A Birthday Meander

A couple of photographs and a few words...

The author - fifty years ago…

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come - William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice.

William’s words above grow more accurate every year as today I celebrate another birthday, and to paraphrase some lyrics from Paul Simon's 'Have a Good Time'

Today, it is my birthday

I've hung one more year on the line

I'm not depressed

My life's not a mess

I'm having a good time...

Not that my celebration will be a big one, as it's not a significant 'milestone' birthday. Then again, as I grow older, all my birthdays grow in significance; better to have one than not! I've opened my cards, and there'll be messages and calls from family throughout the day. I've mentioned in a past Meander that my present from Sarah was some rose bushes, soon to be planted in my garden. And of course, later there will be cake. Of course, it will be my favourite and that’s chocolate cake. And one benefit of celebrating alone is that I don't need to share…

Next year is when I reach my three score years and ten. I intend that part of my celebration of that milestone will be a cross-continental rail trip from my home near Newcastle to my favourite city in Italy, Naples. And I do not intend that the visit will follow that exclamation written by Goethe in his book 'Italian Travels' - “vedi Napoli e poi muori!” I have visited the city many times, and this might be my final visit (although a bit like an ageing rockstar on a perpetual farewell tour; after my last two visits, I also thought I was saying 'farewell' for the final time). I’m sure this one will be my final visit, but I'm not planning on it being my farewell to life just yet.

Of course, I don't want to be too presumptuous about making the trip, so planning for my transcontinental journey won't be for a few months. When I did such a journey a few years ago (ending in Rome on that occasion) to celebrate my retirement, I afterwards named my adventure a trip on 'The Leyton Orient Express', a playful nod to the famous Orient Express train. I have yet to produce a name for this proposed trip - maybe ‘From one 'New Castle' to another’ (Naples has a Castel Nuovo (or Castiello Nuovo in Neapolitan), and to make me really at home, it is to some degree, black and white)

While this year is a gentle celebration on my own, my mind drifts to wonderful celebrations of the past. There are the simpler ones, such as spending time with family and friends at home or at barbecues, picnics (I recall a marvellous one of those was in St James’ Park—the one in London, not NUFC’s ground), and local restaurants. Then there are the grander ones, such as opera in Verona, London theatre, or fine dining at the likes of Rules or Wiltons.

My idea of a celebratory activity is not leaping out of a plane, wild water swimming (especially as I fear immersion in large (or even medium) bodies of water), go-karting, or doing some such adrenaline-raising exercise. My preference for birthday celebrations comes from having a stroll, a conversation, a meal at a pleasant restaurant, watching an atmospheric theatre performance, visiting a mesmerising art gallery or sharing a decent bottle of wine, etc.

One of the most memorable birthday celebrations was a few days with Sarah in Rome for my 60th. She had planned everything to perfection. We stayed in an art deco boutique hotel facing the temple of the Portico of Octavio within the original ghetto area of Rome, one of the city's most important archaeological sites.

One of our indulgences was a food tour around the Testaccio district of Rome. The area, which takes its name from Monte Testaccio, an artificial hill made entirely of broken amphorae (testae), isn't the Rome of postcards; it's the Rome of working-class industry with a strong local identity, culinary traditions, and deep connection to the city's ancient and industrial past. Many consider Testaccio as the birthplace of Roman cuisine, particularly dishes that reflect cucina povera using every part of the animal or vegetable, turning simple ingredients into culinary poetry such as coda alla vaccinara, trippa alla Romana, rigatoni alla pajata and carciofi alla Romana. Even today, the neighbourhood's traditional butcher shops, Mercato Testaccio, and historic trattorias preserve these recipes and techniques. Our flavoursome food tour included one of those trattorias, Flavio al Velavevodetto, built directly into Monte Testaccio. We dined on what people generally regard as the best cacio e pepe in the city.

The four-hour tour didn't end there. We also visited the Mercato Testaccio, where we sampled the freshest buffalo mozzarella, simply served on fresh bread, and enjoyed slow-cooked beef in garlic that dissolved like butter on the tongue. There were also delicatessens in which we sampled, amongst other delights, aged balsamic vinegar, which was as sweet as syrup, and a gelato with flavours that exploded on the tongue.

Another indulgence during that stay was drinking Sassicaia, which is often regarded as the original Super Tuscan wine, while sitting on the Capitoline Hill overlooking the city. The name of the wine comes from the Italian for 'stony place', reflecting that the vines grow in gravelly, coastal soils. Drinking such a wonderfully balanced wine of concentrated fruit and mineral complexity was the ultimate birthday treat while gazing out over the glory that was once (and still is) Rome.

That wasn't all, as another part of that memorable celebration was Sarah and I taking dinner in Casa Bleve, a Mediterranean restaurant housed in the former noble Palazzo Lante, commissioned by Giuliano de' Medici in the early 16th century (by Rome standards, that's recent) in the Centro Storico, just a stone's throw from the Pantheon. The beautiful Roman traditional food was offered with service that was everything you would expect from such an elegant setting, attentive but never intrusive. The wine on that occasion was the more wallet-friendly Amarone della Valpolicella. It's my favourite red wine as I love its full-bodied yet velvety texture and its dark fruit flavours, but then comes the long, complex, slightly bitter finish from which the wine gets its name, 'the Great Bitter'.

Today will be a much quieter affair, but I'm looking forward to heading to the ‘Northeast Riviera’. I'm still deciding which coastal town to visit, North or South Shields, Roker or Tynemouth, Seaburn or Cullercoats, Whitley Bay or Seaham Harbour. They may not be the Porto Fino, Santa Margherita Ligure, or Cinque Terre of the Italian Riviera, but I am looking forward to relaxing and enjoying a beer while soaking up some vitamin sea. I can relax in any of those familiar northeast English towns, and if the sun comes out, the east wind stays in and the North Sea is on its best behaviour, it will feel just like the Mediterranean!

However if it should rain, and given its northeast England that’s always a possibility, then since today is St Swithin's Day, it seems fitting to share his story again as legend has it that if it rains on this day, it will rain for forty days and forty nights. So, who was this Saint Swithin who had such an effect on the weather?

Well, in 836, King Ethelwulf of Wessex, King Alfred the Great's dad, rewarded his old teacher, Swithin, for his earlier academic tutelage by appointing him in 852 Lord Bishop of Winchester, a very influential and rewarding post in those days. However, on his death on July 2, 863, humble Swithin instructed that his fellow monks bury him outside "in a vile and unworthy place" where water from the cathedral's eaves might fall upon his grave. Following his wishes, the monks buried Swithin outside the Old Minster in Winchester.

There Swithin lay for more than one hundred years. However, many people remembered Swithin's good works, and his reputation for holiness grew. More reports of miracles in his name led to his canonisation as a saint. Thinking that Swithin's resting place was not in keeping with his sainthood, Bishop Æthelwold, the then Lord Bishop of Winchester, moved Swithin to an opulent shrine inside the cathedral. The day appointed for that was July 15, 971.

One story goes that a tempest raged that day, postponing the removal. Heavy rain continued without remission for the next forty days and forty nights until the monks interpreted this as Swithin's displeasure at the disturbance of his resting place and decided to leave the humble bishop where he was.

Even though no record or report supports a cataclysmic fall of rain for such a prolonged period, the legend became popular in medieval England and entered English folklore.

But of course, as tends to be the case with legends, another story emerged: of the successful transfer of Swithin on July 15, albeit during a severe storm. More than that, the poor saint endured several more, to use that nice phrase, 'translations'. In 974, the monks separated his bones, consigning half to a side chapel of the Minster for the benefit of pilgrims and the rest to a shrine behind the high altar for ceremonial occasions. Then, in 1006, Alphege, another Bishop of Winchester, became Archbishop of Canterbury, and wishing to bring a worthy gift to his new flock, he took the skull of Swithin with him. In this legend, Swithin even travelled outside of England. It's said that in 1125, Reinald, one of the monks of Winchester, crossed the North Sea to find a Christian settlement at Stavanger and allegedly took one of Swithin's arms to Norway. Finally, a scattering of Swithin's remaining bones far and wide happened during desecrations of his shrine in 1252 and again in 1538 as part of Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries.

Whatever the truth behind the legends and whether there was a scattering to the four winds of the bones of Saint Swithin, there is still this rhyme,

"St Swithin's day if thou dost rain,

For forty days it will remain.

St Swithin's day if thou be fair,

For forty days 'twill rain nae mair."

Whether you are having a birthday or an unbirthday today, I hope it proves a good one.

Cheers!