I’ve just come back from a Holiday with my twelve year old niece to London and Holland.  We had a great time, saw old friends such as Natalie and her fiancé, went walking around the streets of London, stroked a pelican in St James’s park, said “Hi” to the Queen, went to see the musical Wicked and eat in a swanky restaurant in our trainers.  Went swimming in a lido whilst enjoying the sun with Alan Magee, I got to see my sister and Niel again, and meet my new niece for the first time.  In Holland we stayed with Jennifer and cycled each day, Teigan even fell of her bike whilst trying to punch me; I like a responsible Uncle could do nothing but laugh.  We ate heartily at Martijn Rijerse’s house and went walking with Jennifer’s cats.

But for me the most profound moment I had on our holiday was when a little girl called Anne invited us into her house.  It is down town Amsterdam.  She doesn’t live there anymore but she may as well do as you can feel her presence and that of her family everywhere. You can hear her voice, read things she wrote, and listen to many people talk about her. She was the same age as my niece when she came into the house and lived there for two years.  She wrote a diary of everything that happened there, and it still has a lot of meaning even though it was a long time ago.

The entrance to her house was a little strange.  Instead of a door it was a bookshelf that opened up from a wall.  This was so that nobody would know that they were there. As we climbed the stairs we came into a little room and all the windows were greyed out so that people couldn’t see in so that nobody would know they were there.  Before we went in we bought some drinks and the lady in the shop said to us, “Just keep your mouths closed for two minutes.”  I thought this was a sign of a respect until she continued “…because they had to do that for two years so that nobody would know that they were there.”

There was a lot of people in the first room which was her family’s living room and a bedroom for her father’s friend.  Anne is a now a very popular girl and a lot of people come to where she used to live.  We had to shuffle round the room slowly.  It is strange for so many people in such a small room to be so quiet, looking, absorbing and contemplating. There were a lot of things to see in her house but it was this first room that caught me.  It wasn’t the furniture as there wasn’t any.  Apparently when somebody did find out they were there, they and all their belongings were removed.  Anne’s father Otto on his return some time later said he wanted the house leaving as ‘they’ had left it, just the wall paper and whatever was stuck on it.  On the far wall by the door to the next room there were two pieces of Perspex glass mounted onto the wall to protect what was underneath.  One was a map of France, Anne’s father had placed pins in the map in different colours to show where the allied invasion was; the war by that stage had turned and hope of it ending was real as the Nazi forces were retreating.  The Perspex glass next to this one had nothing in it.  Obviously the item had slipped out or had been removed.  My eyes shifted to look through the doorway, the next room had posters on the walls, it was Anne’s room.  I was ready to move on and then I noticed some grey marks on the wall paper just under the Perspex glass that seemingly had nothing under it.  The light was so dim that it was difficult to make out what it was and so again I almost walked on, but the glass had a description written on it in Dutch and English.  It said ‘A height chart of Anne and Margaret Frank made by the girls during the two years that they lived in the annex.’  I strained my eyes to focus on the marks and saw the pencil lines that would have marked the top of the little girls heads; next to each line was a date and the name Anne or Margaret written in their own hand.  It took me some time to truly comprehend what this meant as I stared.  And then the image of two little girls standing against the wall, one stood there excited to see how much she had grown, no shoes, no standing on toes, but always a straight back, the other marking her height.  You could watch them grow as subsequent marks moved higher up the wall, each with a date and one of their names.

I stared at these simple marks transfixed, then in my mind the image of a white door flashed by, it is the back of the door of our boiler at home that has the same marks but with different hand writing, names and date.  These marks were made by me and my brother when we were children, also fascinated to watch ourselves grow, no shoes, no standing on toes, but always a straight back.  There are even marks of my niece who was in that same room and the same height as Anne.  This is a game that many children play.  Anne Frank didn’t grow much taller than the marks on the wall her and her sister had made because she didn’t live much longer than the last date she had written against them.

I find it difficult trying to absorb the enormity and the atrocities that occurred during the last world war.  It is difficult to comprehend the millions of lost lives and to grasp that each of them was a life.  Visiting this little house helped me to realise this, to really feel that there was once a young girl living here who marked her height on the wall just as we did at home.  Her presence is everywhere through her diary and you really begin to feel you know her, and the more you do the more you grieve as she needlessly died as a victim of the Holocaust.

There are a lot of things to see in Amsterdam, but if you find yourself there consider visiting Anne in her house and let yourself imagine.

Jamie

Jamie and the Jellyfish

My head popped out of the water and I drew breath.  Whilst under I had hit a rock and grazed my shoulder, swimming amongst the jagged rocks at low tide was not the best place to be for a land lover.  As I came to shore Jade, a Scottish lass who works for the festival was just leaving the beach to go back to work.  With her red hair she is one of the prettiest Gingers I have ever met and it always brightened our day to see her beaming smile in the morning.  I stood there in front of her, stripped down to my underpants with a bleeding shoulder and wished her on her way.

Andy Moss and Dan Glover sunning on the rocks in their ridiculous hats.

As beauty walked off the beach I walked on towards my brothers in arms eating their lunch on the rocks.  As I approached, Dan Glover from America and Andy Moss who is now labelled the Mexican, were mocking me as I limped over the shells with the grace of a drunk, Dan then complaining that he couldn’t see on account of the glare coming from my white skin.  But they were unable to mock me deeply as they looked so entirely ridiculous themselves, Andy with his Pink Sombrero and black mustachio, and Dan with his Chinese style peaked hat.  I had a cowboy hat and together we were the Three Amigos.  I put on my hat and laid on a rock in my underpants so that the sun could dry me.  On sitting down I was fortunate enough to catch Dan on a rant: now that he had sampled Haggis he had to take the next step and buy a kilt in honour of his Glover ancestors that came from Scotland and then became plantation owners in America.  Apparently the Glovers were ‘good slave owners’ which is why so many slaves took the name on emancipation; this comment which was meant in the best possible taste led to days worth of relentless mockery from me and Andy.  And his pursuit of a kilt was yet another example of North Americans trying to claw back some culture that is more than 250 years old!  It was so good to have Dan there, we are fortunate that he has such a good humour and was not too perturbed by the choice of t-shirts I had given him, one that was so big it made him look like he was wearing a nightly and the other being so tight that he looked like the hulk in miniature.  But then Dan countered with the fact that the 4^th July was coming up and that we could all jump.

Crail Harbour

It is one of the great pleasures with sand sculpture that there are occasionally moments when people meet from across the globe who would have otherwise not met, and I am pleased to say that I think Dan from America and Andy from Yorkshire are to be lifelong friends. Dan reminds me of the manic toad from Wind In The Willows, he is so funny and has undaunting enthusiasm, whereas Andy is like Badger ready to mock him down and in his words “Outdan Dan.”   I’m not sure if they should meet too often as the resulting dark humour may get them into some trouble.  On his return home Dan was hankered by his wife for his vulgar language.  A real kinship was born in Crail.

Jade applying the finishing touches

As we ate our lunch Craig who is a steward for the festival came to eat with us and informed us that the BBC were waiting for us by the sculpture.  Usually this would cause me to jump to attention, but this day was so bizarre that I was to enjoy finishing my lunch.  Since 8am that morning we had had a frenzy of photographers and news crews streaming all over the sculpture and us one after the other.   I was not to carve anything until four thirty that afternoon.  I am certainly no model but enjoy posing in front of the camera like some Leonardo or chattering my Yorkshire on the telly.  It is always a cringing moment though when the photographers ask the other sculptors to stand aside so that they can take a photo of just me working on a piece of the sculpture that I had not made.  My credit to Dan and Andy for not breaking my legs whilst I was asleep.

Jamie and Graham from the Honey Pot Cafe

But the press frenzy which was reflected in the papers and news the next day was not a reflection of the sculpture, but of the festival it represented and the hard work of Debra Boraston who is the media dynamo for the festival.  It reflected the toil of the whole team who work the festival, many in their holiday time from normal jobs in the pursuit of quality in the arts and the joy of music; a vision I feel of the director Svend and his associates.

The A-Team waiting to catch a train

One thing that I did not anticipate was the hospitality of the people of the village Crail, who embraced us with open arms, Graham who let us dump 20 tonnes of dirt outside his cafe the Honey pot and complained not, only giving us coffee and the best carrot cake in Britain made by Edna; try it if you go there.  And a special thank you to Dorothy, a lady who on our first evening when I enquired “Do you have gravy with Haggis?” replied “Ach no, but you may sprinkle a dram of whiskey over it.”  At this she got up from off her stool and paced over to her house only to return with one of Scotlands finest single malts.  “Enjoy it on your Haggis, there’s enough there for a wee tipple afterwards as well!”  And indeed there was.

Jamie

Quality time with Donald

“I’ve left my passport on the plane.”

This was my conclusion after searching my bag and pockets to no avail.  I had just landed in Helsinki airport but wasn’t too deterred as there were two attractive women sitting at the Finnair lounge just waiting to save my bacon.  I placed my hat on the desk as though I was here to stay until the matter was resolved.

The lady at the desk was bewildered and then hypnotised me for a moment with her magnificent eyes, pool blue with a dark rim to frame the delicate light tones as though she’d gone round them with a pencil.

“……What?”  She had asked me a question whilst I was swimming.

“Where did you fly from?”  She looked up at me directly from her seat .  I regained my composure.

“Leeds, uh, n…., Londo…., ah yes, Manchester.”  My composure had failed me.  “Yes, Manchester.  I was seat 19 A.”  Remembering my seat number immediately filled me with renewed confidence and I could not disguise my pride as a well deserved smirk crept from my mouth.  “What is your name?” “Jamie Wardley”  I remembered that OK.  She smiled.

“Okay, we will need to find it or else you will not be able to get out of the airport, there is security just down the corridor, but then they won’t start cleaning the plane until later.”  I was beginning to feel that I was to spend quite a bit of time in the company of this young lady for all the wrong reasons.  She rummaged around her keyboard and then picked up the phone and began to babble in Finnish.  She got up from her desk and was obviously trying to get hold of the right person, one of her contacts on the ground no doubt.  She then began to pace up and down and I followed her with my eyes which wasn’t a chore.  Occasionally she would give me a neutral glance as if to say all is under control.  And then she went into the back office and everything changed.  She came out pulling all kinds of faces which weren’t encouraging.  There was a slight pause in her babbling so I took the opportunity to give more information:

“…..There was a newspaper on my seat and the passport will be under that.”  This I was sure of.

“What was the newspaper?”

“It was the ….Daily Mail.”  My memory was in overdrive, “In fact there may have been a book with it as well,” my god I was on a roll.  Oh dear, I had left my book.

There was renewed hope in her voice at my new information but then this gradually faded away as she began to pull faces again accompanied by babbling, starring at me with those deep blue eyes as though I should understand something.  This was not good.  I began to fondle my hat still sat on the desk.  There was a bar down the way.  I had only 5 euros.

She pulled a face and with an apologetic grimace said “They cannot find your passport.”  I mumbled an appropriate expletive under my breath at the thought of been an airport refugee, wandering around in the same underpants for weeks on end until a new passport could be issued; and only 5 euros to my name.

And then the other rather more humiliating possibility dawned on me.   I could feel my bag next to my feet.  ”….maybe I have it?” The girl looked at me with a tilted head expressing her thought that ‘maybe you do.’   I leant down and slowly unzipped a pocket.  Three week old underpants and 5 euros were looking more and more appealing.  I had already checked this pocket earlier and was now hoping not to find it.  As I peeled back the fabric there was revealed a clutter of items, wallets, hard drives and a small burgundy book with the emblem of my protector her majesty the Queen of England plastered across it.  Oh dear.  I pulled it out and held it in my hand sheepishly.

By this time the girl with the pool blue eyes had come round my side of the desk and gave a roar of laughter, I indulged in a slight moment of humiliation and then shrugged off my shame and merrily joined in laughing at myself. I’m quite fortunate that I don’t dwell too much on my foolish mistakes as I make so many of them.  Practice makes perfect I always say.  Just before I made my farewells she checked me with her blue eyes for the last time.  I paused to take in the moment and then realised that she was testing me to see if I would remember my straw hat neatly propped on the table.  I had not.   She took it and placed it on my head.  “Welcome to Finland!” she said with delight and another roar of laughter.  How to make an impression by JS Wardley.

I smiled my broadest smile, “Thank you very much.” I was back in my second home.

Jamie

P.s  A sculpture I have made since I’ve been here:)

Me and m'new mate pterry

The Pterodactyl, can yo see the baby tricerotops?

I’m overlooking the water and there is a group of ash trees in front, the sun has just gone down but it is still warm.  The leaves are just coming out of their delicate buds and the ducks are quacking the last of the daylight away in a lasting attempt to attract some attention. It is the beginning of spring and one of my favourite times of the year; the joy that is life all springing forward anew.  Maybe I like this period of the year in particular as I am also a spring baby.  The bull.

This lovely spot is the outskirts of Roermond, Holland.  I’m lucky to be here as the ash plume from the volcano that erupted in Iceland was only three hours behind my flight; one of the last from the UK to Europe.  It is incredible that all the planes are now grounded.  The earth makes a little burp and everything stops.  Great.

I am enjoying the fact that there are no planes in the sky at the moment, no vapour trails or hum of jet engines.  I’ve even taken to not wearing my earphones all day as the air is somehow clearer of sound and filled with the melody of bird song.  There are now some Coots on the water doing their mating dance, bobbing their heads from side to side and cooting a lot.

On the downside there are only half the carvers here for the project.  There should be 30 and there are only 15, but still 8,000 tonnes of sand looms before us unrelenting which means that we have to all carve like crazy for two weeks to finish the project on time.  Hopefully, our colleagues will join us soon if the volcano has a rest.  Some sculptors have driven here, Uldis has just finished a 36 hour bus ride from Riga, Latvia to get here. He has gone to the bar to find his sanity, he just spoke to me for 15 minutes on the cons of polarised glasses; the poor lad is delirious.  Some other chaps drove all the way from Prague, Czech Republic to get here, others all the way from Spain; the troops are mobilising and reinforcements have been called upon.  The great Henry arrived today who I have not seen for five years.

My task is to make a mountain scene.  On this mountain are some mountain goats and to the side a Yak.  A chap from Russia called Ilya who is a sculpting god was supposed to do the mountain with me helping.  The volcano in Iceland has said otherwise as he’s not here.  I’m not sure when Ilya is going to turn up; if at all.  I may have to do this mountain myself which is quite daunting as mountains are typically rather large.  But then what has to be done has to be done. If Ilya does turn up I think he will have a mental breakdown if he sees that I have already started.  There is something entirely de-motivating about finishing or helping to finish someone else’s work. Perhaps it is because you had no say in the creative idea and composition.  I do not envy him.  For the moment I’m just finishing my Yak.  I have made it with two calves or ‘mini cows’ as Anique calls them, because it’s cute and serves the practical purpose of holding up the Yaks head, it would fall off otherwise.  I was a little worried earlier as one of the calf’s began to look like a Rottweiler mauling my Yaks throat.  It now just looks like a ‘mini cow Rottweiler cross’.

Am I going to be able to get home to England?  I like Holland, but it is a little flat.  Bring on the rolling hills of Yorkshire.

To volcanoes!

What?  There is a plane in the sky!  I feel like a child again.

Jamie

I saw David the other day in Stockholm and met him again in Helsingborg after staying with Johanna and Millis.  David is totally bald now but has an energy of youth that many youngsters would be lucky to ever grasp.  He is an enigma that bestows confidence, kind heart, positivity, opportunity and drama, and he is only too happy to share it with everyone, even if with a wisp of irony to keep us all thinking.

“I am thinking of growing my hair long again David” I once had for only a few years long golden curly locks that dangled from my head to my shoulder, dancing as I moved.  On a stormy day I loved standing with my back to the wind feeling the ringlets bounce around and touch my face.  For sure I suit short hair more than I do long, but it has been some time and I feel that having a ginger mop suits my character somehow more.  “The thing is, I think I’m going a little bald and am not sure if it would look OK.”  At this moment most of my friends would confirm my doubts and take great pleasure in mocking my fantasy and insecurity in one fell swoop.

David on the other hand is a different story.  He is driving the car and looks over at me and begins his flamboyant oratory with Swedish melody “Oh Jamie, you are an artist and can get away with anything, you would look amazing with a bald ginger hair bouncing everywhere.”  He then braces me with his keen eyes and gives a conspiratory chuckle whilst tapping on the steering wheel.  I laugh at this ridiculous parody and remark “Together David we are unstoppable, I think we could conquer the world!”  And I think with David that would be possible, I could just see us growing our balding heads just to see how it would be received and taking great humour in it.  We once picked up a friend Tilly from an airport who had brought with him his pal John that had never been out of England before.  For the occasion we borrowed some of his mothers dresses with flowery prints and greeted the boys as Swedish aupairs prepared with a song and guitar.  I had my long hair in question up in two afro pigtails and David had on a Scottish red wig.  Unfortunately the flight was delayed an hour, so we took great pleasure in entertaining the bemused airport with songs and pantomime; the security had a good sence of humour and we no limits.  When Tilly and John arrived we dashed up to them like dogs on heat and chanted in our best mock Swedish falsetto “Welcome to Sweden, my name is Inga and this is Olga, we have a song to sing for you!”  And, so we sang and everyone else listened, it was an unusual evening for airport arrivals that day.  Tilly’s poor friend John must have though he was on another planet and kept saying that he desperately needed a cigarette.

David and I at the airport waiting for Tilly and John

It is good to have friends that keep you grounded but also some that lift you and inspire new heights which is typical of David.  I feel refreshed having seen him.  It is an uncommon thing for two guys to be able to hit the dance floor as soon as they enter the place with no qualm of self, closing down more than a handful of parties in one night and then rolling in at 5am.  It is probably a good thing that we do not get together too often as it would probably be an unbearable burden for the world to bare.  Perhaps I should keep my hair short just for the moment.

Jamie

Tyra starring at me. Such an honour

I arrived at the train station in Orebro, Sweden to be greeted by Millis.  I know her from my first year of University when I lived in the student hotel on Rosemount road, Bournemouth.  Across the street lived a house packed full of foreign students of which some became lifelong friends.  The last time I saw Millis was four years ago when she had just got a dog with her boyfriend Robert.  At that time the dog was just a puppy, but as it would now be a fully grown Rhodesian ridgeback cross I thought I should try and remember its name.

“What is your dog’s name?..Stveera?” I guessed

“No Tyra.” Replied Millis

“Tyra?.”  I was confused as this didn’t sound so familiar.

“Oh, my dog?  Oh, my dog’s name is Sveea, but my daughter is Tyra, and my son is Malte.”

I was bemused, “You have a son now?”

“Yes!  You didn’t know?”  It had been quite a long time.

I came to the land of the fair and beautiful a few days ago from Finland to Stockholm and had stayed with my very good friend David and his girlfriend Charlotte.  I’d sailed across the Baltic on the ship Gabriella that is owned by the aptly named Viking line.  For me it resembled more the titanic, not for its great bulk but for the ominous sound it made as the steal and iron of the boat cut through the sea ice.  I was staying in a cabin that was below the waterline and all night I had the lullaby of scraping and crunching.  The scene in the film Titanic occurred to me where all the Irish people are trapped in the lower cabins as the water pours in from above.  I even thought about what cloths I would wear if the ship started to sink.  My giant ice boots were so warm but would probably be too heavy to swim in, and my great down jacket would be useless in the wet.  I would have to make sure I would get in a lifeboat on the 9^th floor.  “I am so young, I do not want to die today!”  The safest place ended up being the bar on the 8^th floor which was a stroke of luck.

Millis opened the car and we drove through the snowy city to her house sliding about the road in a controlled manner.  She was relieved that she remembered how to speak English as it has been so long since she last saw me. I had forgotten all my Swedish which was once quite good; I even had trouble remembering how to say ‘Thankyou’ to a lady when I was buying a ticket: “Takk.”

“Tyra is so nervous to meet you.”  Tyra is Millis and Roberts daughter who is four years old.  She has never met a foreigner before, and didn’t understand the concept of other languages and that some people speak with different words and come from different lands.  Robert was trying to explain to her before I arrived:

In Swedish, he said to her “When Jamie wants orange juice he says ‘Orange’, not ‘Appelsin’, that is what they call it in England where he is from.”

“Orange juice” she repeats.  Robert thinks he has got through.  “Ja….”  Very good Robert.  ”…..men han meaner appelsin.”  Yes. But he means appelsin.  Oh dear.

“No, he means orange juice.”

“Ja……, men han meaner appelsin.”  She was not going to budge on this.

Millis and I came through the door to the greetings of Robert and the aroma of baked Salmon ready to serve.  I was hungry as always.  Pottering around was their son Malte who gave me a quick look over and was then unphased, he is two years old and not troubled by foreigners just yet.  Tyra on the other hand who looks much like her mother with blond hair and big blue eyes was totally aghast. Immediately she had no idea what I was saying and was not receptive at all to any of my greetings.  She was to stay stood firmly behind Daddy and nothing was going to convince her otherwise.

After throwing down the bags we went straight to the dinner table for the salmon, and a great salmon it must have once been for it was one of the largest fillets I have seen.  Everyone became seated at the table, me sat next to Robert, then Malte as ready to eat as me, Millis, and sat next to Millis starring right at me with unblinking eyes was Tyra, the guardian of the household and not at all fooled by this imposter.  It is always a funny thing with young children as when they see something they do not understand they will just stare intently at it, and no matter what I did she was not going to give an inch until she had figured out what this strange creature was in her home.  And what’s more, she could no longer understand what her Mamma and Dadda were saying anymore as the noises that now came out of their mouths were also incomprehensible.   ‘What was going on?  Was this the way things were going to be from now on?  And when the stupid creature speaks, he makes no sense, I can understand Malte much more than him and he is only two.  Is this what all foreigners are like?’  She continued to stare at me, processing many thoughts but not speaking a word.

After some time eating, Tyra began to relax a little and talk at least to her parents, but if I so much as moved or spoke she would stare at me again.  ‘What is this guy’s problem?  He doesn’t seem too bad, but I don’t trust him.  This is making me tired, I need to go to sleep,’ which is what she did, I was so impressed that she was able to maintain her cold as ice demure until the very end of consciousness.     In an effort I tried to remember some Swedish and quite quickly learned some basic words from the children, but it was not enough just yet.

Millis, Robert and I chatted into the night and then they showed me my room.  After a deep sleep I woke to the sound of children laughing down stairs which is always a joy.  This continued until I walked down the steps and then Tyra saw me and abruptly stopped.  They were watching cartoons on the TV, something to do with a wolf and a pigs theatre; I sat down to watch with them.  Kids TV is extremely clever as the humour is so basic and universal that even a child and a foreigner can be on the same page.  It was only now that Tyra finally decided that even if I was a little stupid I wasn’t so bad and at least knew how to laugh in the right places.  We laughed together and then she started to point and make jokes about the wolf.  It wasn’t before long that Tyra was running around the house in hysterics, her mother whilst drying her hair had been possessed by the evil blow dryer and it was her quest to escape it.  After breakfast Millis and I had to depart to go and see Johanna in the south of Sweden.  I think Tyra’s parting thoughts of me were that foreigners although a little stupid were OK on a very basic level.  I felt that I had made a good first contact for future international relations and was honoured to be Tyra’s first foreigner.

Unfortunately in true Jamie Wardley style, Millis and I missed our train.  We were not late, just busy talking too much to realise that it had arrived and then gone.  I hope nobody tells Tyra as it will just confirm her preconceptions and confirm her fears that her mummy may have been infected with foreigness.

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