N.S.W. State LIbrary

 

                                   

                                         STATE LIBRARY OF N.S.W. – NEE MITCHELL

Many are the folk that still call it the Mitchell Library and many are those (me included) who wonder why they changed the name at all.  Still, that wasn’t the only change. Added to half a dozen times over the decades since 1910, in its present form it’s a vehicle for much more than just books, which is the reason I called in on this particular occasion.  It was nice to know that Liz and Phil had travelled from England to open the last incarnation.

David Scott Mitchell, after whom the library was named, was the first noted collector of Australiana and donated his considerable collection to the public. 

                                                      David Scott Mitchell's coat of arms

The designer of the original building was Colonel Walter Liberty Vernon and, to this day, the Greek influence (fired by Palladio no doubt) can be clearly seen by the lovely Ionic columns at the front entrance, behind the statue of Matthew Flinders.  Around the side there’s also a bronze of Flinders’ cat, Trim.  

Trim, Flinders' cat

The Abel Tasman map

Just beyond them, as you enter, is the marvellous floor mosaic of the Tasman Map.  Between 1939 and 1941, the Melocco Brothers used 45 slabs of 22 mm thick marble, with coloured marble granules and inlays of brass, to outline the ships and decorative features echoing the floor of the Burgerzaal (town hall) in Amsterdam.  The map records where Abel Tasman sailed and mapped around 130 years before Cook even thought of leaving home!

                                                        The letter "B" from the first psalm

                                                                   The Book of Kells

Though the overall name was changed, the wing known as Mitchell exists still, where you can view, from above, the legions of book lovers and researchers that still pore over the volumes daily.  At key half way points around the top there are some splendid examples of stained glass and, above the north entry, in 1942, the splendid trio of coloured glass was revealed, featuring the 8^th century Book of Kells on either side of the reproduction of the letter “B” from the first psalm in the Gifford Psalter, an illuminated prayer book from the Clare Priory in Suffolk (England) dating back to 1250.

                                                              The Caxton Window

On the western side of the library is the Caxton window, honouring William Caxton, who was the first English printer. The image shows Caxton presenting his translation of Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye to his patron Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy.

Opposite can be seen windows depicting Chaucer’s Tales and, if all that hasn’t sated you, you could step into the Shakespeare room where the Seven Ages of Man are depicted.  None of which is why I originally came here this time.

                                          

                                               One of the three Seven Ages of Man panels

No, I’m here, amongst other things, to view the splendid art gallery that’s emerged from the large stockpile of fine artworks that the library houses.  For too long they’ve been hidden but now over 300 of them are displayed in a well thought out gallery and it’s a fascinating step back into the 19^th C and the people who lived in that era.

                                        McDonald River, Wisemans Road by Conrad Martens

Von Guerard, Tom Roberts, Arthur Streeton and a host of other well-known painters can be seen here and many of the subjects are even more famous and attired in the couture of the time.  Joseph Banks, Caroline Chisholm, Governor Fitzroy and Hans Heysen just to whet your appetite.  Indeed, if history is one of your interests, the gallery is a must-see!

                                                           Vaucluse by George Peacock

The historic landscapes give an idea of what once was around Sydney Harbour but is now covered in houses while portraits of squatters reflect the times when successful pastoralists deemed it fashionable to have their portraits painted, though the images of squatters might be tainted with history these days.

                                    

                                                              The Convex Mirror

One of my favourites is “The Convex Mirror” by George Washington Lambert, painted at a cottage called “Bellwethers” in Surrey, England.  Although the figure at right rear seems somewhat stilted, I love the scene and the imagination to paint such a piece.

John Clark Hoyte’s recording of the burning of The Garden Palace in 1882 is a dramatic reminder of this significant event, now largely overlooked in Australia’s history.  Built for an International Exhibition, it only lasted 3 years before catching fire and suffering the same fate as ultimately befell Crystal Palace in London.  It was a stunning piece of historical architecture whose like was never to be repeated.

 

Richard Brydges “Landing at Bounty Bay” is a powerful work, recalling the landing of the mutineers on Pitcairn Island where he visited as a captain 35 years later, en route to the Bering Strait, not long before the last survivor, John Adams, passed away.  You can’t help but recoil a little at the pounding the small boats are receiving.

                                                    

                                            Family Group with Canoe by William Pitt Wilshire

The indigenous population is represented in a few works, smoke rising from a fire beside a stream is one that I recall and there’s another of a man hiding behind a tree before he attempts to spear a kangaroo.  The entry doors also have wonderful bronze bas reliefs of natives in a variety of poses.

                                                                      Sophia O'Brien

The most moving painting, when you know the provenance, is that of the lovely 23 year old Sophia O’Brien, painted, post mortem, from her death mask, by ex-naval surgeon Maurice Felton. She was the ‘beloved wife’ of a newspaper proprietor, Francis O’Brien, and third daughter of its founder, Edward Smith Hall.

                                                                         Billy Blue

Of all the portraits, the most memorable is that of Billy Blue, an African American enterprising ex-convict whose dress, with top hat, is striking to say the least.

Another feature I admire is the continuous video of how a painting restoration is done.  It’s extraordinary the lengths that the people who do this work (mostly women) have to go to.  I suspect their number one attribute is patience!

                                          

In other corridors and rooms, freed up after the recent additions, there are displays such as extremely rare books, dating back hundreds of years, the Nikon-Walkley press photography awards and a thought provoking and emotionally moving display of war images, from a touring exhibition of the National War Museum in Canberra.

                                               

Don’t walk in expecting to get out in under an hour, there’s so much to see!

The Gap of Choice

 

                                                              THE GAP OF CHOICE

Our host Sheila kept saying how the Gap of Dunloe would be good today and you couldn’t help but respect the opinion of someone who’d lived here for decades.  The Gap of Dunloe was one of the main things I wanted to see in Ireland but, after Healy Pass and Cummeenduff Glen, I wondered just how good it would be.

We set off up the climb that few do, because it’s on the “wrong” side.  The few residents over this side and adventurous tourists are all that make it.  It’s pretty leaving the glen behind, wondering just what’s over the pass.  The term "Dunloe" is believed to be an Anglicisation of the Irish term "Dún Lóich", meaning fort or stronghold of Lóich (the River Loe that runs through the Gap of Dunloe valley’).

Well, 100 walkers can’t be wrong!  They were scattered all over the 1 ½ lane (in the good bits) road with, thankfully, lots of laybys for passing and pedestrians.  The road would be a rally driver’s dream.  Most of the bends you can’t see around, there are half a dozen sharp crests where you could easily have a head-on; throw in the horse drawn carriages that take the lazy tourists up and down, the careless sheep and the walkers and, if you’re not awake when you start, I can personally guarantee your eyes will be agog by the time you reach the end. 

Mind you, part of the reason is the scenery; it is so different, a bit wonderful and the numerous stone bridges just add to its appeal.  The latter allow you to cross the appropriately named Black Lake which is mysterious in its opaqueness, especially if you’re from Australia and unaccustomed to dark waters.  The whole area carved by receding glaciers, with scant vegetation as yet, there’s an eeriness about it, especially when the mist rises in the morning and uncovers the deserted row of farmhouses from the 19^th C.

By this time Lorraine and I were fairly well done in from our sleepless night and the morning walk but we managed to take a few pics before heading to Muckross Castle and Garden, past Kate Kearney’s Cottage (and attendant pubs and cafes) at the base of the climb from where all the horses start.  Kate apparently used to dispense a special Kate Kearney’s Mountain Dew, labelled to distil the fact that it was illegal alcohol, but that’s an Irish thing.

            

We were a bit early for a guided tour of the Muckross mansion so we took the garden option and here we were found out.  After about 10 minutes walking we really wanted to go home and crash so we gave the grand house a miss and made our way back to the car, stopping for a very early dinner break in Killarney before heading back up Dunloe.  The conditions were superb for photography but, when Lorraine is of a mind to do something she won’t be persuaded otherwise so I only managed half a dozen snaps under duress before we crossed the pass back to Shamrock.

Come in Duffer

 

                                                              COME IN DUFFER

Cummeenduff, now there’s a word - (Com Uí Dhuibh – meaning Black Glen).  I was reminded of many of our aboriginal names that bear no relevance to the English language and here the Celtic background still flaunts itself in so many ways but this was a place I’d never heard of.

There was still time in the Irish afternoon for some photography so I begged leave of Lorraine and bolted out the door.  According to the map, the path to the lakes was opposite our entry gate somewhere so I figured I wouldn’t have any trouble finding it.  Mistake.

I walked westward along the single lane road and no entry did I spy so I did what I always do, jumped a fence.  Second mistake.  The entire paddock I found myself in was a peat bog.  No matter where you put your foot, it squelched.  So I took it easy, working my way down towards a line of trees that had befriended the river.  You couldn’t take your eye off the ground, so potentially slippery was it, and then it happened.  My right foot went out from under me and my dodgy left leg bent totally back as I flopped over on my right side and got the brand new jumper, that Lorraine had bought for me, wet and muddy.

Pain wracked my leg.  I began to wonder just how I was going to get out of this situation but first I had to get up.  If you’re a supple 10 year old it presents no problem but it was like my body was frozen and my leg was trapped beneath it and at least 15 seconds passed before I could roll sideways.  It seemed ages before I could get into a position where I could lever myself upright again. This was achieved slowly and methodically and I found that I could still walk. 

That’s when the adrenalin cut in and I moved yet again in the direction of the river, knowing that there would not be a second chance, but only made it another 70 metres before it became impassable.  So I turned around in bitter disappointment and struggled warily towards the road once more.

I tried to hide it from Lorraine when I made it back by having a quick shower.  Third mistake.  Unsure of just what to do with the jumper I washed the stained arm gently after I’d done my dirty trousers and socks and hung the lot over the heater before retiring to the dining/lounge room at the far end where Lorraine was.  It was all going swimmingly until……Lorraine went to the bedroom while I sat on the lounge typing on my computer.

I have no idea just how many minutes passed until an irate woman stomped through the door, wrung out the arm of my jumper on the dining room floor before throwing it violently just past my head.  It’s about here that the word “recrimination” comes into play.  The torrent of abuse I suffered thereafter put something of a dampener on the holiday and had not Sheila come to the rescue and calmed Lorraine down a little I don’t know what might have happened.

Neither of us slept well that night; how many hours I lay awake I know not, but they were several in number.  The first time I had to go to the toilet was absolute agony; I should have had crutches, so great was the pain in my left leg.  The next couple of times I could manage it but only with gritted teeth.

Sometime during the night (it was around midnight we later learned) the 76 year old party girl came home.  You could hear the solid metal gate clang, her footsteps along the path, the door open, and the light clicking on in the hall…..in fact, there’s not a sound that doesn’t echo along the tiled floor.

Breakfast seemed to bring a little relief and the thought that I might actually be able to try again to reach the lakes was inspirational so, with better instructions and ignoring the map, we drove the car to where you turned off for Cummeenduff Glen and found out that you could actually drive to where we wanted to go, albeit slowly.  It was yet another one laner whose only purpose was to service a few homesteads further down the lakes.

By Irish standards the weather was about as good as you could get it, i.e., partly cloudy, no rain, light winds.  Not perfect for photography but the best we could hope for.  However, there was another factor to consider and that was just being here amongst the mountains, so called, that rose 3,000ft from the valley floor.  Part of the allure was their starkness, all rock on top with bracken ferns browning much of the lower slopes in amongst patches of grass and, farther down, the odd house.  Here and there were fence lines and old stone walls of indeterminate age in various states of disrepair while trees put in a spasmodic appearance only on the valley floor.  It was a bleak yet somehow attractive landscape and when we came to the lakes we were only too happy to record the moments we spent there.

 

Just being there was spellbinding.  The stillness and quiet, the corrugated ripples on the tranquil water oscillating through the reeds, the eye-catching dominance of the mountains, the free roaming sheep, the bog we had to walk on to get the lakeside pictures, the ancient crumbling rock fences all played their part. 

                 

I was almost mesmerised by an old ruin on top of a rise with hills all around.  It seemed such a forlorn thing that once had been lived in but today was crumbling at the rate of about two bricks a year.  I almost expected an apparition from within as I made my way around the walls and the animal pens that once were.  You could almost sense the presence of a sheep herder checking a few ewes that he had penned up for safety before retiring into the minimalist dwelling attached.  No creaking old wind-blown gates here, just dry stone walls that only added to the bleak appearance of the place.

You could feel that the cold of winter would have been chilling and I wondered just what they did to fill in their time when the wind blew the rain sideways outside. I later learned that, among fellow walkers, it’s quite famous in these parts and known, appropriately, as the Slate Hut.

We spent some hours wandering in the glen, once along a lane of splendid holly trees, which is part of the fabled 214 kms Kerry Way (opened in 1989), before returning to the irrepressible Sheila for some morning tea.

 

                                                      WALKING LJUBLJANA

So next day we ventured out, Lorraine intent on shopping in earnest so that, in addition to the four pairs of shoes that she’d packed (all necessary of course) she now added another two which hopefully should do her until our luggage eventually arrived.

                    

We wandered aimlessly after that, drifting south towards a park that appeared on our street guide and came upon an impressive looking opera house with semi-circular classical front.  Beyond that was a park whose featured statue was that of Valvasor, a 17^thC natural historian and fellow of the Royal Society in London, whose pioneering work on karst formations and 15 volumes (3532 pages – 528 illustrations) called the Glory of the Duchy of Carnolia is considered the main go-to book for old Slovenian history, made him something of a legend.  His life was epic, he’s considered Slovenia’s Renaissance man.  After travelling for 14 years and doing two stints fighting wars for Austria after his parents died, he tired of formal education, set up a printing enterprise and published so much it ultimately sent him broke, requiring his castle to be sold with its 10,000 books.

                              

It led us to the next building, the local museum where, fortunately, there was an exhibition of Chinese gold artefacts. To put it mildly, the quality of the historical items was absolutely superb.  Via a project she’s doing, Lorraine had been involved in gold work and so we both got immense pleasure out of noting the fine detail in these items.  There’s heaps of other stuff to see but we only touched a fraction on it, mainly tombstones dating from the first century to the Middle Ages but the outstanding piece was a bronze statue of some Roman in classic senatorial pose in a toga.  Once there were many bronze statues, they outnumbered marble but, of course, you can’t melt marble down when times are tough and so it is that there are hardly any Roman bronzes left these days.

                      

We moved out, down another street and saw a fine three story edifice topped by cupolas across the way, just as we fell into a conversation with a lady in uniform.  No sooner had we started conversing that she was shouted at and told to desist by someone inside the perimeter.  Apparently it’s the American Embassy and we all know what their security is like.

         

We walked away, down another block and there was another, less protected and more promising structure.  Its five domes and varied exterior beckoned us onwards into the Serbian Orthodox Church where we gazed in wonder at the frescoed interior of this 1936 icon.  It seems every available bit of wall and ceiling was painted and, from the roof hung an extraordinary chandelier, about the largest I’ve ever seen.

People came and went, some lit candles, others kissed something covered in glass, we mainly ogled because we’ve not had a great deal of experience with Orthodox Churches, certainly not of this quality.  A kindly multi-lingual gent tended the gift shop within and he garnered some of our money on a few touristy items as we were leaving.

                        

France Preseren

                             Jakov Bdar - Adam and Eve fleeing the Garden of Eden

Back out in the sunshine we made for the Triple Bridges, the centre point of Ljubljana, where eye-catching sculptures of distorted figures by noted sculptor Jakov Brdar seemed to pop up everywhere but, the ultimate meeting place is adorned with a more recognisable figure, that of Slovenia’s most famous poet France Preseren who stands facing the window of his much loved Julija Primic while beneath him are bas relief scenes from his poetry. Above him is a seated muse holding an olive branch.

                   

We wander past a piano accordion busker who takes umbrage at our taking pictures without offering money first and head further on to Zmajski most, a.k.a. the Dragon Bridge where the most photographed sculptures of all are four dragons.  Here the “selfies” are queueing to get a snap of themselves in front of someone’s interpretation of a dragon.  We are amused when a little girl on her knees leans down and kisses the glass walkway.

 

If you’re an Aussie though, you’ll be heading over to the funicular that takes you to the castle where, right near the base is a bronze of, wait for it, a kangaroo!  Its pouch doubles as a fountain which only serves to add to the allure.  Still can’t believe it.

 

We took time out to ride the rails to the top and, upon alighting, found we’d stumbled onto a wedding.  What was more karma was that the groom was an Aussie.  He was marrying a pom and I was eyeing off the food stuffs but decided not to do a dash and grab.

               

The most interesting part of the castle is a small historical museum but I have to rush through because Lorraine is getting tired.  The views are good but, as a castle, we’ve definitely seen better.

               

It’s time to descend the funicular and head for our digs, past the couple in lederhosen and a braless girl in a singlet with what seem like small horns wrapped in hair attached to her scalp.  It’s all too much, time to wait for another day.

  

 

The opera house

Near the Butchers Bridge