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Following The Fleet

Monday, June 19th 2017

Whoever thought writing was a sedentary activity should have been with me these past few weeks. Since my week in the Falkland Islands in March, my researches into the saga of HMS Erebus have taken me to Pembroke Dockyard in Wales, where the ship was built 190 years ago, to the Orkney Islands, the last sight of home for the ill-fated crew of Franklin’s Arctic expedition, and just last week to Hobart, Tasmania which was the base for Erebus’s most successful voyages, into the heart of the Antarctic.

Top: The men who built HMS Erebus in 1826 would have walked through these very same gates at Pembroke Dockyard. Bottom: With my guide, historian Ted Goddard, at Pembroke Dockyard Museum.

A lot of the places where my story is set are remote corners of the world, so it takes a while to get there, but one thing they have in common is an almost unpolluted atmosphere. It’s quite a shock to look up into the heavens above Port Stanley or Western Australia (where I went to a Writers Festival on my way to Hobart) and see the sheer mass of flickering, sparkling light that fills the skies. Its a sight that takes the breath away, and one we big city dwellers never get to see.

Top left: Shop that’s changed hands. Stromness, Orkney Islands. Bottom leftt: Arctic explorer John Rae lies in St. Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall with his gun by his side. Right: Some of the houses at Stromness are so tightly wedged together that they have to shave a bit off the bottom of the building to let people through.

The only trouble is that I know that soon I’m going to have to stop travelling and sit down and write my book. Instead of seeing stars I’ll be seeing spellcheck. Ah, well, I’ve always enjoyed the writing process. Not that it’s always as smooth as it seems. I recently had to sort through my writings that date back more than 50 years, to try and decide which to send to the British Library archive. In the end I gave up and sent everything.

Orkney Islands. Interior of a chapel inside a Nissen Hut built and decorated by Italian prisoners in the Second World War using whatever they could find on the Islands.

So many of the best Python ideas sprang from squiggles and doodles and crossings out, that what I was giving the British Library was bound to be a bit of a mess, but a kind of productive mess, which they would sort out. And they seemed very happy to do that. The fact that all my Python material was hand-written, and then re-written, and then chopped up and inserted into someone else’s sketch didn’t seem to worry them. And it doesn’t really worry me any more. I’m an obsessively tidy person, and yet it’s the untidiness of the Python sketches that reveals the thought processes behind them.

Late afternoon on the Huon River, in Tasmania’s Deep South. The settlement by the water is called Franklin, and they build the most beautiful woooden boats there. They give lessons in boat -building. Check out The Wooden Boat Centre.

In Hobart, capital of Tasmania, even the telephone junction boxes are works of art. Come on London, catch up!

“Don’t tidy up histery’ I wrote in my notebook, and then crossed it out and wrote it again, spelling “history” right.

Hope you all have a really great summer – and for those in the southern hemisphere, a really great winter.

Spring Into Action

Tuesday, April 18th 2017

As the days grow longer, I’m getting up a little earlier and trying to concentrate my mind on the story of HMS Erebus, the book which I have set myself to write in time for publication at the end of next year. I always found libraries rather stuffy when I was at school but now I’m looking at archive material, there’s something exciting, almost thrilling about seeing letters and diaries that were written 170 years ago, often from the furthest ends of the earth.

Talking of ends of the earth, I’m just back from researching Erebus material in the Falkland Islands. It’s such a quiet unspoilt, un-polluted environment that it’s hard to imagine there was a war there in 1982 – the year we were shooting Monty Python’s Meaning Of Life. The echoes of the conflict reverberate. I was there the week after the Falklands Marathon – won by an Argentinian.

Left: At Cape Pembroke, Falkland Islands. One of the most isolated lighthouses in the world. Modern technology has replaced the Keeper who used to live here. Right: Bird life is exceptional in the Falklands – here’s a row of Shags drying out on a rock. No giggling please.

The islands are bare and rather beautiful and I had a great time at the excellent Dockyard Museum and a very comfortable stay at the wondrous Waterfront Hotel. The RAF flew me down there – an 18 hour flight from Brize Norton via Ascension Island, which is an old volcano and the only piece of land sticking out of the Atlantic for hundreds of miles.

Halfway to the Falklands. View out over the lonely volcanic island of Ascension from the garden of my host Marc Holland, the head honcho, or Administrator, to give him his official title, of Ascension Island.

Was only there for a two-hour stopover but just enough time to see the the great sea turtles labouring towards the ocean after laying their eggs. Dragging themselves, exhausted across the sand, but once in the water, off like a rocket. After all, they swam over from Brazil to lay those eggs. I’d never seen anything like this before, which just shows that if you’re curious enough, travelling is never over. Watch this space!

A Weekend In Pakistan

Saturday, February 25th, Lahore

I’m just back from the Lahore Literary Festival in Pakistan. I first visited the city in 2003 when we were filming the Himalaya series for the BBC. I fondly remember its noise and beauty and bustle and when Razi Ahmed invited me to the Literary Festival I was instantly tempted. I flew to Lahore last Thursday night. Unfortunately that morning there had been another explosion in the city and the police were worried that the big Alhamra Arts Centre might be a target, so the Festival had been transferred to a local hotel. Despite the news that the explosion was an accident, not a terrorist attack, the police were taking no risks and with only 15 hours to go to the opening event, the location had to be changed yet again and the entire three-day programme reduced to one day.

The fact that the Festival took place at all was a triumph for Razi and his team. Overnight they transformed the 135-year old Faletti’s Hotel into three auditoriums and space for a few thousand people to congregate.

At the Festival with fellow delegate Salam Kawakibi.

And it worked. I was on stage with novelist Kamila Shamsie at 10 o’clock on Saturday morning. In the audience were some of the many Monty Python fans from all over Pakistan. Despite all the security concerns I was welcomed and made to feel at home and the perfect weather and great cast of fellow writers made it a memorable day in Lahore. It ended when a PowerPoint presentation of highlights from my Himalaya series was brought to a Pythonically abrupt halt when a crouched figure emerged from the audience and handed me a piece of paper with a message that read : “Sir, Time Is Over. Please Finish. Thanks. Lahore Police” I assumed this was something John Cleese had organised and made a joke about going on for another hour. Within ten seconds my mike was unplugged and the power supply switched off. It wasn’t a joke. The Lahore Police had the last word.

By then the Festival had done its work and brought thousands of people together on a beautiful day in a fine city to hear about books and writing and to exchange ideas and meet other people with open minds. The great sadness was that many local writers had their sessions cancelled because of the shortening of the event.

I only hope that the authorities in Lahore realise what a treasure the Literary Festival is for the city and will persevere with it in the future.

Literary Festivals are ten a penny these days but the Lahore Literary Festival is something special. Long may it last.

Sightseeing in Lahore. Wazir Khan Mosque, one of the many architectural wonders of the city.

Python and Pakistan

One of the most extraordinary stories about the early life of Python is that Pakistan was one of the first countries to buy Monty Python’s Flying Circus from the BBC. After showing the first 13 episodes they complained bitterly that there were no clowns, acrobats, bareback riders or performing elephants in the Circus and demanded their money back. So it was very satisfying for me to find that nearly fifty years on there are so many Pakistanis who love the real thing and who know the Dead Parrot sketch off by heart.

Traffic Jam, Lahore. Rear view of Pakistani painted truck.

Cold Start

January 22nd, 2017, Sunday morning, London

Trawling the morning’s newspaper for pages without Trump triumphant I learn that today London is colder than Iceland. Which could be a good omen. I’ve just taken on a commission to produce a book about HMS Erebus, a modest three-master, which became the flagship on two of the most dramatic Polar journeys in history. The first, in 1839, to Antarctica, where Erebus, and her sister ship Terror, sailed perilously between the icebergs, reaching further south than any vessels had been before. The second six years’ later, to search for the North-West Passage, ended in disaster, when both ships, and 129 men, disappeared off the face of the earth. In 2014, almost 170 years since she was last seen, HMS Erebus was miraculously re-discovered, her hull bruised but intact, beneath the waters of the Canadian Arctic.

HMS Erebus was thought to have met her end trapped in arctic ice (Picture: Getty)

The story of the life, death and resurrection of the Erebus has become something of an obsession and I’ve already started research, which will soon involve travelling, like Erebus did, to far-flung corners of the world.

It’ll keep me busy in the year ahead, but there’ll be lots of other things to do, starting with a visit to Pakistan (for the first time since the Himalaya series ) for the Lahore Literary Festival in February, and appearances at The York Festival on the 19th March, and The Radio Times Festival at the BFI on the 7th April.

A lot of last year was spent waiting. This year I can’t wait to get on with it.

Ten Days in Taiwan

Friday, November 11th, 2016

Just back from my first ever visit to the island of Taiwan. After the hiatus caused by the production difficulties on The Man Who Killed Don Quixote I needed to make plans for some other outlet for my general restlessness. I needed to get back on the road. My friend and series photographer Basil Pao lives in Hong Kong, less than two hours flying time from Taiwan. Come and see it for yourself he said. You’ll be surprised.

A small island making cell phones wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for my first long-distance trip in a couple of years, but I like a challenge, and I’m glad I took it on. Taiwan is fascinating. Half is an international workshop and half is a huge and rather beautiful national park, with great trails through high mountains and spectacular forests (in which some of the trees have been standing since before the birth of Christ) If you’ve time to dawdle, the street food is superb and if you’re in a hurry, a high-speed train can take you almost the entire length of the island in two hours. And where else would you find a bird called the White-Whiskered Laughing Thrush? I told it some of John Cleese’s old material and it flew off.

I’ll give a fuller account of my adventure (hopefully with some of Basil’s pictures) when I’ve had time to digest an exhilarating week in the country the early Portuguese explorers christened Formosa “the beautiful island”. Meanwhile here are a couple of snaps taken on the road. A selfie of yours truly taken at the top of a mountain trail (around 2,500 metres) and a view of the rather idyllic Sun Moon Lake before the tourists boats are out.

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A Yorkshireman In Paris

Wednesday, October 12th, 2016

Having recently been described in this week’s Radio Times as “a relentlessly cheery Yorkshireman”, I bought a new coat and a pair of shades and took myself off to Paris to show that I’m in fact a cool and moody existentialist. This disguise, modelled here in the Tuileries Gardens, certainly wouldn’t have impressed anybody in my home county. A couple of years ago I was crossing West Street in Sheffield, wearing what I thought was a pretty stylish Armani shirt without a collar, when two burly locals passed me. One nodded at me, nudged his friend and I heard him say : “ ‘Ello, bourgeois are back”.

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My Paris trip, to stay with well-travelled writer and photographer Michael Katakis, also served to kick-start the travelling bug (sorry about the mixed metaphor). This summer, after finishing my stint as Molotov in The Death Of Stalin, I was to be seen at riding lessons up in Trent Park, reciting Spanish in Gospel Oak, learning lines on holiday in Majorca, and generally trying to get myself prepared to tilt at windmills. By mid-September it was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to be getting into Don Quixote’s saddle this year. With The Man Who Killed Don Quixote postponed I was able to follow up on some documentary ideas, all of which would take me to parts of the world I’d never seen. Can’t say more at the moment but it looks as if I’ll be dusting off my boots and checking the date on my anti-diarrhea pills in spring next year.

Though I was only in Paris for 24 hours the change of scenery worked wonders. In amongst all the fuss about Hard Brexit (which sounds like something you’d complain about at a hotel reception) and the delusion that foreigners are somehow bad for us, it was a delight and pleasure to walk the streets of this most civilised city and be reminded that enjoying doing things differently is not bad, it’s essential.

Brazil and Why the Thought of It Cheers Me Up

Wednesday, August 3rd, 2016

I’ve just completed my last day’s shooting on The Death Of Stalin. When I first brought Vyacheslav Molotov to life David Cameron was Prime Minister, Roy Hodgson was manager of England and The United Kingdom was a leading member of the European Union.

That was less than six weeks’ ago. Since then the back-stabbings and coups and plots and counter-plots in British politics have made Stalin’s Soviet Union seem awfully close to home.

And across the Atlantic the strutting Trump, tossing out solutions to his country’s ills like candy to children, would surely have found more than a few things in common with Uncle Joe.

But it’s across the Atlantic that I look with some relief and some hope for cheer in these times. Not the north Atlantic, but the south. In three day’s time the 2016 Olympics begin in Rio de Janeiro.

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When I was last there in October 2011 there was a great feeling of optimism in the country. Brazil was booming and stadiums were going up, not just in Rio but all over the country, for the double whammy of Football World Cup and the Olympics. Since then the Brazilians have had a very hard time indeed. Corruption scandals have rocked the government and the once invincible soccer team has been crushingly defeated on its own turf. The Zika virus has proved a hellish extra problem for them to deal with. Then the worst blow of all. Rory McIlroy decided that he wasn’t going to the Olympics.

I have such happy memories of Brazil that I look forward to the Olympics enormously. What I wrote about and saw in Brazil nearly five years ago still gives me encouragement. Though superficial circumstances have changed, Brazil remains a potentially rich country, blessed with abundant natural resources. It’s not a warlike nation, it’s people are predisposed to enjoying themselves on the wide beaches and in the generous sunshine.

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Brazilians on the whole are tolerant of others and will be warm and hospitable hosts. They love a party, they love a bit of public celebration. Music and movement are in their blood. Despite all the gloom and doom, I can’t wait for the ultimate sporting carnival to begin.

June goes out with a groan

Thursday, June 30th, 2016

June is going out with a groan. As I write there are people in the street with scarves and umbrellas, head down against the wind. And then there’s Brexit which seems to have encouraged some very unpleasant people to put the boot in on anyone they think foreign. As a traveller who has seen a bit of the world and received the hospitality, welcome and friendship of so many people in so many countries, I find the sight of racist abuse being dealt out by my own countrymen utterly repulsive. It must be immediately and roundly condemned, and the bullies charged under the law.

At times like this I look round for some good news. And it’s there if you look behind the headlines. England’s pathetic performance in the Euros is more than made up for by the national Rugby Union team’s whitewash against Australia and the comprehensive walloping of Pakistan by our women’s cricket team. Not to mention the pretty effortless superiority of our men’s team against Sri Lanka. “I told you not mention that” I hear Spike Milligan say. And, at the time of writing, Andy Murray’s still in Wimbledon and there’s the AbFab film to look forward to.

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After a few lessons I’m feeling more confident on the saddle as the Quixote film looms. But before that, July means Russia 1953 and my Molotov moustache.

There, I feel better already!

May on The Way

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2016

Travels, anniversaries and deaths seem to have filled the last two months. The losses first – Ronnie Corbett, immaculate timer of comedy lines – on a par with Cleese – Prince, who I didn’t know a lot about until the obituaries rolled in and who I now know I should have caught up with much earlier. And Victoria Wood. That was a real shock. She had the great skill of reflecting our lives back at us, and making us laugh at ourselves in the best way possible. I always felt better after watching anything she did. And though she had many reasons to do so, she never played the big star. She quietly observed life, took it all in and gave it back to us with warmth and humanity, and above all, loads of laughter.

Two weeks ago, my missus and I celebrated fifty years of married life. A triumph of inertia, I always say, to avoid getting too sentimental. But to any married couples reading this I would recommend staying the course if you can. You find that almost without noticing, you’ve shared so much, and no-one else will ever share that much with you again. Two lives, inextricably entwined, encompassing the bad times and the good times is quite a storehouse. And by the end of the next week I’ll be 73, which sounds awfully old, but in my head I’m still in my twenties. Which is even more worrying !

I’ve been on the move. Not far. To Copenhagen to open an exhibition of paintings by Wilhelm Hammershoi, an artist who came to me completely out of left field, but who is now one of my all-time favourites. In fact I’m hoping to get to Copenhagen again to see the impressive Hammershoi exhibition at the equally impressive Ordrupgaard Museum, before it closes in June.

mp-ramblings-may-on-the-way-01 — At the Hammershoi Exhibition, Ordrupgaard, Denmark March 2016

I spent 24 hours in North Wales interviewing Jan Morris the writer for a 90th birthday tribute to be shown on BBC2 later in the year, and after that I was lucky enough to have cause to visit one of my absolute favourite cities, Dublin, to accept a Lifetime Achievement Award from University College. Very generous of them to give me such an award, but I always feel that being given a Lifetime Achievement Award is kind of like saying “Right, that’s it. That’s your lifetime”. I mean you never hear of anyone being given a second Lifetime Award.

But if I am now in my second lifetime I’m certainly going to make the most of it. As the month of May rolls in, watch this space!

Still Travelling

Thursday, March 3rd, 2016

It’s three weeks now since I returned from a two-week boat trip to Antarctica, and I’m feeling the cold. It’s summer down there and the temperature was never far from zero – a little above, a little below. And when the sun shines it’s bright and clear, and even though you’re at the Antarctic Circle you can wear a T-shirt, provided you apply a gallon of sun oil and stay out of the wind. It’s the wind and the sun that make the difference. The UV rays are powerfully strong in the unpolluted air, and when the wind blows, as it does every now and then, it’s no gentle breeze, but a fierce horizontal assault, whipping the snow into your face, stabbing the skin like an acupuncturist gone berserk. It’s then that you’re reminded that the Antarctic summer, in it’s angriest moods, can beat the London winter any day.

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I took this photo from a kayak in a bay on the Antarctic Peninsula. on one of the calm, sunny, well-behaved days. Apart from the sensational beauty of the mountains and the stillness and serenity of the ocean, the magical element in this whole experience was the awareness that this was one of the very few places left on earth where humans have never been. There are mountains ahead of me, which have seen no human footprint in the whole of recorded time.

Now, I’m back home dealing in a different kind of stillness and serenity – as captured on canvas by the great Danish painter Wilhelm Hammershoi. In 2005 I made a one-hour BBC documentary about this little known early twentieth-century artist, who could paint household interiors and make them quite magical and mysterious. I think he’s terrific and I feel very honoured that I’ve been asked to open a new exhibition of his haunting work at the Ordrupgaard Museum, north of Copenhagen today.

Somehow the silence of Hammershoi’s interiors produce a similar sensation to the vast, untouched exteriors I saw in Antarctica.

If you’re interested the Hammershoi film is on YouTube, or, together with two other films I’ve made about artists, is on a BBC DVD called Palin on Art.

And if you want to experience the beauty, excitement and danger of travel in the Antarctic in all its moods, there’s nothing better than Ernest Shackleton’s book SOUTH, an account of one of the most unbelievably epic journeys ever undertaken.

Happy Travels.