Jane Odriozola

A blossoming of weak sun welcomes us to Sogndal, the painted houses huddling under snow-dusted roofs. Snow is something we see surprisingly little of in Bergen. If it appears, rain soon returns to create a slushy, treacherous mess. Two busloads of musicians begin the routine all over again … stretching of spines, the hunt for room keycards, foraging for food. There’s usually a clock ticking maddeningly in my head on tour, especially on concert days. A constant assessment of time needed for this or that task, when to eat, whether to eat – and how close to concert hour. As well as trying to remember which floor my room is on today. On longer tours, this gets unintentionally entertaining. WHY is my card not working again??!….er…oh right. That was yesterday’s number stuck in my brain.

My refuelling needs are adequately met by the local Italian restaurant, enhanced by lively conversation and an exchange of Norwegian sayings to add to my collection. Today’s find is “ugler i mosen”, or “there are owls in the moss.” I’m told this can be used to convey that “something’s fishy…” Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say. The company remains entertaining through coffee and we disperse to prepare ourselves for the evening ahead.

In Sogndal’s Kulturhus, the boys in our crew have been hard at work, unloading instruments as efficiently as ever and making sure the way is paved for a smooth performance. Fresh fruit is being chopped for the break as the harpist begins her tuning routine. I’m quite glad I only have four strings to deal with…. Meanwhile, I’ve come across a bizarre statue of Adam and Eve reaching up for what is obviously their pet cat, who in turn is scrambling higher up towards an apple. Who knew? Not quite sure how to interpret this new version, but I’m glad to see they are cat people. The only tempting going on here seems to be how to entice that cat back down. Fire service, anyone?

The hall is full of bright-eyed (and cheeked) locals. Enthusiasm has gone up a notch even from yesterday and true enough, the reception we get is the warmest yet. The acoustic may be as dry as Bond’s martini, but the audience is firmly on board and we respond accordingly. Our 26 year old conductor is growing daily in confidence – I’m impressed that he is already thinking outside the box. And the soloists are in top form. Dagfinn Rohde in the second violins has been with the BFO since 1977 and is on the cusp of retirement. So it’s a poignant moment when he takes over the baton for a vigorous reading of Strauss’ Radetzky March. I spot our two man coach driver team thoroughly enjoying two central seats and what they admit is a new experience amongst one of our audiences.

We squeeze off the stage, ready to pack down instruments and clothes. Navigating past the enormous travel boxes for basses, I note that our bass players have pared down their dressing routine to the, literally, bare essentials. Why go to find a dressing room when you can simply change in the open case? This is clearly a shrewd move, bearing in mind the equation of large thirsty orchestra equals lengthy bar queue. The rest of us giggle and wriggle out of evening wear within the confines of heaving dressing rooms. It’s a lively celebration back at the hotel and a welcome glass or two. Mission accomplished.

Understandably, the long coach journey home the following morning is a muted affair, punctuated by a few distinct snores. Possibly my own. The scenery, admittedly, is breathtaking enough to drag me onto the top ferry deck…… where I’m well and truly awakened by vicious gusts slapping at my face. I dutifully fill my lungs with Fresh Air. Continued driving takes us ever deeper into a glitteringly harsh Narnia. The frozen river bed looks like a location shot for the flight from the White Witch, and I’m sure I’ve spotted some magical extras lurking in the trees. Real life returns with the comforting click of knitting needles and rustling of sandwich wrappings. Nearing Bergen and the sea, snow vanishes. Home at last, and time to prepare for our fast-approaching Salzburg residency. Snow, Mahler, Mena…..and some rather good coffee! Coming soon….

As soon as Christmas has been packed back in its box, the BFO New Year concerts begin in earnest – first in Bergen and then a mini tour out to the districts several hours away. We head first to Førde. Rain lashes the windows of the bus but we are coccooned in warmth, still a little sleepy. Snippets of conversation….the life line of take away coffee … musicians come to life. The rain has turned to sleet. Knitting needles click rhythmically. Lively discussions about instruments, kids, food and drink … all pretty much standard fascination of musicians. Sleet turns into snow.

The countryside out here is wild. Deep, dark fjords and remote villages made accessible by ferries. Impossibly sheer rock faces loom ahead, excluding light from the valley floor. Waterfalls cascade in spectacular torrents. Today all is grey, with a softened misty edge straight out of an illustration by Theodor Kittelsen, one of my favourite Norwegian artists. The light changes, brightening as we enter areas where snow lies more thickly. Ghostly tree outlines emerge. It is all too easy to conjure up the shapes of trolls in trees and rocks. We vanish into yet another tunnel, only to be spat out into even brighter white. The bus tyres judder as they secure a grip. On one smaller lake, an icy skin has already formed, white creeping across the surface. As we cross a bridge, a tiny fjord set in a storybook majestic valley appears. Dwarfed by the peaks, a single farm and two houses huddle close to the water. I wonder each year what life can be like in such remote areas. Random dwellings, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Down yet another winding descent and the ferry awaits, like a beast in its lair on the fjord below. A whole orchestra scrambles for the toilets on board. Priorities, priorities. Emerging then into the familiar aroma common to all Norwegian ferries – hotdogs. Musicians swarm like locusts over coffee and sustenance. We are, incidentally, on one of the latest electric ferries. Very quiet and no nauseating fumes. Another hour on the road brings us to our hotel in Førde, grateful to stretch our legs. Here it is raining hard. In less than three hours, rehearsal starts and I need caffeine. More priorities.

Førdehuset welcomes us once again with an enthusiastic audience who settle back to experience our programme, guided by wine critic and konferansier, Ingvild Tennfjord. The evening is a smooth offering of crowd-pleasers, complete with young stars and our very own Martin Winter on trumpet. Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers always gets them – and I can see the smiles breaking out for the music to Harry Potter. The acoustics are challenging but performance mode soon kicks in. There’s something about this job … something satisfying about being able to bring the joy of live music out to people outside the main cities. They are deeply appreciative and this concert is a highlight of their season. That much I learn from audience conversation as we mingle in the break. Singers Caroline Wettergreen and Hermine Oen sparkle…also literally…and are rewarded with striking scarlet bouquets. Our latest young assistant conductor, Nils Erik Måseidvåg, is a newcomer to these concerts and has acquitted himself impressively well, especially in accompanying the soloists which demands a steady hand and quick reactions. Later this week he will begin prepping us for the arrival of our conductor for the Salzburg tour, Juanjo Mena. For now, we pack away instruments and head back to the hotel. To a celebratory post- concert drink, enjoying the company of colleagues. Then rest. Next stop, Sogndal.

• 

It’s that time of the year again, as I’m reminded every time I enter a store and the tinny “classics” play on a loop. Scrooge I am not – never said “bah humbug!” in my life. Yet I find I’ve taken a step back…back to the basics. To simple pleasures. I’ve returned to the earliest celebrations of Yuletide this year. The arrival of the Winter Solstice brought me back to nature and bringing it into my home. I’m weary of the glitter, the overly commercialised excess. Celebrating nature and its harvests has deeper meaning than ever in our uncertain and tortured world.

Any decoration has to be of sufficient height to be beyond the reach of Max, resident black cat, companion and Prince of Darkness. This resulted in a slightly fraught afternoon in the approach to Christmas. “Max ….leave it! MAX….no!!” I laid out my sparkly lights on the floor to check they still worked. (Their previous task had been creating atmosphere at my daughter’s wedding…). This was asking too much of Max. I could see him weighing up his options before poking experimentally with a paw. His afternoon was looking up. Unable to have a traditional tree and in line with my wish for simplicity, I instead hung some beautiful hazel branches across the ceiling. Hastily looped with tiny lights, I added birds, snowflakes made of lace, wooden and rustic ornaments….plus an irresistible mouse on skis. The combination is a magical one, comforting in the darkness. Lighting candles is a daily event here….today’s one evokes mulled wine spices. Pine cones, herbs and evergreens are so much more satisfying than tinsel. The ever inventive Max has discovered that his perch on top of the fridge allows full paw extension and a little cautious tweaking of the branches. We have had words about this. I’ve distracted him with some new toys but I’m well aware it has been filed away in his head for future experimentation.

As a child, I envisaged a linear picture of the year. The bit between December 31st and a whole new year represented a massive leap back up to the top of my mind’s calendar. Perhaps that explains my impatience with New Year’s Eve – I am just itching to get it over with and start a fresh year, a fresh page. For us here in the North, that means a whole lot of winter still to come. We can easily get snowfall even in April. But at least the days are gradually getting longer, the darkness of shorter duration. The January sales signal that I can indulge in a tempting pile of fresh notebooks. And maybe even that fountain pen I’ve had my eye on. I enjoy writing first drafts longhand – and of course, daily notebook observations and ideas. Only then do I edit further onto the computer.

• 

Here’s Max, modelling his Christmas scarf. Bless him. I’m getting wise to this New Year’s resolution nonsense, which, like the thought of a January diet, is asking for disappointment and frustration. And I know I have a string of well-intentioned diaries which peter out by the second week in. There is no harm however in a series of modest aims, possibly whispered. Mine, for example, include reading even more widely. At least one residential course with writers I admire. Getting the daily word count up. Telling my sweet tooth No…more often at least. Making the most of my experiences and pushing myself to get out of my comfort zone.

Learning to experience any day as if it were a writer’s exercise involving all the senses throws up so much more detail. Finding a way to encapsulate that multi-sensory detail in words is tantalising and challenges the brain. Thus I’m setting no official goals yet this coming year, but I know what I expect of myself. It’s all about growing, improving, evolving – as a musician, a writer and a human being. December was rather hectic but I spent whatever time I could reading….which has eaten into writing time, as you can see. But – I learned so much! Two books that stood out for me – and here I am recommending them – were Forensics by the brilliant Val McDermid, and Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. What are you waiting for? Go read!

January will include New Year concerts for me and the BFO, both here in Bergen and on a mini tour where we take them out to other districts. And there will be an exciting residency for us in Salzburg. That’s for starters! Watch this space for tour blog posts. Oh and….Happy New Year from me and Max!

• 

    Yes….this is usually what greets my eyes when I wake up. The unblinking stare. With the implied pressure to leave my bed. Now. This snooze button doesn’t work. I may try rolling over – just five more minutes – only to receive a stern tap on my cheek. No claws. Yet. Resistance is futile.

Introducing Max, my – er – mewse.  He is the one who validates all that talking out loud when home alone – clearly, I’m talking to him. Glossy and sleek, with probably the longest tail, Max was adopted from the rescue centre three years ago. I’ve always had cats in my life. There’s something very appealing in their ability to live life on their own terms, whilst gracefully bestowing favour on their chosen Subject (me) if they so wish.

I find I’m something of a cat magnet. Wherever I wander, I generally encounter a cat, which immediately strikes up conversation and winds itself around my legs. This gives Max a kind of bulletin board to examine when I get home. Some cats slip into pose mode (yes, you may take my picture), like this beautiful Neapolitan cat at my holiday villa this year. In fact there were several more house cats, often to be found curled up in plant pots or basking on the terrace. My kind of place.

In the current climate of Mindfulness and Wellbeing, it should be noted how much of a contribution a cat can make in benefiting its human. Max is as good as any app aimed at lowering stress. I don’t need the dreamy voice admonishing me when my mind wanders – I get the Warning Paw Tap. Occasionally with one claw thoughtfully extended. This cat and human Zen-like state can sometimes descend into sleep. Which Max is fine with – cats can sleep an average of 18 hours per day – but could make me late for rehearsal.

Max also seems fine with my writing activity. We admittedly have the odd disagreement over who gets to keep the pen, but he generally sleeps or watches benignly from the window. He tends to passively object if I get into the groove around when he feels dinner should be served. I feel the stare from across the room. The stare arrives with its owner on the arm of my chair. With no response from me, he issues an absurdly dramatic series of heavy sighs. The end of the pen gets smacked. And Max ends up right in the middle of my page. He wins.

  Sometimes we share interests. Cheese, Ferrero Rocher (the papers make the best toys to chase – I get the chocolate) – and David Attenborough.  The Blue Planet has him transfixed and unblinking from the sofa. He’s also keen on news programmes. Who knows what goes on in a cat’s mind? My friends tease me over my assumptions about his thought processes, but whether from learned patterns or instinct, I get the impression that not much gets past him. He’s definitely in tune with my mood. When I’m sad or ill,  he’s there, switching to turbo purr and keeping close. He has a Silly Hour. This is when he takes delight in ambushing me around corners, stalking me whilst my attention is elsewhere or running off with yet another pen. Sometimes I join in the game until he stalks off, triumphant, and I get the giggles.

   I lie on the floor to do some exercises for my back. I’m trying to hold some position my body was not designed for AND remembering to breathe when I catch sight of the face peering down from the sofa. “What,” it clearly says, “are you attempting to do down there?” He rubs salt into the wound by nonchalantly throwing a leg behind his head for some serious washing. Which he does a lot. He keeps his tuxedo-and-bowtie coat in immaculate order. He would fit in nicely at an orchestra concert….

Max has a strange habit of growling – yes, growling- if either my doorbell or phone rings. He tends to be sceptical of strangers. And yet his assessment of my guests tends to be uncannily accurate. People with a special place in my life are awarded his highest accolade – he smells their feet. In detail.

We are cosy together – Max is an expert in “hygge”. After a challenging day applying my brain cells to hundreds of notes on the music stand, the warm and furry welcome from Max is therapeutic. Greetings completed, I am hustled over to the waiting food dish which, according to cat logic, is empty because a small gap has appeared between the biscuits. But after only a few mouthfuls, his curiosity gets the better of him. He has shopping bags to inspect. He’s the perfect model for any cat creeping into my stories. And there’s plenty to observe.

I don’t mind that each year I have to devise an alternative to a Christmas tree. A conventional type in my open plan flat would not survive Max’s enthusiasm. Twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling satisfy my needs. Max and I can admire them from the sofa. Whilst we settle down to some more David Attenborough.

       I love language. It makes me endlessly curious. I like the feel of it on my tongue, the sound in my ears, even the sight of it written down. And yes, it even tastes different.

I have encountered quite a few by now. Norwegian is my second language. This has given me access to two other Scandinavian languages, related, but each with their own unique flavour. I’m intrigued by the differences I notice whilst viewing the crime series which are done so well here in Scandinavia.  Swedish tends to imprint on the ear an almost petulant tone with its rise and fall….something I often detect in Russian. Although there are similarities in vocabulary with Norwegian,  Swedes either pronounce them differently or introduce a set of completely new words. There are also sounds which are unique to Swedish. I remember my early days in the orchestra, green and knowing little Norwegian. Imagine my shock when the conductor of the week began taking the rehearsal in Swedish with a strong Finnish accent! I later learned to recognise this, but it was proof that Swedish was easily understood by Norwegians. And then there’s Danish….

Danish has been unkindly described as sounding like Norwegian spoken with a mouth full of hot potatoes. And it has to be said – sometimes it may sound rather as if someone just coughed when actually it was a question! It is less distinctly enunciated than the other two languages, the words full of glottal stops. It’s a popular joke to present the unwary with tongue twisters like “Fem flade flødeboller på et fladt flødebollerfad ” – (five flat cream buns on a flat cream bun plate). I know. But if you hear it in Danish, the tongue gymnastics are impressive. If you can get your mouth around that phrase, you are doing well! There’s definitely something charming and cosy about Danish to me … a sense of their famous hygge. Devotees of the series “The Bridge” get to experience interchanging Swedish and Danish, and can appreciate the beauty and differences in both. Thanks to my preference for crime series, I’ve reached the stage where an absence of Norwegian subtitles won’t prevent my understanding.

I learned French and German at school and understand both pretty well, thanks to my international colleagues and the very useful Netflix, which offers up films and series in so many languages. And here I’ve become aware of how much a given language colours and affects the pace of a film. After the constant barrage of sound – spoken and music – predominant in many current American films (there are many lovely exceptions, notably older movies like On Golden Pond), I find myself drawn to French productions. They really use silence as a language. They don’t feel the need to fill up every meaningful space with aural pollution. It is often left up to the viewer to join the dots – you have to engage and watch with active brain. The French consider the viewer astute enough to work it out. I love the sound and feel of French, the way it immediately alters your facial features. And in come those Gallic shrugs. The same person is altered, absorbed into a new persona, according to the language spoken. There are some amusing examples of this on YouTube, with people saying the same word in a host of different languages.

There are usually conversations going on in German at any given time in my workplace. Which helps me keep my ear in. I enjoy German most of all in a poetic sense, used sensitively in music. In opera or song, a composer has the added responsibility to set words in such a way that the full beauty of word and music is mirrored and revealed, enhancing each other. Richard Strauss achieves this in his Four Last Songs, settings of poems by Hermann Hesse and Joseph von Eichendorff. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a finer mesh of the German language and music. The soaring result is sublime.

       Yes….this was actually a leaflet I found in Italy. The “& gestures” amused me greatly. But it’s true that Italians use gesture much more than British or Scandinavian speakers. Sitting at an outdoor café in Lucca this summer, I was fascinated to observe people from a distance, unable to hear, but certainly getting a few descriptive clues from the gestures. They are a true extension of the voice. I can read and understand a good deal of Spanish and Italian, and it’s enough to get around with, although I’m not up to flowing conversation yet. In my early teens, I discovered opera. My preferred method of listening would be armed with the libretti. So my early knowledge of the Italian language was largely based around sighs, traitors, love, broken hearts, fine eyes…and the phrase, “are you crazy?!”  I watch films and series regularly in Spanish, with Norwegian subtitles to check my understanding when it goes too fast! I could listen to – and watch – Javier Bardem speak all day…. Maybe it is my musical ear that makes me particularly sensitive to the cadence of language.

A new language is like a code to be broken. Links to be found. Roots to uncover. In the far North of Norway live the Sami, traditionally nomadic, following their reindeer herds.  They have their own TV channels, proudly nurturing and maintaining the Sami language. I sometimes listen in. Sami has a softness around it that rolls from the mouth like mist. It sounds very much of the Earth, timeless and in tune with the vast landscapes. The softening of edges remains evident when they speak Norwegian,  much like that of Gaelic speakers when reverting to English.

A few years ago, I learned the Russian alphabet. Cyrillic is at first confusing, because a few common letters remain but are used in a totally different way. I must have absorbed more than I realised because I find I read signs or anything that pops up in Russian without thinking. My brain soaked up a fair amount of vocabulary whilst watching Russian news programmes. I picked up enough to register the interesting variations in interpretation of the same world news item compared to British or Norwegian news channels! A lot of thriller series I enjoy contain Russian characters and I get some fun out of recognising some of their spoken asides. It comes in handy when exploring other countries too. A stroll around Prague, for example, showed me that some Czech words were familiar even without the Cyrillic.

Threads are evident throughout Europe between certain language groups. The exceptions intrigue me. Hungarian has no such obvious links and I was reduced to guesswork. As in every country I visit, I made the effort to learn a few basic words but much of it remained beyond me. I noticed some evident and mystifying translations such as this one on a building. Sounds like something out of Harry Potter!

     I admire every effort to preserve a language or dialect. Every attempt to reach out and try a new language is similar to wine-tasting. How does it feel on the tongue? What does it make you feel? From here in the chilly North, Spanish and Italian conjure up those lazy summer evenings where ones fluency evolves with each refilled glass. Such language can be voluptuous, languid, rich with that Mediterranean mañana feeling. And then there are the arguments. Spanish at full speed is quite an experience. And in both Spanish and Italian, the creativity of insults cheerfully hurled out of the window whilst driving are impressive.

There simply isn’t enough time left on this Earth to discover and learn everything that interests me. But I’m certainly making the most of my Now. With a mind that darts around like a butterfly, I have no choice! I watched a series in Welsh, of all things. They are proving adept at those dark, Scandi thrillers. I was sufficiently intrigued to look up a few basic pronunciation rules. I’ve also taught myself a few words of Arabic which is after all an important world language, even more so here in Europe. Being able to recognise and respond to some basic phrases can only be valuable and shows respect. I fear yet another new alphabet and script will be beyond me though!

What I already have on my plate is the perfect brain health workout. Appropriately enough because, as a musician, one never stops learning. How colourful is our world! Music is a plethora of languages. And at the same time, one unique, common language which rises above borders, race, religion or politics. How amazing is that?! Music is heard. Music is felt. Whether or not you speak someone’s language.

      As the days grow shorter and that annoying rain lashes at the windows, the urge to cosy up with a favourite book (or two) reasserts itself. And I’ve been taking a good look at the importance of books in my life. I was lucky in that I was encouraged by my parents to read from an early age. I was an only child, not gifted with making myself popular at school and already considered a bit weird by my classmates because music occupied a lot of my time. I was not up to date with their tastes in music or tv, so close friendships didn’t come along until much later. As I found I much preferred the worlds within my books, I wasn’t too bothered by this. I had, as some of my teachers were known to remark, a lot of imagination. I’m not sure they all meant that as a compliment. It’s interesting to realise, looking back, that certain books….and the teachers who introduced them to me…have lodged themselves firmly in my mind ever since. In a Perthshire primary class, Mr Gray began to read out loud Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic, Kidnapped. His delivery was such that I hung onto his every word…..and even now I can quote from it. It was also in his class that I happened to win a prize for my recitation of a Robert Burns poem, in Scots. As the only “sassenach” in the class, this was ironic but nonetheless an honour I enjoyed. I began scribbling numerous stories.

Mrs Elizabeth Tweedie was a formidable woman with a twinkle in her eye. Bubbling with enthusiasm and vigour, she taught me English at Perth Academy and encouraged further my scribblings. She wrote on my final report that year “keep writing, Jane!” I never forgot those words of encouragement. And here I am, Mrs Tweedie….resolved to keep at it.

           I couldn’t wait to dive back into my latest book each day. They became my real friends and I felt a huge sense of loss as each one was finished and I had to resurface. An unforgettable moment that remains with me was when someone cleared out their book collection and I was given three bulging carrier bags of random books. And what treasures I found within! The complete Narnia Chronicles. This appeared to me like the world I had been waiting for. I re-read them throughout the years and they are very special to me. The Mouse and His Child made me cry, as did The Velveteen Rabbit. Written with such simple beauty. Ring of Bright Water was also in that bag of goodies. I don’t think I have ever cried so much over a book as that one….especially when I went to see the film, despite its inaccuracies. Black Beauty was a sure fire tearjerker to such an animal softie as myself. And I was entranced by Charlotte’s Web. I’m deeply grateful for the existence of these gems.

I like to think I already recognised the feisty female characters predominant in such classics as Jane Eyre and Ballet Shoes. And Anne of Green Gables felt like a bosom friend indeed. I already had in my bookcase What Katy Did and the two sequels. Of course they are somewhat dated now, but the message within is essentially valid. I much admired Jo March in Little Women. She was determined to forge her own path, doing what she knew she did best.

There’s something enticing to a child about any delicious food references in stories, and I was no exception. I was somewhat surprised in later life to discover the actual taste of goats milk and cheese, having fantasized about Heidi’s satisfying mountain meals! And one of the best descriptions of a picnic turned up in The Wind in The Willows. Ratty’s idea of the basic necessities to be enjoyed on a river outing were mouth watering. I loved these characters, especially the house proud Mole, in his cosy little home. I can still hear his rare outburst of irritation … “Onion sauce!”

The Little House on The Prairie series offered a window onto a family who really had very little, yet made the most of everything. I can still remember the vivid picture the author’s words created of Christmas and birthday treats of intense but much valued simplicity. Still a very valid reminder today. I devoured both my own and my father’s allotted quota of library books most weeks, and progressed to Dickens, which I initially found hard going. But what a world he painted! A Christmas Carol became a Christmas Eve tradition for me. I found horrible fascination in Scrooge closing his bed curtains and awaiting the ghost. And then I read David Copperfield. Laughing at the bizarre names and traits he gives many of the characters, although the grim background is never far away.

Further up the school, I remember the revelation of learning to read and analyse poetry and Shakespeare. There’s a special thrill in peeling off the layers and finding the depths of meaning often concealed within the language…..just like paintings. So many dimensions. I was fast discovering a thirst for the past and authors like Jean Plaidy and Georgette Heyer popped up in my reading pile. Any timeslip novels were eagerly consumed…I still love the idea of travelling back in time. If I spot an antique carved wardrobe, I get that tingle.

My reading tastes remain as wide as possible. I’m a great one for armchair travelling…..in the current era that is. Expeditions, biographies, romances, folklore and myth, history and comedy. I still dare not take a Bill Bryson out in public with me. The last time was on a train journey where I got some very funny looks because I kept giggling.

I think one of my greatest thrills (and current ambitions) would be to write a novel and see it in print. A new friend. I’d like to take this opportunity to give special mention to someone who has just published her latest crime novel…..Paula Williams. (Please see the link in my Menu). Murder Served Cold comes out officially next week but my copy arrived early and I read it in one day! That should tell you something about the quality of excitement within the covers! So bravo to Paula….great inspiration for me.

It has been a joy to list and remember all my favourite childhood books again. I will be working on replenishing my collection ready to be dipped into at will. Kindles really aren’t for me. The feel of the page, the smell of the book…and not relying on a battery. I nearly always have a book in my bag, along with my notebook, for those dead moments between recording sessions or to calm my nerves on a flight. And there’s one beside my pillow every night. Who can be lonely with so many worlds to enter at will? I believe that passing on my love of reading to any future grandchildren will be one of the best things about entering that next stage. Guiding, as the small face lights up with wonder as we open the door into the ultimate escapism …… there can be no better gift.

Maybe it’s because I’m an autumn child, but I have an affinity with this time of year. The tree outside my window is still glistening with last night’s raindrops. And a lucky beam of sun is glowing through the thinning leaves, warming and intensifying the gold, rust and dull green colours. Here in Norway we call the season  høst (harvest). As language fascinates me, I note with interest that the Scots equivalent turns out to be hairst. Very similar.

It’s a time of transition. A time that speaks a welcome of all things cosy – new soft slippers to slip chilled toes into, brushed fleece bedsheets with soothing hot water bottles. And that enticing atmosphere indoors. Or the Scandi sense of hygge.  Finally the heating goes back on, the tea lights come out and thoughts turn to koselig (cosy) evenings whilst autumn storms growl at the windows. I get into a different interior colour palette. The greys of my sofa are softened with earthy nature tones. As we progress towards winter, rustic reds will join them.

 I find creating mood around me a great aid towards creating word pictures. I’m susceptible to colour and texture. And I’m quite capable of spending time in a knitting shop just admiring and stroking the myriad shades of softness. Sometimes this inspires a story or even just a descriptive phrase to be filed away in my notebook. Names of different yarns can evoke a mind picture which leads one off on a particular…er…thread of thought. The age-old stitch patterns such as Faroe, Fair Isle and indeed Norwegian fascinate me, already conjuring up images of the respective wild environments. And the history of camaraderie, community and companionship of women knitting together, originally in perhaps one of the very few social happenings in their daily lives. A chance to knit, catch up with the gossip and support each other through tough lives at the mercy of the elements.

On my walks, I sometimes view landscape through squinted eyes, where I get a better feel for the colours. Seen as a tapestry or material collage of shapes, hues and textures. The proximity of seven mountains surrounding Bergen makes for dog-walking heaven. I’m passed by two shaggy, sodden hounds wearing identical canine grins of satisfaction. On the end of their lead comes a sensibly rain-proofed and rosy owner, heading determinedly for that hot drink.

There’s a certain pleasure in getting togged up in clothing layers and then shedding a few as you enter a café and embrace that fragrant mug. The ambience of this particular establishment is slightly marred by the arty-farty light fixtures hanging low enough to dunk me on the head whenever I take my seat. Style is not always practical. And oh the horror of discovering that the “scone with jam” I ordered to accompany my coffee arrives accompanied by a lurid, glowering pot of marmalade. Marmalade is not jam in my book. I have loathed it since childhood, consistent in that at least. Along with beetroot, Brussels sprouts and blackcurrant. No deviation or wavering. It’s an absolute. Sigh. No matter. The scone is warm and crumbly, having no need of more than a scant application of butter. Coffee and scone are consumed in contentment.

There’s a different smell to autumn. A musty, dying-leaf earthiness. A wind-whipping sharp edge as you inhale. The new awareness that summer clothes really can be packed away, to be longed for in the never-ending wait for the sun’s return. The harbour waters are lashed by sudden gusts, a tang in the nostrils, boats tugging moodily at their ropes. And then there’s the increasing impracticality of umbrellas. I probably have at least six, between home and work. They won’t live long. The current one is in its death throes. One spoke is already trailing like a broken wing as I struggle to master it. The mechanism spitefully jabs my finger as the whole thing blows inside out. Glorious final moments of umbrella defiance, at one with the wind. I drop it in the bin as I pass, where it joins a rainbow of similar corpses.

   Then a welcome burst of colour. Red Cat – a local – treading fastidiously amongst the matching leaves. Graciously granting me an audience. I pause to worship, which he accepts as his due. The russet and white fur rumbles with purr. I open the treat packet I have brought home for Max and present him with one. Max won’t mind. We part company, each satisfied by the moment. As the sun considers calling it a day, I head the last few metres along to the green door. Beyond which is Max and cosiness. A large mug of tea. And a good book.

I’ve had blogging in mind for some time now, but blame Jo Nesbø and his gripping crime novels for eating into my writing time. Distraction is delightfully everywhere. And I’m a willing participant. Pinning my mind back down again is a problem. Inspiration and food for that imagination is all around us – in everything, if we only open those eyes. I’d be tempted to add…. remember to look up. However, as you’ll no doubt remember, looking up in Bergen can earn you a rather wet face. Looking down as a result of this actually led to one of my more unusual pieces of inspiration.

Whilst waiting to cross the road, and contemplating my sodden shoes, I spotted it. There on the pavement, plain and insistent on a slip of paper. “Du er ikke stygg.” Or – You are not ugly.

Wow, I thought. What a vote of confidence from the ground in front of me! I felt ridiculously cheered. And then it was off. My mind. Chasing the concept of more messages from inanimate objects around me. The same part of my mind that spent much of my childhood hoping to find a wardrobe which would grant me access to Narnia. Well….you never know.

This little interlude had the effect of heightening my senses for the remainder of the day – a reminder that inspiration is there for the taking. It takes practise, but you can get into the habit of observing life around you like an artist. Sizing it up and completing shapes. Adding colour palettes. Adjusting elements to suit the style of writing you prefer. I try to exercise these writer observation muscles even whilst apparently sitting in one of my favourite cafés.  A woman “parked” her dog right outside the window whilst she collected her caffeine. And I observed said dog for a few minutes, met his mellow gaze …  and wrote the equivalent of a thumbnail sketch of him. By which time his owner returned, the dog yawned and uncoiled his springiness into action, shaking his chocolate wool in careless elegance. They headed off up the mountain. My notebooks are filling up with characters, animals, scenes. And also feelings. It can be challenging to figure out how you convey exactly a certain emotion – it may feel clumsy at first. But if you have the presence of mind to whip out that trusty notebook whilst experiencing said emotion, a few key words can later transport you back to the accuracy of the moment.

Memory is unlocked by senses. I rounded a house corner recently and came upon a perfect tub planted up with pinks, a delightfully old-fashioned flower whose sweet scent transported me immediately back to my Scottish childhood when gardens were filled with rose bushes which actually had perfume, unlike many of the anaemic versions provided today. Of course, with my profession as a musician, my aural memory is often all too easily triggered. Sometimes my brain will obligingly produce a symphony for me to listen to all night. Every single page of the score. Not the ideal moment.

Before autumn … and the rain … settled in, I spent one of the last unusually mild days escaping the latest surge of tourists, enjoying my cappuccino seated in one of Bergen’s many exquisite backstreets. Here, the white painted wooden houses jostle for space, punctuated by quaint Narnia- type lamps and proudly enlivened with bright flowers flowing over tiny balconies. The sun reaches down between the buildings and finds my whiteness. Cobbles here require the kind of sensible footwear tourists may wish they had remembered to pack. And everyone is making wild guesses about the coming weather, judging by the frankly alarming assortment of gear people carry. The residents are barely bothering with a precautionary brolly.  My ears picked up bits of passing conversation which drifted in and out of earshot like a faulty radio. I remembered to look up. And considered the seagull, impassively occupying the lamp post. They are as big as cats, some of them, with startlingly human voices. They sound exactly like someone trying to imitate them, as they whine, complain and bicker amongst themselves. This one has legs which trigger another memory. When my daughter first began to draw, she would offer up pages covered with stick people. We dutifully queried the large  blobs drawn midway down the legs. “Those are knees of course!” came the slightly scornful answer that children manage so well in the face of adult ignorance. I laughed to myself whilst considering the similarities of seagull knees. Maybe a children’s story idea was hatching…..

On my way home, still with eyes determinedly open, lo and behold there appeared the second message of the day. A Post-it pink heart casually stuck to the wall of a house. “Vær grei,” it advised. “Be nice.”

 

 

An orchestra on the move is sometimes an amusing sight. Herd mentality reigns. We follow the tour leader’s instructions, which on some occasions change as new information comes to light. The check in desk may have been altered. Like sheep, we switch direction. Someone amongst us starts. To the bewilderment of fellow passengers. “Baaaaaaaa!” Much giggling. Grabbing some food is a priority. It’s not certain when the next meal may be squeezed in. Sometimes the available time is better used taking a nap and shower. Restaurant opening times do not always fit well with our schedule. It can be an obvious shock as an entire hungry orchestra descends on one bistro post concert. So we graze throughout the day where we can. Just like sheep.

Apropos sheep, the tiny puffs of cloud outside the aircraft window look decidedly ovine. I generally try not to look out. Or down. The combination of flying and heights makes me anxious. And there are five flights on this tour. All the same, I notice with interest how the field patterns vary from country to country. Here in Poland, they resemble long thin strips, longer than in the Netherlands. Whilst those in the UK are different again and far less linear. The plane smacks unforgivingly down on the runway, only slightly behind schedule. Which is already tight. The herd is on the move again – the same process as before, only this time in Polish.

Warsaw is experiencing 29 degrees and high humidity, and the orchestra steams on the waiting buses. To be enveloped and coccooned within the cool embrace of our rather lovely hotel is a blessed relief. Two hours until departure for rehearsal. We have to use it wisely. I opt for a salad and pot of tea before a rejuvenating shower in a bathroom large enough for the whole after party. No time for sight-seeing. What we do see from the bus is the usual mix of communist type linear blocks alongside ornate, older buildings cheek by jowl with contemporary shapes. The Teatr Wielki displays glimpses of character and elegance. The word Ballet is spelled out on a wall in used pink ballet slippers, underlining the dual use of the building.

The stage itself has a noticeable “give” to it, ensuring that footsteps anywhere on it produce small shockwaves. As the audience space has less depth than previous halls, it should feel even more intimate. Tonight, we have replaced the “Flying Dutchman” overture with one written by Paderewski, as a compliment to our hosts. Paderewski himself was that unusual combination of politician, pianist and composer, and the work opens with a poignant melody from our solo cellist, Rudi. The audience clearly appreciates this gesture – they are eager and ready to welcome Leif Ove Andsnes onto the stage with the Britten piano concerto.

As I take my turn to be rotated off the concerto, due to smaller ensemble requirements, I stow the cello and tiptoe off the backstage area, shoes in hand. Time to gather the considerable energy needed for the last Sibelius symphony of this tour. And maybe locate a coffee. A couple of us pad down the red plush carpeted stairs to the main entrance foyer, a grand affair, resplendent with intricate marbled floors and fine glass chandeliers. I’m still in stockinged feet. The marble is cool after the heat of the day and my elegant concert heels are not designed for more than entering and exiting the stage. My nose alerts me to the location of the hissing coffee machine. One cappuccino later and I’m good to go. I’m following the progress of the concerto over the sound system and I head back towards my cello case, passing a woman waiting to present the customary soloist’s bouquet,  at present dangling casually from her fingers.

Our crew are on alert, ready for their next stage set-up and piano removal. I tease them about their earpieces and resulting FBI style.

I can feel a renewed surge of energy from my colleagues as I adjust my seat and the pages. We have arrived at the final performance of this tour and everyone is pulling the stops out. Ed Gardner, the conductor, practically fizzes onto the stage and the symphony surges into motion. I’m very much in the moment, feeling the vibrations through my chair, as though I’m a segment of some mighty beast. The themes get passed around between sections and we anticipate and respond to each other. All too soon the wall of crescendo reaches its pinnacle and the audience roars. We have given of our very best tonight. Standing to receive the applause together with my colleagues, I’m elated, relieved, proud. The audience has no intention of letting us go and we continue the compliment with an arrangement of Grand Valse by Chopin. The audience wants more. Everywhere we go, we include encores by our home-grown composer, Grieg. The announcement is always greeted with an appreciative sigh. Tonight’s audience is no different. The string sections melt into a melody from Peer Gynt.

As the final applause subsides, we thank each other for another great tour and good work together. Instruments and equipment are packed carefully for the journey back to Norway. Teams of drivers will get our instruments home overland within two days. Clothes stowed into the wardrobe cases, we trickle out of the building and down the road to the reception, where drinks and celebratory speeches await us. The celebrating continues well into the night back at our hotel. It feels fantastic to have achieved so much over just a few hectic days. We clink glasses and appreciate the experience. The bar staff are immensely patient – no mean feat in the face of a euphoric, thirsty orchestra.

It is a quieter orchestra come morning, gingerly stepping onto the buses, blinking in the strong sunlight. Our plane awaits, like an obedient pet – albeit at the furthest end of the airfield. Its bright colours look like the result of an enthusiastic child armed with school paint pots. By this time, everyone is eager to get home and catch up on some rest and regular meals. And I’m looking forward to being reunited with my faithful cat, Max. Serious tuna compensation will be expected from me.

The transition from 29 degrees and sun to 10 degrees and a downpour is brutal but not unexpected. And does nothing to dampen our enthusiasm as we touch down onto Bergen tarmac in the pilot’s best effort of the whole trip. Duly applauded. I’m happy to be safely on terra firma once again. Ahead of us lies our opening concert season of 2018/19 and millions of notes. But first …..a little bit of what Norwegians intriguingly call “slapping off.” Relaxation with a capital R.

 

We are Proms concert 52 this year. Inspiring to be back here – another venerable and world famous hall. I came to hear concerts at the Royal Albert Hall long before I played onstage myself. The highlighted purple and orange lighting enhances the vast circular space. And lo and behold, there’s a fly here too. There is a unique atmosphere at the Proms and we are greeted with notable enthusiasm by the packed audience. For trumpeter Martin Winter, this is, incredibly, his fiftieth Proms – three of which have been with us. What an impressive achievement!

The circular backstage area takes some getting used to every time. We have to locate dressing rooms and instruments – and then the correct entrance to the stage. It is buzzing with activity. Wind players warming up with a series of rude noises, cellists perched on packing cases working on a tricky phrase. A piccolo plays brilliant scales in the dressing room. And the harp needs another new string. The charged atmosphere goes up a gear. Each musician has their own individual routine or list of “flights checks” that they run through before a performance. And we all have to fit in some food – not so much as to induce the need for a nap, but just enough to sustain the huge amounts of energy we will use up.

We are all different, with varying requirements and habits. Some find a quiet corner with a book or for some yoga moves. Others practise feverishly in corridors. And for some of us, the mission includes finding a good cup of coffee. Many of my colleagues are clicking away with their knitting as I emerge owl-like into the glowing afternoon to cast an eye over the handsome red and ornately decorated Royal Albert Hall. From the open windows of the Royal College of Music behind me warbles an ambitious soprano. I pop into the shop and buy this year’s Proms tote bag – eco friendly and a useful momento from yet another visit.

Travelling with us is our eminently capable stage crew. They are making super human efforts setting up the stage for nearly 100 musicians, whilst simultaneously carrying out often bizarre rescue missions. This time, the humidity had affected my cello endpin, which stubbornly refused to move. Sverre had the solution with a careful application of oil. They are on hand for every eventuality along with our administration staff, currently ensuring there’s a healthy selection of fruit available for breaks.

Immediately following on from the Proms, the tour proceeded onwards to Hamburg. The new Elbphilharmonie is the talk of the musical world and an invitation to perform here is prestigious. Towering next to the water’s edge, the concert hall itself is actually on the 12th floor. With excellent acoustics and audience seating designed for optimal viewing, the interior resembles a somewhat Gaudi-esque spaceship, with corresponding textured design throughout.

Our stage crew, together with conductor Ed Gardner, had taken a scheduled flight ahead of the main group. An emergency landing back at Heathrow ten minutes after take-off created the drama of the day. Smoke in the cabin ensured an escort of fire trucks on return, and the knock-on effect meant that they missed the whole stage set-up. Fortunately, Andreas, who drives the instrument truck, saved the day and did such a brilliant job that we noticed no difference. On any tour, a host of incidents like this may pop up – passports mislaid in instrument cases or items forgotten on buses. Creative solutions are usually found.

A new concert, a new audience. Will tonight’s programme touch a chord with them? Or will they be a little reserved? These thoughts run through my head as I tune up and register the adrenaline building once again. A hush falls and the magic begins. The brilliant Leif Ove  Andsnes joins us at this stage of the tour and he has as usual captivated the audience with his vision of the Britten piano concerto. They are totally on board. In fact, by the end of Sibelius’ 2nd symphony, the cheers are rewarded with not one but two encores. We are finally released from the stage in a thirsty euphoria. Early reviews in from the London performance are glowing and encouraging. Backstage bristles with instrument packing, clothes changing, remembering belongings and returning keycards. The temperature is perfect for an al fresco drink. We sit back on that happy feeling of a job well done. My colleague slaps at a cheeky mosquito. For once, they haven’t noticed me.