London Medal Centre, who I have tasked to frame my Granddad's medals and other military mementos. I wait in line, hand over his medals, we agree on what it will look like, and we can leave.

Up Charing Cross Road to Leicester Square station, down onto a waiting train, and four stops up the line we are at St Pancras, and a train due to leave in 5 minutes. We slide into the pair of seats at the very end of the train.

And sigh......

The train speeds out, accelerates into the East London tunnel, and we leave that London behind.

We get out at Ebbsfleet, wait in line to pay the £12 for parking, then wait in line on the road out to get on the A2.

It was getting gloomy, not dark, but not fully daylight. To keep awake, I put the radio on so I could listen to the football.

We drove east, and the games started, Norwich away at Everton, we needed a win.

We arrived home at ten to four, also half time. I make coffee, and whilst reviewing the pictures, the second half begins, and Norwich score!

Take the lead.

I am on tenderhooks all day, then at quarter to five: "news from Goodison where there has been another goal!".

FUCK!

But needn't have worried, as we had scored a second and moved off the bottom.

YAY! Jools birthday, a day in London and Norwich win?

Even better than that, I had arranged for us, Mike and Jane, meet at Jen's for a Chinese, which was due to be delivered at six.

Which is what happened: we all, along with Sylv and JOon sat down for a banquet, going back for seconds.

And afterwards we sat round chatting, laughing and gently ribbing John and Jen.

It was fine and harmless stuff.

And so at nine, we say goodbye to all, and come home. Another packed day.

Worn out again.