Albania - Sarandë & Butrint

A wiry old man latched onto me as I pulled my rucksack from the bus in Sarandë. “Hotel?” he asked. “No,” I said and shook my head. Ten steps down the road he was hot on my tail, “Hotel?” “No!” I said again and shook my head with more vigour. Still he followed.

For my whole life I’ve been conditioned to nod my head for yes and shake it for no. Unfortunately a shake of the head in Albania is a confirmation and the poor Albanian whose only English word was ‘hotel’ was clearly confused. I walked quicker and he dropped back, no doubt reassured that all foreigners were stupid.

Albania is barely a mile from Corfu at its narrowest and was once part of the same landmass. However, isolationist politics and economic madness have pushed it down an alternative path and looking across the narrow stretch of Ionian Sea, it even looks different; the bald hills devoid of the cypress trees that shade Corfu in green.

There’s an undercurrent of Italian culture in Sarandë but it’s tempered with a third world feel. There are pizzas, gelataries and a passeggiata but there are holes in the roads and cows in the plaza. Our hotel was even named after Mussolini’s daughter, Eda, a throwback to an era when the whole town bore her name. The town also suffers from a cruise ship trade which passes through to the ruined city of Butrint but rarely sticks around in Sarandë.

Butrint is a fascinating place, a vast collection of ruins featuring all the notable European empires. Roman, Greek, Byzantine and Venetian all had a build here and the city is now protected by UNESCO in case anyone else should fancy a go. Even in Summer it was empty of people but full of white butterflies. I think we timed it well; in the distance the ominous orange of the EasyCruise boat was slipping into port at Sarandë.

Coventry

I headed through a typical British shopping center full of tracksuited teens and concrete canopies. Lady Godiva sat outside Burger King and Peeping Tom craned his neck for a sneaky eyeful. I ignored them both and, spotting a priest, followed him into the old cathedral.

Coventry’s cathedral was flattened in the second world war. The Allies revenged its destruction by pointlessly razing Dresden to the ground. Both cities have dealt with their ruins in different ways; Dresden rebuilt her Frauenkirche whereas Coventry has left its church open to the heavens and built another next door. Both are symbols of their respective skylines and the cities are formally twinned.

On a blue-sky August day the bombed-out interior was popular with lunchtime office workers. Linked to the old church was the new one; designed postwar by Basil Spence in bricky modernist style. Inside, the windows trapped the midday sun and I had to look up just to make sure it had a roof. Most churches ask you not to use a camera flash but in Coventry you didn’t need one at all; one cathedral was open to the sky and the other full of sunlight.

Spon Street is an attempt to cluster the city’s medieval architecture into one area. St John’s Church, the source of the Sent to Coventry phrase sits at one end but several of the timber-framed cottages have been relocated from elsewhere in the city and fast food signs have been tacked onto many of the fronts. One of the more sympathetic conversions housed the Tin Angel. It was both record shop and café, all mismatched furniture and paper flyers. 60s garage rock filtered through from the adjoining space and it reminded me of my student days and how much I miss places like these.

Folkestone Triennial

The Triennial is an interesting idea; a rich businessman gathers together a collection of modern art, throws it up in the air over Folkestone and sees where it lands.

Mark Wallinger focused on the Somme. Folkestone was the main departure point for many of the 19240 killed on the first day of the battle and the artist numbered a stone for each soldier. Kids clambered over the stones while their parents wondered if they should show more respect. But hang on; was this even a war memorial?

Further along the clifftop, I sat on a bench overlooking the sea as a loudspeaker hummed into life sharing poignant letters between lovers and Somme-bound soldiers. I looked across the channel to Normandy on a hot summer’s day and couldn’t begin to imagine the trenches.

Tracey Emin’s bronze baby accessories were a popular quest. They’re tucked away under benches and over railings; a tiny sock or a dropped teddy bear. They were harder to find than the mobiles of plastic sunglasses in the Metropole ballroom or the illuminated talking head of a sign stating “HEAVEN IS A PLACE WHERE NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.”

I initially picked up a false impression of the town with its Creative Quarter, neon installations and wholefood cafes. Behind this façade lay the prosaic Folkestone; a working-class port with plenty of chip shops and chintzy b&bs. There was too much wasted space serving as overspill car parks. Two communities were here; a young art crowd in the cafes and the families drinking tinned beer on the beaches.

People talked to me as I studied my Triennial map. “Do you know where you’re going?” asked a lady on a bench, noting my hesitant walk. “Yes”, I lied. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask an octogenerian, “where is the mobile science fiction library?”

Frinton-on-Sea

This was my first visit to Frinton since childhood and I headed straight to the beach. I lay my towel by a groyne and propped my Agatha Christie book in the sand. Groups of lads arrived around midday, drinking Red Bull and playing keepy-uppy. Plastic footballs soon homed-in on me [“sorry mate”] and once the barbecues began to fire up, I surrendered and took my pinking limbs into town.

A tiny low church sat on the headland, the smallest in Essex and the first-built of many in the town. At the back stood a small remembrance garden cloaked in shadow and buzzing with bumble bees; a sunken haven of plaques on benches and respite from the May sunshine.

Frinton was the scene of an interesting modernist architectural experiment in the 1930s. It was never fully realized and so the remaining houses stand out amid the bungalows and bricks. Its legacy is a microcosm of the English attitude to housing. Some owners have bought-in to the wider idea, adding art-deco furnishings and striking ornaments. Others seem to have reacted against the whole movement, attaching porches and slate roofs. Why buy a striking white-cube box and then plonk a pitched roof on top? Why not just buy a house with a pitched roof?

Frinton's chip shop & pub are no longer seen as proof of the apocalypse. I stopped at a cafe promoting herbal teas and asked what they had. “Calamine” said the young waitress but luckily it turned out to be Camomile.

The Vineyards of Essex

“What’s an Essex girl’s favourite wine? “I wanna go Lakeside.”

Hmm, doesn’t really work written down. It would be even less funny if the punchline was “Colchester Rose” or “Ruby Royale from Maldon”, yet this most derided of counties does indeed make its own wine.

Carters Vineyard hides in a fold in the Boxted hills, just shy of Constable’s canvas. This is the Essex of flint churches with wooden spires. Rabbits jumped on the grass verges and the golden glare of rapeseed covered the spring countryside The oh-no words “Alternative Energy Centre” were inscribed beneath the vineyard sign but it just referred to a wind turbine which, incredibly, powered the whole operation. Another centre of energy in the form of a black labrador bounded at us, barking and protective. Her name was Inca and after initial suspicion, we parted the best of friends.

The wine labels tell of bygone Colchester; Queen Boudicca and Old King Coel. The Romans are thought to have grown vines close by and Boudicca’s unfortunate reinvention as the first Essex girl is based more on her fierce independence than her cruelty and bloodlust. At least I hope so. We bought a dry white and a rose, but passed on the sloe gin and fruity vodka.

Second stop was New Hall Vineyard, just south of Maldon and a much larger business than Carters. We bought a red which later went down well with an episode of Midsomer Murders. In Maldon we stopped for lunch at a pub in the High Street. A bronze relief in the beer garden told of Edward Bright, an 18th century local man who weighed 44 stones. In the bank holiday sunshine big shirtless blokes drank pints of lager. We ordered the lightest food on the menu.

A Room at the Bauhaus

Dessau isn't the most attractive town in eastern Germany. The British flattened it in the 1940s and the Soviets towerblocked it after the war. The city seems an unlikely destination for an architectural pilgrimage, but hidden away behind the station is one of the great buildings of the 20th century, the Bauhaus.

I booked a room in the Atelierhaus [student wing] of the Bauhaus for 25 euros a night. The room was high up on the third level of the building with a shiny crimson floor and a tiny lipped balcony. Internal walls were painted white to create the illusion of more space and furniture was sturdy and functional; just a bed, coat stand, storage unit and two Marcel Breuer chairs tucked under a table. Two spotlights threw shadows around the walls and I quickly tidied my possessions away. This wasn’t a room that would tolerate mess.

I remembered my own halls of residence in the north of England; the nylon carpet and the wonky shelves. Nothing like this. I used the balcony and the clear February night to chill my Riesling.

There are other Bauhaus buildings dotted around Dessau. Walter Gropius designed a low brick Employment Office and a whole suburb was built to a Bauhaus spec. Beautifully preserved are the four Meisterhausers Gropius added for the college teachers and their wives. These are now open to the public and restored closely to their original design. Beautiful as they are they appear more museum than house. Door handles are gleaming and the smell of fresh paint hangs in the stairwells. The clutter and spills of daily life have been removed.

My favourite building was the Kornhaus restaurant, a lovely sweep of glass designed by Carl Fieger in the late 1920s. I got lost in the woods looking for it and then discovered I only had eight euros in my pocket when I arrived. I ordered a salad and a fruit juice from the menu and hurried out after leaving a measly fifty-cent tip. It was the last of my cash!

Before I left Dessau, I bought a 1950s Wagenfeld cup and double saucer from the Bauhaus shop. It was so nice I bought the rest of the set from ebay for about £100 when I got back to London. A week later I was photographing some Bauhaus-inspired houses in Stanmore and found an identical set in a charity shop for £5.

Lviv, Ukraine, March 2008

Patience, I was told. You need patience to travel in Ukraine. This isn’t a cheapjet central European destination and there are no stag parties or direct flights to Stansted. English isn’t a natural second language and the alphabet is cloaked in Cyrillic. These are the things that attracted me to Ukraine.
I flew into Kyiv and then directly up to Lviv or Lvov or Lwow or even Lemberg. This is a city with plenty of names and many previous owners. It sits in the far west and once formed part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, before rapidly changing hands between Poland, Nazi Germany, USSR and presently Ukraine. The word Ukraine, means Borderland and Lviv was its literal definition.

It’s a pretty city with a beautiful main square and hundreds of churches. I rented an apartment above the Drama Theatre in the old quarter. Squeaky parquet flooring alerted my neighbours to my precise location at any time. A market filled the outside square selling wooden tankards and Soviet medals and in the evening drunks sang below my window.

Next to the Drama Theatre stood the Opera House, built during the Hapsburg years and gloriously ornate. Then, in front of the opera house; a pig! Its snout rooting in the grass as a crowd gathered. I bought a ticket to the ballet and sat dead-centre in the upper balcony, £5 well spent. The building gleamed inside and Swan Lake floated across the stage. This was my very first ballet and I was entranced.

This constant changing of hands has benefited Lviv’s café culture. Viennese espressos competed with thicker, sludgy coffees and Lipton’s tea, drunk black, was an everpresent. In the evenings I moved on to local lager or sweet sparkling wine from Odessa.

Under the watchful eye of Ivan Fedorov, Russia's first publisher, and backing against the Church of the Assumption was a book market. Tolstoy sat next to Thomas the Tank Engine alongside Reggie Kray's memoirs. I found two 1970s Soviet guidebooks, one with faded photographs of Lviv, the other with paintings of Minsk showing strolling couples in picturesque parks. In the former, Lenin statues kept an eye on proceedings and if you wanted culture where better than the Museum of Atheism, housed in a baroque church?

I stood for ages in the rain waiting for a marshrutka to the airport for the red-eye to Kyiv. These minivans hurtle around town following complicated routes. I deciphered the Cyrillic in the windscreen and flagged one down. Fifteen minutes later and we were still in the city. I double-checked with the other passengers, "Aeroport?" "Nyet!" came the chorused reply followed by furious pointing in the opposite direction. I jumped out in a dreary suburb, crossed the road and the rain fell harder. Eventually another marshrutka came along and this time my "Aeroport?" query was answered with nodding heads. I folded myself against the back windshield and passed my fare over many heads to the driver. My glasses steamed up. Finally, through a smeary window I saw a plane landing and squeezed out. Patience was the best thing I packed.