Death on the Riviera with a Negroni

Whilst Shetland is having the best summer anyone can seem to remember (sunnier than Cornwall in July, and no crowds on the beaches) Leicestershire is putting on an energy sapping display of grey clouds and what feels like near constant rain (the sun has come out occasionally, but mostly when I've been at work, and never for long).

Thank god then for books which conjure the idea of summer and sun when nature doesn't oblige. I've been enjoying Kay Plunkett-Hogge's 'Aperitivo' (it started off looking like something I didn't need, but quickly turned into such an engaging book that I couldn't go home without it), so much so that I'm almost convinced to try, again, to appreciate Campari. Kay has a lot to say about Campari generally, and almost as much to say about Negronis specifically.*

I might struggle to really enjoy Campari's distinctive bitterness, but plenty of other people love it. It's been around since 1860, but really became popular after 1915. If you do like it, it's a great thing to have around because it goes into a few classic cocktails, the Negroni (closely followed by the Spritz) being the best known. At its most basic a Negroni is equal amounts of Campari, Gin (I agree with Kay about going for a classic like Beefeater) and vermouth, though there are plenty of variations regarding the gin, the vermouth, and the precise percentages, for perfectionists to pursue.

John Bude is maybe a bit of an acquired taste too, he was moderately successful as a crime writer in his own life time, but has sold far more as part of the Classic Crime series than he did in his own lifetime. One reason for this might well be that so many of his books are based in real places (Sussex Downs, Lake District, Cornish Coast, and of course the Riviera) the place becomes almost an extra character, and undoubtedly increases the nostalgic appeal of his work.

'Death on the Riviera' was first published in 1952, and is easily my favourite Bude (so far). I think it's the dash of humour that I particularly like, most of it fairly gentle, that and the sense of a smoggy miserable London abandoned in favour of the sunny Riviera. I believe I remember Brandy being drunk more than anything else in this one, but I'm certain that Nesta Hedderwick's bohemian guests would have put away any amount of Campari, quite likely in Negroni form.

*Aperitivo has lots of variations on the gin/bitters/vermouth theme. Vermouth is really useful to have in the kitchen but should be used reasonably quickly (within a couple of weeks) once opened. There are plenty of prompts here to use it up - much better than finding a sadly oxidised bottle some months later.

Classic Crime and Cocktails

The Story of Classic Crime in 100 Books with a Tom Collins

I've been happily working my way through Martin Edwards 'The Story of Classic Crime in 100 Books' for the last month or so (read it for to long at a stretch and the resulting wish list quickly gets out of hand). It's excellent, and mentions many more than 100 books, so there are a lot of avenues to explore. The British Library Crime Classics series has also now passed the 50 titles mark, ('The Story of Classic Crime' serves as a companion to the series) with the promise of plenty more to come, which is good news all round.

Edwards says in his introduction to 'Classic Crime' that "The main aim of detective stories is to entertain, but the best cast a light on human behaviour, and display both literary ambition and accomplishment. And there is another reason why millions of modern readers continue to appreciate classic crime fiction. Even unpretentious detective stories, written for unashamedly commercial reasons, can give us clues to the past and give us insight into a long vanished world, that for all its imperfections, continues to fascinate".

It's a statement that sums up why I read so many of the books that I do, and what I enjoy about them. Any vaguely nostalgic yearnings for a different time are the least of it (and don't really go back any further than long school holidays with rainy afternoons spent fishing through disintegrating  boxes in the attic which often turned up slightly mouldy old book club editions). I am really fascinated by the clues and insight into a not so distant part though.

With all of that in mind I thought it was time for another booze and books series, but this time specifically focusing on the Crime Classics series, and cocktails of a similar vintage. (Cocktails and crime fiction seem to have evolved at roughly the same time, and certainly enjoyed a joint 'golden age' between the wars - and that's the line I'm sticking with).

I've been looking for simple cocktails that call for a minimum of ingredients mostly to answer the 'and how to you drink this/what do you mix it with' questions I get at work, and because I think they're the sort that work best at home. (I'm not a natural when it comes to mixology, and don't have the space or money for an extended collection of liqueurs).

The 'Tom Collins' is an obvious start point - first recorded in the second edition of Jerry Thomas' 'The Bartenders Guide' (1876) there are some great stories about its origin. The first, from America, suggests it got its name from a hoax played in 1874 (it made the papers). People would be told that somebody called Tom Collins was in such and such a bar spreading nasty rumours about them, but when they got there and asked for him they got a drink instead... An alternative British version suggests that it's name got mixed up with that of John Collins, head waiter at Limmers Hotel on Conduit street, London (familiar to Georgette Heyer fans) in the 1870's. He served a gin drink that fits the same description, and would probably have been a close relation to Georgian Gin punches.

The Jerry Thomas version calls for five or six dashes of sugar syrup, the juice of a small lemon, one large wineglass of gin (large wine glasses of the period were rather smaller than now) and two are three lumps of ice. Shake well, and strain into a large bar glass (a Collins glass!) and fill up with plain soda water. Imbibe while it is lively. Whisky or brandy can be used instead of gin. Later versions throw in a marischino cherry.

This is basically gin with (a good quality, and properly lemony) lemonade, but it can be made sweet or sour to taste and makes an excellent alternative to a gin and tonic. For real authenticity use an 'Old Tom' Gin for a British version, or a Dutch genever for the American. I can't help but think it would also be an especially good match with William Stephens Hayward's 'Revelations of a Lady Detective' as well.

I generally read with nothing stronger than a cup of tea or coffee to hand, but all Cocktail suggestions are welcome.

Marling Hall - Angela Thirkell

still in 1942, but this time in Barsetshire and the War is everywhere. It's a very different atmosphere to George Bellairs 'Death of a Busybody' where he ignored it as far as possible. As ever with Angela Thirkell reading her books once is not enough (I'm very grateful for the Internet and the access it gives me to the Angela Thirkell society's guides go her novels. Invaluable for chasing down references.) there's so much detail that a lot of it will always slip past me first read round.

That's partly because the first time I read these books I'm sort of concentrating on the plot, such as it is, and trying to keep everybody's relationships, names, and children straight. After that it's Thirkell's rather malicious humour as she digs her pen into people or types that annoy her. And then there's her insiders view of an upper middle class world under increasing threat.

'Marling Hall' opens with William Marling, squire of Marling Hall, a man in late middle age contemplating 'his small and much loved world crumbling beneath his feet during his life and a fair probability that his family will never be able to live in Marling Hall after his death.' Regardless of how you might feel about class, this is a sad reflection - it's not the relative luxury, but the personal history, and the pride in being able to pass something beloved on to the next generation that's being threatened. Knowing the number of country houses that were demolished post war (see Here for more), some of them of real architectural significance, it isn't unlikely that Marling Hall would have been raised to the ground. I don't know if Thirkell had any inkling if the scale of the destruction that would come with peace when she wrote this, but it lends a considerable pathos to her defence of old county ways.

There's a lot about the county set in 'Marling Hall' and I will admit that I'm feeling faintly nostalgic for my memories of what that meant when I was a child. Men in tweed suits that they quite possibly had made before the war, or that may even have belonged to their fathers before them and frankly intimidating women with pearls who looked capable of just about anything, mostly encountered at the local agricultural show. They would have been the generation that Thirkell is writing about here - something I hadn't really considered before, but is probably another reason I like her books (without wanting to live in one).

Something else I found particularly interesting in 'Marling Hall' is the focus in child rearing. In Thirkell's eyes this means the right kind of nurse/nanny followed by the right kind of governess, before going to the right kind of schools. It's definitely worth noting that her fictional school (Southbridge) seems to be filled with benign, well educated masters, who do not take pleasure in beating boys. Their diet is good, and they get hot water. This is very much at odds with just about any description of private schools I have ever read or heard.

The question of whether bringing up children is best left to professionals or parents is an interesting one though, but even more interesting is Thirkell's frank admission through one of her characters that her children are far easier to like because she isn't primarily responsible for their care. She can enjoy them without becoming tired or overwhelmed by them. It's not a point of view that fits with the #blessed Instagram image of motherhood - but it's honest.

On the other hand I get the impression that Thirkell would only defend her way of thinking so vehemently if it was under threat not just from outside forces, but from within her own glass/the class she writes about.

Death of a Busybody - George Bellairs

It turned out that two of the books I took on holiday with me were first published in 1942, and as both were basically always intended as light reading it was particularly interesting to realise how different their respective approaches to current events were.

The first book I read was a British Library crime classic (with a particularly lovely cover) - George Bellairs 'Death of a Busybody', the second was Angela Thirkell's 'Marling Hall' which will get its own post.

'Death of a Busybody' was perfect holiday reading, not in the least bit demanding, thoroughly entertaining, mildly funny, and enough underlying tension to give it some oomph. Miss Tither is a middle aged spinster with a prurient interest in her neighbours lives. She's given to spying on them, haranguing them for their sins, or informing their spouses/parents when they stray. It's an unattractive mix that's bound to lead to trouble so it's possible that nobody is very surprised when she turns up dead in the vicars cess pit.

The local police are busy with a number of other more or less serious local crimes do Beverly sensibly decide to call in and work amicably with Scotland Yard. Cue the entry of Inspector Littlejohn who's job it is to turn over stones and see what crawls out.

The answer to that is much as you'd expect in the way of young people misbehaving with each other, unhappy marriages, and a few who might drink more than they should. There's a missionary nephew who might have something to hide but none of it quite adds up to enough to justify murder - not until the will is read at any rate.

As Martin Edwards points out in his introduction, there's nothing particularly original about the plotting or even the device that provides the crucial alibi, but it's done do well that it doesn't matter. What does matter are all the little embellishments that bring the book to life (the body in the cess pit being but knew such detail) and give it a great deal of charm.

It's also a noticeably nostalgic book, the war is alluded to (the village taxi has been replaced with a horse and cab due to petrol rationing) but mostly ignored in favour of the things that should be - sunny harvest weather, good food and beer (with plenty to go round), and everybody getting what they deserve in the end (good and bad). It seems likely that that was just as comforting in 1942 as it is in these uncertain times, and probably just as unlikely. Either way it provided me with a very happy afternoons entertainment so I'm thoroughly recommending it.

Cheerfulness Breaks In - Angela Thirkell

I've had the last lot of Virago Thirkell reprints sitting around since November waiting to be dusted down and read, took 'Marling Hall' on holiday with me, and then thought that I really needed to read 'Cheerfulness Breaks In'. It's a source of real irritation to me that Virago chose to issue this as an ebook only. It means I've had to read it on my phone, which I don't enjoy, and makes it very hard to refer back to when I want to check something, remember it, or write about it.

On the plus side it means that it is available to read at a reasonable price. I think I can understand why Virago went down the ebook route as well. Plot wise it's not perhaps Thirkell's best, it's hard to work out/remember what's going on at times as characters from previous books pop in and out (I've not read these books in sequence, and there are so many very similar people then it gets confusing), and this as Thirkell as un PC as I've met her. There's lots of casual racism, anti Semitism, snobbery, and high Tory propaganda. Despite all of that, and maybe because of my own current mood, I found this one particularly moving and relevant.

Published in 1940, 'Cheerfulness Breaks In' starts in the summer of 1939 when it's still possible to hope that war might be averted and finishes just after Dunkirk on a shocker of a cliffhanger. In between people get married and engaged, take in evacuees, get involved with work parties and committees, watch the younger men head off into the various forces, worry about if they're doing their bit, and generally dig in for the future.

It might not be a perfect book, but it captures a moment and a mood whilst reflecting back prejudices and fears in a way that really got under my skin. Well ordered, comfortably elegant, middle class lives are about to be shattered forever and Thirkell knows it. From the older generation of characters who have fought and lost people in the previous war and are now faced with children or grandchildren facing the same destruction there's a palpable sense of distress.

Younger characters can see it as fun, apart perhaps for Lydia Keith who's time s taken up with the mundane but neccesary tasks of caring for her elderly parents, running the family estate so her father and brother can concentrate on other things, and lots of less glamorous committees and voluntary work (work that leaves her smelling of rabbit stew) at an age when she might reasonably have looked forward to parties and fun. Mostly though, it's an elegy to a world that's about to be smashed to pieces and I can't help but feel evident Thirkell's dismay regardless of how I feel about her politics or prejudices.

Her point of view may at times feel controversial by contemporary standards, but that doesn't make it any less valid, or important to remember - or even to consider.

As ever with Thirkell I know that when I come to re read (please let it be in a paper copy by then) this I'll find much more in it. I don't think I made a bad job of spotting some of her references (I got the Radcliffe Hall/Compton Mackenzie one) but there will be dozens more to spot, and plenty more to consider.

One thing I'm definitely considering after reading a couple of her book back to back is the way the title of snob is applied to her. It's in much the same way as with Georgette Heyer, and seems much more pejorative than when applied to say, Nancy Mitford (I'm going to guess that Thirkell might not have considered Mitford quite the thing). I find Thirkell both funnier and more illuminating than Mitford whose affectations can get tiresome and whose characters are hard to care about.

For rather less muddled, and better informed, thoughts on Cheerfulness Breaks In see This from Kate Macdonald.

Whalsay Fair Isle Knitting Through The Decades - The Book

I've spent a lovely day off with my yarn (all sorted and catalogued, now just waiting to become things). It should go into draws or boxes for the duration, but I'm unwilling to take it off the floor at the moment, partly because I like the unexpected colour combinations I find moving it around.

That's sort of relevant because the great thing about the Whalsay Fair Isle exhibition was the unexpected colours. It's hard to describe just how unexpected it was, especially for the older garments, but handily there is now a book (currently the only place I've found it for sale online is here  on Jamieson and Smith's website). It's a short booklet, only 56 pages, and doesn't contain everything in the exhibition (or have any patterns in it) but it's well worth the £12 it costs.

In her comment on yesterday's post Ginny Jones (very helpfully) put up the link to Kate Davies post about this exhibition (Here) which is worth reading because it's excellent, and as a bonus has pictures of some garments that I don't think were in this years show (though I could be wrong about that, it's surprising how different textiles can look on camera compared to life). It all reinforces my excitement about what I saw on Whalsay.

'Fair Isle' has become something of a catch all term, and though I've heard there are people on Fair Isle itself who find it a bit annoying and hold that only Fairisles from Fair Isle are the real deal, it's never much bothered me before. After Whalsay it does, because my understanding of Shetland knitting has changed. Until now I was familiar with what I suppose are best described as stereotypical garments in either natural sheep shades, or in the reds, blues, and yellows produced by natural dyes. There are several very beautiful examples in the museum collection. They're combinations that remain popular and are familiar from dozens of period dramas.

In my innocence I thought that this was more or less representative of the work being produced across Shetland both for sale, and to wear, especially in the 1920's and 30's, even though theoretically I knew about the range of chemical dyes available, that Wool by this time generally went south to be processed before coming back as yarn, and that women were buying yarn rather than spinning it themselves as a matter of course. I hadn't thought about interlocking patterns at all, associating them more with Scandinavian design and assuming that they appeared later - I was wrong. Whalsay clearly had its own style distinct from 'Fair Isle', it deserves its own fame. The next question is how many other distinct reagional variations are there?

There are a couple of things I'm taking from this, the first being that there needs to be a much bigger, dedicated, exhibition space in Shetland that really tells the story of the islands knitwear, and that explores local differences (or schools of patterns, motifs, and colours). The existing museums do an excellent job with the space they have available but it's nowhere near enough. There's some terrifically exciting stuff here that arguably functions as art (as well as craft and fashion) and it deserves to be properly assessed and celebrated.

Secondly there desperately needs to be an accesable catalogue, either digital or in a book, that comprehensively records not just the official museum collection, but also the pieces held by various local heritage centres, and in private hands - if people can be persuaded to share. There's a tremendous history of creativity here - something that's really great about the 'Whalsay' book is that the knitters and often the wearers of these garments are known - and it should be shouted from the rooftops.

Meanwhile this is the book we have, and it's not to be sniffed at. Page 53, showing a collection of contemporary yoke jumpers knitted by girls as young as 10 (they're amazing) shows that this incredible tradition of creativity is alive and well.

Nigella Lawson and a lot of yarn

I had fully intended to write a post about the Catalogue for the Whalsay Fair Isle Knitting Through the Decades exhibition tonight but I got distracted by the big box of yarn I posted a week ago (back in Shetland) finally arriving, and Nigella Lawson's 'Feast'.

A friend produced an absolutely wonderful red kidney bean dip pre dinner a couple of weeks ago, which was a revelation to me because I don't normally care for kidney beans. I begged the recipe only to be told it was in 'Feast', which I have. I made it tonight and it was just as good as remembered (the mix of cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and coffee smells - the last not actually in the dip - has made my kitchen smell great). Whilst I was at it I thought I ought to have a good look through 'Feast' to see what else I had forgotten or failed to notice in the past.

Lots it seems, so I won't make a list, but it was also a reminder of why I really like Nigella's books. It's full of quick and easy things, some so simple they hardly deserve the title 'recipe' but are exactly the sort of helpful suggestion you want to make things easy from time to time. Balancing those are the full on showstoppers that involve a bit more than an M&S meringue nest, some pomegranate seeds, and a bit of cream - but which are never intimidating, and always reliable. I tend to overlook my older cookbooks so it was good to get reacquainted with one of them.

The yarn apparently took the scenic route from Shetland, taking a very long time to get from the village post office to its next recorded destination in Aberdeen, but finally on Monday (I posted it on Wednesday last and was getting anxious) it started to move again. It arrived in Leicester today, almost made it to my flat, but I was working, so it got diverted to a mystery post office. This is allegedly my closest post office. It isn't, but the much closer ones don't take parcels (I can't tell you how much I miss the callers office in town).

Unfortunately the delivery man's instructions were cryptic. The post office he indicated closed some time ago, the postcodes he put down for both myself and the mystery post office were indecipherable, but as far as I could make out both incomplete and incorrect. R very kindly agreed to go on a trip across town and into a maze of streets in a not particularly nice neighbourhood to help me try and find the parcel. We found the defunct post office, asked directions in a nearby hairdressers, who sort of sent us in the right direction but gave us the wrong name, consulted google (unhelpful), asked another passer by, found a post office, (3 streets away) which luckily turned out to be the one we wanted, and got my parcel with minutes to spare before closing.

My plan for the rest of the evening is to spend quality time with all the Wool. (iPads capitals for Wool, but who am I to argue?)

Whalsay for Fair Isle knitting

I was cross with myself when I came back from Shetland last year for missing what everyone said was a brilliant exhibition on the island of Whalsay documenting Fair Isle Knitting through the decades In the heritage centre. Luckily it was so popular that the heritage centre decided to extend it for another year, and publish a small book about it.

I'd never been to Whalsay before, so there was all the fun of working out where the ferry went from, when the heritage centre would be open (4 afternoons a week for 3 hours) and then making sense of the ferry timetable. Whalsay also has a restored Hanseatic böd (the poet Hugh MacDiarmid lived on the island for a while too) on the shore not far from where the ferry docks, or the heritage centre - convenient.

Our first stop was the Böd. I knew the Hansa had been active in Shetland, but I'd never really appreciated how active - a road behind Pier house was known as Bremen Strasse for many years - or how influential they must have been. I didn't know there had been so much piracy in and around the islands either, so it was all thoroughly exciting.

I was so excited by the actual knitwear that I forgot to check if the heritage centre is run by volenteers (I think it is) or to ask how they came by their collection. I have the feeling that many pieces might only have been lent. All of them had family histories attached.

My interest in traditional Shetland knitting has been growing for years, not because the style is particularly unique - photographs from Eastonia showing very similar designs, and the appropriation of Norwegian stars into post war designs alone show that ideas and motifs have been exchanged and refined for a very long time. To me these kind of international links are one of the things that make it so interesting. What is unique are the design decisions made by individual knitters, and the more of these pieces I see, the clearer it is that this is art as well as craft.

The great thing about the Whalsay exhibition is that it's full of things that were knitted for family members rather than for sale. They're made from the yarn that was available to buy, so most of the jumpers from the 1920's and 1930's here are actually knitted in Rayon (they're quite slinky, and all for men who must have looked utterly splendid in them) which is probably one reason they've survived as well as they have (do moths like rayon as much as they like Wool?). They don't look anything like the golfing jumpers the Prince of Wales made so popular, but they are stunning.

These patterns often weren't written down, although later on girls definatley collected motifs from their friends, and the complexity of them is something to behold, as is the constant evolution of style in line with changing fashions. I cannot recommend this exhibition highly enough to anyone who will be in Shetland this summer. There's so much information to take in, the ladies in the heritage centre are brilliant with so much knowledge to share, and it's beautiful knitwear.

Back from Shetland

Or where you get to see some of my holiday pictures. I got back to Leicester this afternoon with very mixed feelings. I could have done with another month (at least) away to catch up with everybody and everything I wanted to. I'm a bit disconcerted by the realisation that it will definitely get dark tonight rather than just a few hours of twilight, there's a mountain of washing to deal with, and I really would like to see a lot more of my dad (and the rest of the family too).

Meanwhile the weather was very kind to us and we had a great time which makes leaving that bit harder to do (rain, wind, and all round bad tempers next time might be helpful, if not better). So whilst I collect my thoughts and sort out laundry here are some pictures...

Otters

My holiday day is almost over, I'm not looking forward to going back to work - not least because I've been so busy doing so many nice things here that I could do with a lazy week to recover.

One of the many great things about Shetland is it's wildlife; we've seen puffins, porpoises, gannets, seals, the lawn is covered in oystercatchers, terns have dive bombed us, as have skuas, and there have been a lot of otters. More particularly there's been a lot of one otter who has reliably appeared between tides and at dusk. It looks to me like a young female, she has a distinctive pink patch on her nose and is a joy to watch.

Shetland is a brilliant place to spot otters - walk by the shore keeping an eye out for spraint, empty crab shells and sea urchins; likely otter food. Ideally if you spot one hope you find yourself upwind and not silhouetted against the sky - their eyesight is poor so they rely on their sense of smell. If this is the case stay still and they might not notice you. I spent a good 45 minutes watching my otter yesterday before she got downwind of me and swam off. As I was in an undignified as well as uncomfortable position I wasn't altogether sorry to be able to move, but hadn't wanted to disturb the important otter business of eating and fluffing up fur.

The photos aren't great because mobile phones have severe limitations, but it's the best chance I've ever had to try and take any pictures, and it amazing just to be able to watch her for a while. They're enchanting creatures.