What Happened in Hungary: Day Five

The Independence Monument

Monday morning arrived and with it my usual cup of strong coffee.  This was the only day of the tour we'd not be playing a concert, meaning I could lighten my bag down to a modest selection of stuff I'd actually need rather than all the extras for music. We finally were able to use our English bus, meaning I could resume my seat behind the driver on the lower deck. (Upstairs would probably have given better views but most people had gravitated to where they'd sat on the way out, meaning there was no room and anyway, I like to sit close the the road if only to be at the level of everybody else in the city streets). The morning's sightseeing tour was most welcome and reminded me once again of the last time I'd been here. I also took great advantage of having a far superior camera on this visit and photographed most things of interest and a few 'arty' shots (might have got a bit snap-happy at times).  First we went back up to the Citadella to see the city in the day, and, with the aid of an artillery piece as a prop, our Fixer explained the hammering Budapest took from both sides at the end of WWII and the construction of the massive pillar at the top of the hill. It is often mistakenly referred to as the Liberty Monument when in fact it's no such thing - it's the Independence Monument and it was largely erected by the Soviets. Next, Buda castle and all the associated paraphernalia (Matyas Church, History museum, Fisherman's Bastion) nearby. Sheesh, it was narrow enough coming up here on a 'normal' bus the other day, let alone a gigantic six-wheeled twin-decker.  We hopped out through the emergency door (wrong side of the road, remember) and were given half an hour to wander round the hilltop; not really enough as Companion and I had to write off going inside the church (I've been before, lots of effigies of dead kings and usual churchy stuff) and still hurry round the battlements. I took great delight in finding the statue of Zoltán Kodály, still sitting on the end of a bench, cigar in hand, which I and several other members of my youth orchestra had been photographed with seven years ago. Companion went for a comfort break whilst I looked round the cobbled streets and painted houses and then the giant eagle overlooking the city next to the Museum.  At the other side of the square there is a balcony overlooking the Buda Hills (the climbing of which is another thing I won't have time to do...) and a row of Hungarian flags which were most photogenic.

Back on to the bus, and down the hill again to cross the river into Pest.  Budapest is, unsurprisingly, made up of Buda and Pest (and technically also the area round the hotel called Obuda, 'Old Buda') with the former being old and castle-y and the other being metropolitan and very Austro-Hungarian Empire. We will omit the Soviet bits in the suburbs.  The metropolitan-ness was immediately apparent in the number of grand mansions and the trams running on the river embankment.  It was wonderful until both the road and said tramway had to pass under the pillars of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge (a scaled-down version of which I crossed in Marlow on my Thames Path adventure) in a very narrow tunnel with a bend in it. Large buses are equipped with reversing cameras but not ones indicating the roof clearance and so the drivers had to trust that the suspension was down at lowest. Even then there was an added problem of the tunnel having buttresses at the sides which forced us into the middle of the road. You can imagine how pleased many Hungarian commuters were at our creeping forward through the cavern.  Once out (without any further damage to the ski box) we headed up the river towards the commendably over-the-top Parliament building, based on the design of our own seat of democracy. I hopped across another tramway to hear the history given by our Fixer on the 1956 uprising, something I remember well from my last visit and GCSE History.  There is a block of pink marble containing an eternal flame as a monument to the Hungarians killed in the street fighting, although it might as well be for the entire nation whose hopes of greater freedom had to wait another 35 years to be realised.

The reminder of this most important event makes me consider what the country actually is and was. Hungary seems to have been for most of its history both proudly individual and yet under some kind of foreign hold - the lesser name in the title of Austro-Hungary, ostensibly an independent country yet under the grip of Russia, a people and language whose origins lie far from Europe. And yet one thing that I was delighted to find on my return here was that Hungary today is both a modern state and yet has kept outside, depersonalising influences at an acceptably low level. There are comparatively few signs in English compared to the touristy bits of Italy or Greece. People drive foreign makes of cars but closer inspection reveals they are mostly models actually built in Hungary or Romania. Corner shops and supermarkets are not all owned by Tesco or other foreign chains. Hungarians, for the most part, keep their culture their own. We rolled through more of Pest, more sights, more life, past the Synagogue and the Eastern Station and round the football stadium, and more and more I liked it here.

The end of the little tour came when we rolled into the car park next to Heroes' Square and the driver performed a superb feat of reverse parking the massive bus.  We were now free for the rest of the day - no, you read that correctly. The plan was that the bus would stay here and then take people back to the hotel at 6 so they could change for dinner and then a possible visit to the Gödör Klub (which is actually, and I'm-not-making-this-up-actually, pronounced Giuuuuurdduuuhhhh).  This was, luckily, optional and I had every intention of staying in the city all day to maximise my sightseeing time. Possibly slightly dazed by the onset of boundless freedom, our party all drifted in the general direction of the bright yellow Széchenyi thermal baths (Mr Széchenyi was a prolific lender of his name to public building projects, it seems), which wasn't a bad idea as they were a good way to spend the afternoon and they had a small restaurant. We hacked out a plan for the afternoon over lunch - she would go for a swim and I would go exploring before meeting up and climbing over Margit sziget (Margaret Island), then use various modes of public transport to meet the people going to the hotel and back.

Companion and I agreed on a time to re-convene and went our separate ways. I was, if not exactly as gleeful as someone who has been given the keys to a garage full of powerful automobiles, considerably relishing the chance to actually get some sightseeing done at my leisure. The first thing to do was to descend a rather unassuming set of concrete steps in the corner of the park.  A clue to what made this seemingly mundane entrance rather more special was the yellow wrought-iron sign above them which read 'Földalatti'. This is a nickname that's become almost an official term, rather like using 'Tube' for 'Underground'. In fact the analogy is a perfect one, for what lies at the bottom of the steps has quite a few names: the Millennium Underground, the M1, 'the yellow metro', MillFAV, but the sign above the entrances translates endearingly as 'little subway'. Stand back from the platform edge, there's a (small) train coming.

I rather like sampling the public transport systems of foreign cities, especially if they have an idiosyncratic style and some historical significance, and Budapest's certainly qualifies on both counts. For a start, both the metro line and the street above are a UNESCO World Heritage Site (the only underground railway to hold such status) and recent restorations have preserved the stations' Art Nouveau look - wooden panelling and the glazed ceramic tiles which had been found to be such a good material on the only subway that preceded it, London's Metropolitan. In fact the Földalatti of 1896 was in some ways more advanced than the Metropolitan Line: it was built as a proper underground railway, not just a mainline that went in a tunnel through the city centre, it had electric trains from the very start and the engineers did a very clever job of fitting the whole thing in between the street above and the sewers below (the track is only 3 1/2 metres below the tarmac). You can see how narrow the tunnel is by the fact there's practically no platform - the train carriages only have wheels at the ends and the floors sit just above track level.  It's pity that the current rolling stock are dull Soviet-era boxes, for the original cars were as lovely as the stations - those belonging to one of the two companies originally running the railway had mahogany cladding and included a private carriage for the Hungarian emperor and the royal family (I doubt the London Underground has ever had a 'Royal Train'!). They have one preserved in working order, and still get it out for a special trip down the line every now and again.

I bought a day pass for considerably less than the London equivalent and stood on the southbound platform at Széchenyi fürdő. A boxy little yellow train breezed in and played a jingle when the doors opened (not quite so nice was the harsh buzzing sound when they closed) and then proceeded down the line. I decided to alternate between subway and surface so I got off at Hősök tere and walked along the avenue to Bajza utca (try pronouncing that after half a bottle of Unicum), then M1 another stop to Kodály Korund, where Andrassy út starts to get interesting.  The avenue was built in parallel with the Földalatti as a grand boulevard from down-town Pest to the gardens of the Varosliget, and is a reminder that at the time Budapest was as modern and prosperous a city as London, Paris or Vienna, being the centre of the huge Austro-Hungarian empire.  The ornate and sometimes over-lavish residences along the avenue and its side streets cancel out any notion of it having been a provincial backwater or Soviet-era concrete jungle, at least in this part of town.

I felt not only safe but remarkably at home strolling down the quiet service roads separated by trees from the main 6-lane highway.  Having said all the above, I started to think that the overall architectural style was a mix of borrowings from other capitals - the arches and mansard roofs of the Parisian streets, columns and porticoes from Italy and the stone and plaster walls in a more Germanic fashion. Presently I came to the first 'sight' of the street (assuming on is walking towards the river) the House of Terror. This is the former HQ of the secret police where first Communists, then Fascists and finally anyone who was politically problematic would end up for questioning and worse.  Further down, beyond the busy road intersection of the Oktogon and the long, thin Jokái tér, was the next Millennium Underground station to be named after a landmark - the Opera.  Budapest obviously needed a landmark opera venue what with all the rich music-making going on there, but the Viennese faction prohibited it from being grander than that in the imperial capital and so it's not quite as large as it might be.  It's still pretty ornate, with decorated ceilings and a statue of Liszt sitting in an alcove with a large book, as if he's waiting for it to stop raining. I had a peek into the foyer, which did not disappoint either.

Further along, Andrassy út ends at a junction with Bajcsy-Zsilinszky út (I'll get back to you about the correct pronunciation of that) and so I detoured a little to see the Szent István Basilica, the city cathedral of Pest. I'd been inside on my last visit and thought about going up the dome but decided it would be better with more time so I made do with the outside and went back south towards Erzsébet tér and eventually arrived at the riverside. The M1 ends near here at Vörösmarty tér so I'd have an easy journey back up to the baths to meet Companion.  Where I'd ended up was the far side of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge (leading over to the castle and the tunnel under it) and Roosevelt tér which had a great view of said castle and the funicular.  Downriver to the left were the Citadella and the modern Erzsébet bridge. I wandered round the nearby streets onto Vörösmarty tér - and then it was time to get back on the little yellow train for nearly the entire length of the line back to the baths.

Liszt, outside the Opera

Companion arrived presently, looking very refreshed - in fact the water seemed to have given her almost a glow from all the minerals it contained.  I related to her all that I'd seen and she though it remarkable enough to warrant looking for herself, so with another day pass in hand we went straight back down the line several stops to see the Opera and mansions and whatnot before returning - again - to Széchenyi fürdő.  The next part of our journey was to get the tram to the north-west to Margit Island. I had a good idea of where the closest stop was so we set off across the park, past the funfair and the whining, ancient trolleybuses until we came to a stop on the side of a major thoroughfare. Because of the space available to post-war town planners, the tram lines run in the space between the two carriageways and thus the tram stops are in the middle of the road rather than adjacent to the pavements. I could see the stop but no obvious way to reach it. There was no bridge and no sign of a tunnel (and tell me, do you really want to use a subway in a rather less attractive part of an East European city?) and the traffic was coming fast; at least 70km/h.  Worse, the road layout was a large free-flowing junction with flyovers and ramps.  We got across two subsidiary lanes reasonably easily but had to wait ages on the verge whilst the near-constant traffic on Hungaria Körut sped by.  Eventually some combination of factors engaged to create a big enough space for us to leg it across the road and tram line, over the grass and onto the island platform. And imagine my annoyance at seeing at the far end there was a subway after all.

The No. 1 came shortly and we got on board the yellow and white vehicle, standing at the rear of the middle car of three. It was an old tram, probably built well within the Communist era, slow and with firm suspension under the high floor, but with plenty of character and surprisingly quiet.  It rumbled through four or five stops until we got off on one side of Arpid hid, a long bridge over the river. There's no traffic allowed on most of Margaret Island so the bridge incorporates the entrance to a car park at the northern end.  The island is long and thin with a bridge at each tip, and trails all over its woods and gardens. It is Budapest and yet not Budapest and has had various uses in its history; a convent, a harem, formal gardens, a diving complex, an art galley, hotels and a running circuit. We soon came to a bandstand by the fish pools which seemed to play music even in the absence of a band and then the water tower which peeps above the trees. It was too late for it to be open but had it been we could have ascended the stairs and taken some great pictures of the city from the top.

The rest of the island is mostly either woods or gardens. A steady stream of joggers came past on the perimeter path so we headed down the middle of the island, past a ruined priory and the diving complex.  There's a music festival held on the lawns every year although the island was peaceful at the moment. Eventually after about an hour's wandering we came out onto the other end by a fountain that played to the musical accompaniment of Kodály's Háry János suite.  From there it was a short walk to catch the No.4 tram on Margit hid.

Parliament building from Margaret Bridge/ Margit hid

The new tram was huge; in fact they're the longest in the world.  We were only going down the road to the Nyugati pályaudvar (western station) and could almost have just walked down the tram.  From the Italianate façade of Nyugati it is only a few stops on the M3 to Deák Ferenc tér.  The line is completely different to the Földalatti - a full-size metro in proper 1970s Soviet style, complete with ancient-but-clean Russian rolling stock. It was nearly dark when we emerged from the underground station and sat in the square trying to make contact with the rest of the orchestra. A couple of text messages and several circuits of Erszebet tér later we found our friends coming along the street by the St István basilica. From there we went en masse to find our dinner. I need hardly add I had walked perhaps seven or eight miles and my stomach was really on empty by this point.

The restaurant was an amazing place. I remember describing an all-you-can-east buffet near Atlanta as a temple of food, but this beat that back several miles.  The décor was ultra-cool, the tables packed and the servery was piled with every type of food you can imagine and many you can't.  There were entire separate areas devoted to sushi, salads, Hungarian specialities, cakes and breads.  And the food was, genuinely, extremely good. I must admit I did feel slightly underdressed for the occasion.  Companion and I had waltzed in wearing walking shoes and with rucksacks, water bottles and such like, and sat down with a satisfied but weary we've-had-a-nice-trip-but-the-feet-hurt-a-bit-now-and-we-wouldn't-mind-some-National-Trust-tea sigh whilst a number of the others who had been back to the hotel were in elegant evening dress (actually, it was mostly the girls).  On the other hand, they'd been unadventurous, I thought.  Anyway, let's go through what I ate...

First up was a bowl of gulyas soup with some bread the likes of which I'd never had before.  I was so hungry this was gone before most people had even got back to the table. Next I decided to go for all the Hungarian stuff including braised duck and red cabbage, delicious Hortobágy-style meat pancakes, paprika chicken, all kinds of stuff.  This was washed down with wine and water in equal measure.  Now I was into my stride I had, for contrast, a sushi course (California rolls; the big ones with the red eggthings inside; the prawn's tail on a block of rice; copious amounts of wasabi and ginger so you can feel it come through my nose).  Next was another cold course, a sample of all the various game and meat - veal roulades, miniature pies, pastries, interesting cheese creations, exotic salad.  I could have had ox tongue as well, but coming from a northern background I'd been eating this since before I could walk so it wasn't really anything special (to my amusement several people seemed to think it was something to nom because ohmigod thats like so disgusting i cant believe it ive got to have it just to say that i ate some, which i thought was faintly ridiculous).  I was considering winding up the hot courses and starting work on the deserts when somebody - who will remain nameless but will nonetheless have my eternal gratitude - made it known that the grill had shark!  I was over there in a flash.  'Seretnék cápa ak afrikai hars...harc...oh, the catfish thing!' I cried with considerable relish (that is, I ordered it in a manner that I relished, not that I had it with Gentleman's Relish or a similar condiment) for they did indeed serve African Catfish, cooked before your very eyes. The two types of fish were subtly different; the shark more meaty and strong and the catfish softer and more subtle, like plaice.  Nom-nom-nom.

A short pause after I had put the fish away to sip more wine. Now for puddings (and if you haven't been keeping count, I am now on my sixth course).  I took a bowl and proceeded to sample - as well as I can remember - a generous portion of profiteroles (I didn't take more than other people; the portions were just generous by default), a nice little chocolate and icing thing called an Esterházy cake (which makes it on my list of Musical Foods for the Haydn connection), and some tiramisu.  I may also have been offered more profiteroles when this was finished. Finally, watermelon slices and other fruits.  Some people would die from just looking at that much food. I had simply been very, very hungry when I started.

Although I'd considered it at times I'd never really been that fussed about going to the Gödör*.  I was pleased that my decision was eventually justified on two counts: first because even at not-yet-11pm there were nasty-looking characters hanging around outside and people who were scarily drunk (and not in a merry plate-stealing way like our lot; they really weren't cheerful) and second because everyone who went said it was a massive disappointment - apparently there was no live music (some reports say no music at all) and most of them dispersed home or to other centres of entertainment in a short time.  I found a few other folks who were equally disinclined and headed through the cosy streets and not-so-cosy drunks back to our waiting bus outside the Basilica. We had the front of the top deck to ourselves, which I always like (especially on the London buses which have panoramic windows up top) and could see the streets and avenues of Pest by night.

Next time: Some people play music using sandpaper, and we put a big coach on a small boat...

* Gödör means 'pit' and that's what the club is: a former underground bus station under Erszebet tér which has now been turned into a multiplex music venue.

What Happened in Hungary: Day Four

 Welcome to Day Four. If you're new to this sprawling dissertation on our (admittedly by now somewhat epic) trip, you can also find Day One; Day Two; Day Three parts One and Two.

I have been running these entries based on a day starting at midnight, and at about that time I was on the inadequate red bus travelling back to the hotel. It had just been announced that there was a wedding going on there and that somehow the guests had requested that the brass section of the orchestra play at the reception. 'They're all completely drunk out of their minds, they won't give a damn what you actually play' we were told.  I really just wanted to sleep and so I snuck off to my room as soon as we got back.  I have to this day no idea what was going on downstairs as all I could hear was the odd very distant noise. Finally some quiet, and I'd feel much fresher in the morning and have the first proper sleep for about four days.

And then stuff properly went off the rails.

You know in a film where something really big like an avalanche or the first arrival of an alien invasion fleet happens? It's something of a stock dramatic device to have silence broken by a gradual crescendo of noise until it reaches an overwhelming climax. There are good musical examples of this in Shostakovich's Fourth Symphony and James MacMillan's Veni, Emmanuel. That is about as well as I can describe what happened next, except the source of the noise wasn't an orchestra in the way described above but an indefinite number of students going absolutely nuts - screaming like someone had been murdered (perhaps they had?), throwing the switches to blast music at volume levels I didn't realise were possible, running in all directions at once and swinging from what appeared to be perilously fragile ceiling beams. At 1 in the morning. In a public hotel.  What were they thinking?

Reader, I bollocked them. It could have been wittier and probably more concise but it was all I could manage and it got my grievances across.  And I think it was justified. I was really, really counting on sleeping well tonight because I knew my playing and my level of sociability were diminished already and it would only get worse, and I'd been really looking forward to it.  What is more remarkable is that in response they did not do one of the two things you'd expect; either mumble an apology and slink away, or else laugh and carry on. No, instead they actually tried to defend what they were doing. You read that correctly.  We're on tour, we only have a few days here, they rebutted, how dare you tell us it's wrong to go nuts and impose our selfish whims on everyone else. 

I want to just take a look at this a little more.  I simply couldn't believe what was happening was being perpetrated by people of such an advanced age. You would expect it on a youth orchestra tour (and yet I was never witness to anything like it on one) but these people were old enough to have their own houses and to drive and be really quite advanced academically - and besides, why weren't they so shattered that they hadn't dropped off to sleep half way up the stairs? How could the thought not have sloshed around with all the wine in their heads that this behaviour was fine at the party downstairs but monumentally not fine outside somebody else's room? Am I being at all unreasonable here?

As it happened, things were resolved fairly swiftly and amicably when one of the unfortunate individuals promptly apologised the next morning, and I did that terribly British thing of apologising back. I am pleased to say there was no further animosity between us for the rest of the tour, but in between eating so-so scrambled eggs and chocolate rolls I couldn't help looking around expecting to be rounded on and berated by other involved parties for my actions. Luckily, this never happened.

The morning's main news was that our English bus had now been fixed and was in Budapest (general rejoicing). The downside was that there was no way the drivers could legally work today what with all the hours they'd spent getting here overnight, so we had another Hungarian bus for the time being (it was late arriving).  At least it was bigger than yesterday's, with proper underfloor lockers to contain the instruments. Today we were heading to Eger, a small town in the east, to play another concert.  In an unexpected move, we set off not onto the motorway but into the centre of Budapest, and were given some minutes to explore the Hősök tere (Heroes' Square).  This is a large traffic circle with a central column at the centre and rear colonnades with bronzes depicting heroes of Magyar history.  I'd been here before but never taken any worthwhile pictures, so I was off the bus and looking over the place pretty quickly.  Already rival buskers playing inauthentic 'gypsy' music were engaged in a Mexican stand-off on different sides of the expanse of chequered paving. It turned out we would be back here tomorrow, so I shall spare you a lengthier description until then. There is nearly nowhere for a bus to wait at the side of the square and as a result we had several false alarms at locating it when we wished to depart. This was chiefly because every other bus in the area was also white and emblazoned with the same tour company's insignia. Eventually it came round the corner and we dragged less perceptive souls with us before they got swept onto the Spanish pensioners' coach and ended up in a nursing home in Seville.

We got on the way to Eger.  The bus was blissfully quiet, road noise aside.  Most people were asleep, or projecting to the world the appearance of sleep, and there was just occasionally the faintest murmur of conversation. Companion was alternating between Russian work and her mp3, and so I dug out mine and put on some Kodály to accompany the Hungarian countryside going by. Last time we were here, we played some of his music in every concert; his Dances of Galánta to be precise, and it's that that I listened to, along with the Peacock Variations. At a rest stop I kept getting asked how to work the coffee machine - as if by knowing the words kave and teat I was somehow also qualified to instruct the correct order for inserting coins and punching buttons! 

I had been anticipating that Eger would be a nice place - in fact beyond nice, a sort of amalgam of all the best bits of Central European towns; a castle, a yellow basilica (where our concert would be held), an equally historic Protestant church, cobbled streets, characteristic little houses - and to some extent I wasn't disappointed.  But by the time we quietly rolled up outside the basilica it was raining and we were given a rather short window of free time.  Due to the unexplained but still pleasant excursion at the start of the journey we were now at least an hour behind the original plan, which had reduced our sightseeing-and-lunch time to little more than an hour. Thus I could wave goodbye to any chance of exploring the castle, climbing the minaret, or having a thorough search through the shops for any wine matching a vintage on my list.  I therefore didn't waste time in trying to see what I could of the town (especially as it had switched to being dry now).  Companion and I made our way in the general direction of Dobó István ter, the town's main square (several big multi-figure statues abound here, celebrating Dobó's thorough hammering of the Turks during the siege of Eger) and to the entrance of the castle (not that impressive from down in the street, and I was never going to see the rest today).  After a little shunting back and forth along a cobbled street we somehow were joined by our Contrabassist and quickly reached a collective decision that if we wanted to eat at all it would have to be now.  I have learned on tours that however massive the evening meal is going to be, you should still grab as much as you can for lunch because, to put it bluntly, you don't actually know where your next food is coming from.  I thumbed through the Eger pages of my guidebook, and jolly quickly too to avoid them becoming sodden (it was raining again) before deciding on a pizza place a few streets away.

It turned out to be a pretty good call. Not laughably cheap (although Hungarian prices are way less than the UK) but still about 50Ft less than the cafés in the main square, and housed in a nice little - well, house - with wooden beams and pink plastered walls.  We sat in the upstairs room in which there were two other customers and perused the rather hefty menus. The page was in Hungarian, so I reached for my phrasebook to identify some unfamiliar words (admittedly that was most of them) before realising that there was an English translation. And, over the page, a French one. And German. And, flipping over the leaves, Italian/Spanish/Japanese. Judging by the two languages I could read, every page contained at least three unintentionally hilarious translations. And sadly, one of the greatest regrets in my entire life is that both my companions and I have forgotten all of them.

The food itself was welcome and delicious.  After making strategic use of the facilities (there were no toilets in the basilica) we dashed back, thinking we had only minutes to spare before the start of the rehearsal.  It turned out there was little need to run (actually, there was: it was threatening rain again). There was hardly anybody else around when I retrieved my instrument from the bus (many thanks to the driver for helping) and entered the basilica, so I put my things down and got out the camera. The interior was a splendid sight.  The yellow shade of the exterior was here turned into gold; both in the marble of the pillars and the ornate detailing of crosses, candelabras, the organ case, column finials.  The wide central space, rows of pews in the nave and two long transepts, was crowned with a magnificent dome which had been completely invisible from outside the building. This sat above a ring of large windows and was decorated with a tremendous artwork that can only be described as testament to some very stiff necks.  The other remarkable feature of the space was the resulting reverberation.  Obviously all churches have one, but this was truly huge.  'People have failed A-level Music Technology for adding that much reverb!' commented our Conductor after we'd sat down and let a chord gradually disappear into the frescoed colonnades.

You don't really need to hear about the rehearsal, boring stuff, so lets jump forward a little. There was an unexpected but welcome period between it and the concert, so most people went off exploring or sitting in bars or whatever they do. I joined a group who had been promised by our Fixer a tour of the underground chambers beneath the basilica, supposedly like a city, but when we arrived at the gate the guided tour had just gone and there would be no time to be on the next one.  Companion had gone off into the town so I decided to make the best of a bad job and explore some of what I hadn't seen earlier. I came across a plaque on a public building - in fact I'm sure it was the town hall - mentioning Zoltán Kodály, so I photographed it for translation later. A little further I came across one of Eger's most curious sights, a minaret which is all that remains of the Turkish occupation of the town.  Companion had climbed it and was at the top. I didn't have time - but of course! - and had to make do with her photos and description of what it was like to climb a dark and uneven spiral staircase with restricted headroom.

Our programme would be the same as yesterday minus the overture because of the Catholic Church getting silly over that kind of thing (I know a great story of a conductor who, in order to be allowed to perform Scheherazade, told a priest that the piece was about a nun!). There was a harmonium in the dressing-room which was eagerly played by all the proper organists and not me. Once again, the crowd that had gathered filled the whole cathedral. Ah yes, this brings me to...

Once again, we were conducted from memory, not just in the concert but in the rehearsal. Now, I was quite polite about the wisdom behind the score-memorisation in my last post, and whilst it was an impressive party trick, I've got to be honest that I am still yet to be convinced of its necessity for any reason.  Being more awake, I was both greatly more aware of the dangers inherent, and also that a reasonable number of the orchestra were at best unsettled and at worst actively hindered by this stunt. I have to be blunt about this, but I don't think our director was as knowledgeable of the music as he would have been with the score, and we could tell. We were constantly nervous, anticipating something unpredictable, possibly a mistake. Worse, some of the gestures were utterly inane. Entries were less confident.  Mine and others' workloads leading our sections were increased. On an interpretive level, there were possibilities of contrast and interest in the performance that were not explored. In a word, the main fault was to break a golden rule of conducting: the conductor's intentions must be clear, and especially so given the performance space. With the audience in, the reverb had been reduced to only (ha!) about six seconds and to expect us to hold everything together just on the basis of aural feedback was foolish.  It might have been a good plan with a pro orchestra, in a familiar acoustic, but to do it as it happened was to gamble a lot, and I'm not sure it was a gamble that paid off.

I know for a fact that there are videos of this concert posted on YouTube for all to see, yet having set out to try and keep our identities concealed, I lack the chutzpah to openly break cover by linking directly to them. But...dear readers, by now I think this within this blog you have all the search terms necessary to find them for yourselves and to judge our respective performances*. It is something of a shame that as far as I am aware, there is no footage of our encore, the Bartók, for there was a wonderful moment just as the strings' first chord enriched the clarinet solo where a small gasp of realisation and delight could be heard from every row of our audience. They clearly held the piece in the same regard as your author does.

The interior of the dome, Eger Basilica

After the music had finished we had to hurry to pack away in time for the Mass that was being held afterwards (it was a Sunday). I rescued Companion's seat blocks (many violists use a method of sitting more upright to avoid discomfort when playing for long periods) and all my things, in the process missing a group photo being taken on the steps. Funnily enough, so did at least two other of the guest players on the tour, although I am sure this was coincidental. I would have no time or opportunity to change out of my concert things.  We were back onto the bus and heading for somewhere called Szépasszony-völgy, which is usually translated as 'Valley of the Beautiful Women'.  The reasons for this rather flowery title will quickly become apparent, for the hollow on the edge of town was home to a vast number of wine cellars in which guests could sample, buy and then presumably sample some more beverages until suitably horizontal. I had been given some tips on which cellars offered the best (they are all numbered consecutively) but this turned out to be fruitless, for we were booked for a wine tasting at a cellar belonging to the interestingly named Kiss (pronounced Keesh and certainly nothing do to with black-and-white face paint). The cellar was a windowless vault tiled with subtly different shades of orange-white bricks, and have a small but well-stocked bar at the far end. The floor space was laid out with sturdy wooden tables and benches, and I can only describe it as the ideal venue to be sampling the fruit of the vine in. I sat with some people whose company and conversation I would appreciate and awaited what we would be offered.

Our fixer pointed out baskets on every table and, in so many words, urged us to eat some of the small savoury cakes placed within in order to prevent us getting inebriated too swiftly. Actually, I try never to drink on an empty stomach (it's decidedly uncomfortable) and was glad to top up the relative lack of hunger the pizza lunch was still providing. It was explained that we would be sampling six different wines from the region and this commenced with a crisp dry white, which I rather liked.  Next up was a red which was a blend of Merlot and Sauvignon, also OK but not to everyone's taste. The next wine was the one I'd been waiting for, the Egri Bikavér, which is usually translated as Eger Bull's Blood. As my guidebook described it, it is a 'dark, rich and dramatic wine' that is full of complexity. After this had been savoured came another mellower white, then a sweet red, of all things (I had never heard of such a concept before) and finished off with a sweet white.  And another little cake, why not, because I'd worked up a bit of an appetite by now.

Soon after we were given another full glass of 'whatever had been out favourite' (I'll take the Bull's Blood, if you don't mind) and the sales counter started doing a roaring trade.  I'd been banging on to anyone who would listen before the trip about the quality of Hungarian wines, so naturally I had to bring some back. They were astonishingly cheap compared to back home - less than £7 for a bottle of really very good Bikavér and about £4 for the nice white. These were safely secured in my bag and became my second-most valuable possession after the cello.

It was then time to go to another winery, except this one was in the country and at least part of the purpose of our visit was actually to eat as well as drink.  It had started to rain again in a very English sort of way, the sort that makes the inside of vehicles develop a layer of moisture that reveals every smeared smiley face anyone has every drawn on a bus window. We moved slowly down some rather rudimentary country roads out of the town, through fields and eventually turned up a  hill into the courtyard of the Korona borház. The building was of that continental type in which a massive shallow-angled roof covers a three-story chamber about fifty feet wide.  Next to it was a sort of covered outdoor grill area where I could see we would be given food (and hopefully soon).  It was now raining quite purposefully and thus I was quite glad to be shown inside a pair of large gates to the building.  This turned out to be a sort of loading bay; a dull square chamber empty apart from a further door and a trolley with full wine glasses on it, clearly for us. Why not, I thought - and then smelled the contents just in time.  It was a hideous stench, and I hastily drew away from what would surely have been the most awful vinegar I never tasted (you know, I'm sure that because my eyes are so bad my other senses have grown more perceptive to compensate...).  Several other people who hadn't been so quick and had sipped shared my opinion. Apparently this was a particular way of making the wine but it really didn't hold much appeal, even bearing in mind our tastes had been 'warmed up' at the other place.

What I naively assumed to be just welcome drinks then turned into a blow-by-blow account of the entirety of two winemaking processes. We were shown into a mysteriously-lit room full of large stainless steel pipes and huge urns with taps and gauges.  I feel I must here apologise to the proprietor, a small plump man with a meticulously manicured moustache (although can facial hair really be said to be manicured?) - firstly because I've declared some of his wine to be the vilest thing this side of Glee, and secondly because at any other occasion I would have listened with intense interest to his talk (via our fixer who was translating the 99% of Hungarian words I didn't know). I'm sorry, I was just too weary and right at the back of the crowd and got too easily distracted by taking arty-farty photos of the inside of the wine vats and such like. I have since read at length the mechanics of wine production, and jolly interesting it is too, but back then it just wasn't the time.  After all this, we were then shown into another long chamber which was the wine vault proper ( I imagined it to be hundreds of feet into the hillside by now) and whose rough brick walls were stacked with many, many barrels of various grape-based liquids. There was another complimentary glass of red (alright, not quite as good as the last one I had) and I suddenly became aware of a subtle but steady loss of inhibition amongst the group. This is significant.

We went back outside where it was a foul night; really pouring with rain. Luckily our barbecue was under cover and more luckily was ready to eat, as my stomach was really sucking on empty by now. I'm afraid I rather skipped normal British protocol for communal meals: I grabbed a bit of pork from the table and devoured it before queuing up properly. Actually it was all worth waiting for. A large pig had been despatched and roasted for us just this afternoon, and on top of that there were grilled bits of other farmyard friends, exotic salads, paprika sausages, casseroles and - ha-ha - more bottles of plonk.  I ended up with Companion who, if not nonplussed, was a little less plussed at the grub on offer (she's a vegetarian).  Shortly after, our Fixer, who was fast achieving legendary status, also joined us although I do not remember anything of our conversation. What was memorable was his singing. I don't remember a note of what he sang but it was clearly a folk song and was as remarkable in its elegant simplicity as the Bartók that was our encore.  Afterwards, a few non-playing members did some close harmony, as if to prove their musical credentials, then we all joined in singing Happy Birthday and by request a somewhat polytonal rendition of Yesterday to one of the winery's staff. This was all good and I lapped up the general conviviality.

It was then announced that the winery's shop was selling the delicious Merlot we had been guzzling at dinner. It was the same simple ploy the other place had used; fill up your customers with booze and then flog them some more, but actually it was so good and again so cheap that I didn't hesitate to grab a bottle, intending to save it for a very special occasion.  This now also joined as part of my second most precious possession after the cello.

I emerged from the shop delighted with my purchase. That delight lasted perhaps twenty seconds; firstly because I could see I was going to get wet running to get on the bus, and secondly because my comrades had suddenly completed their transformation into monkeys. Were this blog not publicly available and purporting to be family-friendly I'd almost certainly use a far stronger verb+noun to describe them: they'd been given a guided tour of the place and a ton of free wine, had a delicious meal and all the hospitality the owners could give, and now in return, they had decided to thank them by stealing wine glasses, tableware, baskets, bottles and anything else that wasn't tied to the floor, and vomiting over the driveway!  I think if anything has made a lasting impression on me today, it is that I can now see why the British are not only reviled but actively feared abroad for their lack of sobriety. The Turks besieging Eger had more respect for the culture they were invading (in fact the Ottoman Empire often instilled a far more tolerant and free society than the Christian ones they conquered). What must the rest of the world think of us?

Oh Lord, I'd have to share the bus with these people, and, unlike when there are drunken louts on the train, I couldn't even move to another carriage to avoid the unfolding havoc. I sat as far forward as possible where it was marginally quieter (only to the extent that the end of Mahler 1 is quieter than the end of Mahler 8), got out the mp3 and pretended to be asleep. Actually, this was reasonably successful and taught me a lot about how to deal with the strange Mr Hydes that had been decent people several hours ago. It is actually very easy to pretend to drunk people that you are in a similar state to them, and is another useful skill I seem to have cultivated by accident. When, inevitably, a mindless yob swaggered up and presented their unlovely presence over me, like a perverse policeman demanding to know why I wasn't as wild as them, I could firstly pretend I hadn't heard a word of their inane babble and then send them away with the twin excuses of headphones and closed eyes. I found that this was more effective if I launched into an equally inane monologue about how brilliantly amazing the piece I was listening to was (Mahler 7; and I wasn't listening at all of course - it would have been quieter were I sat next to a jet engine) meaning they couldn't get a word in edgeways and gave up fairly quickly. The journey was made even more tortuous by having to stop at each and every service stop for people to vomit. Imagine how I'd described the not-good ten minutes of last night, stretch it out to about two hours and you'll start to appreciate what it was like.

Somehow, eventually, mercifully, we got back to Békásmegyer and I hopped off the bus pretty sharpish. (Actually, compared to many people who were now finally starting to regret their revelry, anything was pretty sharpish). And now here's a remarkable thing: my roommate was as un-drunk as I was and hadn't stolen anything either. A sizeable proportion of other people were the same. So why did it sound as if the whole world was off its head? How could such a small number go so out of control and impose themselves on everybody else?

The only saving grace was that after all this, most people wanted to go to bed. Finally, tonight I slept well.

Next time: We run across a road, I eat many strange fishes, and things are decidedly better

*The town of Eger, or Eger Basilica, may be spelt 'Egerben' - this isn't a mistake, it's because Hungarian uses suffixes for prepositions, so in this case the word means 'in Eger'.

Facebook inadvertantly casues the fabric of reality to shread itself and make an ungodly mess over several nearby galaxies

You may have noticed that for a while, Facebook has had a 'Like' option you can click if you, well, like something. The little thumbs-up thing.

Now, however, there has appeared another button next to it: 'Dislike'. (Actually, it's called 'I dislike this' but the sentiment is the same).

The thing is, in providing this seemingly innocuous option, the software developers may actually be endangering the very fabric of the universe. Let me elucidate.

Firstly, you used to be able to just like something. This was fine. But now you can both like and dislike something, and that's a massive paradox.  Because actually, you can't both like and dislike something, and now thanks to you the universe is going to implode and Lembit Opik will become Prime Minister, or something like that.

Having realised this, you might think that the best course of action would be to quickly return the like/dislike balance to a neutral state. So you quickly click (and thus split the infinitive for the second time in a paragraph) on 'Actually I like this' and 'Unlike'. All better, hmm?

Well no, it isn't. Because in order to get back to the starting position, you have to click both 'actually I like' and 'unlike' the thing in question, and that's the same as liking and disliking something simultaneously, and that's another paradox.  Now that you've done this, currently the only thing stopping Stow-on-the-Wold flying into the upper troposphere is the fact that up there the TARDIS is reversing the polarity of the neutron flow whilst Amy Pond is wearing something particularly flattering. This can happen. The neutron flow thing, I mean.

There are other possibilities. Supposing two different people posted the same thing, or somebody posted the same thing twice by mistake, and you liked one and disliked the other. That may be more than Superman and Doctor Who together could handle.  New York could be splurged all over distant galaxies by now.  Perhaps Amy Pond could get another gratuitous mention in this paragraph too. Who knows? Don't be the one who has to make everybody find out. Choose life. Choose only either clicking the Like button or the I dislike this button.

Facebook, you may just have caused the greatest danger to humankind since some scientists on the Franco-Swiss border started messing about with subatomic particles. At the very least, I wouldn't be surprised if, in the coming weeks, a small black hole develops in your offices and several unwitting employees mysteriously find themselves transported to the Norse Dark Ages.

The River Itchen (part 3)

Time once again to head out and complete a not-particularly-distinguished-but-nice-all-the-same river and its associated footpath. Part One Part Two

Part Three: Winchester - Source (Hinton Ampner)

Winchester is not a large city, and on the last bit I got through the truly urban bit of the river in not much more than ten minutes. Where I stopped was the last bridge in the city, at Durngate, and from here on the river starts to head east in a big, lazy curve back on itself. By the end of this last section I'll be pointing at Portsmouth, and in fact as another trail called the Wayfarer's Walk starts to dip in and out of the IW a few miles from its end, following it there is a conceivable end.

Having been chaperoned through the city, the river resumes sprawling all over the place in several different channels through the area known as Winnall Moors.  The Way is still under-signposted whilst in the suburbs (and I wasted ten minutes finding how it went through some cul-de-sacs) but gets going again across a field and past an industrial estate next to a larger channel. At a sharp right I had to duck under a low bridge carrying the A34 and A33, and then through some more woods and fields with the M3 on the right.  Presently I came across three other walkers hesitating at a less-than helpful signpost which simply read 'Public Footpath' on three different fingers. We pointed each other in the respective directions we had come from, and I set off again over what was effectively an island in the mass of river Itchens, over several small bridges and into a hamlet full of thatched cottages and Range Rovers. The Way actually has to follow the main road for thirty seconds due to the palatial residence of somebody who has bought a patch of riverside and kept everyone else out. Possibly the reason why the plot of land was more affordable than some is that not long after, the river and the footpath pass in rather uninviting tunnels under the M3.

Bridge over the Itchen near Martyr Worthy

It was at this point that what had started off as quite a bright day reached the opposite state and it began to rain. I didn't think too much of it at first because the sky was patchy all the time I'd been walking, but by the far end of the next field it was really quite wet indeed. I pressed on (the nearest bus stop was ahead of me on the trail so turning back would have been pointless) down over a bridge into Easton, a large-ish village. There were at least a couple of dog walkers out so I didn't look like the only person who'd been caught out.  Just as I was starting to think I would have to abort or at least shelter in a pub for a while (Easton has two) the rain was progressively turned off, and within two minutes it had become dry and quite warm.  This was lucky as I had to cross a field in which a herd of cows were sitting right on the Itchen Way, and, not fancying my chances of persuading them all to move, I had to go around them via a ditch. It was not long before I had crossed to the north bank of the Itchen again and into another settlement, Martyr Worthy. The bridge was of a type common in this stage, wooden with a slight arch, and as the river was so high I was very close to the water. In the sunlight I saw several brown trout heading off downstream and possibly onto the end of somebody's fishing rod.  Martyr Worthy is a delightful village and I stopped on a bench in the churchyard for lunch. The church itself was clearly very old (Norman round arches and generally diminutive in size) and having eaten my food I took a quick look inside.  Nothing remarkable, but very well-preserved and with quaint touches such as the doors to the pews.

Church of St Swithun, Martyr Worthy

From Martyr Worthy it is only two (long) fields to the next village of Itchen Abbas. Here the path turns abruptly south at another church, taking the scenic rather than the direct route back across the river.  There was a another few minutes of light rain but it passed by the time I had crossed the bridge and climbed up to the golf course. They're sometimes very territorial and when a trail is begrudgingly allowed to cross the greens (as on the North Downs near Merstham) it sometimes feels as if the owners are doing as much as they can to make walkers feel they're intruding, not least through the threat of fast-flying white balls. However, this one seemed to be refreshingly friendly, with a 'visitors welcome' flag on the sign.  From the golf course the path continues along a ridge and then descends back to the river at Yavington Farm. Once again the proper Itchen Way crosses over into Itchen Stoke, then turns abruptly back and ends up on a spit in between two channels. Yet another bridge and into Ovington, back on the south bank.

View of Alresford and the Downs from Tichborne Hill

Beyond Ovington the trail is frustratingly under-signed and I wasted a lot of time making false starts. It does rather annoy me when markers are missing or never put up in the first place, especially when a) the trail is well marked elsewhere and b) information clearly states that the trail is waymarked. Often some areas have more arrows than in necessary whilst there is a complete absence in others (usually urban areas where the route is often less obvious than in the country).  The Way starts to divert more from the river itself, too, crossing fields with no water in sight. One thing that I first had to cross was the A31, and I thought it slightly ironic that when driving down here like the clappers (hey, it's de-restricted) I'd probably been making things more difficult for some walker trying to get to Cheriton. Luckily there were some gaps and I could do half the road at a time via the central verge. On the other side there was a moderately picturesque view of Alresford and the South Downs, and then a steep descent back down to the river.  It was only a couple of miles to the end now but the water level was still reasonably high.

A couple more woods and fields and I had reached Cheriton (and its adjacent settlement New Cheriton), the last villages on the river. Those with a knowledge of 17th-century English history will recognise the name from the Civil War battle that took place there in 1644 (a definite win for the Parliamentarian forces) although as one might expect there's little to be seen of it aside from some notice boards detailing the build-up and troop movements. Cheriton itself is another typically well-kept Itchen Valley village; a few thatched roofs, red phone box, medieval church and tiny brick arch bridge.  I had to hurry down a narrow pavement-less bit of road alongside the river in order to reach the 'New' half of the village, by which time the Itchen was looking more like a garden feature (although still with enough water to flow, and support some pond skaters) than a watercourse. It goes underground a short way from the A272.

Notice on the bridge, Cheriton

The last mile of the Itchen Way has little water in evidence. Down Kilmeston Lane there is a ditch on the right which has the occasional patch of damp ground, but little else to suggest that here was the river that had been a reasonably-sized watercourse only a few miles away and big enough to sail ships up thirty.  The path ends rather unceremoniously at the corner of Hinton Ampner estate, a National Trust-owned house and gardens, although there is no way in from this point (actually, I did contemplate climbing over the fence as I am a NT member and therefore wouldn't be cheating them of an entrance fee, but there were people looking). As mentioned, this spot is also passed by the Wayfarer's Walk and I could have followed it to Portsmouth or Basingstoke if I'd not come so far already.  Instead I walked round the far side of the property, past the chapel and across the front lawn back to the village where I'd left the car. And then I drove back to the Itchen, only in the suburb of Southampton where I live.

Advice and information (if you want to do it yourself):

Hinton Ampner

The Itchen Way is an easy trail and can be done in two stages if you are prepared to do 15+ miles at a stretch.  There are almost no gradients (apart from near Ovington and some streets in Peartree Green) and few busy roads to cross. However, between Winchester and the source there are a number of stiles, and kissing-gates which seem to have been designed underestimating of the proportions of human anatomy, not to mention humans with rucksacks!  The only roads that might be tricky are the A31, the M3 slip road near St Catherine's Hill, and Woodmill Lane to the north of Riverside Park, as traffic tries to hurry across the single-lane bridge and the entrance to a car park. The relevant Ordinance Survey maps are 132 (Winchester) and OL22 (Southampton). You won't need them much most of the time, but where waymarkers are missing they are invaluable.

I am unsure as whether to recommend starting at the source or the end of the river.  Starting at Woolston means that the first few miles are through some rather unattractive urban streets and the river becomes rather diminutive outside Southampton, but you will end in peaceful countryside. On the other hand, starting at Hinton Ampner has the advantage of having rather nicer scenery to start with and ending at the sea, but not much river for the first hour or two.  On balance I would probably go for the latter but there are advantages to both. Although it is probably fine, I would advise a little care when walking around the Itchen Bridge and Peartree Common as this area is rather run down, and drunks and groups of youths sometimes hang around.

Note that the actual course of the Itchen Way is at times fluid (and not just because it can get muddy after heavy rain), and that it must be one of the few footpaths about which there is disagreement about where it both begins and ends.  There is a waymarker at the south-eastern corner of Hinton Ampner which matches the green line on the OS map, but according to the same OS map the 'Source of the Itchen' was half a mile back to the west on Kilmeston Rd. Other reckon differently. The end of the trail is shown as Sholing station which would mean the Way doubles back on itself, but Wikipedia claims this is just an extension and the Itchen Way ends at the corner of the Itchen where it meets the Solent. Between the A34 and Ovington there are several possible routes depending on how many times you want to zig-zag back and forth across the bridges. The 'official' route is the one I took above, going into Easton and Itchen Stoke, but you could easily cut these few corners and still be following the Itchen as the Pligrims' Way, King's Way, St Swithuns' Way and Three Castles Path all take subtly different routes in this area, as a look at the OS map will show.

A detour up St Catherine's Hill is well worth it, especially now a flight of steps has been constructed to the summit. You can see the whole of Winchester and all the way back to the Solent on a very clear day.  Winchester itself is worth an explore too, although please note that the 'round table' on display in one building is a Victorian replica and was certainly not used by Lancelot et al. Also, contrary to what some people may tell you, the statue with the sword in the High Street is King Alfred - the Great - and not King Arthur!

Between Southampton and Winchester public transport is easy, and in fact the placement of stations splits the trail up into convenient sections. Shawford and Bitterne stations are right on the Way, and Woolston is pretty close by too. Winchester station is slightly further away but the walk round the edge of the Roman city, with views of the cathedral, is not really one to complain about. Swaythling, Eastleigh and Southampton Airport are not particularly helpful as they are all but inaccessible from the trail due to airports, car factories and railway works in the way, although you will probably change at the Airport to get to Shawford from the south on a local. Note that when the occasional long-distance train does call at Shawford, only a single door is opened (usually at the front) so listen for announcements and position yourself accordingly.

North of Winchester the railway was removed by Dr Beeching and the Mid-Hants preserved railway (connecting to mainline at Alton) is rather a long walk away, so you are reliant on buses (or an obliging friend with a car...). There is a conveniently-placed bus stop right outside Hinton Ampner, and No.64 services also stop at Ovington, Itchen Stoke and Itchen Abbas along the B3047. These all go to Winchester in the west and Alresford or Petersfield in the east. At the time of writing a large poster is up at Itchen Stoke from the local councillor, campaigning to stop the reduction of services, and even at current frequencies there is not necessarily a bus every hour, so check on Traveline before you go out.  I find it is often a better plan to get a bus journey out of the way at the start, and walk back to the station or wherever you parked, rather than have to watch the clock all day and go flat out to arrive somewhere at a particular time.

More information: Wikipedia; Wikipedia on the River Itchen itself;
A very detailed guide with pictures and map from britishwalks.org

What Happened in Hungary: Day Three Part Two

The staff of ITM return from a summer break to relate the remainder of the epic tale of the trip to Hungary. It gets interesting and perhaps controversial from now on, honest...

Despite the limitations of even strong coffee becoming very apparent, I left the rehearsal felling mostly optimistic about the prospects for the concert.  What did it matter that we were severely lacking in rest and concentration; we could, as far as I could tell, still play with most of our skill and bravado intact.  Anyway, there was no time to analyse the prognosis as we were being ushered out of the hall for whatever event was taking place that afternoon.  Back onto the bus (hurrah, I get to carry the cello up literally millions of steps to the room designated for instrument storage) and a short drive down the switchback road on the north side of the hill to Széll Kálmán tér (Moscow Square until six months ago).  Here we would have an hour or so to eat before the bus took us back to our hotel in the third district. A group of us headed for the Mammut shopping centre close by. Happy as I was to be walking the streets of Budapest for the first time, there was not much in this area to appreciate besides the slim view of the castle hill, and the overgrown model railway that was the tram terminus occupying most of the square.

Mammut is depressingly like most other shopping centres in the world; glass, faux marble, lifts, adverts, toilets, predictable assortment of shops, cinema as you find in US malls; but it did have a supermarket in the basement and so I bought some apples and water (opportunity to try out Hungarian; seemed to work).  I had by good fortune got hold of some sandwiches, a lunch which had been made up by our fixer in expectation of our timely arrival the afternoon before and handed out in the small hours as a welcome present.  Being of the 'pack sandwiches and a flask' upbringing which had served me well over several hundred miles of hill walking, I'd brought them with me and now consumed an interesting mix of what I gradually realised to be soft cheese and paprika.  By the time I'd finished, the people I came in with (and because my memory is still shot at this stage, I now can't remember at all who they were) had installed themselves in a Greek restaurant, which I tagged along with. Whether the following is a trait of Hellenic or Magyar cooks I am unsure, but by the end of the modest meal we had been given both complementary liqueur and watermelon slices by the staff, which pleased me much. By the time I was back on to the bus for the return journey to the hotel my sleep clock had returned to around the level of this time the day before - livable-with for now, but with short-term memory and some decision-making starting to suffer, wouldn't feel safe driving, etc. Startlingly, I recall being thrown into a rap improvisation somewhere on the way back and doing rather well at it, despite being on autopilot. That is to say, I appear - somehow -to have come up with some rhyme witty enough to raise a torrent of mirth and applause from my audience.

I decided not to try to sleep immediately but instead go for a wander round the neighbourhood.  This ended up as having no sleep at all, although I can rationalise this in that I was doing moreorless alright at the time, and it would be better to sleep only at night.  A large assortment of people were heading to a swimming pool at the end of the road (in fact it gives its name to the street; Pünkösdfürdő utca means 'street of the Pentecost Baths') so I moved with them.  The street* had looked somewhat unattractive from the limited number of pictures I had seen prior to the trip, and indeed was still not the most endearing neighbourhood what with all the Soviet-era blocks and parched grass typical of Warsaw Pact suburbs, but neither was it a crime-racked dump (the 3rd district is considered one of the more affluent in the city) and it was quickly apparent there was no danger in walking the streets here. The Danube (the link is to a 360 panorama) dictated the end of the east-west street and beyond the point at which we stopped I could just make out the long island dividing the Szentendre channel from the river's main course.  Just as I was contemplating striding over the mini-earthworks to have a proper look at the riverside (why am I so easily led away when there might be something interesting to look at round the corner?), a sub-group walked up to us and announced with visible annoyance that the open-air pool was closed 'because it had been raining earlier', something which was clearly not the case now. Anyway, there seemed to have been no possibility of persuading the place to re-open (I lacked the Hungarian to explain the shortcomings in this business model) so we set off back up the street.

And what should we happen upon, yards from our hotel, but a...bar.

Now this was in many ways a Good Thing, because hotel bars the world over are a rip-off, and now here was a place not two minutes' walk away where a korso of beer (about a pint) was 290Ft (less then £1) and the wine equally inexpensive.  And it was also equally cheap to buy coffee - proper strong Hungarian kave like a double espresso in a little cup - which I decided then to be the best course of action.  But- there's a butdo not be drunk at concerts and rehearsals.  The climax of this paragraph is probably crashingly predictable. That's not to say everyone behaved irresponsibly, but let's not beat about the bush: people drank, some significantly, before a concert, which I just can't endorse as being advisable.

I've got a slight confession to make here. Having learned the 'ordering in a restaurant' section of my Complete Hungarian book, I bought my coffee using the vernacular, which pleased the barmaid greatly, This was overhead by a member of my party, who first tried to copy the sounds I told him would result in him getting beer, and then when this failed, me making these sounds to order his drinks for him. Having then clarified the vocab to my 'student' (he did pay, by the way) I can only assume I had now taught the entire orchestra the Hungarian for various alcoholic beverages, which somewhat contradicts the tone of the last paragraph. On the other hand, the bar staff understood the English terms too, so I'm not sure I really have much to be guilty about.

Actually, I didn't really stay long enough to find out. Having spun out the coffee and then increasingly abandoned any hope of conversation (Companion was nowhere to be seen, and I think she had done the sensible thing and slept for a bit) I quietly returned to my room to get concert clothes and other items necessary for the public performance of music on the violoncello. I do seem to have some kind of knack for leaving without being noticed when I want to, which comes in useful now and again. There is the usual rigmarole of forming-up in the lobby when departure nears; somebody is late, several people now rather merry, me glad I won't have to fight my instrument on to a bus this time.

The journey through the suburbs is more familiar now and I can remember the route and landmarks from this morning, except now they are subtly different in the light of the late afternoon. It seems something of a mystery why there was no major school of Hungarian painting in the late nineteenth-century, for the quality of light would seem to be just as facilitating as that of Tuscany or northern France. Budapest castle was particularly conducive as can be seen from the pictures I took whilst we were waiting to enter the concert venue. The courtyard of the museum had a scattering of trees, statues and an old field gun which looked particularly good when framed artfully. There was also the strange intermingling of an English orchestra half in concert dress, instruments still in cases, mixing with the tail end of the Hungarian police, also half in uniform, half on ceremony. No conflict, you understand, but the sense of a transition between two very different cultures.  Once we were inside the hall the atmosphere was relaxed.  There was enough time to prepare for the concert gradually - indeed I sat and played through some Bach for a bit, partly to try and keep the skill in my fingers awake but partly for the hall's acoustic.  Upstairs, the dressing room overlooked the northern side of the city, the Buda Hills (which I wanted to climb on the free day) and, perfectly installed as the foreground subject of a photograph, a single flagpole with the red, green and white flag of the Republic at its head. I waited until the breeze unfurled it against the sunset and pressed the shutter button for a 500th of a second. Perfect.

After a little conversation, I waited downstairs for us to walk on, gradually joined by the rest of the band.  The hall had filled up considerably - in fact we were, to my delight, actually having to find extra chairs to allow the whole audience to fit in the hall. It was later explained to me that the concert was free and had been publicised hard by our Fixer, but this turnout was still something you would never expect in the UK, especially for a student orchestra. People simply don't care enough about the sort of music we perform back home, blighted by apathy, being told they must consider it snobbish and being too overworked to have enough time for culture. Tonight's programme: Beethoven Prometheus Overture; Haydn 'Clock' Symphony and Beethoven's Seventh.  Perfect for the size of orchestra we're taking, and hopefully nobody will notice the second horn is actually a flugelhorn.

There is loud and warm applause from the assembled Hungarians as we enter. I notice something almost immediately - there is no conductor's podium. As I sit down in the principal cello's seat, I assume somebody must have forgotten bring it on and speculate how the Conductor will probably make a joke of having to carry it on himself.  But no, here he comes, striding down to the semicircle of chairs with the projection of confidence that all musicians learn as part of our 'act', still with no podium in sight. Christ, I realise: he's actually going to conduct it from memory. The whole gig.  All of it.

Now, as a sort of freeze-frame before the baton goes down, let's make it clear that I'm not, on principle, opposed to this. There is a long history of conductors doing ridiculously complicated pieces sans partition - Boulez and Rite of Spring is the most arresting example - but, as our conducting teacher impressed on us, the guy with the stick absolutely, positively has to have a completely watertight knowledge of the dots. It's a bit like overtaking: if you are even slightly in doubt about it, do not do it, because you have to be utterly certain there is going to be no possibility of failure.  You will note that at this point I do not doubt our Conductor's intentions nor am I suggesting that he did not fulfil the above caveat; but the thing about Boulez and Rattle and all the others is that the musicians they had were crack professionals who had had as much rehearsal as they needed (admittedly that isn't much), had had normal sleep levels and knew the piece inside out. We were a student orchestra, doing this on our first, rushed, rehearsal in half a week, having had probably no more than about 6 hours' proper sleep in the last two or even three days and without having been forewarned of this.  Oh, and did I mention some people had been drinking a couple of hours earlier...?  What it comes down to is this: however prepared the Conductor might have been, we the players simply didn't have the mental resources at our disposal to deal with this at a whim, and cast aside our natural instinct that something was wrong here. What we needed in this situation was certainty and extra security. Just play it safe this time.

I won't lie: when the beat went down I was scared. Not quite as scared as the night I suddenly found myself speeding towards enough surface water to make my friend aquaplane into a tree a few minutes later, nor the occasion my housemate nearly choked to death on her own vomit after a horrific night's binge, but still decidedly uncomfortable.  My thought process (sparing what mental RAM I could from the effort of translating dots into arm movements in my increasingly lethargic state) kept circling round 'I don't have confidence in the direction even though I should have, so I'm going to end up thinking about it so much and worry about making some massive error that I will actually make a massive error.'  After a while I hit upon the idea of watching the leader rather than the conductor.  I don't know if this improved my playing but it got me to focus enough that I avoided any serious mistakes and leading my section astray.  I will refrain from speculating on how well other members of the orchestra were coping, although I couldn't spare much to watch for signs of danger.

There was, however, one definite high point, which was a truly extraordinary few minutes before the start of the Haydn symphony. For various reasons, one of our number, a gifted arranger, had made a version of the Tuba Mirum from Verdi's Requiem for nine trumpets, horns, bassoons and timpani.   In the resonance of the hall it sounded like the end of the world, incredibly loud and spectacular and creating all the more astonishing an effect by segueing straight into the start of the Clock Symphony (the above video is, regrettably, not of us, but is about as close to conveying the awesomeness of the movement as any I could find.  The Haydn began at 2'06). Incredibly (at least it seemed to me) we got through it all without communal mishap. I have no idea who bailed who out or if there was any bailing-out happening at all, but the Haydn danced along as it should (you know my opinions on Haydn) and the final chord was followed by as great a round of applause as had begun proceedings. We've made it this far - indeed a mantra that seems to sum up the tour.

Beethoven's Seventh was the second half.  Yes, also directed from memory.  The cello part is a monster at times with all the dotted triplet rhythms and string-crossing and it was probably a good thing I'd played most of it before, because I really wasn't enjoying the level of concentration I was having to put it by the end. This, too, was judged to be a success by the assembled throng, and meant we cold play an encore (I have little knowledge of how clap-happy audiences are in different countries, but am working on Hungarians needing the same quality of performance to demand an further items as we would back home).

The piece we played for the next three minutes changed everything. It made every event of the last three days worthwhile. The diminutive but perfectly crafted orchestration Béla Bartók made of his piano miniature Este a Székelyeknél contains little more than a few held notes for the violoncello section to play, but this mattered not. The simple melody, hung over a few carefully chosen chords, seemed to me far more poignant and pertinent than anything else I had heard in the concert. I don't know whether it was because it was closer to my own idea of what music should sound like, or simply that I had played and loved the piece in its many incarnations for years and years, but it caught my attention like nothing else, and offset every trial and setback we had suffered to get this far. And when we had finished, the audience simply wouldn't let us go, which I would like to think was because of their love of the piece and delight at hearing their own country's music, as well as for the rest of our playing.  We bowed, the conductor bowed, walked off and back on; we stood up again, he bowed again; he stood up different sections individually, bowed again, walked off and on again, and still the whole hall applauded. I was thinking we'd have to play part of the Haydn again, but eventually we simply had to leave because we had a meal booked. I'm sorry, citizens of Budapest; we would gladly have played more but we were just too tired that night.  Our appreciation of you is not diminished, rest assured.

It was dark by the time we were back on the bus. Dinner would be served presently on a river cruise on the Danube, although right at that moment I wouldn't have cared if it had been the nearest McDonald's because I was really starting to get hungry, a state in which I start to get profoundly uncomfortable in (an unholy alliance of metabolism and blood sugar levels if you must know, not helped by the potency of the coffee earlier). The civilised strains of the concert hall had given way to the furious noise of a student group gearing up for the evening, now amplified in the ugly acoustic of a MAN bus. I grabbed the frontmost seats and put the cello at the window side so I could grab it round corners. It turned out that we had a little time in hand, so before dinner we would drive up to the Citadella, on the great rock overlooking Budapest. I'd been up here on my last visit at night but didn't remember much apart from being told the place was crawling with pickpockets and quickly learning that there was no way I was going to take any serviceable photos with my primitive film camera in the dark. I'd been judicious with the cello, for the drive down Budai vár and up Gellért Hill to the fortifications felt like a rally special stage as we swayed round hairpin bends.  I was first off the bus and followed our Fixer to the viewpoints.  It was a clear night and here was the city spread out before me; the castle, the great river and its bridges, the dome of the St. István Basilica, the long avenues and lights of Pest and the peaks of Buda.  I steadied my Olympus on some conveniently situated benches, turned the dial to 'night' and did the breathing-out thing to keep it steady whilst depressing the shutter. (The pictures came out alright). The rest of the group seemed equally impressed with the view.

Back onto the bus, noise level to bad-closing-on-torrid, and down the hill again, across the new bridge and along the embankment of downtown Pest. Presently we stopped somewhere upstream of the parliament building and were told not to get run down legging it across the road to a waiting river boat. It was a reasonably large vessel; bigger than anything you'd get up the Thames to the bit we'd come from, and on the lower deck we found a huge spread of hot and cold foodstuffs. I had to positively restrain myself from scoffing the whole table whilst the system for purchasing wine was explained.  As it was after the concert, I had no qualms whatsoever about sharing a bottle of white with the friends I was sitting with, which turned out to be a very good decision because the stuff was delicious. As was the cuisine - I ate my first proper hot food in days; soup, meats, vegetable sides, cheese, fruit, all of it both welcome and satisfying.  This was better. We shared the glasses of bőr around, me raising laughter by going through the motions of sniffing and chewing it (no, I don't know what wine buffs really get from these actions that you can't get just by drinking it normally) and made comments to the general opinion that the food was fairly excellent. Presently the deck cleared a little and we drifted upstairs, where our party were spread out round the open-sided observation deck. There were fantastic views to be had here to, albeit from a different angle, along with me obligingly photographing others to swell their Facebook albums (I really don't mind doing this though). 

I was feeling decidedly better about things now, assuming that I would have a proper night's sleep ahead of me and that the rest of the tour would consist of spectacular concerts and memorable socialising and culture-soaking. OK, it's a shame one of our number vomited on the boat, and now enough individuals were fuelled with drink the din on the coach back was deafening, but I assumed this would be only a temporary foible.  And yet...remind me, what's that quote about assumption from the (otherwise risible) film Under Siege?

Something was about to happen that would bring the whole chain of events to a head, and almost push me over the edge.  But it happened after midnight, so it must wait until the next post...

Next time: Some decisive stuff happens, and I become intimately acquainted with the biggest acoustics in the world.

*This link is to possibly the most hilarious and pedantic blog I have ever come across, that of an irate Budapest resident who feels the need to share examples of outstandingly bad parking in his city with the world.