Changing the Guard – in a different palace

 

Christopher Robin didn’t bring Alice here though.  Watching these young men march up and down, looking fierce and composed one minute, then stepping out of line and suddenly becoming ordinary young men again was quite entertaining.  Observing the trouble taken by some visitors to compose the perfect shot of themselves with the guard, only to be thwarted by an unexpected addition to the snapshot was yet more amusing.  But we were here to see other things.

Explaining our dilemma to the concierge this morning resulted in the same suggestion as the one we had from someone yesterday.  The Dolmabahce Palace was only a step from our hotel and was well worth seeing, we were told.  So, that’s what we did.

Before stepping inside, we had to clad our feet in plastic showercaps.  You can imagine how comfortable that is in 30C heat, not to mention the increased hazards of wonky carpets and stairs.  Shall we say, it concentrated the mind, somewhat?

But any distraction from such things was banished the minute we stepped inside the building.  Six huge chandeliers, all lit and sparkling were the first hint of what we were to see.  There on the ceiling, above the chandeliers were painted surfaces, trompe-d’oeil mouldings in taupe, grey and brown – breathtaking decor and so much to see.

Except that there wasn’t time to see it.  A guided tour is obligatory and our guide whisked us through at breakneck speed, for other groups were hard on our heels and we had to keep up with the one in front.  We kept pace, nudging each other to point out the next glorious vision, me frantically scribbling notes in my sketchbook, determined to refer to the website which she promised would have photos to download, because, of course, photos were forbidden.  There were striped silks in raspberry and dove grey, a blue room with matching blue glass chandelier, cases of treasure and incredible cutwork blinds at the windows.  Also at the windows were hanging the most beautiful lace curtains, silhouetted against the cream blinds pulled down to protect the decor from the sunlight.

Keep going, follow the red carpet.  Keep up there at the back.

Everywhere there were chairs.  Every room had a dozen.  Many rooms had more.  All lavishly upholstered in beautiful fabrics.  Most rooms had a chandelier in the centre, mostly English glass, though in the Harem, the chandeliers were French, we were told.  “More romantic”.  ( ? )

Room after room, each with another variation on the central table, chairs, chandelier theme.

Until we reached the last room of all.  The Ceremonial Hall.  The only chandelier which wasn’t lit.  The four and a half ton chandelier which was given by Queen Victoria and which is lit only on special occasions.  By this time, we were pretty much chandeliered out and yet this amazing piece left us all with gaping mouths.  Neither ballroom nor mosque but suitable for use as either, the painted ceilings, pillars, walls were stunningly beautiful and it’s hard to imagine anyone who could fail to be impressed by it.  Which is exactly the idea.

Almost exactly an hour later, we found ourselves outside in the sunshine again, not quite believing what we’d just seen.  How pleased we were that we’d taken that advice and not tried to battle our way through to the old town.  Even more pleased to think that we’d not had to queue in the hot sunshine like those arriving now – possibly another reason why we’d had to scuttle through so fast.

What a great place to go.  How lucky we didn’t miss it.

Con-stan-tin-ople

We’ve been trying to figure out that song since we arrived, and still can’t seen to get it to fit.  Perhaps we should settle for Istanbul.

We arrived in rush hour.  Except that it seems to have been rush hour from early morning until late at night.  This city never sleeps, nor does it go home, it seems (however much it might want to).

Two hours after landing, we were still sitting in a traffic jam, reassessing our thoughts for tomorrow when we’d hoped to scoot around and do a bit of the old town.  We’d not given it much thought but had assumed that we’d go to the Spice Market, soak in a little atmosphere and make the most of the very short time we had here.  But one thing after another made us think differently.

Firstly, tomorrow is Friday and the city will be particularly busy as the Mosques open for their main weekly service.  The traffic will be worse as a result.  Next, it was announced that our transfer to the ship was scheduled for 1pm – peak time for mosque services and people moving around the city.  Finally, we hadn’t reckoned on our hotel being quite so far from the old town.  We swiftly reached the conclusion that we’d be foolhardy to try to do too much in such a short time and decided to reconsider.

We did a super-quick turnaround and walked the short distance to Taksim Square, somewhere we knew would be a good place to begin to find some fun.

Thursday evening, 7.30pm, Taksim Square.  Just the place to meet friends, have a photo taken in front of the Memorial, relax and enjoy being in the city.

Which is exactly what we did.  Except we haven’t any friends to meet.

Joining the pedestrian migration towards Beyoglu Tower, suddenly we were here. In Istanbul.  Still in Europe but not quite.  Faced with a plethora of choices

Roast chestnuts?  Not yet.

Baklava?  Ooooh….maybe later.

Kebab, meatballs, pasta, cheese….so much to choose, all there in front of our eyes.  What did we fancy?

No decision!  Seeing these two jolly souls making flatbread in the window of a traditional style Anatolyan restaurant by the name of Otantik, we dived straight inside (really, they were laughing and chatting until they posed for my photo, when they turned serious!)  We allowed ourselves to be persuaded into sharing a recommended filled flatbread starter, followed by an assortment of specialities and tucked in enthusiastically.  The filled flatbread was delicious, the platter full of familiar looking skewers and meat dishes with some tasty couscous there in the centre was just what we needed and the perfect choice on this warm evening.

Of course, we couldn’t resist dessert, Anatolyan style, which came with a floor show

This strangely chewy ice cream was said to be made of ewe’s milk and tasted fresh and good.  But the texture was a little odd.

We made our way back up the street, towards our hotel and our comfortable bed.  Strange how doing nothing but sit around waiting, travelling from one place to another is so tiring, isn’t it?  And funny that, however far or near we fly, it always seems to take a day.

Yes, we did resist that baklava on the way back.

No, we didn’t resist the Turkish Delight shop…

Before we go…

We’d better check that all is well with the government.  Well, sometimes it’s as well to see for ourselves and when The Boy came up with two tickets for PMQ, we scooted around and packed ourselves up in double quick time, presenting ourselves at St Stephens entrance with boots blacked, ready to go.

At 12 noon, as people all around the country stood for a minute’s silence to honour those killed in last Wednesday’s events in West Cumbria, we joined them and listened as Big Ben chimed noon.  My goodness, what a moving experience that was.

The report of the business of the day can be read here, but it’s so much more interesting to watch the small details.  Things like the nudges Jack Straw inflicted on Alastair Darling, sitting next to him, when it was announced that a flag of St George would fly over Downing St during the World Cup “hoping that all parts of the United Kingdom would join in the support of England’s team”.  We sat there, spotting MPs we recognised (our own among them…glad Neil Carmichael put in an appearance) and wondering how each new arrival was going to squeeze into what is a really tight space.  But they did – Eric Pickles shuffled up a bit to make room!

The whole affair was civilised and good humoured.  One might even say “Grown Up”.  I think our government is working well and like them or loathe them, both David Cameron and Harriet Harman are very impressive politicians.

After a bite to eat in one of the Parliamentary bars, we left the workers to it and buzzed off back to our car to make our way to Heathrow.  As we did, we completed the set, so to speak, bumping into the PM’s wife in Bond Street (metaphorically speaking, of course).  Taller and more attractive in real life, we were tempted to reassure her that her dh was doing ok…

Last night, we met The Boy from the train in Maidenhead and went to Heston Blumenthal’s Hinds Head pub for supper.  Very good it was too.  As we left, we spotted this across the square in Bray.

David Cameron would approve?

“like a concert tour with sketchbooks”

Oh well, that’s it.  I’ve committed.  Along with Mags, Paulene, Caroline and, I suspect other Artful Dodgers who can’t resist a challenge.

Anyone else?

Early Summer Harvest

But there’s not much elderflower blossom to be seen here yet, which is a pity because this could be our only chance to make the 2010 vintage cordial.

This morning, I passed the annual test at the local chemist, who did the usual checks on my reasons for buying the citric acid powder, before getting the other ingredients together.  We managed to glean 50 flowerheads from the largest of our three elderflower bushes, regretful that the largest and juiciest-looking heads are still firmly in bud.

The kitchen smells divine with the grated lemon zest and the fresh scent of elderflower.  If ever a sign of the start of summer is needed, that’s it.

I stood at the countertop overlooking the garden and had the same thoughts as I always do, remembering June 2004 when a phone call brought devastating news.  But there’s comfort to be found in following the same process each year and a little time spent wallowing does no harm, does it?

As I covered the bowl to let it steep for 24 hours before bottling, the phone rang.  No need to shudder this time – The Boy wanted to speak to his Mum.

Life goes on.