THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK

You find them, these forgotten country towns, more by accident than design. It is as if they had fallen off maps, places for passing through rather than going to.

Abandoned in times of austerity for better climes and new lives, change means nothing here except decay. The tumbled down buildings sit faded and askew on crooked streets, a mossy spire prods the sky where rain is ever threatening if not ever present. A murky river channels muddy waters and cruel bone chilling winds that dull adventure.

And yet these towns can catch you out, make you smile, surprise you amidst their unkempt lanes and weedy misery. A cluster of chairs painted with a hippie sensibility declares the survival of wit and humanity.

It was useful to delay writing in order to process the complexities of the extraordinary experience that Irish fashion designer Helen Cody created at Christ Church Cathedral on Tuesday 6th. September.

When she first told me that she had secured the venue I knew she intended something special and that somehow she would make light of the weight of history involved in such a choice.

Rather than imposing or distracting, those sacred aisles provided a fitting stage that sanctified the craftsmanship, skill and imagination that pervaded a most thoughtful and thought out collection.  

There was a moment of pure serenity when model Hilary Mohr, pausing immaculately in a burnt rose dress strewn with hand appliqued petals, drew not just the eyes of the entire audience but the breath from every living soul present.

While many will have weighed the value of the collection through its rapturous designs, its exquisite fabrics, its precise and considered detail few will know that fashion is a difficult and often solitary business, requiring a deep determination to keep going season after season, year after year.  It is moments like Tuesday evening – rare as they are – that inspire those of us with a true understanding of and passion for the fashion industry to stay the course.

It would be remiss of me not mention the music too, especially the glorious sound of Anuna – an evocative gift wrapping to an evening where the whole was greater than the sum of the parts.

Helen Cody provided a singularly remarkable display of design and craftsmanship and made a very special contribution to the integrity and reputation of Irish fashion. I was thrilled to be there.

It was an evening of pure magic.

There are old folk medicines, pills for sleeping, tinctures for toothache, liniments for muscle strain, epidurals for birthing, tonics for tiredness, lotions for sunburn, elixirs for youthfulness….and sights for sore eyes.

I found this one lying silent, poetic and misty on a back road from Sligo to Dromahair.

The Cannes Film Festival produced a flurry of reviews, headlines and dramas in various measures again this year.

One film, Neon Demon starring Elle Fanning, is described as portraying a dystopian fashion industry full of psychotic models. In the realms of fantasy storytelling and movie industry commerce such a narrative is likely to draw big box office sales and a continuing exaggeration of model behaviour in tabloid media.

As a model agent (15 years) and a show & photo producer (30+ years) I feel it best to get my retaliation in first.

The models I have worked with have, with notably few exceptions, proved to be professional, dedicated, smart, personable and kind. They live normal lives outside the glare of studio lights. They raise children to be fully formed and thoughtful adults. They create or support many worthwhile charitable projects. They take all that life offers, good or bad, with the same sense of joy, loss and humanity as the rest of mankind.

Under the lights of the catwalk or in the final edit of a shoot they draw both admiration and envy. Hidden in the complexities of either feeling is a blurring of reality, a blurring of truth.

There is a world of difference between depictions of lives the audiences wish and the actual lives the models live. The space between is easily filled with mendacious headlines.

Cold January mornings rarely reward curiosity unless there is snow.

The outside cold and inside warmth have come to a détente and the mist has cleared from the windows. The patina of light shifts between silver and slate. It is a dull day.

As I sit sideways on to the window something registers out of the corner of my eye. It takes time to process this strutting palette of lacquered colours.

His feathers overlays copper hues on black and are accented by silver grey. A feint purple dusts the edge of his white collar. The eyes are regal and outlined in dramatic red. A wrapping of navy becomes teal, becomes navy again, yielding to a dove grey at the top of his head.

I move slowly and hardly breathe, fumbling to retrieve my camera and in three frames he has dipped beneath the boundary hedge and is gone! Peering around in disappointment , moving from window to window, it is then I notice the snowdrops. Like delicate embroideries they shyly decorate the frayed edges of the lawn.

Nature surprises at the most surprising moments.

A long pass is caught and held up. The roar of the wind muffles the roar of the crowd. Defenders pull and drag, desperation draws a foul and a free kick in the final minute. A desolate stage is set for one final act..

A player steps forward and places the ball with quiet calm. Time barely ticks, breathing ceases, silence falls. Luck covers its hand as pressure mounts and mounts. We wait. The free taker shakes his shoulders, steadies and glides over the sea of mud. Thud !, the ball rises like a slow torpedo against the howling wind. The slow seconds pitch hope against reason in the gale. Are we dreaming ?. As the ball drifts towards the crossbar incredulity steals many heartbeats, breathing ceases in the dizzying wait.

Yeeessssss they’ve done it !. In the ensuing stampede sweet tears wash away the drops of bitter rain on grown men’s faces. Families jump in joy and celebration, happy to be there on days like these whatever the weather.

We will remember this day as surely we remember where we were when Kennedy was shot or Elvis died. To our small community this is sporting history.

The mists swirl smearing the car widow, flinging icy drops of moisture over the edge of every contour. I am on the deserted road that drags itself across the Knockmealdown mountains between the villages of Clogheen and Lismore.

Suddenly the spectre of tumbling walls strobes softly through the dreary grey light. A ghostly pile of bricks comes into focus. There is a deserted cottage lying in the folds of the broken landscape on the right hand side of the road.

I can almost see the wind but despite the bitter weather, discomfort is temporarily suspended. The bleak afternoon is filled with wonder, like finding a long lost painting by some favourite artist.

Sheep hop and pick their way through reeds and heather. Some look warily over crumbling remains of old stone walls. Dye stained strands of wool flutter like torn flags on the spurs of barbed wire fences. Moss, lichen, bark, peat and granite knit tightly together in a damp patchwork. Towering trees create a jagged frame along the blurred horizon. Ribbons of white water rush, rustle and carve their way from the higher ridges. Stony paths twist, in and out of sight, meandering across this vista of drowned colours.

Many superlatives come to rest in this unexpected pleasure.

A wide meandering path runs through alpine summer meadows at Monte Baldo, 1760 metres up in the Alps above Lake Garda. The barely noticable hiker in the picture gives some idea the scale of the area. On a summer’s day the temperature could be 18 degrees, whereas at the lakeside below it might tipping 40. The air up there has a clarity, both visual and breathable. It makes an interesting day trip from a base in one of the local towns like Mantova where classical art, ancient architecture and easy living merge. Dinner on the pavement’s edge outside Mantova’s Hysteria Leon D’Oro provides a special taste of life. Around the corner tiny local Hotel Broletto offers a friendly welcome right in the heart of ‘medieval’ Italy. 

Italy provides much for the explorer… towns like Pescheria for wonderful restaurants at the edge of Lake Garda, Sermione for its expansive Roman citadel, Ravello for its sea views, central piazza and music festival, Verona for the spectacle of favourite operas set in its Roman arena. Milan with its dusty cobbled streets leading away from the Duomo square throws up traditional and contemporary cafes and restaurants along the Via Mercato or the Corso Garibaldi. There too one finds the charming authenticity of Da Bruno on the Via M. Gonzaga.

Mallorca also provides a refuge from the commonplace …especially in Deia where the tiny hilltop churchyard and the spartan house and fertile gardens of Ca n’Alluny, once home to Robert Graves, are quiet but powerful spiritual touchstones of the poet’s life. The walks around here, over cryptically marked trails and terraces are taxing but enjoyable. There is wonderful food at the buzzy restaurant Sebastian or at the more discreet es Raco d’es Teix. Luxurious relaxation and excellent service awaits at La Resedencia.

To ramble round Palma’s side streets and alleyways is to discover delightful cafes full of locals. Here diverse memories will please and amuse, from wonderful rich roasted coffee to a waitress wearing a tee shirt nonchantly printed with the slogan …’Who is the Queen ? ’. Nearby Puigpuyent is cloaked in rural secrecy, a haven of quiet at the foot of the hills. Its Son Net hotel is casually elegant and friendly in equal measure. Higher up beyond the meandering terraces and craggy peaks lies the village of Esporles, lazy and welcoming in the heat and shade of late morning.

Further over in the tiny hill village of Fornalutz you can hear the quiet up there in the Tramuntana, broken only by the tingling bells that help trace flocks across the spines and valleys of the towering hills. The streets are twisting passageways, more often climbed than walked. The scent of jasmine is everywhere. The best hotel is a converted convent with furniture that looks left over from long forgotten film set. The sunshades in the garden are orange trees spreading their spindly shadows over state of the art sun loungers.

There is much to be discovered and enjoyed beyond the horizons of the standard itineraries, brochures and travel guides. Often you find the most enriching travel experiences off the beaten track.