Review – Troilus and Cressida, Royal Shakespeare Company at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 18th October 2018

Posted on October 19, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

It’s hard to imagine, but it’s been 42 years (!) since I last saw a production of Troilus and Cressida. Back in 1976, young Master Chrisparkle got on a train to London to see the National Theatre production at the Young Vic, directed by Elijah Moshinsky, starring Denis Quilley, Roland Culver, Robert Eddison, Mark McManus and Simon Ward. Good grief, all those actors are dead now!

This is one of Shakespeare’s hard-to-categorise plays. Traditionally it was always lumped into the comedies, because it’s not a tragedy and it doesn’t fit the usual definition of a history, as it doesn’t concern a British king. But it doesn’t sit comfortably as a comedy either, and the temptation has always been to pretend that it doesn’t exist. According to Wikipedia, so it must be true, there were no recorded performances of this play between 1734 and 1898; that’s pretty extraordinary, considering it’s by our Immortal Bard. Along with Measure for Measure and All’s Well That Ends Well, it’s now considered a “problem play”, which makes it sound like it’s going to be hard work to appreciate.

But that’s not the case at all. The excellent programme notes (the RSC always do great programmes but this one is outstanding) include extracts from the late John Barton’s old directorial notes from previous productions, and he points out that the strength of this play is in its sheer bloody-mindedness not to fall into any categories. The characters contradict themselves; the relationships between them change unexpectedly, with neither rhyme nor reason; it doesn’t succumb to any set pattern; in fact, it’s just like real life. So rather than trying to make it a one size fits all kind of play, celebrate the fact that it just goes its own way.

Gregory Doran’s new production does precisely that, although he has made one imposition on the play – to cast it 50:50 between men and women. As a result, we have a female Agamemnon, Ulysses, Aeneas, Calchas and Thersites, as well as women playing traditionally male servant roles. In one respect, it makes hardly any difference at all; a military woman is pretty much the same as a military man when uniformed and concentrating on strategies and tactics. In another respect, it does shed different light upon the play; it makes you see something familiar with new eyes, creating an excitement and a freshness that you might not otherwise have expected. This is one of many innovations in this production that works really well.

It’s a rewarding, surprising play. It deals with themes of honour and betrayal, order and disorder, even celebrity versus mundanity. Achilles, the celebrity warrior, is sick of fighting and just wants to lounge about with his “masculine whore” Patroclus; his reputation sullied, not so much by his debatable sexuality as by what Agamemnon describes him, “in self-assumption greater than in the note of judgement”. It’s only when his Greek warrior colleagues play a trick on him, pretending not to notice him, that his vanity is offended; and not till Patroclus is killed that he is spurred into action.

The Greeks and the Trojans are locked in a military and political impasse, causing them to bicker between themselves, but showing amity between the two parties. “This is the most despiteful-gentle greeting, the noblest-hateful love that e’er I heard of” says Paris, as Aeneas and Diomed confer amicably. Before Hector and Ajax can fight, they choose peace. “The obligation of our bloods forbids a gory emulation ‘twixt us twain”, says Hector; thus honour prevents him from surely killing Ajax. Yet, Achilles, with gross dishonour, sees Hector killed, not by his own hand in glorious war, but, ironically, outsourced to the Myrmidons while Hector is unarmed.

Plonked in the middle of all this is the growing love between Trojan prince Troilus and Cressida, niece to Lord Pandarus, who serves as something of a Courtly Fool. He moves heaven and earth to get the two together, but after one night of connubial bliss, fate separates them; they both, unhappily, accept the fact that the politics of the state are bigger than both of them. They vow to stay true to each other, but that doesn’t last long; another excellent example of how the characters of this play don’t perform as you’d expect. The misleading title suggests that the love affair between the two will be the most important element of this play; but that’s simply not so.

This is a lively, funny, and extremely watchable production with some very creative and entertaining highlights. Oliver Ford Davies’ Pandarus’ hilarious running commentary, explaining to Amber James’ Cressida the benefits (or otherwise) of each of the warriors who parade past them like some military Mr Universe pageant, works brilliantly well. His fussing around Troilus and Cressida’s morning after arrangements, checking for signs of consummation on the sheets, is also superbly done. Pitching Sheila Reid’s diminutive and wretched Thersites side by side with the tall and fit Achilles or Ajax also gives some great physical comedy moments. And I loved the play on words with “The Trojans’ trumpet”.

And then there is the innovative involvement of having Dame Evelyn Glennie as the production composer. If you know Dame Evelyn’s work, it’ll come as no surprise that you can expect percussion – and a lot of it. That’s great for the war scenes, as the drums suggest marching armies and the metallic clashes represent sword on shield or armour against armour. Softer motifs also provide incidental music for some of the characters; again the programme notes tell us how she has orchestrated the two central lovers differently. And no opportunity is missed to fill in any details suggested by the text; when Pandarus is irritated by the sound of music, he’s not the only one. But it’s true, sometimes the excitement and creativity of the background music can overwhelm what’s happening on stage, and we found it difficult to make out some of Ms Reid’s bon mots as she observes the vanities of the warrior classes. That’s a shame, because she clearly gives it some suitably savage characterisation. As the other Fool in this play, the crude and visceral Thersites provides a lot of important context; but it’s no good if you can’t hear it.

There are long sequences between the Greek warlords that are very wordy, particularly in the first half of the play. To make them more palatable, Gregory Doran has pantomimed-up the characters into a larger-than-life presence. Thus we have Suzanne Bertish’s Agamemnon, all swirling hair and fighting talk, rather like Anna Soubry MP on acid; Andrew Langtree’s Neanderthal Menelaus, constantly interrupted by Agamemnon to stop him from saying something foolish; Adjoa Andoh’s super-intelligent and manipulative Ulysses; Theo Ogundipe’s estuary Ajax, just about stringing a sentence together; Andy Apollo’s languid, too cool for school Achilles; and Jim Hooper’s dirty-old-man Nestor, taking a peck on the cheek with Cressida too far, to the disgusted, retching reaction of the audience. This outrageous, tongue-in-cheek approach to the characters oughtn’t to work; but it does, tremendously. These are all fantastic performances.

Gavin Fowler gives his Troilus a nice mix of nobility and naivete; hopelessly hapless with his chat-up lines but dignified in his deference to the instructions of King Priam and valorous in battle. Amber James also invests Cressida with some gutsy personality, not backward in coming forward when Troilus is too tongue-tied to step up to the mark, and suitably flexible when she has to hold her own in the Greek camp.

A couple of things puzzled me; I didn’t understand the significance of the weird collection of pots and pans and old bits of car that suspended from the ceiling, and shook clankingly every so often; and I wasn’t sure why Helen and Paris made their appearances from inside a pod that dangled down to earth, like a celestial conservatory. But John Barton’s notes had already guided me into not expecting to understand everything.

It’s a thoroughly entertaining production, and if you haven’t seen Troilus and Cressida before, this is a delightfully accessible and stimulating experience, that I’d totally recommend. Terrific performances from Oliver Ford Davies, Suzanne Bertish, Theo Ogundipe and Adjoa Andoh make 3 hours 15 minutes go by remarkably quickly. At the Royal Shakespeare Theatre until 17th November – don’t miss it!

Production photos by Helen Maybanks

India – Dhubela Museum and Orchha

Posted on October 18, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

After breakfast, we had to tear ourselves away from the luxury that was the Hotel Lalit in Khajuraho; and it was a rift, I can tell you. But Sachun was very keen to get going, and he was right, because we had a lot to cover over the course of the day. The route to Orchha took us first through the town of Chhatarpur, which Sachun wanted to show us because it was where he was born and still lived. He waxed lyrical about it, but as far as I could make out, it was just another town. Apologies to anyone proud of their relationship with Chhatarpur. We stopped for some bananas from a man with a banana stall, and I agree they were delicious. I’m sure Sachun could have made a case for the finest bananas in the world coming from Chhatarpur, but he stopped short. He pointed out the road where he lived. For an awful moment I thought we were going to have to take tea with his mum, but we continued on.

I’m being unfair, because Sachun’s local knowledge was excellent and he took us to a few places off the beaten track that I expect few tourists get to see. About ten miles north west of Chhatarpur, on the road to Nowgong, we stopped off at a lake. Mr Singh took the car a short way down towards a causeway that led to a little island on which perched the Shani Temple. We walked towards it as far as we could without getting our feet wet. As we got closer, I could see that a priest on the island had decided to wade out to greet us. Would we like to cross the water to see the temple? Not really, to be honest. We were happy enough seeing it from afar. The priest seemed a little disgruntled, having got wet for nothing. It is, however, an extremely picturesque location. There were a group of boys wandering down the causeway too. Sachun suggested we had a chat with them, although he thought they would probably be quite embarrassed and tongue-tied. As expected, they were supremely polite, but got very animated when we mentioned cricket.

We got back to the car and then just a mile or two later we arrived at a village that Sachun called Mahusanian, but in maps appears to be called Mau-Sahaniya. It’s just on the other side of the National Highway 75. It’s a sleepy little place that leads to another lake, but just before you reach it you find the remains (and I use the word wisely) of the Hridayashah Palace. It was originally built in 1733 for the eldest son of Maharaja Chhatrasal, and work is underway to restore it to some of its former glory. It might take some time – the workmen we saw there were definitely operating at an unhurried pace.

Just a little beyond the palace, you reach yet another lake; a couple of guys had parked up their motorbikes and were having a bit of a wash and a splash, as you do. Adjacent to the lake is the austerely named Maharaja Chhatrasal Interpretation Center. This is nothing to do with language skills, but a museum, which our travel agents referred to as Dhubela Museum. It contains the Maharaja’s cenotaph; and many other interesting artefacts of days gone by. It was opened in 1955 by none other than Prime Minister Nehru. It’s a good display of locally found carvings, Jain statues, pillar inscriptions, Nandi bulls and yet more erotic sculptures, a la Khajuraho. There’s a collection of weapons and instruments of torture; and, totally unexpectedly and out of place, a hall of mirrors like you used to get at the funfair that distort your image, making you short and fat, or long and tall, and all other combinations in between. I guess the Maharaja had a sense of humour after all.

Another drive, and 66 miles later we arrived at Orchha. We checked into our hotel, the Amar Mahal, which our travel agent said was the best they could provide in the town but it “was only 3-star”. You only have to look at the homepage of their website to understand that 3-star can encompass a whole new world of luxury. We were booked into a Luxury Deluxe Room, that offered us more comfort than you could imagine. It’s true – the wifi was patchy, and the restaurant was a little… agricultural in its service, but it was such a splendid setting that you could forgive them anything. Although, I have to say – at breakfast, they offered the most disgusting croissants I have ever had the misfortune to leave on a plate. Don’t go anywhere near them. There’s a shop outside with an A-board in front of it that genuinely reads: “Ladakhi handicrafts, Tibetan jewellery, Pashmina Yak wool, shawl’s and scarf’s (sic), Cashmere pullovers – visit for more junk”. Well you can’t say fairer than that. We did indeed visit, and Mrs Chrisparkle came away with three more scarves, because she really doesn’t have enough scarves (there are drawers and drawers of the damn things at home.) Always room for more scarves.

Orchha is a charming town, attractively positioned on a rocky island, enclosed by a loop of the Betwa river. Its main sight is the extravagant Jahangir Mahal Palace, built by the Bundela king Bir Singh Deo, and named after the Mughal emperor Jahangir who overnighted there. It’s right in the centre of the old fortified town and dominates the view. The decorations, including the glazed tilework, are still in outstanding condition, and it’s a very beautiful, as well as intimidatingly grand, palace. Wandering around, there are so many little archways, and tiny rooms and nooks and crannies where you can get lost thinking about how it would have looked almost 300 years ago. One side overlooks the river, and gives you stunning natural views all around. It’s noticeable that there are many wild vultures all around, perched at the top of domes, on window ledges, and so on – a little more interesting than the pigeons we’d have in the UK. The vultures are encouraged, as vulture conservation is very important in this area.

Outside the old town, we dropped down to the road level and where it crosses the river. The road, from one side of the river to the other, is extremely perilous and you really wouldn’t want to cross it at night. Even walking across by day was scary, especially if you had to move to the sides to let a car or, even worse, a bus go past. It was getting late too – and by the time we’d walked across the river and back again, and headed towards the town centre, the lights were coming on and Orchha was moving into night mode. That meant lots of activity at the temple, and Sachun encouraged us to stay out – or go back to the hotel and come out again – to witness what I understood to be some kind of “extreme worship” at this one particular temple. It sounded genuinely fascinating, but we were too tired. A return to the Amar Mahal was a must.

Review – Richard Alston Dance Company, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 16th October 2018

Posted on October 17, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

It’s always a pleasure to see the Richard Alston Dance Company on their autumn tour – I’ve been a fan (there’s no point denying it) since I first saw the company in 1998, although I’ve enjoyed his choreography since I first saw Rambert perform Rainbow Ripples back in 1980. The word on the street is that this is his penultimate annual tour before the company closes in 2020 – dark days ahead for contemporary dance lovers; particularly as the current casting of the company has many new fresh-faced young dancers honing their skills, performing great dance and promising even greater things in the future.

Mr Alston introduced the evening with an explanation of the first two items on the menu. Like last year, we began with a curtain raiser featuring young local talent. We watched eight young dancers from Northampton School for Boys performing Lost Child, choreographed by their teacher, Alison Clinton, inspired by the story of Peter Pan. We were genuinely impressed with their commitment, skill and artistry. It was full of character and story-telling, and dotted with many moments of humour; and some terrific leaps too. Above all, you could tell that they really enjoyed it; and that sense of pleasure always communicates itself back on to the audience so that we loved it too. Congratulations team; we were happy to tell a couple of the guys during the first interval how much we enjoyed their performance – and they seemed happy to hear it.

Mr Alston also wanted to explain the thought process behind the next piece, Mid Century Modern. To celebrate his fifty years as a choreographer, this is like an Alston’s Greatest Hits sequence; six excerpts from dances he has choreographed over the years. They’re not in chronological order, they’re ordered to create a contrasting impact. It’s also an excellent way to introduce us to the company, as two of the pieces are solos, another is a duet, and the rest involve everyone.

We started with Fever (2001), a showcase for Elly Braund and Nicholas Shikkis, amongst the very finest dancers performing today. They commanded the stage with their immense control and fluidity; totally engrossed with the accompanying madrigal music. Nowhere Slowly (1970) is Mr Alston’s earliest extant piece of choreography, and features the excellent Jennifer Hayes encircling the stage in a deceptively simple action of dance drama. Blue Schubert Fragments (1972), set to a Schubert Adagio from Death and the Maiden, is a charming piece that suggests how peoples’ lives can be interwoven by the same activity. The excerpt from Rainbow Bandit (1977) was danced in total silence and shows how concentration itself can be beautiful – I would have loved to hear the “Rainbow Chuck Bandit” vocal soundtrack again though! The solo from Shimmer (2004) is a monument to elegance, and a perfect vehicle for new company rising star Joshua Harriette. Finally there was a sequence from Signal of a Shake (1999), one of those crowd-pleasing numbers where the story was told twice – the second time at top speed – to the stately sounds of Handel. The variety of styles and the superb execution made this an excellent opener to the Alston programme.

After the first interval we returned for Martin Lawrance’s new work, Detour. Seven dancers react to the highly percussive soundtrack from Michael Gordon’s Timber Remixed, which reminded me of the sound of helicopter wings revolving continually, more frenetically, until the sound was just an electronic blur. Very exciting and mesmerically beautiful, this demands a lot from its dancers, combining speed with elegance as it hurtles towards its final crescendo. The final coupling of Monique Jonas and Joshua Harriette was mind-blowing, with their almost circus-skill balancing act. We both absolutely loved it. Then it was time for Richard Alston’s 2006 work, Proverb, with its intriguing soundtrack of the repeated line “how small a thought it takes to fill a whole life”, embellished and enhanced so that it resembles some form of Gregorian Chant. I particularly appreciated Peter Todd’s costumes – coloured, textured dresses that had been invaded by black down one side, as though in perpetual half-mourning. The full company of dancers all worked together to create an image of interdependence and harmony; a heart-warming message in these rather fractious times.

After the second interval we returned for another new piece – Richard Alston’s Brahms Hungarian, a sequence of ten dances to the accompaniment of those famous Brahms’ Hungarian Dances but not, as they usually are, played by a full orchestra, but to the plaintive and delicate notes of Jason Ridgway on the piano. This was a fabulous way to end the evening. The traditional Gypsy rhythms inspired some very grand and formal, yet expressive, choreography; and I admired Fotini Dinou’s swirling floral dresses for the female dancers, matched by stark and smart angular jackets for the men. I think this is the closest I’ve seen Richard Alston choreograph something so closely akin to classical ballet, with the girls on tiptoe (they’d be en pointe if they were in the right shoes) and the men supporting the women in an (almost) traditional pas de deux. It was stunning.

With a number of changes in personnel in the company’s line-up (five dancers from last year’s show have moved on, five remained) I feared there might be some “gaps” in this year’s offering, but not a bit of it. The company is as strong as ever and gave us a truly superb night of dance. Congratulations to all!

Review – The Thirteenth Malcolm Arnold Festival Gala Concert – The Consummate Communicator; BBC Concert Orchestra, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 14th October 2018

Posted on October 16, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

The annual Gala Concert of the Malcolm Arnold Festival is always a thing of beauty and a delight to the ear. Northampton’s famous son turned his hand to so many different styles of music, that it’s great to cherish this festival. It’s inevitably a source of great fascination to hear some pieces you haven’t heard before, and to admire his mix of quirkiness and solemnity. For this concert by the BBC Concert Orchestra, our conductor was Keith Lockhart, a dapper chap with a spring in his step who let the music do the talking. He spent most of his time perched atop a rather battered wooden podium that looked as though it had just come out of a shed, which didn’t really suit the glamour of the rest of the evening. When Mr Lockhart becomes engrossed in his music, his left foot starts to twitch and bounces around in appreciation of the music. When he gets really carried away, he does a series of jumps. Performance clearly oozes through every pore of him.

Our first item was Leonard Bernstein’s Symphonic Dances – West Side Story, and, as far as I’m concerned, definitely the best way to hear these uplifting tunes. Somewhere, Maria and I Have a Love dominate these symphonic dances, and the percussion and harp demand to be heard in addition to the usual string and brass instruments. The BCO were clearly in the mood for a lively evening of energetic playing and this piece brought out their showbizzy side; the performance went down a treat with the audience.

Next, we met our soloist for the evening, the brilliant clarinettist, Julian Bliss. We’ve seen Mr Bliss perform at the Royal and Derngate three times before, once with the Royal Philharmonic, and twice with the Worthing Symphony Orchestra as part of the Malcolm Arnold Festival in 2013 and 2014. For this concert, once again he played us something different. First up was a Scherzetto for Clarinet and Orchestra by Arnold, taken from his film score for the 1953 movie You Know What Sailors Are. The film is probably best forgotten, but the scherzetto is a brilliant little musical joke; a tune that cocks its head to one side, pokes its tongue out and saucily lifts its leg up. Mr Bliss played it with all the panache you’d expect.

Then he played the more thoughtful and introspective Clarinet Concerto by Aaron Copland – appropriate for this concert because Copland and Arnold were great friends. Two movements are joined by a cadenza, which Mr Bliss attacked with gusto. How he remembers all the nuances of the music – let alone the notes – without any sheet music beats me. It’s an engrossing piece and sometimes you wonder how the clarinet part and the orchestra part mesh together, but they always manage it. A very moving and rewarding way to guide us to the interval.

After the interval, we had a short speech from Paul Harris, the Festival Director, giving us a little extra insight into the pieces and the reasons why they were chosen for this concert. After a brief hiatus where the leader of the orchestra forgot to tune his colleagues up until he got a nudge from the violins behind (I have to say, orchestra leaders are getting younger every year) we welcomed back Mr Lockhart and went straight into our final piece, Malcolm Arnold’s 4th Symphony. In 1958, Britain saw race riots which affected Arnold deeply; he was dismayed and upset that such a thing could happen. So when he was commissioned to write a symphony the following year, he decided to involve instruments and rhythms that would have been more associated with African and Caribbean music, but integrating them into the formality of a “western” symphony, to show how the two can happily co-exist.

The result is a lively and wide-ranging symphony, given additional depths by the African and Caribbean elements. Mr Harris told us to watch out for Puerto Rican influences too, which is why the West Side Story piece fitted into the evening’s entertainment. I must say, I couldn’t really discern much of a West Side Story vibe, but I’m sure that’s my ears not working properly. Of its four movements, I much preferred the second (vivace ma non troppo) and the fourth (con fuoco – a lot of fuoco in fact.) There was a disturbing calm about the second movement – expressed beautifully by the orchestra– which reminded me of one of Arnold’s English Dances, but as though it had been fragmented, and half the notes removed to leave a ghostly hint of the original. The fourth was full of power and amazingly lush arrangements on which the orchestra truly went to town.

As always, the Malcolm Arnold Festival Gala Concert was a complete treat, and an essential part of the Royal and Derngate’s classical offerings of the year.

Review – Screaming Blue Murder, Underground at the Derngate, Northampton, 12th October 2018

Posted on October 15, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

Another Friday night, another sold-out Screaming Blue Murder comedy club night. Last time, our genial host Dan Evans never made it to Northampton as his old jalopy gave up the ghost at Milton Keynes, and Meryl O’Rourke bravely stepped up to the mark. But lightning never strikes twice, etc, so surely he’d be there on time this week….surely…. But a 45-minute delay on the trains meant we were denied the pleasure of Dan’s company until the first interval. I dunno…. beginning to get a complex here.

Instead it fell to opening act and all-round political comedian par excellence, Joe Wells, to act as his own MC warm up before delivering his own 20-minute slot. With Mr Wells, you’re in a very safe pair of hands. We’ve seen him twice in Edinburgh, where you have to queue early to be sure of getting in, such is his word-of-mouth success. Us Northampton comedy crowds aren’t known for our fondness for political comedy, so I did wonder a little how well he would go down. I needn’t have worried. His brilliant political observations, as well as the other gems in his act were as well received as I have ever seen any Northampton audience respond to political comedy. What I love about his material, and his delivery, is the way he swipes the comedic rug from under your feet and sends you hurtling in directions you never foresaw. And hats off to Mr Wells for being complimentary about Northampton. Quite right too.

After the first interval Dan finally emerged out of the murkiness that is London Northwestern Railway to give us a slightly belated warm up. He had his hands full with front-row Angie, ebullient and no inhibitions, and they were a pretty good match for each other. There was also Architect Nick with his plans for a million-pound rugby club in Towcester. We weren’t impressed. But we were all aghast at Dan’s tale of the delay at Wolverton station being punctuated by the sight and sound of a guy opposite him in the train clipping his nails; not discreetly into a free newspaper but proudly on to the floor. We all retched.

Next up was someone we’ve also seen before a few times, Susan Murray – something of a Screaming Blue regular, this was the sixth time we’ve seen her here! She delivers a lot of great material based on accents – as she herself confesses, her Brummie voice isn’t an accent that goes skiing – and there’s a lot of mileage to be gained from her relationship with her strongly Glaswegian parents. She delivered a suitably savage put down to front-row Angie which hit home perfectly. Always very funny and quirky.

Our headline act was someone completely new to us – although he’s been on the circuit for yonks – Stefano Paolini. He truly does have a gift for accents and vocal gymnastics, and we loved his “foreign languages in British regional accents” section, as well as his reminiscences of his interview with the school careers adviser, which were every bit as useless as mine was all those years ago. And he beatboxes – but not just in a show-off way like every other beatboxer, but integrating it into comedy routines which works a treat. He brought the house down and I’d definitely look out for him in the future.

Next Screaming Blue in two weeks’ time. Two questions – will you be there? And will Dan?

India – Khajuraho

Posted on October 12, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

The flight from Varanasi to Khajuraho takes barely an hour and it was shortly before 2pm that we emerged from the airport with our bags packed in the back of the car by our regular driver Mr Singh, and were met by our new guide, Sachun. Sachun was a younger man, ambitious, well-fed; but without the usual carefree attitude that would normally accompany his age. He took excellent care of us, but sometimes you wondered precisely how accurate some of his facts were.

Khajuraho is a strange place. An entire resort has grown up, with airport, shops, and a large number of hotels, just because of this extraordinary complex of temples that have stayed remarkably intact over a thousand years. Hidden in dense forest for 700 years or more, they were rediscovered by Captain T S Burt of the Bengal Engineers in 1838, and were awarded UNESCO World Heritage Site status in 1986. 25 temples have been brought back to life; but local tradition has it that originally there were 85 temples, so ongoing excavations continue in the hope of finding more and more.

There was no point checking in to the hotel, we drove straight to the main sight – the Kandariya Mahadev Temple. When you first see it, it takes your breath away, as it’s so huge, so intricate and so perfect. Visitors flock to Khajuraho to see the amazing sculpture work on the walls of the temples and when you finally get to see them, they do not disappoint. It may be the erotic sculptures that are the most famous – and when you look at them you realise quite how uninhibited life must have been in India a thousand years ago – but they all tell a story, make you laugh, bring wonderment, cause admiration. If you had the time, and weren’t concerned about getting sunstroke, you could stand outside these buildings for days just admiring the carvings.

Take a look at these photographs, they explain what you can see here much better than words can. Observe the clothing which depicts people of higher standing, or the voluminous breasts of some of the women; the musicians, the warriors, the lovers, the animals, the servants, the gods. There are a few instances where men get so carried away with their sexual prowess that they get it on with animals – look away if you don’t want to see a horse surprised from behind. There’s a brilliant carving that depicts that – and an onlooker has to hide their eyes through embarrassment (or horror).

As the sun starts to fall a little lower in the sky, the golden rays make the outside surface of the temples even more beautiful. There’s a true richness to the warmth of the colour that really creates a stunning effect. The temples certainly have a different look about them at different times of the day. The majority of the main sights are in the Western group of temples but we were also taken to the Eastern group, where the Jain Parsvanatha Temple is considered one of the most remarkable.

Time defeated us, and we didn’t get a chance to see the Southern group of temples. Instead we drove to our hotel, the Lalit Temple View. It’s a beautiful, elegant, smart but friendly place, with a very attractive bar – the Mahua – and an excellent restaurant, with superb service. Our room was a Luxury Suite; it had a comfortable living room, a lovely bedroom and a really fantastic bathroom. We were made to feel welcome, and special, and it’s a hotel I’d go back to in an instant. The perfect place to while away a relaxing evening and to remember the extraordinary sights of the day.

Review – Touching the Void, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 9th October 2018

Posted on October 11, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

This is, by necessity, so full of spoilers that I really should warn you before you read it!

As usual, I discover that Mrs Chrisparkle and I are one of the few people never to have read Joe Simpson’s Touching the Void, nor seen the film, nor even heard of it. For someone who likes to think they have their finger on the cultural pulse, I do sometimes wonder at my own ignorance. Anyway, you, gentle reader, will already know this is an extraordinary true-life account of mountaineer Joe’s very near-death experience as he survived in a glacier with a broken leg withneither food, water nor company for three days on the Siula Grande in the Peruvian Andes in 1985. All I knew was that it was a book, written by and about the central character, inspired by his experience. I did not know that it was 100% factual; I thought perhaps it was part true-life, part fiction. So, when everyone else in the theatre knew that, somehow, at the end of the play, he would survive… I didn’t.

To take a book like this and recreate it on a stage takes true vision and bravery, and the whole creative team of writer David Greig, director Tom Morris, designer Ti Green, lighting designer Chris Davey, composer Jon Nicholls and movement director Sasha Milavic Davies have done an extraordinary job of bringing the story to life without actually having to take us to a perilous part of Peru. You very much get the impression of this being a stage representation of a Hollywood Adventure Blockbuster; characters helplessly half-suspended from a hostile snow-covered mountain, with the wind and the rain pounding against them, and, just like you would in the movies, you find yourself chewing your fingers with tension to see how they’re going to get out of this situation – if they can.

Much of what happens in the play takes place inside Joe Simpson’s head – even if we don’t realise it at the time – so the lines between reality and hallucination are thoroughly blurred. The use of humdrum day-to-day items to represent aspects of the mountain terrain – chairs, pub trays, a Gents sign, even a juke-box, help merge the ordinary with the extraordinary, to create a fascinating contrast. The staging and ideas are very inventive – for example, we both loved the use of peanuts as models! Tom Morris’ direction keeps us guessing on the finer details of the story right until the very end; and David Greig has found a way of staging a Scottish pub alongside a Peruvian mountain, with great delicacy and insight; he’s also fleshed out some fascinating characters, and given them some great lines.

Ti Green’s central masterpiece – her abstract impression of a mountain and glacier, constructed as a floating frame with white paper and material fixed to it – occupies your mind superbly as you wonder how on earth anyone could navigate through it. One truly thrilling effect is how they have repositioned gravity, so that if anything falls downwards, like a rope, or a man, it actually flies out through the back wall.This plays a marvellous visual trick with your brain and gives you an additional sense of the dangers risked by the mountaineers. Jon Nicholls’ haunting and luscious themes swell in to the action not unlike the dramatic background music in a David Attenborough programme – and Joe Simpson’s own Desert Island Discs choices also make themselves felt at odd moments during the play.

How often have you been to the theatre and said to yourself, well the second half was much better than the first…. It seems to me that basic dramatic structure requires for an escalation in tension, excitement, humour, farce, horror, whatever, to keep our attention and excitement… and as a result you expect a show to get better as it goes on. This was one of those rare occasions when the reverse is true. The sheer drama and theatrical electricity of the portrayal of Joe and Simon’s tackling the Siula Grande, with their death-defying climbing over the mountain and glacier is edge-of-your-seat stuff.Combined with Richard’s thrilling commentary of every step they took, where his microphone becomes more augmented and distorted and more terrifyingly unreal as it goes on, the first act culminates in a truly gripping scene that stays in your mind for ages afterwards. It certainly stopped Mrs C and I having a good night’s sleep that night! So you go into the interval literally speechless at the brilliance you have just witnessed.

Here comes the controversial bit. The downside to this, sadly, is that the second act, which mainly consists of Joe’s resilient attempts to stay alive when there is simply no hope, is quite static and repetitive in comparison, and – it grieves me to say this, because I feel really mean-spirited with such a visionary production – I got bored. So did Mrs C. The man next to me who was riveted in the first act, was fast asleep. I don’t think the extra-long interval helps, as the momentum that had been built up certainly weakens. The fact is, there are only so many times you can watch a man slowly crawl on the floor, screaming in agony and making unintelligible “muguhumptftuwumpf” sounds before you begin to drift off.I understand this is true to the book and to the film; and if the poor man did spend all that time on his own just surviving through sheer determination, then how else can you depict it on stage? But the truth remains that the huge adrenaline surge you get at the end of the first act just dissipates away during the second. So my reaction at the end of the play was simply “all that…. and he lived??” – which Mrs C said was probably one of the least gracious comments ever to be made about someone’s survival against all odds.

However, there are so many positive things about the extraordinary stagecraft of this production that I couldn’t possibly be grumpy about it. And all the performances are of suitably epic, or near-epic, proportions. Josh Williams gives a wonderfully optimistic and adventurous performance as Joe; you can just imagine that he would be the kind of charismatic guy who would talk you into an adventure where you risk your life just for the hell of it. He doesn’t hold back on expressing the pain and anguish of his injury and his plight. And how on earth does he get in and out of that Act Two sleeping bag without us noticing? Some pretty amazing stage magic there!

There’s also an excellent performance by Fiona Hampton as his sister Sarah; belligerently refusing to pander to the bland sympathies of Joe’s mountaineering mates, mockingly acting as the voice in Joe’s head encouraging him to find the strength to survive. Patrick McNamee’s Richard is a mild, well-meaning, unambitious dawdler who knows he’s at the bottom of the pecking order, happy to man base-camp if that’s what the alpha males want; and Edward Hayter’s Simon is also keen as mustard in the planning and mountaineering scenes,until it all goes horribly wrong, when he retreats into his shell. I did feel, however, that he underplayed the moral dilemma of the “cutting the rope” problem. It’s a fascinating question; you have a choice of both dying, or of saving yourself only – what do you do? If ever a play had a Big Issue, this is the one. But I felt that his remorse, such as it was, was no more than if he’d put the bins out late. I’m sure there should have been a lot of angst there that I just didn’t get.

If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know that I always prefer a brave failure to a lazy success. I wouldn’t by any means describe this as a failure because there is so much going for it – and its bravery is beyond question. You should definitely go and see it for yourself and make your own mind up. After it closes in Northampton on October 20th, the tour continues in 2019 to Edinburgh, Perth, Inverness and Hong Kong.

India – Varanasi

Posted on October 10, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

The next morning we were back on the road for the relatively short journey to Varanasi; once more we were with our guide Sapan, with whom we got on famously, and our skilful driver Mr Ashish, who smiled a lot. The journey was uneventful apart from some friendly encounters with a few elephants. I was pleased to get the picture ofthe elephant in the rear view windscreen – it suggested a lazier type of rush hour – but when another just sidled up to have a chat with Mr Ashish, it was too good an opportunity to miss, and the happy elephant enjoyed a few apples through the window whilst we snapped away with our cameras.

To make the best use of time in our next two days, when we were on the outskirts of Varanasi we started off by visiting Sarnath. This is a very sacred and significant site in Buddhism, for this was where the Buddha gave his first sermon after gaining enlightenment. An attractive path leads up to an impressive gateway which opens up to the complex as a whole. The highlight is the fifth century Dhamekh Stupa, which dominates the skyline – its position is meant to be where the Buddha gave his sermons. You can also see the Wheel of Law, and many people spent a long time there reading the translations and literally spinning the wheels. Buddhist monks sat on the grass with their learned books; we didn’t do that, but instead enjoyed close inspections of the carvings on the stupa. It’s a serene, spiritual place; there were many visitors but even so it felt quiet and sacred.

Varanasi itself is a vibrant, hectic, haphazard sort of place; full of shops that opened all day and night – or so it seemed to me – as you wandered down to the Ghats and back. We stayed at the Taj Gateway Hotel Ganges Varanasi, which was comfortable without being exceedingly grand. The Princep Bar is quite small but makes a pleasant port of call en route to the restaurant, to which you can gain access through a door at the back of the bar. Firmly entrenched in the 1970s, their bar snacks include cheese, pineapple and glacé cherries on a stick, the like of which haven’t been seen since Abigail’s Party. We stayed in an executive suite which was functional and a good size. We had a nice bedroom and a slightly austere living room. There was nothing about this hotel that made you feel really special, like some Indian hotels do. But we had absolutely no complaints.

After we checked in, on our first evening Sapan walked us down to the Ghats to experience the famous Aarti ceremony. This ceremony takes place every evening at Dashashwamedh Ghat, and people take their seats early to witness it. Many people watch it from a boat out on the water, but Sapan had secured us a roof terrace over a shop, and we soon realised we had a very privileged position. Hawkers sell drinks and food, well-to-do locals have their servants bring chairs for them to sit on which they position halfway down the steps to the Ghat. India being India, of course, the grand locals still had to contend with the occasional cow that came and sat down right in front of them. When the ceremony finally got underway, there were six platforms, jutting out into the water under flickering lights, where novice priests sang mantras, blew conch horns, rang bells, and lit incense and flaming torches. It’s a fascinating sight, and I would imagine if it was your religion you would be able to understand all kinds of finer points about what the priests were doing. After it was all over, everyone made their way back up the steps and along that major shopping road to the city centre. We returned to the Taj Gateway for dinner and I enjoyed the most scrummy Vegetarian Thali.

We couldn’t stay up late because we had an early morning start for a boat trip along the Ghats to see what the locals got up to at the crack of dawn. We returned back to the same Dashashwamedh Ghat, now much less busy than it had been the night before; Sapan established on which boat the three of us would venture, and it was a question of hopping from boat to boat to boat to boat before finally settling on le bateau juste. It was remarkably chilly first thing in the morning, so wrapped up in our fleeces, we were rowed down the river and watched as the morning worshippers came to wash themselves in the holy Ganges. Past Munshi Ghat, Rana Mahal Ghat, Chousati Ghat, Babua Pandey Ghat, Raja Ghat, Mansarowar Ghat; individually the Ghats are not particularly attractive, but the cumulative effect of seeing them all is fascinating, and of course seeing how alive they are with people, even at ridiculous o’clock in the morning.

At the red lined steps of Keda Ghat, we turned around and retraced our steps. Sunrise was taking hold of Varanasi and absolutely stunning it was too – you couldn’t decide which direction to look in, as each was more beautiful than the last. We went past Dashashwamedh Ghat again and continued in the opposite direction until we reached the funeral pyres of Manikarnika Ghat. We were a little alarmed at the prospect of visiting this Ghat, but there’s really no need. For the locals, death is very much part of life and, although it’s an honour for a family member to be involved in preparing the body for cremation, and to take it down to the Ghat and actually burn it, it’s also a very commonplace sight. Bodies are cremated here on a continuous basis – it’s almost a conveyor belt of the dead. There is no smell, and you simply observe the final journey on earth of the dead from a respectful distance; you are not allowed to take photos too close. A remarkably peaceful and strangely unshocking experience.

It was at this point that we disembarked our boat and accompanied Sapan on a walking tour of old Varanasi town. We explored extremely narrow lanes where you have to dodge not only other pedestrians but also plenty of motorbikes, a considerable number of cows – and you have to be careful, obviously, what you step into. Hindu temples, mosques, a school; deceptively spacious townhouses, elegant front doors, intricate shrines; they’re all there. It’s hard to linger and take photographs because if you stop, someone else is bound to walk/drive/moo straight into you. The overwhelming assault on the senses is typical of why I love India so much.

Back inside the comfort of our car, it was time for a quick drive to visit the Benares Hindu University, another highly regarded establishment. I was fascinated to see endless hoardings encouraging the students not to engage in ragging. In the United Kingdom we think of Rag Week as being a bit of fun (and somewhat outdated). In India, and particularly at this university, they have taken the practice a little further and some students have been killed because of stupid and dangerous pranks; or have taken their own lives due to bullying. The University is also the home to the Shree Vishwanath Temple. It’s very beautiful, very crowded, and you’re not allowed to take photographs.

Our final stop-off was at the Bharat Mata Temple. This was constructed in 1936 and has one of those wonderful Indian signs outside welcoming you in painful English: “Relevent (sic) visitors are requested with folded hands to take off their shoes down below the stair outside the temple in deefrance (sic) to the founder’s holy sentiments only there after take trouble to enter the same”. However, once you get inside you find virtually all holy sentiments have been removed to create an homage to Mother India. The centre contains a fascinating relief map of the country, and it’s fun spotting where you are and where you’ve been. The brainchild of Shiv Prasad Gupta, and inaugurated by Mahatma Gandhi, it’s certainly a Hindu temple with a difference.

And that concluded our two days in Varanasi, and our five days being looked after by Sapan – who was fantastic. We saw Mr Ashish one more time, the next day, as he drove us to Varanasi airport for the next stage of our adventure – the flight to Khajuraho.

India – Allahabad

Posted on October 8, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

It’s only about 3 and a half hours to drive from Lucknow to Allahabad, still in the company of Sapan and Mr Ashish, and other than a tricky bit of negotiating the level crossing a little before the town of Kunda, all went well. On arrival in this amazing city, we checked into our hotel, the Kanha Shyam. Our travel agents had advised us that hotels in Allahabad were on the sparse and spartan side, and that the Kanha Shyam was the best they could offer. We had a Chamber Room – it was on the top floor and bizarrely had a door that opened out onto the hotel roof – not a roof terrace, but the actual roof itself. It didn’t feel entirely secure, but I’m sure we weren’t in any danger, and it did offer rather spectacular views of the city! The hotel itself had a very enjoyable and atmospheric bar – the Celebrity Bar – which was monopolised by a rather rotund and garrulous gentleman who smelled of whisky and treated everyone in the bar as his long-lost friend. For dinner, we originally tried the Jannat restaurant but it felt uncomfortable being the only diners and having about twenty surly looking waiters hovering around you. We felt much more at home in the Patio lobby café, and whilst there wasn’t a huge selection of meals on offer, they were very good quality.

Our exploration of the city began at the university. Established in 1887, it is the fourth oldest in India and has a very good reputation. Only a small area is open to the public, but we had a good walk around and met a number of the students who were all fascinated to talk to us, including several older men – I don’t think they get many western tourists in Allahabad. There’s something rather Italianate about the architecture, with its warm colours and elegant arches – the clock tower is more campanile than casbah. Outside the university gates, you are definitely in familiar Indian territory: areas of waste land by the side of the road used for dumping rubbish and, amongst the mess, playing cricket.

But the main emphasis of Allahabad is on the river. You’re merrily driving along typical Indian inner-city roads when suddenly the vista opens and your car is leading you down to the water’s edge. The city is sited on the confluence of two holy rivers, the Ganga and the Yamuna (and a third, invisible, river, the Saraswati, for good measure.) It’s a focal point both for people from the local area and from all over India, to come and get washed in the river to cleanse their sins. It was relatively quiet on the day we were there – a November Monday – so I think on a busy day it would be somewhat hectic!

Sapan led us on a walk out off the road and on to the sand, although plenty of people just drove their cars across the sand and park as close to the water as possible. Various family units had set up camp, with windbreaks and places to sit, as well as several stalls selling the usual offerings you would make to a God – garlands, and such like – as well as food and drink for the pilgrims. A word of warning: a lady came forward waving a garland at Mrs Chrisparkle, who nodded in approval – by which she meant, yes, that’s a pretty garland – but the lady assumed it meant she was going to buy it. When Mrs C subsequently declined it, the lady got pretty narked. We walked on in a hurry, no harm done, although Sapan cut himself a little chuckle at her schoolgirl error.

Following the water’s edge, we walked for about a quarter of an hour, observing the people and thinking how extremely rickety the boats looked. Eventually Sapan spoke to one of the boatmen and a deal was struck. We clambered on board and my weight made the whole thing seem alarmingly sensitive to movement and avoirdupois. The boatman insisted I sat in one particular position, to keep the balance, and then Sapan and Mrs C had to fill in the spaces around me. Once we were settled, off we went, out into the flowing current of the Yamuna, to its junction with the Ganges.

It wasn’t exactly a serene journey – it was too exciting to be serene. There were so many boats, many of them packed to the rafters with pilgrims, nipping about in all different directions, that you had to keep your wits about you in case of an accidental collision. But our man was very experienced, and we were perfectly safe as he rowed us laboriously to the holiest part of the water’s edge. He got close enough to the shore for us not to get too wet as we disembarked. Obviously Sapan had paid him enough to secure the round trip, so he waited whilst we wandered over to all the people washing in the Ganges.

This was a truly humbling experience. We were the only western tourists there – most tourists only go to Varanasi, as indeed we would the next day. So our presence was quickly noted by everyone, but we felt so welcome and completely at ease as we met and shook hands with so many people, took their photos, posed for photos with them, and just enjoyed each others’ company. It was noticeable that they were nearly all big family groups on a day out: grandparents, parents, children, babies, everyone mucking in together to access the healing waters of the Ganges. There were stretches there where the water was very shallow, so men and boys would walk out quite a long way and form little clusters of people at sea, so that they resembled little islands off the coast. With their colourful clothes, the flags on the boats stretching high into the sky and the myriad of people everywhere, this was a moving and extraordinary sight that I think will stay with me forever.

Our rower had waited patiently and took us back the same way near to where we had parked the car. We had completely lost track of time and when we did get back I was very surprised to see that sunlight was fading fast. We had a brief walk around the parts of Allahabad Fort that you can get into – it was built by Akbar in 1583 and is mainly notable for a pillar that we didn’t see. Back in the city we took a quick trip to All Saints’ Cathedral, built in 1877 for the British population at the time; allegedly it’s the oldest Christian church in Asia. It’s a grand, serious old building; sadly not open when we were there, but we did have the pleasure of meeting the vicar, who had taught our guide Sapan when he was a boy. He was an avuncular old chap, one of those elderly Indian men who love everything about England. Although we couldn’t go in, he did show us his enormous key ring for the church – he had just finished locking up – and it weighed a ton. He was clearly stronger than he looked.

And that was our brief trip to Allahabad. Not many sights, but that time spent on the Ganges was absolutely magic and was probably the highlight of the entire holiday. Back at the Kanha Shyam, we were just left to have a lively evening at the Celebrity bar, trying to hide from the garrulous and drunk old gentleman. We largely succeeded, although he did say something about going to his place for breakfast in the morning. I’m sure his wife wasn’t too disappointed when we didn’t turn up.

India – Lucknow

Posted on October 5, 2018 by therealchrisparkle

Greetings, gentle reader. It’s been four years since I last wrote a travel blog – the most recent trip that I wrote about was our visit to Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia in March 2014 – if you’d like to read more, please just click on the Travel tab at the top of the page. Since then, we’ve been lucky to visit India quite a few times and I had planned to write a series of posts about all our visits there over the last four years. However, I reckon that could just be a bit too much for you, and I don’t want to bore you with excessive detail! So instead, I have written up our trips from 2016 and 2017 in a series of 13 (unlucky!) blog posts that I hope might stir your interest to visit that fascinating country. So here goes with the first one. And remember…

Please click on the photographs to get a better view!

Our 2016 trip to India (November 17th – December 3rd) started in Gurgaon, which may seem an odd place to launch a trip, but Mrs Chrisparkle has some colleagues there and so popped round once or twice to make sure everyone was ok. It was left to me to lounge by the pool and tackle the lunchtime buffet single-handed. It was a tough job, but I think I came to grips with it. We were staying at the Oberoi; there was an expensive looking wedding going on which meant they unfortunately had to upgrade us to one of their Premier Suites. The Rack Rate is 400,000 rupees per night; at the time, the equivalent to about £4,770 per night. Gosh. No wonder we thought it was nice. We had one more night there at the end of our holiday – sadly we didn’t get the same upgrade. But the Premier Room was most pleasant too; and there’s nothing more toe-curlingly pleasurable than experiencing Oberoi hospitality.

We had to get up at hideous o’clock in order to get the car to Delhi airport, then go through the rigmarole of a) getting into the airport (security requires that you show your documents to the policeman or soldier at the entrance to the airport and they scrutinise every page extremely slowly), and b) checking in, only to be told you have to go somewhere else to pay the 500 rupees for excess baggage – baggage allowances on Indian domestic flights are notoriously skinflint. Still, it’s a quick flight, and we were met at Lucknow airport by our smiling guide Sapan and our even more smiling driver Mr Ashish, then taken to the Vivanta by Taj Gomti Nagar to check in. It’s a really smart and elegant hotel and I would say we enjoyed it more than any other Vivanta by Taj hotel we’ve tried. We had a Deluxe Delight room with Garden view and it was very comfortable and well appointed. We were there for two nights and dined at the Oudhyana both evenings, where we were really well looked after by Shubham, Arun and Najeev. The Saqi bar is one of those noisy, glamorous and really naughty-feeling Indian bars that they do so well.

After a brief pause, Sapan collected us and took us for our afternoon trip visiting some of the sites towards the outskirts of the city. First up was a visit to La Martinière College, built by Major General Claude Martin – his tomb lies in the basement – in the style of an extravagant Gothic French chateau. When he died, his will stipulated that it should become a school for boys, and thus the college was founded in 1845. There’s a serene elegance to the whole place, even when you bump into groups of extremely well-behaved and privileged boys, who have that air of well-educated confidence when comfortably enjoying each other’s company, but remain shy and reserved if you approach them individually. Sapan suggested we spoke to one of the boys – we did; he was, as you would expect, supremely polite but also overwhelmed with tongue-tied embarrassment.

Outside there are Olympic-type figures set in the gardens encouraging sporting prowess; inside, the library has the air of a gentleman’s club. On the steps leading up to the entrance, alumni have written their names in the concrete as indelible proof that they studied there. One hopes Messrs Rigby, Attwell, Route and Nooruddin put their excellent education to good use. An award ceremony was taking place that day, and silver cups were proudly displayed on a table at the foot of the steps to the entrance, celebrating achievement in athletics, hockey, swimming and other sports. There were lots of proud looking mothers too. It was a charming insight into a particular Indian lifestyle that the average tourist rarely encounters, and we really enjoyed the experience.

From there we visited the Dilkusha Palace and Gardens. It was constructed by the British Major Gore Ouseley for his friend the Nawab Saadat Ali Khan II. Legend has it that when the Nawab saw it in all its glory once it had been constructed, he said “Dil khush hua”, which means “my heart is pleased” – hence the name Dilkusha. I’m not sure how pleased he’d be today, as it suffered greatly during the siege of Lucknow, although it still offers a real idea of how splendid it must once have been, and its gardens are beautifully maintained throughout. There’s a rather stark grave to Lieutenant Charles Keith Dashwood, who died, November 22nd 1857, aged 19. Not as a result of the siege of Lucknow, bizarrely, as this fascinating account relates.

We were having a leisurely walk around the grounds when a young man approached us – extremely polite, and wanting to try out his English, which was not half bad. Would we come and meet his friends and hear him sing and play his guitar, he asked. You can never be quite sure what you’re walking into under such circumstances, but he seemed genuine and Sapan didn’t seem over-concerned, so we did it. There were about eight young guys, all pretty high on weed to be honest, but relaxed as a consequence. Our chap picked up his guitar and started to sing Adele’s Chasing Pavements. He clearly didn’t know all the words and made up some similarly sounding sounds at times, which he knew was rubbish, and it made us all laugh. For about three minutes, Mrs C and I became hippies. We said our thank yous and goodbyes and left them to strum away and smoke some more weird stuff.

Our final port of call for this first afternoon was something extremely different. Right in the middle of the city is a vast modern park, known locally as Ambedkar Memorial Park, but with the official title of Dr. Bhimrao Ambedkar Samajik Parivartan Prateek Sthal. At first sight, it looks like one of those vast memorials to something Soviet from a former age, or maybe a huge religious shrine to some cult deity. In fact, it is the modern equivalent of a hybrid of the two. It was created, planned and masterminded by Ms Mayawati, the Chief Minister of the state of Uttar Pradesh and opened in 2008.

It’s breathtaking in many ways, and we had enormous fun exploring it, taking photos, and getting the general vibe of the place. It was sunset, the perfect time to see it. But the most breathtaking aspect to it is the realisation that it is one enormous ego-trip by the Chief Minister. It is a shrine to herself. 60-odd elephants line the route to the gallery where her good works are displayed, like something out of North Korea. She appears everywhere, in statues clutching her horrible handbag, dwarfing more minor figures such as, for instance, Lord Buddha. She appears in tableaux leading parliaments, or healing the sick. The place expects silent admiration for her, but the visitors treat it as an enormous playground, with a hilarious lack of respect for her pomposity and self-aggrandisement. It’s genuinely one of the funniest places we’ve ever visited. And the site itself throws a subtle side-twist in that you can see that much of this beautiful and enormous civic architecture is actually constructed out of really poor materials, so, for example, the elephants are losing their trunks with surprising rapidity and no one cares to replace or renovate anything on the site. Because, in the ultimate moment of hubris, having constructed this gigantic monument to herself, Ms Mayawati lost her seat in parliament. Honestly, you couldn’t make it up. But it’s a great place and I don’t think we’ll ever forget our time there. And that was quite enough for day one. We retreated to the – not safety, but danger – of the Saqi bar before indulging in a splendid feast at the Oudhyana.

Next morning saw us up bright and reasonably early to take in perhaps the most historically significant sight in Lucknow – the Residency. You’ve heard of the famous Siege of Lucknow – well, this is where it took place. Over five months in 1857, the British held on to this fortified enclave whilst it was attacked by rebellious sepoys. Estimates of the numbers of dead range from two to three thousand. Today, as you walk around, you can get a feel for both the grandeur of its original state – it was the home of all the top ranking British officials – and the horror of the consequent siege. Sad, part-destroyed, brick built walls mark out what would once have been splendid housing, whilst the open areas still offer a lovely green space with tall palm trees, so it is a popular area for local people to come and walk, have picnics and so on. There is a small museum, where they are very strict with their no-photo rule, you have to check your camera and phones in with a little man in a hut before approaching the building. Inside there are some fascinating old photos and mementos. You can also visit the graveyard of St Mary’s Church within the compound, and see the names of those who were lost in the siege. It’s tranquil, and quite beautiful; and you really feel you’re at the heart of a most significant historical event.

Sapan took us on a short detour to see the once beautiful Chattar Manzil, the Umbrella Palace built between 1798 and 1814. This fine building has now dilapidated into disrepair. From 1950 it was the home to the Central Drug Research Institute, but they recently left and now all you’ll find here are a few security staff. It’s in a prime location so it shouldn’t be like this for long.

The next major sight we saw was the Bara Imambara. An Imambara is a congregation hall for Shia commemoration ceremonies, and Bara means “Great” – so you get the picture. This is an amazing place and you can spend hours here. First you have the beautiful Imambara hall itself, with its ostentatious ceiling, eye-catching lamps and stunning green walls – enjoy the photograph as I was told off for taking it. Apparently it is the largest structure in the world not to use pillars, beams or concrete walls. There is a stepwell to the side with inward-facing balconies and steps deep down into the earth. On the upper levels it also boasts the entertaining bhul-bhulaiya, or labyrinth, where tourists, families and illicit lovers like to run and hide. Seemingly endless corridors take you from one part of the building to another, with many a sheer-edge drop out of a window at the top of the building. You wouldn’t want to do it after too many bottles of Kingfisher. 489 identical doorways mean you can easily get lost, but there are some great photo opportunities to relish as you do so. The site also houses an extravagant Asafi Mosque, and outside you can see the Rumi Darwaza, or west-facing entrance to the Imambara; looking completely different from the outside than it does on the inside.

We walked on up Napier Road to view the Chota Imambara, and then doubled-back on ourselves to walk past the Husainabad Clock Tower, erected in 1887 to welcome Sir George Cooper, the first lieutenant governor. It’s situated in a wide open dusty area, designed for local boys to hone their cricketing skills. There’s also a rather foreboding art gallery, worth popping in, because Indian paintings always have that “just different” look. Unfortunately, you can’t take photos. One last place to visit on our way back to the hotel – the tombs of the fifth Nawab, Saadat Ali Khan, and his wife, Khurshid Zadi. Unfortunately, they were closed when we got there so we just had a stroll around the attractive park and took a few selfies.

And that was our visit to Lucknow! Grand, friendly, funny, welcoming and oozing history from every pore. Another night to spend in the Vivanta by Taj, and the next day we would be back on the road, for the four-hour, south-easterly drive to the sacred city of Allahabad.