Back from our hols

A perfect idea of a holiday -- in Canterbury (not my holiday, though....)

We've had our summer holiday. It's over. In fact I've been back at work for a week. It was good to have a break, and we did lots of interesting things, but it didn't really match the idyll that I have in my mind when I think of summer holidays (no reading in boats, for a start).

We went for a shabby-chic sort of English holiday, down in Kent. The faded bunting was out in force, the cupcakes, the vintage shops, the cafes with mismatched crockery and wobbly chairs -- all lovely, don't get me wrong, but it does sometimes feel that shabby chic is taking over the country, so that it will become as ubiquitous as the boring old style it was intended to shake up. We rented a house near Folkestone which was lovely in every respect apart from the fact that it was suffering from 'Keep Calm and Carry On' overkill -- every mug and cushion emblazoned with 'Keep Calm and Relax'; three identical canvases in the kitchen with slogans about the Queen and cream teas; driftwood hearts and so many rustic seagulls and fishes on stands that we had to hide a few of them away. The strings of miniature wooden flipflops on the landing were almost the last straw but we bore their febrile clatter with gritted teeth -- we kept calm and carried on.

funny window display in Rye -- I covet that Pinocchio...

Even though lightning lit up the house on more than one occasion and monsoon rain drew us to the back of the house to stand under the corrugated plastic roof and listen to the amazing noise it made, we managed to dodge the bad weather and never actually got rained on (apart from a very ill-advised five minutes on the beach in a storm discovering that none of our raincoats are actually waterproof).

Sad union jack and lucky horseshoe in Rye

I'm not going to do a blow-by-blow account of the holiday, you'll be relieved to hear: I think hearing in detail about other people's holidays is probably nearly as boring as hearing about their dreams (although I've been very guilty of the blow-by-blow holiday account myself, I know. I've learnt). I'll leaven the mix with plenty of photos.

Cut-out clown at the amusement arcade in Hastings

We just had a nice time going to a different town each day and raking round. First we made a beeline for Paul and Karen Rennie's beautiful Seaside Modern shop in Folkestone's Creative Quarter. The last time (also the first time) I was here, it was the weekend of my 'Holiday with Martin Parr' courtesy of the School of Life and Martin Parr himself came in while I was enjoying a conversation with Paul Rennie. As he wanted to take Paul's photo, the conversation came to an abrupt halt, so I was pleased to find Paul in the shop again this time and to be able to introduce D as well (the kids lurked outside). I don't know whether Paul remembered me from the last time, perhaps with a sinking heart. He is a very charming man and D and I revere him to the point of fandom but he was in a somewhat dark mood, it seemed. My attempts to strike up suitably aesthetic topics of conversation kept turning black -- it might have helped if we had bought something from the shop but we are trying to divest ourselves of some of our accumulated stuff at the moment, not acquire more. I don't think it was us (at least I hope not) but rather the sombre days we're currently living through.

The Towner in Eastbourne

Our next beeline was to the Towner Gallery in Eastbourne to see the Peggy Angus exhibition. Before we went in we had lunch in the cafe and bumped into a friend from my book group with her family. It doesn't matter where we go on holiday, I always seem to bump into someone I know. I suspect the odds can't be as long as I think they are of this happening or it wouldn't happen so frequently -- but I love the feeling of weird coincidence.

I've borrowed this photo from http://nillyhall-maidinkent.blogspot.co.uk/ -- very nice blog, worth checking out

I enjoyed the Peggy Angus. The photo of Peggy in her Camden Studio was almost my favourite thing -- the above magazine spread was the only copy of it I could find. The picture hanging on the wall in the photo was in the exhibition and somehow looked better in the photo than in the flesh. Angus wasn't an absolutely first-rate painter but she belongs in with Bawden and Ravilious and sits well alongside them. She really found her gift in her wallpaper, fabric and tile designs which are strong and rhythmic and very fresh. She was also an inspirational art teacher and did some very ambitious murals with her pupils. Her life was one of socialist leanings, shading into the slightly naive communist sympathising that so many idealistic young people shared early in the 20th century. From the photos of her in the show and the events that she was involved with, she seems to have been a genuine egalitarian and an instinctive feminist during a period when women didn't always manage to be treated as equal to men. I came away having added a new name to my list of loved early-20th-century artists.

Also while we were in Eastbourne we stopped off to see the poor pier, ruined by fire.

Hastings is almost my favourite of the south-coast towns. If you like vintage (and I do, I do, in spite of my outburst above), it has the best vintage shops, including the excellent and unusual Hendy's Home Stores (closed on the day we visited).

We went to a very strange cafe for lunch -- Fawlty Towers-esque in its struggle to serve a simple meal. I won't name names but the soup was off, the jacket potatoes were off, there were no rolls, no chicken ... the list of what was off was longer than what was on. I was going to have a tuna mayonnaise sandwich and clearly the mayonnaise was nearly off too as we saw our waitress sprinting out of the cafe and returning a couple of minutes later with a big jar of mayonnaise! As we were asked to pay without being given a bill or a receipt, I cooked up a whole fantasy scenario about the waitress and chef having opened up the place while the boss was away to try to make a bit of cash on the side, but without buying any supplies. Just my over-active imagination, though, I'm sure.

Best secondhand shop in Hastings was Robert's Rummage, complete with grumpy Robert spouting sexist stuff about his wife and women in general -- quite entertaining if you don't get offended by such things.
I really like the Jerwood Gallery in Hastings too. They have a good drawing exhibition on at the moment (until 15th October 2014). And I like the rattly little miniature train that goes by underneath the gallery windows and the views out to the blackened beach where the old boats are pulled up.

Not everyone loves the Jerwood, it seems

We discovered that Hythe was a good place with interesting military history and a canal that was designed to keep Napoleon out of England. Now it has water lilies growing on it.

Hythe war memorial was particularly moving, with its low-relief sculptures:

We walked along the canal to Sandgate (halfway to Folkestone). There was an interesting pop-up museum about H.G. Wells, who came to live in Sandgate for his health and had a house designed by Voysey built for him there. Lots of interesting writers came down to visit him, including George Gissing, after a character of whose we named our daughter.

Superior sandwiches and drinks at Loaf in Sandgate -- worth a stop. Finding the loo is like immersive theatre...

A man having his ears looked at in Sandgate:

There was Rye, too. Rye is gorgeous but just a little too aware of that fact. It is so Mapp-and-Lucia-ed up it can barely breathe. Enough already! The place needs to let go a little.

Old plank in Rye -- now you've spoiled it...

There was a great vinyl place in the centre of Rye, Grammar School Records. I could have spent all day in there.

Nearly all our forays involved trundling along the A259 where, on a fairly sharp bend near Brookland you'll see a sign for 'brocante'. This is 'Hoof Salvage', a wonderfully strange place straight out of a Scandi-noir set but actually full of French secondhand stuff. Very nice owner who commutes between Kent and Central France. Mostly open towards the end of the week and weekends, I think.
     We had a special meal out at Rocksalt in Folkestone and sat in the window right beside a huge bamboo structure that was being built for Folkestone Triennial, which is about to start. It's called the 'Electric Line' and is by Gabriel Lester. I have to say I don't like it at all -- I find it forbidding and over-busy, a cage for jungle prisoners. While we were eating our meal, some big naughty boys had climbed inside and were delighted to be watched by us. Later on they left, giving us the evil eye as they went past the restaurant -- it spooked me. The local paper doesn't seem sure about the sculpture either.
     Well that's nearly all I have to tell, apart from the fact that we had one hour in Rochester on the way home and one hour was nowhere near enough to see all that was to be seen in a wonderful old town. I'll definitely have to go back, if only for Baggins Books, a vast secondhand bookshop.

 I would like to spend more time in Kent with less of a feeling of panic about too much to see and too little time to see it in: more reading in boats, less rummaging next time.

A Holiday with Martin Parr in Folkestone

I'm just back from one of the best things I've ever done. I went on a weekend in Folkestone organised by the School of Life called 'A Holiday with Martin Parr'.

What a brilliant, special thing! To stay in a charmingly kitsch hotel in charmingly kitsch (though also excitingly up and coming) Folkestone with my absolute favourite photographer. Not only that, but in spite of natural fears about what I was in for, given the unknown quantities involved (not least all the other people on the weekend), it turned out to be a completely engaging two and a half days with a really fine group of people, all interesting and likeable, and not a single crazed egomaniac or unaware BO-sufferer or (apparent) psycho among them.

A member of the hotel staff, in the lobby

But I'm getting ahead of myself.
     I took Friday off work and drove down to Folkestone in the morning. The first rendezvous for the Martin Parr weekend wasn't until 6pm (drinks in the hotel, the Langhorne Garden). But I wanted to make the most of the experience and by 12 noon I was sitting on the seafront at Sandgate, a 'suburb' of Folkestone just along from the town in blistering sunshine -- already casting my eyes around for suitable subjects for photos (abandoned grannies, scrapping children, etc, etc) but not actually daring to take any photos of them. I didn't see Vic and Bob or Paul O'Grady, all rumoured to live in or near Sandgate. The night before I had done extensive research on Folkestone in preparation for the weekend, including looking it up on Knowhere.co.uk, which is something one should only do as a last resort and definitely not about one's own home town as it will kill any affection you have for the place. Thus my view of Folkestone, prior to arrival, was one of hellish levels of grimness, perhaps comparable to Albania or Dagestan, with added loveable celebrity residents. As is so often the case (thank the Lord), none of my research was borne out -- or only to a very small degree and highly photogenically.

After Sandgate, I went into Folkestone proper and made a beeline for Rennies' Seaside Modern, in the lovely 'Creative Quarter' (aka the Old High Street). I've wanted to visit Paul and Karen Rennie's amazing vintage shop for years. Calling what they do 'vintage' doesn't remotely do them justice as they are serious (world-class) collectors and purveyors of the best modern antiques, particularly graphic design. In the past we have bought one or two Festival of Britain pieces from them that I don't believe you would easily find anywhere else.

I walked into the shop and, rather daringly, I thought, said to the gentleman who was sitting there, 'Are you Paul?' And he was! So I had a lovely chat with him and was able to pay homage to his and Karen's wonderfulness in person. I met Karen too and you would have thought my happiness couldn't increase when into the shop came Martin Parr himself, with his wife Susie. Great excitement all round! I had already told Paul why I was in Folkestone, so Martin's appearance wasn't entirely unexplained. Soon they were chatting and then MP asked if he could take Paul's picture. I didn't want to intrude on this moment so looked intently into the shop window (from the inside), but it was very very interesting to hear how powerfully MP directed the mini-shoot, knowing exactly what he wanted. I stored all this away for later.
     Tearing myself away from Rennies, I toured the rest of the Creative Quarter, spotted an art gallery that I really liked the look of: Strange Cargo's George's House (with a show on that I liked too, by John Howard), and finally made it to the hotel.

My room was cavernous, with a double bed and a single, and for a while I was haunted by the terrible thought that I might have misunderstood the set-up and have to share a room with an unknown Martin Parr fan, but happily no one else came through the door. The levels of kitsch were perhaps not quite as rococo as I had been led to believe -- this may be the result of my having stayed in more lowly hotels than Martin Parr and the School of Life people: this hotel was not many removes away from others I've known. But still, pink candlewick bedspreads and Seventies wall-mounted radios must be savoured before they finally disappear.
     Going down for the welcome drinks was really the most challenging moment of the whole weekend. No amount of publishing parties and conferences will ever prepare me for having to walk into a room of strangers and introduce myself. Especially a room full of photography enthusiasts jostling for their first moment with the Great Man of the weekend. I had the advantage there in that I had already made Martin and Susie's acquaintance, in the Rennies' shop, so they said hello when they saw me. I must just say at this point that Susie Parr was the loveliest, most gracious, delightful person and added a great deal to the pleasure of the weekend.
     Before I had summoned up the courage to speak to more than a couple of people, we found ourselves walking en masse through Folkestone to our dinner venue. I thought (still in the mindset of Folkestone-as-Dagestan) that the deranged gangs probably wouldn't take us on if we stayed bunched together. Although it was dusk, I had reluctantly to accept that the town still seemed perfectly lovely and unthreatening. What on earth are they to do to dispel their online image? Soon we arrived at Rocksalt, a beautiful, modern restaurant on the harbour front (with a Gordon Ramsay trained chef). The meal was very delicious and I was keen on the use they'd made of local ingredients such as buckthorn. A jolly atmosphere soon rose like a heat haze around us. The School of Life certainly didn't stint on the wine. Then it was back to the hotel (unmolested, not to say ignored, by the ravening natives. I was starting to think my whole internet-inspired picture of Folkestone was entirely false) to sleep and prepare mentally for the real work of the weekend, which was to start at 9am the next morning.

sunrise from my room

After breakfast the next morning, we had a pep talk from Martin to arm us with confidence when we went out to suck the very essence of Folkestone into our cameras. He issued us with a challenge: to produce a 'portfolio' of five photos, which we would then view the next afternoon. The five photos were to be: a portrait, a cup of tea, a shot of the hotel, the fading glory of Folkestone, and a free choice. We streamed out of the hotel. Within seconds (literally) I saw two of us moving in on the unsuspecting rider of a mobility vehicle (I made a mental note to force myself to refrain from all such shots, however tantalising -- in any case I got my favourite shot of said mobility vehicles on a previous holiday to Whitstable -- see below) and one of us already up on a walkway above a shop (how?? Incredible ninja-like dedication to the project) to get a good shot of the hotel. The race was on. Who would get to the ice-cream van and the cockle stall first?

I spent the next two hours asking people if I could take their picture, an entirely new experience for me. It was a combination of unnerving and happy-making. Only one person said no, everyone else was fine about it.

What I realised, when I looked back through my shots, and especially after I had seen what other people had achieved with their portraits, was that I hadn't really taken it far enough. I was so bowled over at having found the courage to speak directly to people that I then just politely pointed the camera at them and didn't try to get to know them or to direct the shots at all. All this is to learn and then try out next time.

my shot for the 'cup of tea' challenge

The two days just filled up with taking photos, looking at them, rendezvous-ing for food (dinner on Saturday night was at a kitschy Italian), watching some of Martin's films, including a brilliant portrait of Teddy Gray's sweet company in Dudley. You can watch the full film online here (really worth it -- 22 mins long). We also had a delightful lecture by Susie Parr about her book, The Story of Swimming.

Still another treat was a talk by photographer Robin Maddock about his career to date and particularly his project to photograph Plymouth, which has resulted in the book, God Forgotten Face.

His work is definitely work looking up. I can't really reproduce any here because of copyright.

We had another mammoth picture-taking session on Sunday morning. There were Newfoundland dogs being trained to rescue people in the sea. I tried to take a good photo of some of the many dogs who were watching it with great interest. Didn't really come off.

Imagine the high excitement, the hopes, the tension when we had all given in our five selected images and gathered in the hotel lounge to view them all on the large screen. Martin Parr announced that we would all vote on which ones we liked best in each category, points would be awarded for first, second and third, then the points would be tallied up and there'd be overall winners. You could just tell everyone was really hoping their images would be liked. Martin gave some comments as we went through -- very positive and very helpful, with pointers on composition that would really have helped me, if I had just had him there at the moment the shutter opened. I found it very difficult to choose which shots to put forward, and when I got home I showed D, D and C the ones I had 'shortlisted' to see if they would have chosen the same five images as me. In almost every case they disagreed with my choices. As for my photo which actually came top in one category, they all agreed it was rubbish. A good counterbalance there, then. I won't tell you which one it was of the ones I've posted here. The people who came out as overall winners were truly deserving and had taken the most beautiful photos. Lots of the photos across the board were brilliant. I think a Flickr page is going to be set up for us to post to, so I'll let you know if that gets up and running. I was left with an intense desire to try to take some better photos. I couldn't have asked for a more enjoyable, stimulating weekend and I didn't put on the TV once, or go online, or go in a shop (apart from Rennies' Seaside Modern, which is exceptional).