LA ROSA VICTORIAN SEASIDE FUN

I wanted to do a separate post about my lovely boutique hotel in Whitby - La Rosa - as it was such a quirky, eccentric bolthole combining an intriguing historical pedigree (C.S. Lewis had stayed in my room) with decadent vintage interiors (below).

The La Rosa enterprise initially opened in 2004 with a vintage caravan site, enabling people to glam it up in charmingly retro caravans stuffed full of vintage wares, while endorsing a recycled, environmentally-friendly ethos. The campsite proved so popular two years in a row, it was impossible to book a summer pitch and I had to cut my losses and settle for the hotel experience instead. Which was, of course, fabulous.  

The two pictures above show the rickety old front drawing room, chock full of vintage finds harking back to the pre-war years and beyond. The focal point of this charming room was the huge dining table complete with delicious homemade sweetmeats...providing an atmospheric space for guests to indulge in a decadent afternoon tea whilst taking in the views over Whitby harbour towards the East Cliff. 

Above shows some random interior styling of the underground restaurant area of the hotel which was closed during my visit but I snuck down to take a few pics anyway. Below was my famous 'Lewis' room (based on an idea of what the author's study may have been like) - with stunning sea views, a working vintage telescope and loads of fantastic old scientific objects, like the ancient medical chart strung up on the wall. The bed was divinely cosy and the slightly eccentric boiled eggs and cheese scone breakfast delivered up to the door of a morning in a wicker basket provided an unusual touch. Each of La Rosa's eight rooms are decorated according to a different theme - the little glimpses I caught of some of the other rooms looking even more sumptuous than mine....

LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS...ITS WHITBY

Ever since I read Bram Stoker's 1897 novel 'Dracula' I had wanted to visit the pretty North Yorkshire seaside town of Whitby. The small fishing port - romantically positioned between a sometimes tragic North Sea (a teenager drowning off Whitby's cruel waters the week after my departure) and the Brontesque Yorkshire Dales - features in the book as the eerie village in which the dastardly Count sucks the life out of poor Lucy Westenra before jumping the overnight sleeper to King's Cross. Stoker visited the town a number of times, his account of Dracula's dramatic arrival reputed to be based on a real incident in which the ship Demetrius ran aground on Whitby's shore...its gruesome cargo of occupied coffins discovered by the local townsfolk in the first morning light.

The modern Whitby still manages to maintain a romantic atmosphere, the ruined skeleton of its clifftop abbey (below bottom - destroyed by Vikings in 867) dramatically silhouetted high above the harbour. The East Cliff's atmospheric old cemetery and the historic, jagged-roofed fisherman's cottages underneath endow the restless shore with a sense of mystery, danger and a strange other worldliness (below top). 'Romanian gypsy' fortune-teller Lee Esther Alita Lee had set up shop along the main drag (below middle) and thankfully the usual seaside tackiness characteristic of most dreary British seaside towns was kept to a minimum. The old lady was charming, not tacky oirright?

                                                                                     
Another of Whitby's many charms (apart from the replica of James Cook's ship Endeavour which almost brought up me breakfast - above) was this fantastic little fully functioning smokehouse (below). A real tourist crowdpleaser, the business still produced many a fine fishy product from authentically smoked fresh salmon to a divine kipper pate, as eaten by crusty old seadawgs. A local hefty chap spent his days shovelling sawdust onto the smokehouse fire, creating the thick black tar dripping from the walls like the devil's viscous oil and posing like a trained monkey for tourist photos and entranced children alike.

In tribute to the town's whaling heritage, Whitby also displayed its nautical history and power by fashioning a curious archway on top of the West Cliff from an enormous whale-bone jaw (below). The original structure was erected around those quaint pre-Greenpeace/Peta times of 1863, the current structure an Alaskan donation dating from 2003. This esoteric little statement again adds to the unique charm and ambience of this delightful seaside town and helps illustrate why Whitby attracted writers, artists and intrepid seafarers of the past as well as goths, folk festival hippies and all manner of tourists alike in the modern age.

Lastly, I just had to add this link for a classic 80s video for one of my dear, dear readers who is a HUGE Mick Hucknall fan (you know who you are...however I will refrain from publically shaming you, 'Ban-Ki Moon')!

The song is Simply Red's melancholy 1986 dirge 'Holding Back the Years', the video shot in Whitby, featuring many scenes of the pretty harbour, abbey and cemetery, as well as a youthful cameo from old Primrose Hill caner Sadie Frost. Enjoy, 'Ban-Ki'...

THE SCOUSE TRIUMVIRATE...STRIPPING SHOPPING SHAGGING

Liverpool, sweet Liverpool...so much mythology so little time. How could four cheeky moptops (pull me finger Paul!) mean so much to so many? And how many of those people leave this fair city disappointed that 'Ferry Cross the Mersey' will never sound so charmingly whimsical again?

The first thing I noticed about Liverpool was how underwhelming the Mathew Street Beatles area was (the original Cavern Club no longer exists), the second being the alarming number of strip clubs. There seemed to be fifteen or more in the space of a few streets, one piss-filled alley literally wall to wall with salubrious establishments. The wittily monikered Moll Teazers (left) was particularly enterprising, managing to combine the cheap sleaziness of the sex industry with a nostalgic Beatles tip at the Eleanor Rigby hotel. I wondered what the Wives And Girlfriends did as their pissed up menfolk shoved sweaty, coke-rimmed fivers down the tooth-floss of their high school classmates (or are they Romanian sex-slaves)?  Then I noticed 'free bubbly for the ladies' at the Thursday Ladies Night (below) at tacky antipodean venue Walkabout. Mystery solved! Not too sure if it was a great victory for feminism or merely the lowest common denominator form of Liverpudlian entertainment - not only 'normal' but presumably 'fun' and 'harmless' as well.

Liverpool's city walls were dotted with gigantic, bewildering messages of doom painted sky high on the sides of decrepit buildings. Asking dystopian, cryptic questions like Do You Care? or the brilliant Do You Want To Die Old And Slow Or Young And Tragic? (right), this public probing was giving rise to a creeping sense of existential unease until I turned a corner to be confronted by a massive Do You Believe In God??? Phew, I thought, just the crazy musings of a bunch of northern religious zealots then...I thought the religion here was shopping? 

After sampling the delights of the seagull shat-upon city centre I decided to cut my losses and head straight for the fabulous Albert Dock area (above), centre of Liverpool's important trading, storage and migration history. This part of town (its touristy redevelopment obvious) very pleasantly contrasted the depressed centre - featuring all the chattering class' favourites including waterfront pubs, organic cafes and of course the Liverpool branch of the Tate Gallery (below). I visited the excellent Museum of Slavery instead however, wanting my museum experience to be more intrinsic to the Liverpool area and its history than what Picasso could offer. The museum charted the history of the international slave trade from the African and Atlantic coasts, outlining the enormous  socio-economic effects the industry had and its shaping of modern world. Certainly an illuminating and educational experience. 

  

Unfortunately, the famous Mersey ferry didn't quite measure up to the swinging 60s anglophile imaginings I conjured up whenever I heard Gerry and the Pacemaker's evocative tune. The Mersey itself was a muddy light brown, made even less appealing by the huge waterfront exhaust building crudely pumping out Liverpool's grime up the chattering class' and tourists noses alike (not to mention the local commuters' twice daily dose). The ferry seemed to be full of local oldies, chavtastic families and a smattering of young hipsters (below - where did they come from?)...all enjoying the afternoon sun whilst holding their noses. A great day for a day trip Liverpool...but I'd save the ferry ride for Manly or Staten Island.

 

MANCHESTER...SO MUCH TO ANSWER FOR

I finally made the trek into the 'grim' north of England last weekend and the city of Manchester did not disappoint. Making the trip to document the Ghosts of Madchester Past as well as the archaic skeletal structures of the industrial revolution, Manchester's atmosphere was unpretentious and the converted warehouses throughout the inner city gave the area a touch of New York ambience. The impressive remains of these factories and warehouses from the city's rich 19th century manufacturing heritage (below) provide many a modern Mancunian with a hip living/work space (below right).

The Museum of Science and Industry provided an excellent overview of the city's industrial history, including an enormous warehouse filled with engines (below), textile manufacturing and aviation buildings in addition to exhibits charting the development of gas, electricity and nuclear power. An enlightening experience indeed spending half a day at this wonderful museum.

 

Of course there was no way I was visiting Sir Steven Patrick Morrissey's hometown without taking a sniff around the local Madchester sites - starting with legendary Factory records-owned Hacienda 'nitespot' which now houses rather dull-looking apartments (below). While aesthetically the building retains no trace of the 80s/90s superclub (apart from the name), I did manage to find a small piece of Shaun Ryder's brain on the footpath outside.

I stopped for a snifter in the creative Northern Quarter of town - at Oldham Street's Dry Bar (pictured below) - originally owned by Tony Wilson and still displaying the sharp graphic yellow style and unique catalogue number characteristic of much of Factory record's sleeve and advertising design. The bar's interior felt a little shabby and outdated, nevertheless the venue seems to be a Manchester music institution not least of all because both Shaun Ryder and Liam Gallagher are alleged to have been barred from the establishment.  

Due to utter incompetence and total disorganisation I managed to miss the infamous Salford Lads Club featured inside the Smiths' The Queen Is Dead album, a truly lacklustre performance on my behalf. I did however, hunt high and low for the iconic Strangeways traffic sign (below top) featured on the band's final studio album Strangeways, Here We Come...but all I could manage to locate was this post-modern and somewhat charmless version (below bottom). Moz would have been outraged.

Finally, I travelled on the winding Eccles tram out to Salford Quays, the regenerated docks area of western Manchester. The brilliant Lowry arts complex (right) is the area's main attraction - named after the artist L. S. Lowry who was noted for naive paintings of  workers and urban scenes of the city's industrial districts. Lowry remained a bachelor and loner throughout his life, producing a prolific artistic output documenting Northern industrial & coastal landscapes whilst holding down a straight job as a rent collector at the Pall Mall Property Company.

Further relics of Manchester's industrial past were evident in the Salford Quays area including these impressive rusty twin cranes, lording it over the canals with a certain iconic and charming authenticity.

Lastly, not forgetting this eccentric local chap, out for a pleasant ride in the Castlefield historic area in his natty Sunday best...

ARBEIT MACHT FREI

In 2004 I was fortunate enough to find myself half-way through a travelling jaunt in the beautiful landscapes of Central Europe. Those countries had not yet joined the EU, prices were still low for the Corpulent Western Tourist and it was my first time travelling alone through those phantasmagorical lands. Eight weeks of Henry VIII-style decadence...stuffing exotic foods and vats of delicious vin rouge into my greedy gob had left me feeling a little guilty and a lot more rotund.

So it happened that I found myself in the pretty Polish city of Krakow on my 29th birthday. Musing upon how privileged I had been to gain an insight into these historically turbulent ex-Communist nations, I decided to visit Auschwitz. The slate-grey Victorian skies and utterly lifeless atmosphere of the place left me moved and very upset, yet extremely grateful for the peaceful childhood I had experienced. I could not even begin to imagine being forced to work because, quite literally, my life depended on it. The concept of freedom had been such a given in my experience it was never even questioned.

Six years later I find myself toiling away in a corporate job. While not wanting to insult the memory of the Auschwitz victims or their relatives, I would like to think that in some metaphorical sense this monotonous work I do has actually made me 'free'. The daily grind has necessitated a bid for freedom via this blog. In an attempt to regain some sense of mental balance I'm documenting all the good things. I need to recover the energy and lifeforce which is sucked from me in the straight world.

So my blog will be all about positivity and the inspiring things I see in this beautiful world. A canary yellow silk Lanvin dress. The Mighty Boosh four-way crimp off. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner paintings. Bauhaus. A balmy summer sunset over the Pont Neuf. Pulling off an amazing page in a scrapbook. John Heartfield collages. Skulls. But not crossbones. Enjoy........RobertSmithsTears x

Image courtesy of Google