2011 in numbers

Travel (all distances approximate)

Miles driven by me = 7000 miles
Miles by road: =3750 miles
Miles by rail: = 660 miles
Miles by air: = 760 miles
Miles total: = 12170 miles
Things needed fixing on cars = 9 (hole in sump, wing mirror damaged by parent/wheelie bin; heat shield distorted; driver's electric window motor; air conditioning regas; driver's electric window motor again; air conditioning again; blown headlight bulb impossible to remove, LED centre brake light not functioning)
Countries visited: France, Belgium, Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Scotland
Walks: completed Itchen Way, first stage of Solent Way, various rambles in Lakes.

Rather less walking and considerably less rail travel than last year - which will be rectified in 2012 - but offset by huge amount of road distance.  Nearly 20% of total miles were accomplished during the Hungary trip.

Music

Concerts = 51, plus 23 services, 7 shows, 1 recording session, and other informal performances (e.g. choir singing carols at pub, weddings, chamber music course)
Compositions completed = 7 (The Sun Rising, Serenata for harp, The Bells of St Marys, There is a Blossom Sprung of a Thorn, Englefield Green, Beatus vir, Jak Drahokam) plus 8 orchestral and 2 quartet arrangements and works in progress
Hours spent in non-performance playing (practice/rehearsals) c.2000 divided evenly between cello and keyboard instruments

These are all up from previous years. The increased number of concerts is hard evidence of how much more I'm playing the piano these days.

Favourites

Piece of the year: Nielsen Symphony No.3 'Expansiva'
TV series of the year: The Killing I and II
Most interesting places: Pest, Budapest; Old Town, Edinburgh; Ulverston, Cumbria; Easedale Tarn, Cumbria; Avebury, Wiltshire; Lake Balaton, Somogy;
Cups of tea drunk @ average 3 per day =  c. 1200
Wine: Korona Egri Merlot 2008
Beer: Thwaite's Wainwright Ale
Food: Hortobagy-style pancakes

A Child of the Snows: Introduction

As this blog is, at least in part, a means of discussing compositions, I have decided to write a series on a fairly major choral work I am about to undertake.  Over the next year I plan to provide regular progress updates as well as an insight into the composing process in general. The time-scale I have set myself is to have a pretty much complete draft by Easter and to have the whole thing done by the summer, ready for rehearsals to start in the autumn.

In this post I will start by setting out the brief of the project and some initial thoughts stemming from this:

The only definite stipulations of the commission is that I am to compose a cantata for Christmas 2012, which must be suitable for performance by amateur choral societies and modest orchestral forces, and must set G.K. Chesterton's poem A Child of the Snows.  As this text consists of four fairly short stanzas, I have added two additional poems: another Chesterton entitled A Christmas Carol and Bethlehem Town by the American Eugene Field.

The first consideration must be of what forces to write for. Obviously the chorus comes ready provided: an SATB choir of around fifty, which is big enough to allow divisi. Having considered the texts I decide to use a baritone soloist only. The thinking behind this is that I will alternate verses of the two Chesterton poems, as the subject matter of their respective stanzas flow nicely into one another, and so have the soloist sing A Child of the Snows whilst the chorus take A Christmas Carol. This also has the practical result that each gets to rest their voice(s) whilst the other sings, alongside the musical effect. Having another - most likely female - soloist will, I reason, confuse the narrative coherence of each text, as sufficient contrast is already provided through this alternation of forces.

Orchestrally speaking, the main contingent of the chamber orchestra will be a body of strings, probably no more than two desks to a part. This is mostly out of practicality: firstly, the the larger the orchestra, the more people need to be paid for; also, as the chorus is medium-sized - think BBC Singers rather than BBC Symphony Chorus - an overly large ensemble would present issues of balence. This becomes especially important given that I am writing a religious work, most performances of which will take place in churches, which naturally have a large and resonant acoustic.  To the strings I intend to add piano (am toying with the idea of piano four-hands), possibly oboe and a few other instruments.

Other considerations arise from the nature of the performance: the musical material must be within the technical range of the chorus (they're good enough to do big works by Bach, Brahms and Finzi, and do them well, but naturally there is a limit to what one can reasonably expect from non-professional singers rehearsing one evening a week) and the orchestral parts must be able to be brought up to performance standard on only individual practice time and a rehearsal on the day. I know the orchestra, all of whom are of pro standard, will give their best with whatever they are given, but from past experience I know to aim for the maximum effect via the simplest means. Come to think of it, this is actually a pretty good compositional philosophy in general.

This is probably the biggest project I've taken on to date, as although the orchestration is smaller than for The Sun Rising, the performers will be of a comparable number and the piece is planned to be roughly twice the length, with the total performance time approaching half an hour. It's also the first time that 1) I've written a choral work with accompaniment by an ensemble rather than keyboard (the two trumpets and organ in Benedic Domine don't really constitute an 'ensemble'); 2) I've written for solo voice and chorus in the same work (again, the short solos in Beatus vir and various other works were for untrained choir voices and so don't really count); 3) I've written for baritone soloist and 4) I've written with a particular soloist in mind (other than myself).  I hope these sound like relatively minor neologisms, as I consider them to present no real difficulties in the job of writing the music.

There are some 'miscellaneous' considerations which may or may not a have a bearing on the composition: I have been told that for the première the other two pieces in the concert are planned to be Dvořák's Mass in D and some Christmas carols written by a fellow young composer, Tom Daish.  It is probable that the second performance will use a smaller orchestra than for this as the venue and choir are smaller, so I may need to bear in mind the use of ossia passages and the possibility of keyboard(s) substituting for some instruments.

To finish, I can already say I have sketched out some parts of the piece and have some idea of the overall structure.  We will discuss these first steps in the next post.

Pianistic preferences

I am called upon to perform on both digital and acoustic pianos about equally in my working life.  Naturally, I press the keys on whatever is put in front of me without quibble, but if there is a choice I will always plump for a traditional acoustic piano. I have sometimes been questioned as to why, and at times this can appear a counter-intuitive option (I have played some pretty ropey pianos over the years) so I wish to make a case for why the traditional acoustic instrument is, at least in my experience, preferable to modern electronic keyboards.

We must begin by stating that electronic keyboards in general posses the following advantages:

1. They do not go out of tune.
2. If the function is supplied, they can be re-tuned to mean, Pythagorean, modal temperaments and baroque pitch at an instant.
3. They are not susceptible to changes in temperature, humidity and movement in the way an acoustic piano is. In fact the only possible damage from these factors would be water ingress causing short circuiting.
4. They are usually equipped with a moderate-to-wide range of timbral possibilities, albeit synthesised. This is probably the most significant advantage of the instrument.
5. Other useful functions such as transposition and recording capacity are often fitted.
6. They are cheaper to purchase, smaller and more portable than traditional pianos.
7. On high-end instruments, the key and pedal action is weighted in an attempt to imitate that of an acoustic instrument, aiding the traditionally trained player. 
8. They are easier to amplify as a PA system can be plugged directly into the instrument without the need for a microphone.

With all this in mind, one might wonder why anyone bothers with traditional pianos any more. By comparison, they are expensive to purchase and maintain properly, are difficult to move, can only produce one sound 'patch' and have no 'performance aids' other than three pedals and that the stool adjusts up and down.  Electronic keyboards work on the same principle as other electric instruments such as guitars: by creating a tiny sound (in this case small bars which are struck like chimes by the keys) and amplifying it, usually modifying the resulting wave as well. This means that a lot of delicate and temperamental components can be eliminated and replaced by circuitry. So why do I still prefer a 'real' piano?

Firstly, the instrument has a richness and sonority that is impossible to imitate digitally. Chiefly this is due to the effect of the strings vibrating in whatever acoustic space the instrument is played in, but also to do with the fact that the strings vibrate in sympathy with each other. The reason why this is nearly impossible to synthesise is that the additional overtones created thus, which depend on so many multiple factors - the exact notes played and the attack of each, what degree of pedals are being used, what strings may still be vibrating from the previous combination of pitches - that the memory and processing power required to store and activate the sample of each possible combination would be in the range of a supercomputer.  Even then, it is a difficult task indeed to make what is essentially an amplified glockenspiel sound like felted hammers hitting sets of metal strings.  The tone of electric pianos is almost always too fuzzy and boomy by comparison (a common problem with amplified instruments) and lacks the crispness one can get from a well-practiced staccato.  In addition, the percussive effect of the felt making initial contact with the string is difficult to synthesise, often replaced by sound of the plastic key thumping against rubber bearings and electrical contacts.  Pedal action remains a weak area, largely because of the above issue of sympathetic vibration and, on the other foot, so to speak, the fact that an una corda or due corde marking has acoustic implications far beyond simply reducing the volume a bit. I have yet to play a digital piano in which half-pedalling was at all satisfactory, and on most it was impossible as the sustain pedal was considered a binary switch which when on simply added a set amount of reverb.

As an addendum to the above, there are certain pieces which are absolutely impossible to perform on a digital piano as they require this sympathetic vibration as an essential effect. A piece titled simply 'Harmonics' in the fourth book of Bela Bartók's excellent pedagogical series Mikrokosmos is one example, requiring the player to depress keys without them sounding and then allow the strings to be set vibrating when other notes are struck. This simply could not be accomplished on a non-acoustic instrument.

The other, related, consideration is the feedback the player gets from the instrument.  Even the most sophisticated digital key mechanism cannot emulate the action of the 80-or so components that are needed to play even a single note on a strung instrument. When playing a real piano, one can directly feel, even in notes of short duration, something inside the instrument applying force to something else, changing centres of gravity and creating inertia, which provides valuable information on how the note will sound even before the sound reaches one's ears.  Electronic instruments lack much of this vital 'touch' due to there being essentially a short-cut in the action. (For much the same reasons, I dislike driving cars which have too much electronic intervention in the controls).  Furthermore, the key action often lacks sufficient resistance, meaning than when playing fast passages or using the position of one key to find another it is far too easy to accidentally sound the wrong note when passing the hand over it, as well as making chord voicing harder.  All these factors force the player to take time to adapt; whilst the musical results will probably not suffer having done so, it remains that the pianist is essentially learning a new type of instrument.

Finally, another issue which has not been satisfactorily solved by the manufacturers of synthesised instruments: volume. Not the amount of it, for most keyboards and electric pianos have a volume control in addition to touch-sensitive keys which provides more than adequate range, but the guesswork that must be undertaken to find the correct setting.  Of course this can be an advantage, as it allows the relative volume to be adjusted to suit a large or small space, but it is often a source of frustration when the player finds that what seems deafeningly loud to them comes across as feeble at the back of the room. A chief cause of this is that speakers howsoever positioned (usually under the main body or key rack) cannot synthesise a large soundboard reflecting string vibrations in a universal direction. As stated, this is less of an issue when a PA system with large speakers is connected to the instrument - but this instead creates the potential problem of the source of the sound being some distance away from the player and thus not in sync with the action of their fingers. When sitting at an acoustic piano one can always assume, to a reasonable degree of accuracy, what volume any given amount of force on the keyboard will produce.

The pipe organ is, of course, a separate instrument entirely, but has equally valid considerations in the electronic vs acoustic choice. A good full-size electronic church organ is as good as its traditional counterpart, but as far as I can see a small portable organ cannot compete - it'll simply never be as loud without excessive amplification.

What Happened in Hungary: Epilogue

And so we reach the end of the trip, essentially a run for home.  The sun was setting over the mountains as we joined the evening traffic heading west from Vienna.  After a few attempts I succeeded in snapping an 'Alpine Symphony cover'  - my term for any picture of mountainous terrain which would make suitable cover art for a CD of Strauss' masterly tone poem.  I put on some Sibelius chamber music and enjoyed a few drops of Hungarian white (albeit from a service station paper cup) as the day ended and Austria dissipated into darkness and artificial light for the second time in my travels.

I'm going to skip over most of the next twenty-four hours, as it involves the reliably tedious activity of sitting on a bus in much the same fashion as I have already described. If you really wish to get an idea of what this is like, imagine the monotony of driving at night but without most of the comfort/entertainment value of whatever car you usually inhabit.  A few incidental memories include my considerable annoyance in having to give a €2 coin to provide the c.€0.50 needed for the toilet somewhere in Germany, due to my inability to ask for change; and the delicious alacrity of changing drivers in the very same lay-by in Aschaffenburg where we had spent so many agonising hours on the way out. I suppose we may even have started a tradition of using this spot as a convenient changeover point, such that in the future the town may acquire a large bus station due to the actions of some nameless idiot of a mechanic who failed to check that an alternator wasn't about to be 'slightly on fire'.  I think, although I can't be sure, that I slept a little because I don't remember the transition from darkness to early morning, although I do remember that shortly after waking I noticed that the cars now had yellow license plates and there were a lot of cyclists on the urban roads, meaning that we had entered the Netherlands. we were only in the country for about fifteen minutes, crossing the very southern salient of the country around Maastricht and Genk.  Breakfast was at a dull service station somewhere short of Brussels, after a heroic five-hour night shift by our new driver had taken us all the way across Germany. I had coffee, some pastries and a waffle, although to honest you could have given me the packaging as I couldn't really taste much. Still no messages from home, although many false alarms due to the over-fastidiousness of my phone provider, thinking fit to notify me by text whenever I crossed into a new network area.

I remember looking at a faded map on a wall of Benelux highways with a friend and trying to work out where we were and how much further we were going. I do like to actually have an idea of where I am in relation to the rest of the planet's geography rather than being content with 'somewhere in Germany'. The obvious thought is to estimate how long remains: based on the outward journey and some dividers-and-compass navigation I try to work out what mileage remains through the Low Countries.  Perhaps another four hours to Calais?  It turns out to be about right: we hit queues going round Brussels (the absence of which prevented us being even later on the way out) and I remember having a long conversation with the fixer about my travel guide to Hungary. He remarked after reading certain passages that it was generally very accurate but that there were a few glaring errors, which brought him to the surprising conclusion that the author had some kind of pro-Jewish axe to grind. In general he seemed to note mine and Companion's level of perception. 'You are sometimes too negative' he remarked to me ' but you are the ones on this tour who know the most.' I'm not sure I shall ever forget these words.

Belgium became a barely distinguishable part of France and in another hour we rolled up at the Eurotunnel terminal in Coquelles.  Almost nothing now stood between us and home - that is, apart from the UK Border Agency, possibly amongst the most objectionable people in existence. Their recently erected fortifications at every point of entry to the UK are largely the result of panicky political rear-guard action (fend off tabloid hysteria about millions of asylum seekers hanging off the bottom of trains et al) and they serve little useful purpose other than that the passport control building usually incorporates a public urinal.  And no, I don't mean the inspection desk, although one could be forgiven for mistaking the contents of the two. Get in line, minions.

Lest this seem like disgruntled arch-libertarianism, there are two very good reasons why musicians should loathe border guards and state agents of all types: firstly the criminal actions of the soldier who shot Anton Webern and the US immigration official who ordered Britten to destroy his music for fear it was an enemy coded message - these types deserve every kind of slow painful death possible - and, secondly, that on a more general level their job (which of course they are 'only doing') is utterly incompatible with the remit of music and art. In a shameful display of knee-jerk reactionism, the acclaimed Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami was first refused a US visa to visit the 2002 New York Film Festival, then resigned a commission to direct at English National Opera after refusing to put up with the 'disgraceful' bureaucracy he was subjected to by the UK Border Agency (they were implying that he might disappear or try to claim asylum once here, withdrew his visa for no reason and forced him to give two sets of fingerprints to get another. The border police, presumably steered by the hand of politics, arrogantly refused to apologise for their procedures and trotted out the party line that this was necessary to catch criminals). 'It is the job of border guards and authorities to put up barriers, and it is our job to break them down'. It is the latter organisation I am forced to jump through hoops for now - and to whom I cheerfully wish all kinds of terminal illnesses upon - having to queue up and present a passport to a humourless drone, who seizes upon the chance to tell us what to do with some nonsense about not crossing a faint line on the floor, in order to enter my own country. This is all the more remarkable given that I have been able to cross what was the Iron Curtain without so much as leaving the vehicle. The cretins search the bus and berate the driver for not properly locking some minor luggage hatch - as if an illegal would have anywhere to hide inside the fully loaded compartment! I suspect they say the same to everyone, savouring their moment of power over others and the chance to get even with society just because their parents wouldn't let then stay up and watch Top Gear when they were small. (I think that's just speculation - ed).

Anyway, despite the best efforts of Kafka's field staff, we made the next train. Another half-hour in a tunnel, then another motorway except this was one I recognised, even felt familiar with, and so I knew how little of the journey we had left. It was only a few minutes before we pulled over at a dreary service area outside of Folkstone where I bought a sandwich, checked the nation was still at rights - oh no, wait, the Coalition are still on the throne - and felt a little depressed by the percentage of other customers who were of pensionable age. The next stop was Clacket Lane services where our fixer and his daughter were met a by a friend with a taxi, and went off to London for (presumably) tea at the Ritz with His Jenkinsness and some other fixer-y types. I knew the next forty miles off by heart and was once again cheered to recognise the bits of the North Downs Way going past.

We made as unceremonious a return as our departure.  The bus smacked over a speed bump (hopefully shortening its life expectancy a bit) and glided into a shaded car park.  I'd done the usual thing of stuffing al the possessions I'd spent the last day spreading about the cabin back into one bag, made a last check round and got off to retrieve my things.  I called Best Mate and asked him to bring the Meg over, as I knew how to fit all the cases in it. He was a little surprised I was actually letting him drive it, but he safely navigated the black Renault into a vacant space, got out and declared, simply, 'Brilliant'.  I said goodbyes to friends old and new, got the back seats down and loaded everything we'd brought on the way out as well as various unused drinks from the bus. In fact it wasn't really a farewell at all as quite a few people were coming back to the house where I was staying.

And that was pretty much that.  My sister gave birth to a little boy at about seven in the evening, just as I was sitting down to enjoy a chicken tikka masala with my companions, and I drove home the next day to be at somebody's birthday party and see the newborn child when I returned. Then I sat down at my computer, clicked to open Blogger on my favourites tab, and - well, you know the rest...

Loose ends

The previous posts in this series can all be found here: Day One; Day Two; Day Three parts One and Two; Day Four; Day Five; Day Six and Day Seven

I've put together an approximate chart of this adventure which you can view below. (Google Maps Maker is a marvellously adept bit of technology - I'd not used it before - and will automatically generate a path along roads from just a start and end point, even to the extent of recognising one-way streets, roundabouts and motorway ramps).  I have endeavoured to include placemarks for most of the locations mentioned in this account, whilst the rest should be obvious from where the lines start and end (zoom into Budapest, Eger and the Lake Balaton area).


View Hungary 2011 in a larger map

Other burning questions:

• Was it really that bad sitting on the bus for so long? I mean, surely it would've been far more tiring to drive it yourself, even in some hired Teutonic barge with a humongous diesel engine up front?  You know, I couldn't have put the question more succinctly myself.  I suppose taking a private bus is non-stressful and reasonably comfortable.  However, I can't really recommend coach travel for more than a day-long journey.  There are many advantages to it, notably: no baggage weight restrictions; no extra costs for carriage of large instruments; having a vehicle for use once at your destination; still cheaper than all but the most budget airlines provided the group can fill the bus. However, there are a number of significant disadvantages - it takes much, much longer than flying and a considerable amount longer than same distance by car or train; usually necessary to drive through the night as a hotel stop will wipe out any cost advantage over flying; large right-hand-drive coaches (especially those with ski boxes) are less than ideal for negotiating narrow streets in foreign countries/Eurotunnel trains; coach toilets can fill up very quickly (particularly when members of your party spend much of the journey in very determined drinking), start to smell and cannot be emptied easily, meaning regular potty breaks are a must (as well as keeping to driving time regulations) which lengthens journey times still further; breakdowns are considerably more lengthy and costly than on modes of public transport. In addition, it got very cold and uncomfortable once we were stuck for the night.  On balance I would advocate that it is probably worth paying a little more to facilitate the 'jet and Transit' approach, whereby a van sets off with everyone's instruments to the destination a day or two early and the players then fly out to meet it there. It isn't a perfect solution by any means, but I have found it from past experience to be the best compromise.
• Wasn't it a bit unreasonable to expect acres of sightseeing time on a concert tour, particularly one only a few days long?  Yes, I was probably a bit ambitious with my projected 'tourist' schedule. In Hong Kong, we had three concerts in over a week; Berlin the same in eight days. I should therefore have probably not been disappointed by the amount of time I didn't have to see Eger, towns near Balaton and many areas of Budapest, simply because it wasn't possible doing three gigs in four-and-a-half days.  The business of unloading a coach, setting up, rehearsing, changing, doing the gig and packing up again naturally takes up a considerable proportion of time in a day - and that's before factoring in driving two hours or more to the location itself. However I still want to re-visit everywhere again without an instrument in tow and my wristwatch weighing heavy on me, and actually have the time to appreciate everything.
• Was the effort of learning (admittedly basic) Hungarian worth it? Let me be clear I didn't do it just to show off (ok, at least not to start with) and whatever the motive it was thoroughly vindicated.  I suspect my accent was moderately terrible. But every Hungarian I spoke even a few words to - shop vendors, toilet attendants, hotel staff, ticket windows - seemed delighted and gratified that I'd tried to learn their language. English visitors seem more and more to take the lazy and even contemptuous approach of not even bothering to learn any of the vernacular tongue when abroad. Of course we're not expecting fluency for a short visit, but Hungarian is not that difficult compared to, say, Cantonese or Bo, and even a few basic phrases will do wonders for goodwill and convenience.  Anyway, when members of your party come up and offer to pay for your drink if you'll order for them, you know you've done something right.
• You went to Hungary before, didn't you? What did you think of it the second time around?  My fears that the destination would fail to live up to expectations were, happily, unfounded.  Hungary is one of the places that actually fulfils much of the myth-making I tend to do before actually visiting somewhere and did not disappoint.  Budapest is as beautiful as you can imagine. The lake we visited really did have milky pink waters at sunset. The food and wine were superb and plentiful.  What I was really concerned by was the notion that since my last visit Hungary would have become too much like Old Europe, and become filled with generic multinational-corporation adverts, fast-food and fast-coffee shops, cars and glass towers. Naturally I would not begrudge the old Warsaw Pact countries that which we enjoy under democracy, but neither would I like to see the individuality of a nation subsumed by outside influences. Happily, the balance between modernity and preservation seems to be about right. The EU flag sits aside the red, white and green tricolour on the town hall, yet the hall itself otherwise looks exactly as it did in 1900. Outside, a new Ford is parked in between a still-running Trabant and Wartburg.  The refurbished Metro 2 still runs old Russian-built stock (almost all clean as a whistle) with globular light fittings and chrome bars on the carriage sides. Of course, I did learn via our fixer several less proud aspects of the country - every nation has its embarrassing bits - corruption; heavy-handed authority; the government's treatment of ethnic minorities, in particular the Roma. But this is all outweighed firstly by the splendid treasure-house of cultural artefacts that Hungary, in all its various geographical stages, has left to the world, and secondly by those of today: food, wine and, still, music. It's a good country, as they go.
• I'm getting the impression that you're starting to prefer holidays to tours. And quite right you are.  This is, for me, significant.  In the old days, I used to think that playing concerts put us above the regular tourists, as we were actually contributing something to the host country above buying stuff with foreign wealth. Now I'm not so sure. Having had the financial and cultural means to take both normal holidays and participate in tours, I am starting to feel that if I visit somewhere new, it should be for the purpose of actually seeing the place and appreciating it properly.  Beside, I get enough playing done at home that the attraction of doing it in front of a foreign audience has diminished somewhat - although the fact that most other countries do not share the UK's philistine attitude towards concert music is still a draw. 
• I can't help thinking that all your mithering over others' drinking was somewhat over the top.  Look, I consider myself pretty liberal and certainly don't delight in moralising at others.  I have no problem with people getting completely cream-crackered as long as it doesn't bother me. When somebody whom you have never exchanged even a greeting with suddenly explodes into your personal space at an ungodly hour of the night, however, I consider it quite reasonable to tell him in no uncertain terms where he can stick it and what is going to happen if he doesn't. In addition, I was rudely awakened to the fact that even a group with a cultural purpose can still behave like louts, somehow flirting with two apparently contradictory worlds.  Probably the most apt metaphor for this less admirable aspect of our visit was the (nameless) individual who opened the bus' emergency door to vomit on a World Heritage Site.  Another, who is otherwise a fine tenor, thought fit to walk over a car and apparently narrowly avoided arrest for it. I've said before that the English in particular have a literally fearsome reputation abroad. Other countries get merry and (usually) manage to refrain from causing carnage. Why can't we?
• How have you been able to remember all this? Other than having a reasonably exceptional memory and a penchant for noticing things in general, I was writing notes-cum-prose most of the way which totalled about 40 pages in all (my handwriting isn't particularly miniscule). I tend to keep such a document quiet, as on announcing one is writing a diary people tend to assume it's full of gossip-y personal stuff (rarely the case but not unknown) and then get rather disappointed when it's a description of an interesting coloured duck on a bridge or what I had for dinner. Which brings us to...
• This blog has been going on for ages and the posts are massive!  One does one's best.  Not including this coda - no, in fact, let's include it - the word count is a healthy 29,000 words over nine posts, give or take. Obviously I've not written this all in one go, although sections were already formed in my mind even before we returned, but I've stuck at completing it and thus it's probably about the most complete account suitable for the medium. I could have written even more detail, given the time, although I think without a real plot it would have been a little unsuited to this breakthrough into novella territory.  Still, I judge it all to have been worthwhile via the message from a composer in the US who '...immensely enjoyed [the] blog, by the way. It is engaging and very readable.'
• Did your wine get home safely? Yes, thank you; indeed it did, largely due to the absence of dealings with any jobsworth baggage handlers. I sampled the white as an accompaniment to a chicken-based meal some time ago and found it as agreeable as the first time. But, as I stated at the time of purchase, the '08 Merlot is being saved for a very special occasion...

Vislat.

What Happened in Hungary: Day Seven

In a nutshell, it's nearly over.

If we include the shell of the nut, the nutcracker and the rest of Tchaikovsky's output, however, there's a bit more of this adventure to go. Not least with the morning's news that we will have at least half a day more in the city of Budapest.  I pack my precious bottles in the centre of my bag and attempt to pack clothes round them in the most protective fashion I can conceive. Having made a quick check of the room (historically I always leave something behind in hotels) I then struggle with two bags and the cello in a patently unsuitable lift and ensure both are carefully stowed on the bus.  It hardly needs to be added that we didn't leave the hotel on time due to every other member of the orchestra having to endure a similar effort taking their things from the top of the building to the bottom. This is, of course, forgivable.  Then we left Békesmégyer for the last time, back along the leafy highway and the green toy trains of the HEV, the riverside and Germanic church, and into the long car park next to Heroes' Square. Cue a textbook reverse park of our mega-length bus under the trees.  And now three hours of freedom.

Ferenciak tere and the Erszebet Bridge

Having no particular plan, I act decidedly out of character and follow a group who are going to some kind of underground market in the city centre of Pest.  This did involve a journey on the M1 which, as you may have inferred from previous posts, I am reluctant to forgo.  Last time, I bought my ticket in all of 45 seconds but today isn't going to be so simple for two reasons: 1. There are forty of us and 2. According to an American tourist the machine is out of action, so we will have to buy from the BKV vendor in the attractive wooden hut on the platform.  Trying to get forty people onto a train together is hard enough at home, let alone with a language barrier and unfamiliar geography in the mix.  The following paragraph can be filed with little hesitation under the category 'shamelessly blowing my own trumpet':

The vast majority of our party had at least some inkling that they would need to purchase two tickets as, like on our own metro system, one can only buy singles. However the aforementioned vast majority also did not possess a vast quantity of literature on the Magyar language and so did that classic Brits-abroad thing of shuffling a little nervously up to the window and asking in a very syllabic tone 'Could - I - have - two -tick-ets - please...?' or better still 'um..what the guy in front said'.  In a priceless demonstration of the value of doing one's homework properly I patiently awaited my turn and then politely asked 'Jo reggelt. Szeretnék kettő vonaljegyek kérem'. Doubtless this would have been more impressive if I'd not been looking up the word for a single ticket on the tariff list a few moments earlier, and remembered that kettő (two) can be abbreviated to ket in this instance, but the icing on the cake was not only that this was understood but that I could add 'tessek' as I handed over 640 forints and 'Kus' as I took the change. Frankly, I don't think this kind of bragging is unjustified, as what I have just described was accomplished with nothing more than a phrasebook and a short period of study, and is certainly not beyond the range of anyone else with a moderate level of education and nouse.  (I subsequently had to jump in and explain to several people the importance of actually validating the purchased tickets before boarding a train).

After letting four trains go by due to the length of time it takes to get everybody a ticket and going the right way (yes, there were people who had to be dissuaded from crossing to the opposite platform and ending up at Mexikói út...) everyone piles onto the boxy yellow carriages and rumble down the line.  We finally extract ourselves from the Földalatti at Deák tér, and form a shape-shifting mass as we stroll - in fact, slower than that - through the streets. I don't like following in large groups for several reasons: the pace tends to be literally pedestrian; inevitably people get distracted by shiny things and we have to wait whilst they somehow re-attach themselves to the group; I can't stop to take pictures for not wanting to commit the above offence; and we're also a massively obvious target for pickpockets.  The underground market is on Váci utca, the main shopping street in Pest.  I have an idea I have been near here on my last trip, as in a memorable bout of YouTubery a more hyperactive member of the strings then urged on with gusto a busker who was playing his favourite Metallica song.  Ah well, we were all about sixteen back then.

The underground market is plainly a tourist trap, evidenced by the escalator down to it.  There are no Hungarians inside other than the proprietors of the various alcoves that serve as trading outlets. All kinds of slightly needless wares are piled high; in no particular order: fridge magnets snow globes football scarves stickers folk costumes postcards laser glass engraved things painted ceramics pictures beer mats dolls t shirts - little that interested me, in other words.  Always alert to the presence of souvenirs with a practical purpose, I purchase a moderately-sized carton of ground paprika which would probably have been half the price in any nearby supermarket but has a gloriously exotic dollop of Hungarian writing on it and does seem to taste quite good.  I also get something I try to collect with varying degrees of success from anywhere I visit - the nation's car sticker, which in Budapest is simply 'H', to add to my cello case.  This a long and often prolific tradition amongst musicians with larger cases, although it's becoming increasingly difficult since the introduction of Euro-style license plates (the ones with a blue strip and the circle of yellow stars to the left). Older Hungarian and more so, Slovak, cars look much better with the national coat of arms instead of the bland EU insignia that UK vehicles still seem to shun.  By the time I've done so, many other people seem to have scattered with the general intention of having lunch in a nearby restaurant. Companion tells me she is going off to explore the vicinity on foot and heads off, so after a little deliberation I decide to do the same in a slightly different direction. I pick the nearest interesting-looking street and discreetly get my camera out.

By pure chance I take a less direct route to the main road, and suddenly happen upon a truly extraordinary structure.  It is some form of arcade, huge and dark and, as I begin to see more, lavish in the extreme. There are two other people with cameras looking equally awestruck so I venture in, assuming I'm not about to be apprehended by some terrifying Hungarian guard with a big stick.  The only light is via some sort of opening in the roof, but even in the gloom I can see the fantastic level of detail in an Art Nouveau-Moorish style of decoration; stained glass, tiled floor, marble, tracery and pinnacles in shades of black, brown and gold. The place seems largely abandoned - there are certainly few businesses open in here and little but blank glass to the sides of the central passage - but in a good state of repair. I later read that the place was called the Pariszi Udvar (Paris Court).  There's one of my beloved 'bubble' panoramas of the place here, in a better light than I had but one that seems to de-mystify it a little. A wizened old woman shuffles around the far end with her stick mumbling things in Hungarian.  This might on another day be a major tourist attraction, but here I've had almost it to myself, my private discovery.

Returning to the street I cross under the busy Kossuth Lajos utca via the subway entrance to Ferenciak tere (confusingly one stop down the line from Deák Ferenc tér). I've still got the other, unspent, metro ticket in my wallet and see that if I walk (roughly north-east) up the road I can either get a bus across back to the Városliget or else go down and up via the metro, on which I can make a change without having to pay twice.  Kossuth Lajos u. is busier than Andrassy u. but features equally memorable buildings. Opposite from the arcade is the Hungarian National Library which has a gold dome (looking like a cross between a mosque and the towers of the 'people's palaces' on Karl Marx Allee in Berlin. There are nice side streets with very little traffic and various academically-occupied addresses dotted about them.

Astoria crossroads and hotel

 
Returning to the main street further up, the next landmark is the Astoria hotel, an unashamedly pink pile that probably ranks amongst the costliest beds in the city. I'm puzzled as to what became of it under Soviet rule, whether it was reserved for visiting foreigners or Party bigwigs, for it must have been active in order to give its name to the adjacent station on Line Two, constructed in the Sixties.  There are a scattering of other wonderfully ornate buildings on this long avenue if one has the eyes to spot them, but I missed the central synagogue I'd caught a glimpse of on a bus ride two days ago. Finally, after a forgettable road junction with a flyover, came the magnificent Italianate block of the Keleti pályaudvar - the Eastern Station.  A large clock occupied the point where you'd stick compasses in to draw the huge glazed crescent taking up most of the façade, whilst a flight of steps led up to the three large entrances and a steady supply of persons with bags of all descriptions swarmed in and out. In front of the station is a lot of wooden panelling, and through a convenient gap I can see why - the square is mostly a large hole. This is not just any hole, but variously - and largely depending on your political viewpoint - an exciting infrastructure project, a massive waste of public money, a political embarrassment, the biggest cause of corruption in the country or simply a quicker way to work. Remaining neutral, it can be described in a few words: Metro 4, or the Green Line.  Except you can't ride on it yet. You should be able to, in fact you were supposed to back in 2005, then 2008, but, erm, it's not ready yet and the city authorities reluctantly admit they're not sure when it will be. Probably 2014 - but maybe 2015. Anyway do take a look at some rather arty pictures of the tunnels pre-track.

The trainshed of the Eastern Station

I nip inside Keleti for a quick photo (I'm a sucker for massive nineteenth-century arched roofs, and this station is no disappointment) holding onto my camera carefully as I've read that the railway stations are hotspots of petty crime. Square-lined locomotives in various colour schemes are lined up behind a large timetable board with all sorts of destinations on it, many of them beyond the borders of Hungary. There's one in from Prague - and another from Eger - whilst in ten minutes the express to Vienna and Munich will leave, followed by another intercity in the opposite direction, to Bucherest.  The spider's-web of catenary and signals look strangely odd indoors until you see that the trainshed has a wall missing, a fifty-foot square gaping hole half an train's length away. Then I descend the steps down to the existing metro, plonk my ticket in the orange machine and get on another wide Russian-built train back to Deák.  The old stock somehow subverts the refurbished-ness of the metro, forcing it to cling onto some remnant of the era in which it was built. Then a last reminder of the previous period of Hungarian history as I transfer to the Földalatti and leave at Hősök tere.  Yes, I could have stayed on the the next stop but there are surely few finer sights as one exits any tube station in the world - Westminster, Tsim Sha Tsui or Colosseo possibly being the only contenders I can vouch for.

Vajdahunyad Castle in the Városliget, the city park

I walk between the great marble colonnades and into the park, looking for food. It's a very pleasant day and I've not been at all over-warm walking around.  Time is running out so I settle for a large bread-and cheese construction from one of the stalls outside the Széchenyi Baths.  This, and what remains of the banana chips will, I hope be sufficiently sustaining until we reach Vienna.  I gobble it down and taking a last look around return to the coach via the shade of a thin strip of trees on the edge of the park. My usual seat awaits, with fifteen minutes until scheduled departure. Companion is already installed opposite me with (yet more) Russian homework.

Whilst I'm prepared to bet that the alternator will hold out, and probably the rest of the vehicle's mechanical and electrical components too, I can't say I'm especially relaxed about this journey.  I know by the end I will be sleep-deprived, uncomfortable, smelling awful and fed up with travelling.  Thanks to our extended stay in Germany on the way out, I now have a very limited supply of Euros compared to what I had originally set aside, meaning I'll have to pay God knows how much to withdraw more from an ATM if I want to eat.  And most of all, I'm anxious to get back for a reason I've so far not mentioned: my sister was due to give birth three days ago. I've not had any messages from her or the rest of my family, so am assuming nothing has happened for the time being. We have two guests for the journey back: our fixer and his niece who was at dinner last night. He's over in the UK on business with the Karl Jenkins piece whilst she is simply coming as a tourist - her first visit in fact. At one point or another the (frankly rather good) question of what to eat elicits a long deliberation over responses. 'Fish and chips!' '...oh yes, you must eat that, but also get a curry; we call it Indian food but actually it's totally British' 'make sure you have hot puddings, stuff like spotted dick and custard, crumble, Bakewell tart. But Yorkshire puddings aren't the same, they go with the roast meat...'

I digress. With weary inevitability, the door closes and we pull away into the traffic. I seem to remember a detour down some distinctly unsuitable cobbled streets due to a turning restriction but before long we were out of the city and on to the motorway heading inexorably west. Budapest doesn't stick up from the surrounding roads much like some cities do - you can't see the domes and spires and towers like Oxford or New York - and we are soon long away from everywhere we have been in the pat four days.  My last steps on Hungarian soil come at a generic service station outside Győr, where I buy water to use up some of my change in forints. Half an hour later we are over the border back into Austria, which is not very interesting in the far eastern bit shoved to the side of Vienna.

Vienna itself can be seen a little from the ring road in daylight - is that the famous wheel of the Prater in the distance? - but it's mostly the high-rises that stand out and anyway we are soon in several tunnels that skirt the south of the city limits.  As we've been on the road for at least four hours and it is getting near the evening we make a stop for dinner at a service area to the west . I have a faint recollection of stopping here on the way out for somebody to be unwell and that the place has a huge green-and yellow petrol station, so the grassy surroundings are more welcome that expected. Inside is a substantial amount of food for purchase and some toilets you have to pay for. Standard drill of hanging around the fluent German speakers is observed.  First I need some more money, and locate an ATM in the shop. 

I take a deep breath and find that the minimum amount I can withdraw is €50 (actually I probably could have got less by punching buttons and understanding German financial terminology) but as I owe a relative for a borrowed 20 this is not actually a waste.  Austrian service station food turns out to be remarkably good if not particularly cheap. For around ten Euros I get a nice spicy beef soup and bread, followed by something involving, essentially, a pile of potato - I'm afraid once again the passing of time has obscured my memory somewhat.  As we're still relatively unaffected by travelling, good conversation is possible and a few of us even find ourselves wondering if it would be wise to play in the play area at the back.

Before we leave, there is an essential but spectacular task that must be performed - filling up.  I wince at the thought of spending £70-odd (half of which is tax, it should be added - petrol actually costs around 70p per litre) brimming Meg every 500 miles or so, but like most mid-size cars the Renault's tank holds around 12 gallons or 60 litres. A bus is naturally possessed of a much poorer fuel consumption and intended to have much greater endurance, but even the vague acknowledgement of these principles little prepared us for what happened next. In went the nozzle and the pump shuddered into action a moment later. The numbers on the display began to fly round at an astonishing rate. €100 went by in about fifteen seconds, below it the litres were up to triple figures soon afterwards...and it just kept coming. Three hundred euros came and went, a hundred and fifty litres, two hundred, two fifty... In a minute and a half our vehicle had siphoned three hundred and forty-six litres of diesel out of the underground tanks and racked up a bill of €519.45 on the company's fuel card.

Apparently this was only half a tank full.

Next time: It really is over, but there's a few loose ends to tie up yet...

The golden rules of blogging

1. Always post something interesting

This goes without saying, really. I happen to seek 'interestingness' in everything even if its precise definition is somewhat woolly.  Perhaps it means less regular updates, but hey, quality not quantity. 

2. Never post something that people can get elsewhere

There must be millions of blogs about fashion, dogs, aimless musings on life and other trivia. Why would the average surfer pick one over another?  On the other hand, if you write quality material about Gambian and Senegalese stamp collecting, your life as a deckhand on a ship made from recycled chair legs or, in the case of ITM, classical music and other unique tidbits, it is more likely your blog will be unique enough to attract a small but regular band of readers.

3. Check your facts

Laziness in researching a subject, credulity that leads one to unthinkingly reproduce myths and a general lack of scrutiny blight much journalism today.  When done well, this point often feeds nicely into #1, for research often throws up further interesting facts and ideas.

4. Check presentation, spelling and grammar

Again, goes without saying. There's a spell-checker in Blogger, so it's not unreasonable to expect its use, along with a few minutes proofreading.  I find sloppy editing a real turn-off, although I would tentatively suggest that we should allow one error every now and then just to convince oneself the prose has been written by a human. Likewise, the layout of content should be condusive to readability and consistancy of style.  (Incidentaly, I've inserted one spelling or grammatical error in every sentence of this item - post any spotted in the comments box).

5. Never link to anything unnecessary

Very tempting to pepper a post with all manner of links - less easy to find the best one to illustrate the point.  Links should provide something the text can't, be that a picture, a diagram, more specialist knowledge of a subject or simply an interesting aside.

6. Care about what you're doing

This covers all the above.  Unsurprisingly, if I were to draw up a 'golden rules of composition' or indeed of anything I suspect they would be remarkably similar to the above.  When it comes to quality, the same principles apply to most things.  In short, good blogging is that which is professional, necessary and done with integrity.  All of my favourite blogs in the sidebar stick to these principles, and I strive for this one to do so too. 

What Happened in Hungary: Day Six

I slept well again - or as well as one could with a paper-thin pillow and gurgling plumbing.  I learned at breakfast that some hardcore individuals had done an all-nighter (tellingly, they were mostly the non-playing 'guests') and found their way using the M2 and HÉV back to the hotel at approximately 6am. I'm impressed - there I was, thinking a only very select few of us had a monopoly on using foreign public transport successfully.

As if by way of preparation for tomorrow (and the next day), we had a long journey ahead of us, to the opposite side of the country to Sunday.  In a happy twist of fate, this was somewhere I'd been denied the opportunity to visit last time and would finally get to see now, specifically Lake Balaton, a long 25-by-2-mile pond which represents the largest body of fresh water in Europe.  It was, before the plethora of budget airlines arrived and enabled Hungarians to sunbathe elsewhere, a massively popular destination for Eastern Bloc families to take their holidays at, such that the whole of Budapest would effectively move out there for the summer. Today there are still plenty of tourists around, but they're more likely to be Australians or Germans, and there has developed a marked contrast between the south shore (sunburned lager-kissed hedonism) and north (thermal spa, private beaches, abbey). Luckily, we were avoiding the Hogarthian binge-disco sprawl of Siófok and heading for the nice seaside settlement of Balatonfüred (the town's website promotes it as a 'town of culture') for what was dubbed a 'fun concert'. The exact definition of this term can vary wildly, but in our case it meant a pot-pourri of light music.

We loaded everything we would need onto the bus, the 'come as you are' dress code meaning my bag was a lot lighter than for previous gigs, and headed out westwards through the city.  The next hour or so was motorway, so little to report there. I wrote, Companion did her Russian work, games of chess went on upstairs (yes, students really do play chess with commitment; it's not all vodka and vomit, you know). I spent time studying a borrowed score of the Bartók we'd been playing (cheers, Conductor), ensuring it lodged in my mind for the rest of the day.  But when we got off the M7 the landscape became rather more interesting. There were, as on the way to Eger, great fields of sunflowers on all sides, and distant hills which became not-so-distant the closer one got to the lake. In fact the first sight of the water was from half-way up an incline, when I looked to the right and saw the huge lake between the hills and the flood plain to the south. Balaton's waters have a very distinctive colour - blue-grey, the refraction of the sky, the hills and the silt that lies within the lake.  I'd read that the effect was particularly sublime near sunset.  It was a hot day, the first properly good one since Saturday, with a clear blue sky and light that enhanced every colour in the landscape, even through the window of a bus. We turned along a smaller road which brought us close to the lake, passing through red-roofed villages and other waterside settlements.  Signs with a smattering of English and German words advertised food and hotels, colour more important than content.  A single-track of railway flirted alongside the road at regular intervals, and presently a few open-windowed carriages hauled by a red locomotive trundled past, curiously-shaped signals nodding in acknowledgement.  Further up were the high hilltops where castles had been built overlooking the lake, and where on a day such as this one could see over into the Tatras, fifty kilometres north.

The north shore, like the south, is comprised of a series of towns along the waterfront, although much more tasteful and all with the name Balaton- as a prefix. At the edge of Balatonfüred the bus turned off and went down a minor road to a nondescript gate, which we were shown into  past the turnstiles.  We appeared to be at some kind of private beach, called a 'strand'. The lawns were meticulously manicured to a uniform length, the paths crossed at right-angles and the various water craft for hire were arranged neatly on racks at the water's edge. In fact, the whole place was just a little bit too neat, with none of the slightly weather-worn charm that English or French beaches exhibit.  The reason why quickly became apparent when I noticed that the signage and menus were in Hungarian and German.  Ah. I looked around to see how many towels were already on the sun loungers and how many Audis were in the car park, but it was actually rather quiet, with just a few groups of indeterminate nationality sitting around or swimming.  Meanwhile most of our party had assembled at the water's edge where a short ladder, like the one you'd find at a swimming pool, had been erected to enable individuals to enter the water in a sensible manner that Germans would approve of.  Several hardy souls had already changed and proceeded to wade out into the depths, towards what appeared to be an inflatable sports pitch, and beyond it, a yacht skilfully cutting through (possibly in a very real sense) pedallos, dinghies and other floating jetsam bobbing about in the water.  There were periodic cries of 'Uggh!' and the more Facebook-inspired 'Omigod!' as it was repeatedly discovered that the bottom of the shore was a) muddy and b) contained fish, seaweed and other marine life one might hope to find in a healthy body of water.

The aforementioned inflatable sports facility was quickly commandeered for a game which combined elements of handball, football and beating the bejesus out of your opponents, or at least it appeared that way from the shore. The general consensus seems to be that somebody won, but whether it was a team, an individual or some Germans is to this day unclear.  Anyway, once the mayhem had subsided the players dispersed into pedal boats and sun loungers, and I went to get some lunch. 

After just shy of two hours we were ushered back to the bus to go and rehearse. The drivers had had to store it in an adjacent car park, which didn't bode well for leaving promptly, and we set out on what turned out to be a very short hop up the road and back down another one to a hotel, which I loved because it appeared to be contained within an invisible bubble which preserved everything inside as per 1965. And preserved really was the operative word, for unlike scores of Warsaw Pact hotels which simply haven't been maintained since that date, this one was an immaculate time capsule. Even the coloured-in curbstones of the car park looked as if they'd been painted yesterday.  Hide any mobile phones, substitute the Suzukis outside for Trabants and Tatra 603s (in fact, contemporary Western automobiles would convincingly transplant it into a France or Switzerland of the same period) and you could fool yourself this was fifty years ago. Inside was much the same; beige marble, copious use of shiny plastics and gold fittings. I half expected to see Inspector Clouseau and the cast of The Italian Job checking in as we were hurried into an end room and urged to set up with haste. We were cutting things rather fine, apparently, and had to press on through the pieces for a gig in little more than an hour.

I don't like to be hurried at the best of times, and certainly not when I have to juggle instrument, bow, stand, 'doughnut', rosin and whatever else and ensure all the necessary items of music are present.  The music was mostly a diverse assortment of arrangements produced using the (otherwise excellent) notation software known as Sibelius, all printed on individual sheets of A4, with no binding when the piece exceeded one side long.  Whilst it all sounded great, it was not exactly conducive to finding the next item with great speed. 'I haven't got page two!' cried somebody from the mid-ranks of the violins. 'It's here!' replied another unlikely instrument.  We hastily got through everything, not without faff, before being urged to set down with equal haste as before. And then another five-minute air-conditioned drive round another two corners (meaning that our shuntings-about in Balatonfüred would, from the air, resemble a large letter E) to the quay in the centre of town.  This was a nice place with leafy parks and an assortment of boats bobbing about at the waterside. We would be performing on a reassuringly new and study-looking wooden stage, at a jaunty angle to the crescent of seating, which was rather arty-looking.  The only snag was that climbing on to the stage was something more easily accomplished without holding a cello free of danger, and we had to find a way of unpacking and hiding our cases at the stage rear whilst treading between chairs at some elevation above terra firma.  The audience could be described as expectant, in the sense that we were expecting them to arrive (in fact a healthy crowd had assembled by the end of our session).

There was not so much a sense of nervous excitement once we sat down as the terribly British 'erm, I suppose we'd better start then?'.  The programme was amongst the oddest ever assembled, consisting of light music items for the whole orchestra, various multiple-trumpet pieces, and all the 'extras' periodically banging, scraping, blowing and smiting diverse percussion instruments. I lamented that the swannee-whistle I'd dug out specifically for this occasion had, in the heat of the moment, been left in the glovebox of a Megane some 600 miles away (on second thoughts I'd have given my right arm to have had that car at my disposal on this trip), but luckily a substitute, probably with a less interesting history, had been found for the solo part in Anderson's*The Waltzing Cat.  The Tuba Mirum got another outing, strangely tragicomic in such a situation and rather less effective without a biblical acoustic present to aid it. And our guests were finally allowed to demonstrate their musical prowess in the Sandpaper Ballet (in which the composer actually specifies various different grades of the stuff for subtle contrasts in timbre).  Funnily/strangely/ironically enough, our Conductor had suddenly decided to use scores for this performance, despite the pieces being on average considerably easier to direct than those of previous gigs.

It was hot out in the sun and after a time I began to become somewhat concerned for the structural integrity of my instrument (having all but given up attempting to keep it in tune). Lest this seem to be of the 'but I might chip a nail' degree of concern, I ought to make it clear that my 'cello is not much shy of 200 years old and as such requires treatment appropriate to anything of that age, which includes not subjecting it to great levels of heat (yes, I know it's been in the bottom of a bus for much of this adventure and gets carried up stairs and subjected to various forces when I drive enthusiastically, but it's in its very protective case then).  There is only so long before the expansion of wood will overpower a type of glue specifically formulated to never set completely, and judging by the rate at which my strings were expanding and having to be re-tuned, it wasn't far off.  A more immediate problem is the wind, merrily rushing off the nearby water in ever-more enthusiastic gusts. All musicians who have had to perform outdoors will understand the considerable shortcomings of clothes pegs as a method of tethering music to a stand, particularly as they turn said device from an already unstable metal contraption into one now rigged with a A3-sized sail. God forbid the music consist of more then two sides, for then the 'inside' player will have to execute a complicated juggling-cum-balancing manoeuvre, switching the sheets without them being lost to the ether, whilst still ensuring the 'outside' player (who is still hacking away) has some chance of reading the dots. Everybody had a mini-disaster at some point in that concert, which if nothing else probably added to the entertainment value for the audience. 

We rattled off Hora Bucharesti about a tone and half adrift from the woodwinds (they get sharper as we get flatter) and then scarpered back inside the nearby village hall as soon as the applause had subsided. Queue for the single toilet, wait for the bus. Wait for the bus some more. Bus comes, pile on instruments and people. We hardly reach the edge of town before a Skoda comes past with blue lights flashing, waving at us to pull over. I assumed it was because they'd spotted a foreign coach as an easy target or somebody not wearing their seatbelt but it transpired we'd made a prohibited left turn, which the coach driver denied but was savvy enough to hand Plod enough banknotes to make him go away. Come to think of it, it was probably a combination of the two; I always assume foreign police forces make our own look positively saintly when it comes to picking on the weak and uninformed.

Our route home would be even more scenic than the one here, and would actually take us  across the water. Balaton has a 'throat' half-way across its length, consisting of the Tihany peninsula which juts out into the lake and forms the shortest crossing point for the car ferry. Up on the hill is an abbey dating from 1055 (sadly not visible from the coast road) and behind it a pair of lakes which are slowly turning to marsh.  The road itself was entertainingly undulating, especially going backwards on bouncy coach suspension.

We stopped at a small village at the southern tip with a collection of wooden sheds, cafes and souvenir stalls, where a concrete ramp led into the water.  This was obviously the ferry terminal at Tihany-Rev.  We had a few minutes to wait for the boat so I wasted no time in getting off to take some pictures now the sun was beginning to dim.  It was an idyllic scene. The waters of the lake were starting to take on the milky quality I had read about, slowly turning shades of purple, pink and grey-blue, reflecting the clear sky and the growing shadows of the hills. The ferry, a white flat-bottomed barge, moved noiselessly into the dock, dropping the ramp and disgorging a few cars.  Our bus, when its turn to board came, was positioned strategically in the centre of the boat, probably causing a mini tidal-wave at the opposite shore with the amount of water it displaced. We walked up the ramp after it and took up positions on the narrow passenger deck at one side of the vessel. Presently we got going and I got very snap-happy, particularly when an old steamer named for Jokai (one of Hungary's greatest poets) passed behind us. Looking back through my pictures - which don't really do justice to actually being there - it was simply gorgeous - our boat smoothly treading towards the southern shore, the waters turning more exotic shades by the minute, the sun sinking beneath the mountains at the end of the lake.  This was the Hungary one can hear in Bartók and Kodály, an experience that finally fitted all the imagined myths I create about a place. 

The voyage was about fifteen minutes at most and we were soon beaching next to an identical vessel at the corresponding landing stage of Szántód, in Somogy county.  I carefully descended the vessel's frontward steps (there was nothing to stop one leaping clean over the bow if one so wished) over the ramp and a short way up the road to where the bus had already parked.  It was a shame to leave the outside and go behind glass again, and I would happily have delayed leaving this place until the sun had properly disappeared. Still, dinner awaited.

Now, there's an interesting little story behind what happened on the way home.  Our fixer had, in connection with various concert promoters and orchestral connections in the country, commissioned a piece from Welsh composer Karl Jenkins.  I'm a little indifferent towards Jenkins' output, mostly due to his habit of repeatedly trotting out the same Classic-FM-friendly fluffy-harmonied un-contrapuntal repetitive axioms in every work (I won't, however, reproduce the story a friend told me of what he once overheard Jenkins say about his music in a pub) but there's no denying that he is a figure of some stature in the landscape of contemporary choral music.  Anyway, the reason why such a commission should come from Hungary is that the text he had set was Arany Janos' (or Janos Arany in Hungarian name order) A Walesi bárdok, translated as The Bards of Wales.  This poem deals with an episode in which Henry III orders Welsh bards to sing for him, and then gets into a strop and executes them, and as the link above relates, had been premièred a short while before in Budapest. The coach's staff were persuaded to play the recording of the performance through the bus so we could hear what it sounded like. I have to say that at the time I found it to be pleasantly surprising, although I can only remember one melody at present. Not a great, great work, but with something of a little more depth than the rest of Jenkins' output, and certainly good entertainment value.  And actually very good music for driving along, where it didn't matter too much if the odd phrase was lost to road noise.  We cruised back to Budapest with the sun dipping below the horizon behind us.

The Jokai on Balaton

The evening meal was in a restaurant near to the hotel. I say near, and it certainly seemed it when we drove past on a recce before arriving back, but it took us a good twenty minutes to walk there and we still weren't sure if it was the right one when we eventually got there.  The combination of open door and electric lights attracted a multitude of interesting insects and arthropods, much to the alarm of several people. The giant cicada made frequent circles of our table, clumsily flying into the back of several heads from time to time. I was as hungry as yesterday and was most pleased to see gulyas soup arrive at the table in a large tureen, followed by pots of chilli and paprika which I doled onto my portion with gusto. This was followed by a meat course and then some cream-and-lemon pancakes. Of course it was a little less spectacular than last night's offerings, but the setting more intimate. As with most trips, there were awards (which are usually planned so that absolutely everybody gets something) and I was duly celebrated in these for being the 'responsible adult' figure tirelessly laying down the law (see Day Four), which was fair enough. I suppose if one wants to be considerate, one should really contrive some memorable drunken antic which will make the job easy for those planning these things. 

And here's the irony.  Once the meal was over, we made our way, with a little tentativeness through the dimly lit streets, back to the hotel.  Somehow various containers of beers and a few spirits had been sourced and were put at our disposal. Yet the scene was quite remarkable. Here were gathered the same people who had been so bent on hedonism a few nights ago, presented with freely available boxes of drinks, and yet largely ignoring them.  Indeed, the general sentiment seemed to be 'we've got a long journey tomorrow chaps, so I'll make it a quick one and then get some sleep'.  Obviously I agree with this, but...well, it's surprisingly out of character for students on tour. You'd think that on the last night there'd be a massive party, really. 

Maybe there was, somewhere. I didn't hear it.

Next time: Several unexpected pleasures, and a distinct lack of breakdowns.

*Leroy Anderson, most feted for his Sleigh Ride, was a fascinating chap, and may feature in my Neglected Composers series in the future.

Birthday numbers

Sometime today or tomorrow, In The Mists will receive it's two thousandth visitor. This milestone looks set to near-coincide with the blog's first anniversary, which is a happy occurrence. Indeed, I'm pleased that I've been able to come up with enough content that the post count is still going strong, and can see no reason for this to change. Cheers!

As Leonard Slatkin used to say in place of a Last Night speech, some facts:

Traffic to the blog has increased overall, beginning with 149 page-views in the first month of its existence and increasing to 314 in September 2011. The lowest month was December 2010 with just 60 page-views. I (and, judging by forum posts, many other bloggers) seem unable not to include our own page-views in the count, but as this is at best once or twice a week when visiting the blog to log in I hope it is not too statistically significant - and anyway, it still counts as a page-view.


Predictably, the majority of traffic comes from the United Kingdom. Currently, 1454 hits have been from UK domain addresses, which accounts for nearly 90% of visitors. The next (but significantly smaller) country is the United States, again unremarkable due to us being 'divided by a common language'. Below that; Germany, Australia and the Netherlands account for between 20 and 100 total page-views each. Minor players include Italy, Russia, Singapore, Denmark, India, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Finland, Thailand, Brazil, Japan, Pakistan, Bermuda, Latvia and Lithuania. (Ignore the 'Visitors by Country' box as that's only been there a few days).

The single biggest browser used by visitors is Firefox (64%), which is appropriate enough given that every word has been typed in the very same.  11% use Internet Explorer, 9% Google Chrome, 6% Safari and 4% Opera.  Around 5% use various mobile devices or proxies (note that stats do not equal 100% due to rounding).

Similarly, Windows dominates the users by operating system, with a commanding 83% of machines used to access ITM running it.  Macintosh systems are as low as 9%, whilst iPhones, Linux and other Unix are drawn on 2% each. A few hits have been registered as iPad, Samsung or Android, which matches the smartphone browser data in the last paragraph.

Oddly enough the average reader therefore uses exactly the same computer equipment as myself, which could be interpreted as a sign that in some way I am reaching my target audience.

The ten most popular posts, by page-views, are: 
1. What Happened in Hungary: Day One (109)
2. Transportation (68)
3. The River Itchen (Part 1) (51)
4. Neglected Composers #1 (49)
5. What Happened in Hungary: Day Three Part Two (40)
6. My Hovercraft is Full of Eels (39)
7. Neglected Composers #2 (35)
-  Some Cartographic Esoterica (35)
9. On Arrangement (31)
-  Why Violists Rule the World (31)


The number of posts on the site, including this one, is currently 44. This works out at a mean average of 45.45 recurring reads per post. It also means that I'm posting on average almost exactly once a week, as I reckon to have been away from any opportunity to blog for about 7 weeks this year.

By far the most interesting data is on what brought people here in the first place. A sizable number are from the 'adverts' I put on my Facebook page announcing significant posts, but the rest have followed links from other blogs or search engines.  A link from the A History of the World in 100 Objects site listing blogs that mention the programme has delivered a few hits.  The Young Composers forum and Diamond Geezer's blog also generate noteworthy percentages, but in all these cases the content of the link is usually clear. When it isn't, there are some fascinatingly arcane searches that result in a hit. Three people have searched for the Detritus Review, a blog I link to in the sidebar but have never yet mentioned in a post.  'Plane crash intio a27 viaduct near fareham [sic]'; 'sea traffic' and '19th century southhampton oil landscape [also sic]' have no obvious connection to any of the content here, other than that the words appear in disparate places within a year's output.  Some traffic comes from pictures that appear in image search results.  And happily, a few have typed inthemistsblog.blogspot.com into their address bar and come here directly and intentionally.

I never expect In The Mists to become a massively popular and influential blog, and certainly not in its first year, so I'm quite satisfied at having a small but regular stream of visitors reading what is, after all, rather niche content.  Looking toward the next year, I intend to keep the subject matter roughly similar, with perhaps a little more emphasis on revealing the mechanics of writing music.  There will be regular updates on my biggest composition project to date (it involves choirs, and at least two guaranteed performances) following the entire process of creating the piece.  It would be heartening to see another couple of followers join Marius over there on the right sidebar.  Whatever happens, we shall endeavour to continue to provide interesting and enlightening pieces for the world.