Tag Archives: walking

The painter and poet Edward Lear and a railway in Greece

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Reading about a place sometimes makes one want to visit it. Such was the case with a picturesque valley in northern Greece, about which I had read in one of the travel journals written by Edward Lear (1812-1888). Here is what I wrote about the place that Lear had described when I visited it in the early 1970s with my PhD supervisor Robert Harkness and his wife Margaret. What follows is a slightly modified excerpt from my book “Between Olympus and Aegean”.

Halfway between Larissa and Platamon – both in northern Greece – the main road winds high above a deep gorge between the slopes of Mount Olympus and Mount Ossa. Passing through this place, the Vale of Tempe, our Land Rover laden with terracotta urns recently purchased in Larissa, brings to mind John Keats’ poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, which he wrote in 1819 and includes the words:

“What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?”

It was not through Keats’ words that I first heard of this place, but it was those of Edward Lear. In his “Journal of a Landscape Painter in Greece and Albania”, published in 1851, he wrote in his entry for the 9th of September 1848:

“To see the classic vale of Tempe, the sacred mountain of Athos and the romantic Yannina have always been among my wishes; and I had long ago determined on making, previously to returning to England, a large collection of sketches illustrative of the landscape of Greece.”

And so, it also became my wish to see the vale. I was already familiar with Lear’s sketches that I had seen in a huge album in one of the libraries at University College London. My friends, Robert and Margaret, with whom I was travelling in Greece, gave me a 19th century engraving based on one of his Balkan sketches for my 21st birthday. Lear’s drawings are at least as good as his nonsense rhymes, for which he is well known. 

            The main road between Larissa and Platamon ran high above Tempe. Even from its edge one could see little or nothing of the gorge far below it, and certainly not what Lear would have been able to see when he visited it. One afternoon, Robert and Margaret kindly drove me to the southern end of the Vale of Tempe, and left me by the roadside. Then, they drove to its northern end, where they said that they would wait for me as I tried to retrace Lear’s footsteps along the depths of the gorge.

            When my friends drove away, I looked around to see whether I could find a track or path that ran along the base of the gorge. I saw two rustic looking men sitting high on a slope above me. I climbed up to them and with a combination of miming, which involved pointing at my feet, and repeating the word ‘Tempe’ I managed to make them understand that I wanted to walk along the gorge. They pointed up at the railway track high above us, and I understood that I was to walk along this.

            Soon after I reached the single tracked railway, I heard a train approaching me from the south. I stepped aside to allow the Athens to Munich Express to rumble past me. When this long train had sped ahead, I followed it at my own pace. After a short distance the track entered a cutting between two walls of rock. When I was halfway along this, a diesel engine came hurtling towards me. In the nick of time, I flattened myself against the rocky wall to avoid being mowed down. I continued forward, somewhat shaken. Soon after the track emerged from the cutting, I saw the entrance to a tunnel not far ahead of me. It was dark; its far end was not visible. After my near miss in the cutting, I decided that I would not enter the tunnel.

            I stood on the track near to the tunnel’s entrance and looked around. To one side there was a steep slope leading upwards. On the other, there was a slightly less steeply inclined slope leading towards the narrow base of the gorge. Cautiously I made my way down the slippery slope, grabbing hold of shrubs to slow down my descent. Soon, I reached a level path running just above a stream that ran along the base of the gorge.  It was, I realised, the bed of a long since demolished railway track. This was the railway that my informants had intended that I follow. The railway track that I had been following was its modern replacement. Suddenly I was walking in an idyllic landscape that must have hardly changed since Lear visited it.

            After a while, I reached what must have once been a railway station, but was now a place, maybe with religious connections, where visitors were able to obtain refreshments and to drink from a spring that issued nearby. I have since learnt that this place was called Agia Paraskevi and that the old railway station was opened in 1910. The suspension bridge close to this, which I crossed, was built in about 1960, and was replaced a few years ago.

Soon after leaving this delightful place, I reached the car park at the northern end of the gorge, where Robert and Margaret were waiting for me. They listened with great interest as I related my adventures including my narrow escape in the railway cutting.

[My book “Between Olympus and Aegean” is available from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Between-Olympus-Aegean-Adam-Yamey/dp/1291882685/ ].  About the book:

Ants, bacon, collagen, and chlorine. These are not the first words that usually spring to mind when thinking about summers in Greece. The holidays that Adam Yamey spent in this country in the 1970s and 1980s with the professor and his wife were far from ordinary. This book provides an affectionate portrait of two remarkable people with whom the author spent many unconventional vacations. It also describes how the author travelled with them through a Europe which has undergone many transformations since these trips were made. Adam’s book is richly illustrated with his own photographs, many of them showing places that time has changed beyond recognition.

The Long way in London’s Tate Modern art gallery

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THE ARTIST RICHARD LONG (born in England in 1945) studied art first at Bristol’s West of England College of art, and then between 1966 and 1968, at London’s St Martins School of Art, where his teachers included Anthony Caro and Phillip King (my mother worked alongside these two sculptors in the early 1960s). He is described as a ‘land artist’, and his works include sculpture, photography and text, as well as performance. Since the 1960s, Long has been creating artworks based on his experience of long walks he has made in places including the UK, the Sahara Desert, Iceland, the Himalayas, and Australia. He plots his walks on maps, and these become works of art. He also takes photographs of the terrain through which he has walked. In addition, he creates sculptures where he has walked using local materials, and then takes photographs of them in situ.

The Tate Modern is currently (March 2026, but I do not know when it ends) showing a collection of Long’s creations. This includes examples of his maps and photographs, text works (printed words), as well as three floor sculptures, each of which consist of pieces of stone arranged within the confines of a circle. One of them contains variously shaped chunks of Norfolk flint, another consists of pieces of red slate, and a third with Delabole slate, black in colour. Although they look almost randomly arranged, I imagine that the artist has placed them according to some design he had in mind. Seemingly simple, these sculptures are surprisingly striking.

I believe that what we saw at the Tate Modern’s exhibition is in complete harmony with what Richrd Long has said (quoted on the Tate’s website) about his art:

“My work really is just about being a human living on this planet and using nature as its source … I enjoy the simple pleasures of wellbeing, independence, opportunism, freedom, dreaming, happenstance; of passing through the land and sometimes stopping to leave (memorable) traces along the way.”

The exhibition is well worth seeing.

Walking along the path of peace along the Western Front

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WHEN I SPOTTED THE book in the shelves of a charity shop in the small town of Bruton (in Somerset), I knew I had to buy it. It is written by Anthony Seldon, the youngest son of my parents’ dearest friends, Marjorie and Arthur Seldon. I have known them and Anthony since I was a very young child. The book I purchased is called “The Path of Peace. Walking the Western Front Way”.

In 2021, when Europe was in the midst of the covid19 pandemic, Anthony decided to walk from the Swiss Border to the North Sea, following the path of the Western Front such as it was during WW1. His aim was to help establish a ‘Path of Peace’, to realise the idea formulated during the war by one of the millions who died during it (in 1915), Douglas Gillespie. His idea was, so he wrote to his parents, to establish:

“… a path along No Mans Land from Switzerland to the English Channel after the war was over.”

Douglas wrote to his old headmaster at Winchester College that when the path was established:

“… I would like to send every man [woman] and child in Western Europe along that Via Sacra, so that they might think and learn what war means from the silent witnesses on either side.”

And Anthony explained that the walk he undertook was to help fulfil this noble ambition of poor Gillespie who perished in the conflict.

The book describes Anthony’s arduous walk along the Western Front. It was arduous physically, as the author explained in graphic detail. His feet suffered greatly, almost as much as those of the soldiers who had to spend long periods in the unhygienic trenches. It was also arduous for Anthony because he had recently lost his first wife, Joanna, who had succumbed to an illness (not covid19). The various governmental restrictions imposed to control the pandemic added to his difficulties. Yet, despite many businesses having shut down in France because of the virus, he managed (occasionally with difficulty) to find food and accommodation along the way.

Anthony describes many interesting aspects of the history of WW1 as he made his way north from Switzerland to the North Sea. He mentions what has become of the many places that were heavily destroyed by the artilleries of the armies fighting each other. Intertwined with these historical facts of an impersonal nature, he relates the poignant histories of his parents’ families during the war. For example, he describes how his father was orphaned when his parents died during the Spanish Flu, the spread of which was facilitated by wartime conditions. He also describes how his mother’s father was badly wounded in France and how his wife, Anthony’s grandmother, defied British officialdom and rescued her wounded husband from war torn France. These aspects of Anthony’s family history were known to me before I found the book, but what her wrote adds greatly to what I already knew.

Throughout the book, Anthony muses on the horrors of warfare and its tragic consequences. Yet, the book is not as gloomy as its subject matter might suggest. As the reader follows his progress along a frequently ill-signposted trail, he or she gets to know Anthony better: his strengths and his self-confessed weaknesses. Anthony’s book is both fascinating and moving. I am glad I bought my copy when I saw it in Bruton.

Sunday morning stroll along the river from Hogarth’s grave to Hammersmith Bridge

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EARLY ON SUNDAY mornings, we often drive to the riverside between Chiswick and Hammersmith. Usually, a parking place can be found on Chiswick’s picturesque Church Street close to the church of St Nicholas, in whose graveyard the artist William Hogarth is buried. This narrow lane leads from the Hogarth Roundabout to the riverside. Chiswick Mall follows the riverbank. On one side it is lined with elegant houses, some of which are several hundred years old. Between the Mall and the water’s edge, there is a chain of private gardens, across which you can catch glimpses of the river. All along this road, there are plenty of trees and flowers to be enjoyed.

Heading downstream, Chiswick Mall ends, and leads into the short Hammersmith Terrace, which is lined with houses where some famous printers and typographers once lived. Beyond Hammersmith Terrace, from which the river is hidden by houses, we regain views of the water as we walk along Upper Mall. This riverside promenade heads east and ends at a narrow passageway next to the Dove Pub, but before reaching it, we pass Kelmscott House, once a home of the artist and social reformer William Morris.

After passing the Dove pub, we enter Lower Mall. This riverside thoroughfare runs past Furnivall Gardens and then beneath Hammersmith Bridge, eventually reaching the Riverside Studious, where in addition to seeing one of the Daleks used in the “Dr Who” TV films, you can obtain refreshments in a pleasant café with a good view of the bridge. Sadly, this Victorian strucruer is in such a poor state of repair that only pedestrians and cyclists can cross it.

By walking between Hogarth’s grave and the Riverside Studios, you will have walked almost exactly one mile. We do this pleasant stroll quite often, and are never disappointed. Along the way, there are potential hazards including self-important joggers, who cannot understand that they are not the only people allowed to use the pathways, and cyclists, who seem to have the same arrogant approach as the joggers. That said, walking between St Nicholas and Hammersmith Bridge is a worthwhile and enjoyable experience, and along the way you will pass many places of historic interest, which are described in detail in my book “Beyond Marylebone and Mayfair: Exploring West London”.

Maharajah and a dispute over fees at a tollgate

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IN 1872 THE BELLE-VUE zoo in Manchester purchased an elephant from a travelling zoo in Scotland. The elephant was called Maharaja. It was decided to transport the creature by train from Edinburgh. Maharaja was not keen on that plan, and tore the roof off the railway wagon in which he was to travel.

It was decided to travel by road. Maharaja and his human companions walked from Scotland to Manchester. Many tales have been told about this journey. One of them relates that when the party reached a certain tollgate, there was a dispute about the amount that needed to be paid to allow an elephant through the gate. It is said that while the keepers were discussing the matter with the man at the tollgate, Maharaja solved the problem by using his trunk to open the gate.

This tale, which might or might not be true, has been illustrated in a painting that hangs in the Manchester Museum. Entitled “The Disputed Toll”, it was painted in 1875 by Heywood Hardy.

Maharaja lived at Belle-vue zoo for 10 years before succumbing to a fatal illness. He was then about 18 years old. This is a young age – many elephants live for more than 40 years. Maharajah’s skeleton now stands alongside Hardy’s painting in the entrance hall of the museum.

TWO MOSQUES AND A BAZAAR IN ISTANBUL

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WHILE WANDERING THROUGH the older part of Istanbul on our way to the Yeni Camii (‘New Mosque’), we came across the Mahmut Paşa Camii. This mosque stands in a remarkably peaceful, large compound, considering how close it is to a route used by crowds of tourists. Despite being in the heart of the most visited part of the city, this mosque seems to be ignored by most tourists.

The Mahmut Paşa was built in about 1463, making it one of Istanbul’s oldest mosques. It was built only 10 years after Istanbul was captured by the Ottomans. The spacious mosque was built in a style typical of some mosques found in Bursa. It has a large central hall flanked on each side by smaller rooms – rather like side chapels. It was the work of Grand Vizier, Mahmut Paşa, who was put to death by Mehmet the Conqueror in 1474. During his life, he was involved with the Siege of Belgrade, chasing Albania’s Skanderbeg, and the conquest of Bosnia. In addition to his military exploits, he was a noted writer, both in Turkish and Persian. It is worth noting that Mahmut Paşa was converted to Islam after he was captured in Serbia by the Ottomans when he was a young boy.

After seeing the mosque, we walked past the crowded Grand Bazaar, and after passing numerous shops selling lingerie and hosiery, we arrived at the Misir Çarşisi (Egyptian Market aka Spice Market). We walked through this covered, fragrantly scented spice market, which was constructed gradually from 1597 to 1664. Where two passageways lined with shops intersect, there is an open space overlooked by a wooden pavilion reached by a spiral staircase. This was used to say prayers to the merchants who gathered to listen to them at the start of each day.

The Yeni Camii is next to the Misr Çarşisi. It is an enormous structure with numerous domes. It was completed in 1603, and overlooks the Golden Horn and the Galata Bridge, which crosses it. Both the interior and the facade facing the courtyard are rich in tiles covered with blue and white motifs and calligraphy. This eye-catching tiling greatly adds to the mosque’s attractiveness. The huge, spacious interior is an oasis of tranquillity compared with the busy roadway and waterfront only a few yards away.

In between the three edifices I have described, the steeply sloping streets connecting them are lined with buildings of all ages – some of them attractive, others less so. Many of these buildings house shops.

Yet again, a stroll in Istanbul has proved to be fascinating. It is not only the historic monuments that I enjoy seeing, but also glimpses of everyday life in the city.

A walk in the sunshine on a Saturday morning in north London

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AFTER DAYS OF GREY skies, the sun shone without pauses today (the 30th of March 2024). This was lucky because come rain or shine, we had decided to walk south from Primrose Hill through Regents Park to Marylebone Road. Much of the way we passed places with fond memories for us. The first of these was Chalk Farm Underground station. It was near here that my wife used to live in a flat on Fellowes Road long before we married.

From the station, we walked across a graffiti-covered iron bridge that crosses the mainline railway tracks from Euston. This brought us to the eastern end of Regents Park Road (‘RPR’). Lined with shops and eateries, this curving road is where we met with our friends frequently. One of our favourite places was Lemonia – a Greek restaurant. When it first opened, it was on the south side of the road. Now, it occupies larger premises on the north side of RPR. After having coffee at Roni’s, an Israeli café that did not exist in the 1980s when we often visited the area, we walked towards the base of Primrose Hill. Today, being the Easter weekend, the road was far less busy than it is on other weekends.

Looking down from Primrose Hill

Fortified with coffee and a croissant, we ascended the steep path leading from opposite the house where Friedrich Engels once lived to the summit of Primrose Hill, which had attracted a crowd of people who had come out to enjoy the sun and the magnificent view of London to the south of the hill. While we were descending the hill towards Regents Park, a young lady, who was ascending the hill with her husband and two children, greeted us. I did not recognise her as I had not seen her for 21 years, and (then only briefly) when she was a young teenager. She is the daughter of one of my cousins, and the great-great granddaughter of my ancestor Franz Ginsberg, who was a Senator in the parliament of South Africa between the two world wars.

After reaching the bottom of Primrose Hill, we crossed Prince Albert Road, and then walked over a bridge that traverses the Regents Canal. At the south end of the bridge, we passed some enclosures (containing what looked like large wild boars or warthogs) of the London Zoo.  Then, we walked along a straight path between grassy playing fields – not particularly scenic. In the distance we could see the minaret of the Regents Park Mosque and the domes on the roof of the London Business School, where my wife studied. Eventually we reached a more attractive area close to the eastern edge of the Boating Lake, over which we crossed on a bridge. Soon, we arrived at the circular road, appropriately named the Inner Circle. It seemed to being used as an unofficial racetrack for cyclists on expensive looking bicycles. Having safely crossing the road without being hit by a cyclist, we entered the round heart of Regents Park, which contains the famous Queen Marys Rose Garden.

We took refreshments at the strange-looking Regent’s Bar & Kitchen. In plan, it is a collection of identical adjacent hexagons. The roofs of some of these have sharp conical pinnacles. From there we passed beds of rose plants. All of the roses were without flowers, A small wooden bridge crosses a stretch of water – part of a larger pond – to reach the attractive Japanese Garden Island from which you can see a man-made rocky waterfall designed as it would be in gardens in Japan.

After wandering around the Japanese garden, we headed towards the Inner Circle, which we crossed before walking south along a road called York Bridge because it crosses a body of water by means of of a similarly named Bridge. Before reaching the bridge, we passed the buildings of Regent’s University. These used to house a part of the University of London – Bedford College. Founded in 1849, it was for the higher education of women. From 1878 onwards, women studying there were awarded degrees by the University of London. In 1984, after Bedford College had merged with Royal Holloway College, its premises in Regents Park became the home of Regent’s University, which is not affiliated to the University of London. Interestingly, the wrought iron gates to Regent’s University’s grounds still bear the crests of its predecessor – Bedford College. In the 1920s, my wife’s maternal grandmother, Benabai Bhatia, who had come from India with her husband Haridas, who was studying for an FRCS, studied at Bedford College. On her return to India and after she was widowed at a young age, she became a superintendent of schools in Bombay.

After crossing York Bridge, we soon reached Marylebone Road, having had a thoroughly enjoyable walk.

Golden dogs on a golf course in southern Calcutta

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THE TOLLYGUNGE CLUB in southern Calcutta has a beautiful golf course. Between the greens, bunkers, and other golfing features, there is a large variety of trees, many water features, and a profusion of bushes and flowers. It is a joy to stroll through the grounds, taking care not to get in the way of the golfers and their caddies. As you wander through the terrain, you can spot a variety of birds, the occasional dog, and a few pussy cats. However, the greatest treat is to come across the Golden jackals (Canis aureus) that live on the golf course land.

These jackals, usually only seen in the wild, seem quite at home on the golf course. During the day, they lope around or squat, watching the golfers and walkers like myself. Although not tame, they allow humans to approach quite closely before they wander away, but not hurriedly. At night, their howling can be heard if the Club is not holding a noisy social function.

A study by AK Sanyal et Al. (Rec. Zool. Surv. India III, 2010) revealed that when it was published there were 40 to 45 jackals living on the Club grounds. They tend to live some distance away from the Club house and its neighbouring buildings. This is probably because of the tame dogs that hang around close to the Club’s semi-outdoor eating areas. The study discovered that the jackals feed on a wide variety of creatures including insects, birds eggs, rodents, larger animals, and fruits. They are also partial to food produced by humans.

The above-mentioned study revealed that there have been rare attacks on humans, but only by rabid jackals. These incidents have happened in the wild, rather than in the Club’s grounds. And the most common way that the jackals can catch rabies is by being bitten by dogs.

The Tollygunge Club land is about one square kilometre and is home to about 7 families of jackals. In the wild, this number of families would occupy an area of up to three square kilometres. This suggests that the living conditions for jackals in the Club grounds is far better than in the wild.

Every time I have walked on the golf course land, I have seen some of the jackals. When I first saw them, I was wary of them, but now I realise that they have no inclination to interact with me or fellow members of my species. Even though I have seen them plenty of times, I am thrilled whenever I spot one of the Club’s Golden jackals.

Bangalore’s green lung

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PARKS ARE SAID to be a city’s lungs. They are places where one can escape from the noises and fumes mainly created by traffic. On New Year’s Day 2023, we took a walk in Bangalore’s Cubbon Park. Almost as soon as we had entered it, the air seemed cleaner, and we experienced an uplifting sense of serenity.

Cubbon Park was laid out in 1870 under the direction of Major General Richard Sankey, British Chief Engineer of Mysore State. Initially named after Sir John Meade, it was later renamed to honour Sir Mark Cubbon (1775 – 1861), the longest serving Commissioner of Mysore State. The name was changed again in 1927 to Sri Chamarajendra Park, in honour of Sri Chamarajendra Wodeyar (1863–1794), ruler of Mysore State when the park was created. There is a statue of this man in the park. Despite that change of name, the place is still popularly known as Cubbon Park. Even the recently built metro station at the northern edge of the park has that name.

The popular park has plenty of trees that provide shade. Many different species grow in the park, several of them flowering trees. Footpaths cris-cross the park, but visitors do not need to be confined to them. A main road winds its way through the verdant landscape, but this is closed to vehicular traffic on Sundays.

Words are inadequate to convey the joys of Cubbon Park. Only by entering this lovely island of nature in Bangalore’s ocean of urban development can one appreciate the beauty and delightfulness of this city’s important green lung.