ORIENT the EXPRESS

 

 

Though the era of the Orient Express is a century late for the noble Grand Tours, and no longer available for a modern adventure, a trip in such grand fashion had elements of cosmopolitan adventure.  It also suggests to me how important the method of travel was to undertaking a Grand Tour.  In Elizabethan times one was forced to be leisurely – if one desired luxury.  Pace was limited by distance between Inns, and getting there early had little advantage.  Of, course, when one was in a great city for several days, there were social events as well as sight seeing to fill the time – and always periods of reflection, writing and conversation.  On a modern tour, one needs a guide, not to explain the historic significance of what you are seeing, or what adventure lies ahead, but to describe what just flashed by at blurring speed – but its in the Tour Book anyway.

 

A Tour on the Orient Express was a compromise, of sorts; full trek from
Calais to
Istanbul if desired, or many points of departure.  Layovers were possible; but as the trains had sleeping compartments, dining salons, cocktail lounges and libraries, it was never necessary to leave the train at all!  And perhaps, more was lost than gained.

 

Consider the limitations:

 

1)  you had to accept that getting to either
Paris or
Constantinople was a worthwhile goal.  These final destinations were decided on by others, their task then becoming one of convincing you of its value.

 

2)  the route was set and side excursions were impossible – you had to see the panorama of scenery and ‘slice of life’ directed by mountain passes and rivers, while pretending that what you were seeing was representational of either life or nature.

 

3) you traveled with peers, i.e., people with similar economic, political and educational– certainly safe, and even comforting, but questionable as source of inspiration or of ‘broadening oneself ‘in Grand Tour tradition.

 

4) elitism was a predictable and infusive element of such a trip, well documented in the use of the Orient Express in novels, plays, mysteries and movies.  Please notice that only scan mention is ever made of what is going on outside of the train – it became a world unto itself.

 

5) food and beverage was fine and grand, to be sure, but offered nothing of local taste or flavor or the culture being passed through – sad, as history abounds with the important mixture of food and conversation in order to learn of people and dreams.

 

which brings us to consideration of the metaphysical and allegorical trappings of a Grand Tour.  Certainly, one cannot blame the Orient Express on the problems of today.  Yet, the willingness of the better educated and powerful classes to accept this ersatz substitute for a Grand Tour contributed to the end of something – exactly what I am not sure.  Consider that today many people feel no need to travel for the Internet can tell you all you need to know of people, places and history (and are sometimes even accurate).  You need not read a book as
Hollywood will show you the world as it really is, a substitution of a bright screen for a window on the Orient Express.  Even better, you can enclose yourself in a tiny room in a house (often not a home), surround yourself with cultural dishes in little white boxes, chat with know friends of ideas already tested and abused – and pretend that you will somehow benefit from it all.  At least the Orient Express went somewhere.  We laugh at a phrase like, “if you always do what you always did, you will always get what you always got.”  A local expression oft heard resembles, “I like to try new things, but not for the first time.”  Methinks it all started on the Orient Express.

 

One humorous observation of those ‘grand old days’ was that those on the train, after a chance glance outside, would comment on the “unfortunate” peasants and workmen and children – even extending into pity and remorse that everyone could not make a trip in a gilded box on wheels and rigid tracks.  I would ask that you ponder on what those ‘simple folks’ thought – about their pity for those on board whose lives and views were so limited, their hearts cold, their spirits jaded or lost – strangers flashing past, who would ever be strangers.

 

at least in Lemuria, there are no trains!

 

 

Trigor

Italians, Coffee and Intelligence

Some things might never change through history.  The Viscount thought it prudent we make use of the largest coffee house once in Rome, to find out what the Romans were doing, what they were talking about, and gain certain intelligence.  There was an article in the newspaper on board the ship, which he bade me read through, which fascinated me:  http://www.economist.com/World/europe/displayStory.cfm?story_id=2281736

Villa Ada was also still at the back of my mind, visions of arcadian splendour, sunbaked loggia and sweeping wisteria vine.  I longed to see it.  The salty sea air blew gently warmer, as we had come closer to our destination, but still had no sight of land.  A wandering player serenaded us on his ancient violin, walking the crowded decks, as the sun began to set.  It shimmered across the ocean which was calm like rippled silk.   

Other travellers, encouraged by the windless eve, set out their card tables, arranging themselves with their wine and coins, chattering amongst themselves.  There was much talk of Christmas in Venice, barely ten days away, which excited one and all.  It was known the festivities could run into a month, with much merriment and colour in the streets. 

I thought of home, the rolling hills now blanketed with snow, the sea a rolling tide of white angry foam.  The wildflowers on the hillside would be buffetted by the wind, leaning into the shelter of the hills and rocky coast.  Yet here the breeze was like a comforting balm, as if the violin music had bewitched all, languishing as they, and we did, on the decks toward Rome.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)

Abandoned Mangalore

Setting out from Charleville and proceeding down the river in the year 1874, the traveller at a distance of forty miles reached Dillalah, then under the management of Mr. Frederick Walter. Being upon the main road, and no accommodation near it, proved a rendezvous, where, amongst other travellers, the squatter and the drover preponderated. Opposite to Dillalah stood the abandoned station of Managalore, where much capital had been expended in buildings and yards, and it was then in the market for disposal.

The growth of Mitchell grass illustrates the tangible value of the Warrego River country whilst the mulga ridges which comprise the back country are grassed with what is known as the Mulga grass, beside which rich herbage abounds, so that the Warrego district is not inaccuarately described as the garden of Queensland. In any case it is one of the most valuable sections.

About seven miles below Dillalah was the station of Murweh, where a few years previously the owner was murdered by a notorious blackfellow named Dillalah Jommy, who pushed his head first into the waterhole, which had very steep banks, as he was drawing a bucket of water. Jommy had his hands stained with several murders, and, only a few weeks before my entrance on the Warrego had waylaid a boy riding his pony on the outskirts of Cunnamulla, exercising a diabolical cunning by breaking his skull so that it would appear he had been kicked in the head by his horse after being thrown.

The next station down the Warrego was Claverton, formed by Messrs Bigge, of Mount Brisbane, and Geary. A large amount of captial was invested in the formation of the station which carried both sheep and cattle. The reputation which this station held in the district for hospitality was indeed well merited.

source: G.C. Watson Building the Commonwealth
image: Heather Blakey - his great grand-daughter.

Froglet in Saint-Omer

I have wandered over to Saint-Omer. Thanks to its locations on disputed borders, the French, Flemish, English and Spaniards have repeatedly subjected it to sieges and military actions. Must be something in the River Aa’s water, because even the two local monasteries indulged in a bitter rivalry!

As a traveling froglet, I am interested in one of the men who had lived here: Alexandre Ribot (1842-1923), who was Prime Minister four times. Ribot! Ribot! Must have some frog ancestor somewhere….

I don’t speak French, but I found this site had some lovely representative photos of the Basilica, Abbey Ruins and other local sites. Also interesting was this bit about the fortifications.