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ARCHITECTURAL STUDY TRIPS

GENERAL
LYON TRIP - MAY 2006
CHICAGO, PITTSBURGH & FALLING WATER
BRAZIL STUDY TRIP
SOUTH INDIA STUDY TRIP

GENERAL

Over recent years the Company has organized a number of architectural study trips. These have taken the form of either extended weekend breaks to British or mainland European cities of longer trips further afield.

In the first category have been trips to York, Riga, Berlin and, most recently, Lyon. A report compiled by one of the tour party - Dr Mervyn Miller - is appended below.

In February 2005 a more ambitious tour was organized to Cuba. This took in visits to Havana and Trinidad (both World Heritage Sites), and Ceinfuegos which was aspiring to gain the same status and has since achieved its aim.

There was another long trip in August 2006 to Chicago and Pittsburgh / Fallingwater. This looked at not just the work of Frank Lloyd Wright but also that of many of the founders of modern Chicago. There were side trips to Racine, Wisconsin to look at the Johnson Wax building and Wingspread as well as to Milwaukee to see the Calatrava Art Gallery there and to be shown what has been done in the city by its inspirational Chief Planner - British trained Bob Greenstreet. The visit to Fallingwater was complimented by a visit to the nearby Kentuck Knob - one of Wright's Usonian Homes. In Pittsburgh the group were shown, in addition to Richardson's Allegheny Courthouse, a range of mondernist houses.

A detailed and illustrated report can be seen in the Company October 2006 Newsletter.

Further major study trips have been undertaken to Brazil in August 2007, South India - Then Deccan Region in February 2008 and most recently to the West Coast of the United States - Phoenix, San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco in April 2009. Deyailed accounts of most appear below, others are to follow. There are also less structured reports on the Company Blog.

There have also been annula short trips - the Master's Weekends. Since the Lyon Trip there have been visits to Dublin in 2007, The Isles of Scilly in 2008 and to Dresden in the 2008-2009 Master's year.

LYON TRIP - MAY 2006

Wednesday-Thursday May 17-18

Wet, wet, wet. As usual, this is a personal diary giving my own reaction to what I did and what I saw. It's certainly not meant to be an official record of a long weekend which began and ended with severe wet weather. It was pretty miserable as I drove around the M25 to Heathrow the evening before take-off, and dry but cold as I headed for Terminal 4 early the next morning. The flight out was uneventful apart from some turbulence as we approached Lyon. The captain was confident that there was fine weather ahead. However, Richard Saxon had warned 'it could thunder on Thursday!'. His knowledge of meteorology was evidently superior to that of a BA captain.

It wasn't raining as we headed into Lyon on our coach, but the heavens opened as we approached the central area of the city, running alongside the River Rhone. It's very confusing because the one-way system has different directions on Left and Right banks, so orientation took some time. The Hotel Wilson was quite adequate although not outstanding but was in a handy position for most of what we wanted to see. It was raining as we set out for the Metro station, brandishing our Lyon day tickets, with warnings about not using more than one per day which would have invalidated them. We confidently set off for the platform in the direction of Gare de Vaise and were delighted and disconcerted to see Richard encouraging us from the opposite platform - it was comforting to know that we were in the right rather than our leader. At Vieux Lyon we changed to the funicular up to Minimes. Here the weather launched its worst as we made our way through an important Roman site and took refuge in the Gallo-Roman Museum. This proved to be a real find, although it could have done with a café. Opened in 1975, it was designed by Bernard-Louis Zehrfuss, one of the most important French architects of the postwar period. The museum was cleverly built onto the cliff side above the Roman theatre and ramped its way down from the summit to galleries in which artefacts including stunning mosaics were well displayed. I had actually visited the museum back in 1990. At that date you could exit through the bottom to look at the Roman theatre from the stage end. The lower levels were under reconstruction, including the authentic recreation of Roman villas in ever-versatile MDF.

After that it was a brisk walk past the Notre Dame Basilica to see the spectacular view of Lyon from the terrace, across the River Saone, and beyond across the Rhone to the modern city centre. Alas, the view was shrouded in cloud and rain. I took a look inside the basilica, which was completed in 1894. This kind of architecture was evidently not to everybody's taste but it is certainly the ultimate experience in Roman Catholic kitsch, with a sumptuousness that would not disgrace a Roman bathhouse.

Zig-zagging down the tree clad hillside, there was some basic shelter, but the heavens opened again as I approached the Romanesque Cathedral of St. Jean. Here, the principal attraction for me was the superb 11th/12th century glass of the apse. Long lancets were made up of seven stages of medallions. I rather wished I had taken some binoculars as the individual panels were remarkable, not least the scene where Salome danced before Herod. There she was, in a fetching green gown, doing a back-break almost from a modern hip-hop session.

Once outside, it seemed that the rain had set in. I decided to make my way to the Opera House on the opposite bank, to see what was available for Handel's Alcina, which was to be presented on Saturday evening. More of the Opera House later. Mission accomplished, I made my back through two underground lines and found that it was slightly less damp as I made my way back to the hotel for our local wine tasting arranged by Patricia Stefanovicz.

We were all agreeably mellow as we set off for dinner at the Restaurant de Fauviere, by the side of the basilica, with a spectacular view across to the city. The light seemed to penetrate the mist rather better than did the buildings in the daylight view. The meal was good, but not outstanding, and we ordered taxis for the return trip as the funicular stopped working at 10 pm.

Friday May 19

Once again, we set off in a straggling crocodile to the metro station at the sinisterly named Guillotiere Station, crossing this time to Bellecour on the left bank of the Saone, between it and the Rhone. We made our way on a different line to Croix-Rousse, in the heart of the former silk-weaving district. Monsieur Jacquard, the inventor of the card punch loom, which enabled the weaving of spectacular patterns, was commemorated in a statue, which we saw as we exited the metro. We visited one weaving establishment, well set up with a variety of antique looms, some of which are still in use. The punch card mechanism clearly provided inspiration for the development of the tabulator in the late 19th century, and, ultimately, for computers. I wasn't tempted to buy anything, particularly ties, which I seem to have abandoned these days in any case. Mostly they were garish in colour and overpriced.

We pottered down the hill and emerged in the Place des Terraux, flanked by the Musee des Beaux Arts and the Hotel de Ville. We made a welcome coffee stop alongside a fantastic 19th century fountain, with horses drawing a chariot charging across the basin, and emitting steam from their nostrils every ten minutes. Others bought tickets for the opera, across the far side of the Hotel de Ville. Then it was lunchtime and we sampled the diversity of Lyonnaise cuisine in the many restaurants behind the quayside of the Saone.

The weather had improved all morning and remained bright-ish and breezy for the cruise around the confluence of the Saone and Rhone. Both rivers were in spate and rising due to the heavy rainfall which augmented the melting snows from the alps. The trip provided a good perspective on the urban form of the city, Vieux Lyon on the right bank of the Saone, with the 18th century extension down the peninsular of Perrache on the left bank. We emerged into troubled waters at the confluence itself around the Presqu'ile, which really was an island until the end of the 18th century. The site has been cleared of industrial buildings and walls and is set for the construction of a major new museum designed by Rem Koolaas. No construction was visible as yet.

The boat then swung into the Rhone and headed north beneath a succession of bridges. On our right (Left Bank) was the site of the original Cite Industrielle, designed by Tony Garnier (1869-1948), who was City Architect before the Great War, and then in private practice locally, prolifically building in the interwar period. His vast Abattoir de la Mouche, constructed 1909-13, has been refurbished as an exhibition hall, and I marked it down for a future visit, as it was barely visible from the boat. This district, along with much of the Left Bank has been undergoing comprehensive regeneration for at least twenty years.

The original crossing point of the rivers were made in the Middle Ages and Lyon developed as a classic trade crossroads - north-south along the rivers, and east-west along the highways. Both original bridges were originally timber and periodically rebuilt over the centuries so only the historic route survives. However, the 19th century rebuilding of the various bridges created a riverside fit to rival Paris. It had also been embellished with embankments and the spectacular, and now under refurbishment, open air Nautical Stadium. Near the Pont Lafayette, the boat turned around and sped southwards along the Rhone which was fast flowing, and seemingly rising even as we sailed along. We returned against the current along the Saone.

I decided to take advantage of the early evening opening of the Gericault Exhibition at the Musee des Beaux Arts. Born in the 1790s, the artist came to prominence in the early 19th century, particularly with his shocking representation of 'The Raft of the Medusa', a ghoulish representation of a shipwreck where survivors had been so desperate that they indulged in cannibalism. Gericault was a strange and morbid individual. The exhibition was appropriately subtitled 'The Madness of a World'. Even normal subjects such as portraits seem to have unquiet overtones, particularly those of children. The main picture, The Raft, was conspicuous by its absence, although there were many sketches for it and a small oil esquisse. Perhaps the Louvre in Paris declined for political reasons to lend such a prestigious work to provincial Lyon.

The evening dinner was just across the river on the Perrache side and was a typical 'bouchon' restaurant just off the Charite with its spectacular fountains.

Saturday May 20

For many of us, Saturday proved to be the architectural highlight. The Dominican Convent of Sainte Marie de la Tourette is a building we have all known since we were students. I remember hearing the rapturous accounts from my older contemporaries who managed to locate and visit the building, which was quite difficult in the early 1960s. I prided myself on having visited the Pilgrimage Chapel at Ronchamp in 1961, but the words of wisdom from my elders was 'ah, but you should see La Tourette'. In many ways the epitome of Corb's sculptural style, the building was closely related to the succession of Unites d'Habitation, beginning with the Marseilles block in 1945-52. This building exploited the geometry of the modulor, with its cellular elevations, sculptural roof and the building raised above ground on robust pilotis. Several of these buildings were constructed and in addition to Marseilles, I have visited those at Nantes-Reze and Berlin. The convent was commissioned in 1953, for a remote hillside site in eastern France in Eveux, above the little village of L'Arbresle, 25 km west of Lyon.

We set out with a sense of expectation through the undulating countryside and arrived shortly after 10 am. Preconceptions can be misleading. For me, the building appeared smaller than I had expected, but we approached from the uphill side, and it is set on a steeply graded hillside, only revealing the full mass from below. Regrettably, we did not have time to make our way down to the lower end of the site to view the impact - a pity. The building was arranged top down according to our guide, with the rooftop grass promenade constituting the open air cloister (we didn't see that either), then two floors of individual cells for the monks, below which were teaching rooms and library, a social level below that on the far side with the refectory, then ramps down into the church, which was the only part of the complex to be in touch with the ground - the rest being raised on pilotis. The outer perimeter was square, with the central quadrangle occupied by the geometric volumes and connecting links of the subsidiary parts of the building. The construction was both in cast reinforced concrete, and some prefabrication, particularly the cladding, with exposed black stone aggregate panels, of the two floors of cells. The moulds for these were, apparently, brought direct from Nantes-Reze.

The concrete now shows its age, but it was very roughly cast in the first instance. Some of the more delicate elements such as the 'harmonic' mullions of the windows of the refectory, and corridors, using a geometric system devised with Iannis Xenakis, were flaking away, and had been very rough from the start, with chipped arrises. Textured whitewashed pebbledash was applied to certain parts of the building and appeared to have weathered reasonably well. Internally there had been inevitable problems with leakage, particularly around the rooflights of the side chapel of the church. Detailing was chunky or crude, according to your opinion. The lack of precision of the slit windows along the corridors, together with the direct glazing of the 'harmonic' windows added to the basic sculptural quality of the building. Corbusier's 'Beton' was very 'brute' in this instance.

Despite these evident defects, it was an exciting architectonic experience, both outside and in. Corbusier was always a rationalist when it came to the use of geometry and this was evident both in terms of the subdivision of the elevations, but also in the use of geometrical solids, particularly pyramids. It was only around the entrance features, with the twin visiting pavilions (now the bookshop) and the outer wall of the church, that free curvature came into play.

The original vision was that of Father Alain Couturier, who set aside Corbusier's agnosticism in favour of his perception of the sacred quality of Corb's architecture. The building was to provide a spiritual training centre for novice Dominicans in the Lyon region, 'to house one hundred hearts and one hundred bodies in silence'. Corb visited the site first in 1953 and the building was completed by 1960. Regrettably, it doesn't seem to have been operating at full strength for more than a decade, and there are now only eight residents rattling around in this vast concrete extravaganza. Retreats, weekend courses and visits help to keep the place ticking over, but the long-term future certainly will need to involve comprehensive restoration before too long. Our rather limited experience of the interior omitted the cells - rather a pity as I should have thought that there were enough empty ones to give us a taste of their austerity and we made our way down to the church for the midday service.

The congregation was swelled by people who apparently were on a residential course. The height and narrowness of the rectangular church made an impressive acoustic for chanting and singing, but the verbal parts of the service were inaudible. Nevertheless, the church does have a certain monumental quality which, with its verticality, relates to gaunt Romanesque chapels. Some relief from the prevailing gloom is given by the rooflights to the side chapels which are painted in primary colours. These provide circles of coloured light within a blue-painted ceiling and a golden yellow panel on the end wall. Corbusier's colours are not subtle and I personally found the green, used in various places including the curtains for the refectory and the cupboard within the pyramidal oratory to be rather unpleasant. After the service we made our way to the refectory for a simple but good lunch, featuring local lentils and gammon. The rose wine was also welcome.
Altogether a worthwhile, if rather mixed experience. To many of us, in our student days at least, Corbusier seemed to be the greatest architect of the 20th century. I'm not so certain now. Many years ago Louis Helmann drew a cartoon set in heaven with the angels commenting about the Almighty's irrational behaviour. 'God's rather confused today - he thinks he's Le Corbusier!'. No comment.

St. Romain en Gal was bound to be somewhat of an anticlimax. We made our way down, close to the Roman aqueduct which had been omitted from the itinerary as likely to delay our arrival back at Lyon for those who were going to the opera in the evening - and travelled down to a very full Rhone, which appeared to be likely to burst its banks before too long. The Archaeological Museum is a spectacular building, lightly connected to the ground on pilotis, which does least damage to the historic ground below. A large Roman city had been laid out along the banks of the river, then, apparently, abandoned, in favour of the development of Vienne on the opposite bank. Warehouses and villas had been excavated, and skilfully recreated in models and a video presentation. Superlative mosaics had been excavated and lovingly reassembled in the museum. The remains of central courtyard gardens, together with a very fine range of flushing multiple-seater lavatories could be visited in the grounds outside the museum. It all showed just how important the Roman settlements in the Rhone Valley had been, although we did not see evidence for the spectacular theatres which have survived elsewhere, as at Orange. Finally, we boarded the bus for a short journey back to Lyon, where seven of us were going to a night at the opera.

We departed for the Opera House in taxis. The architect Jean Nouvel had rebuilt within the footprint of the 19th century house, retaining only the loggia and the foyer above in its original state. On entering the impression was one of wholesale blackness. We had heard that there was a good view from the enormous arched roof superstructure but found, surprisingly, that the restaurant didn't open until 8 pm, half an hour after the curtain went up. Clearly opera-goers are not supposed to be hungry, or vice a versa. We made our way down to the bar in the depths below the foyer. Blackness was all pervasive. It would probably make quite a good permanent setting for a cabaret version of 'Orpheus in the Underworld'. Indeed, this is also a minor auditorium for concerts and recitals. Access to the upper floors is by a series of escalators, and then it was through a bright scarlet circulation corridor around the perimeter of the stalls, and into the main auditorium - back to black, so to speak. The auditorium seems immensely tall and indeed has six levels of galleries around the traditional horseshoe plan. Those who suffer from vertigo surely should not venture to the gods.

One of our number, Tom Ball, had purchased a ticket for one of the galleries and his experience was pretty awful, having been shown to the wrong seat by one of the attendants. He didn't like the production at all and left at the interval. The remainder of our party was in the stalls, my seat was central and I had a pretty good view of all that went on. The seats also were black. The attendants looked rather like camp versions of old-fashioned cinema usherettes, only many were ushers, clad in black tee shirts advertising the production, over long swirly black baggy trousers, with a side slash, revealing vivid red. Rouge et noir is obviously the overall theme of the house. We sat expectantly for the beginning and the curtain, which appeared to be satin-finished panels of stainless steel arose to reveal a dingy set. Perched on a platform in front of the stage, rather than in a pit, was the orchestra, a period instrument group, which I found were excellent throughout.

It always seems rather pointless to present an 18th century opera - this one actually premiered at Covent Garden in 1735 - with production values which reflect some political message, with a set that in this case resembled a grand town mansion, as it might have looked after being converted into the headquarters of the Secret Police of a Communist state, say the Stasi. The costumes too were of the postwar period - fashionable chic of East Berlin c.1962. The plot, as was the production, was impenetrable. I had seen Alcina once before at the English National Opera. People asked me about the plot - I replied that I couldn't remember, but that the music, and the singing, were pretty good. The latter were tonight. Alcina is a sorceress holding many in thrall from her magic island kingdom. Characters come and go, some as 'travesty' roles of women singing men's roles, originally written for castrati. One of our party, Jaki attempted to rationalise the plot in terms of a modern setting in a Maltese brothel. She probably got as close as anybody to understanding the action. The libretto, which included the full words of the opera, together with a blow-by-blow account of each scene and the use of French surtitles didn't help elucidate matters either. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it all, and I am usually a fierce critic of much contemporary opera production.

The singing was absolutely glorious, led by the Alcina, Catherine Nagaestad, who appeared as a vamp in a rather sexy little black dress, and was clearly cast as a nymphomaniac rather than an enchanter, by the current producer. The other major principal was Bradanante, sung by the robust Swedish mezzo-soprano, Ann Hallenberg. This was a trouser role for a woman, married to Ruggeiro but dressed as her brother, Ricciardo. Such is the stuff of confusion, and it wasn't really cleared at the end when Ricciardo who had been captured by the sorcery of Alcina broke the urn which dissipated the illusion of the palace of Alcina which was engulfed by water. With joy, all the victims of her magic retrieved their human form. Actually, they had never lost it and the various animals, including the lion which Alcina let out of his cage in order to kill Alberto, a few scenes earlier, did not materialise.

With some degree of exhaustion, although fulfilled musically, we trooped out of the Opera House at 10-45, to be directed down the rather unpleasant external steel escape stairs - hi-tech gone wrong. It had been a stimulating and challenging evening.

Sunday 21 May

For the last day, we were on our own, if we wanted to. I usually find myself rushing off to things that other people would rather not visit, so I made my way south to the Avenue Debourg to see the Grand Hall designed by Tony Garnier, originally as the municipal slaughterhouse. It was certainly worth finding, and the surrounding district was now in course of regeneration, as we had seen on the boat trip two days earlier. Clearly there was no way of getting into the building, but I walked around its changed perimeter and noted the high quality of landscaping in the new district, and that work had begun on a grand square in front of the building, out of which led the new boulevard Scientifique de Tony Garnier. La Cite Industrielle had become transformed into hi-tech.

Then it was back to the underground to rediscover Villeurbanne. I had visited this in 1990 with my son Sam on one of our jaunts around France with railcards. It had proved to be an enduring model of social, not to say Socialist, housing from the mid-1930s. The layout combines Beaux Arts with Modernism. A boulevard led through the heart of the development, flanked by low-rise blocks with ground floor shops, with tall point blocks at intervals. In the centre was the Town Hall, rather more Art Deco in character, where I had made an internal visit and had, incidentally, picked up a free copy of the Maastricht Treaty - which remained unread until shredded. Refurbishment work had evidently taken place and the development looked splendid, aided by the fact that there was a lively garden market around the front of the Town Hall. Between the Town Hall and the People's Theatre, a new square which incorporated underground parking, was being laid out, so it will look even better if I visit again in a few years time. The development is little published. However, the quarter consisted of 1500 flats, shops, offices, a town hall, library, municipal theatre, swimming pool, and associated clinics and clubrooms. The development was designed by Leroux and Giroud. Neither well-known in England, presumably working under the overall direction of Garnier. Twin 18 storey blocks act as an entrance to the development, with a distant view of the tower on the Town Hall blocking the axis. I personally find this housing quarter far more humane than the much better publicised Unites d'Habitation of Le Corbusier.

I had noted the new Cite Internationale when we passed by on the bus on Saturday. This contains development designed by Renzo Piano, a new and spectacular Palais des Congres on a site between the Rhone and the present Parc de la Tete d'Or, which was laid out in the 1900s, and like many French parks has been beautifully maintained. I intended to visit the Museum of Contemporary Art, a building left over from a 1930s exhibition, but found that it was closed until 19 June. Still, its café was open and I had a pleasant light lunch accompanied by rose wine in the sunshine before taking the new trolleybus service back to the city centre. I had some time on my hands and rode the metro to the end of the line for a brief glimpse at the spectacular Gare de Vaise, high above the Saone. On my return I spotted fellow travellers having a last drink on the Saone embankment near the Pont Wilson, prior to our reclaiming baggage for the trip back to the airport.

One delight remained. This was to explore the TGV station attached to Lyon St. Expeury Airport. The station had been opened in 1992, shortly after my last visit, and had been designed by the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava. Architect, engineer and urbanist, his work has been feted worldwide. The station was an arched structure, burying its nose in the ground beyond, looking like the bones of a prehistoric concorde, and indeed with its platform 'wings' looks like an aeroplane on plan. The total detailing with each and every piece related to the whole was rigorously impressive. The arched structure contains the entry hall to the station with upper platforms leading through a concrete structure and escalators down to the platform. A double TVG with two storey carriages was in and I made my way down to look at it and watch its departure. The conductor motioned to me, thinking I was about to board the train. Rather hastily I made a 'no, no', gesture and the train departed. I was witnessed by at least six of my travelling companions who thought that I was trying to escape from the flight homewards. Would that I had, for it was pretty miserable. British Airways strikes me as being a thoroughly unsatisfactory airline. We had checked in and had been first in the queue, waiting for half an hour before the desk opened. Nevertheless, we were all shunted to the back of the plane on a crowded and bumpy flight. The so-called food consisted of a very basic and rather nasty sandwich, and a sickly Belgian chocolate mousse. The latter was a slander on the proud chocolatiers of Flanders. I reported the matter to a complacent crew member as I left the plane. Incidentally, due to the thunderstorm, we were delayed in landing, and incredibly parked on the open apron, rather than being connected to Terminal 4. Moreover, we had to wait while someone fetched the steps to descend from the aircraft. It was a case of wet, wet, wet recurring but the miserable journey around the M25 couldn't dim the excellent and varied weekend that I had enjoyed with convivial company. All congratulations to Ann and Richard Saxon for having so thoroughly researched the itinerary, and undertaking a dummy run to make sure it all fitted together. David Cole-Adams also proved his usual excellent trouble-shooter self. Now it's a case of looking forward to the summer trip to Chicago for several of us.

LYON TRIP - MAY 2006

CHICAGO, PITTSBURGH & FALLING WATER
24 - 31 August 2006
(This is the travel Diary of Mervyn Miller)

MY KIND OF TOWN, CHICAGO

I don't really like Frank Sinatra's singing that much. However, he memorably hymned the praises of Chicago, possibly due to Mob influence! He expressed surprise at seeing a man dance with his wife on State Street, 'that great street where they do things they don't do in Broadway', and summed up the experience in another memorable ballad, 'That's my Kind of Town, Chicago is'. I am with him all the way there. It's by far my favourite American city, not least because I have visited it so many times since 1968, when I arrived at the University of Illinois, in Urbana/Champaign, as a greenhorn graduate student, rather naively thinking that the Campus must be in the suburbs of Chicago. It wasn't. But I soon found my way up to State Highway 45, visiting good friends who were living near the university campus. I also spent Christmas 1968 in Chicago, in an apartment on Astor Street, Gold Coast, and saw HMS Pinafore, presented by the D'Oyly Carte Opera, on tour, at the Auditorium Theater, then newly restored after a period of great uncertainty. So, Chicago came to represent something very special in my life. It was in the summer of 1969, that they held the first Frank Lloyd Wright open day in Oak Park. The old rascal had the last laugh. Giving it about that he been born in 1869, this was officially the centenary year, with US Post Office issuing a commemorative stamp. In fact, it was quickly established that he had been born two years earlier. Red faces all round! However, luck was with me, as I wouldn't have been in Chicago in 1967. So much for the nostalgia, but I seriously celebrate the city in this diary, based on the visit of the Worshipful Company of Chartered Architects from 24-31 August 2006.

Thursday 24 August

Despite the problems caused by the panic-stricken airport authority in Britain, we got through without any real difficulty. Waiting in line used to be a British triumph of teeth tightly gritted patience. Patience is worn thin, but we shuffled through the line to the check-in desk, then shuffled through the security, and after a break, during which I discovered that Terminal 3 at Heathrow has an excellent sea food bar which sells smoked salmon, scrambled egg, with a glass of Bucks Fizz (just the pick-me-up I needed after an early start), it was back to American Airlines check at the departure gate. Then it was up, up and away, Chicago here we come. We landed virtually on time at O'Hare, and I got pole position for Immigration, which was friendly and swift. Others were not so fortunate as the queues backed up. Then, after a mild panic about my suitcase, which contained virtually everything as I had not realised that some of the hand luggage restrictions had been lifted, didn't appear for quite a long while, we took limo-taxis along the interstate towards the Loop. The magnificent skyline, framed by the Hancock building and the Sears Tower soon appeared on the horizon getting ever closer, quickening the pulse.

Club Quarters were located on East Wacker Drive, facing the Chicago River, in an architectural panorama embracing Marina Towers (the famous 'corn cobs' of the 1960s) and ending in the Wrigley Building and the Chicago Tribune Tower, masterpieces of Italian Renaissance and Gothic-style resourcefully adopted to skyscraper design. Below my room was the Chicago River, with its myriad bridges, beautified under Daniel Burnham's epoch-making Chicago Plan of 1909. How fortunate they were with this architect/planner who cut his teeth on the Capital City of the Columbian Exposition of 1893, then gained confidence of the civic elite to issue his magnum opus, sixteen years later. While our Architectural Foundation guide called it 'Paris on the Prairie', it was really much more than that, and aspects of the plan have guided Chicago ever since. 'Was this in the Burnham Plan' seems to be a question posed whenever any major civic beautification arises.

Having checked in an unpacked, it was down to the Architectural Foundation office on Michigan Avenue, facing the Art Institute. We met our 150% enthusiastic all-American 'docent' guide Denise. She was a cheer-leader for Chicago. Not that it really needs them, but after a while the enthusiasm was infective as, travel-weary though we were, we took on a 2 ½ hour walk around the skyscraper district of The Loop. What a kaleidoscope of styles, periods, heights, and architectural ambiance.

The highlights came thick and fast. Commencing in the atrium of the Santa Fe Building, designed by Daniel Burnham in 1906, which had an impressive classical stair, and a glazed roof with a fine tracery of iron supports, we made foray into The Loop, pausing, sometimes only too briefly to look at the highlights along the way. These included the Federal Center, a late exercise in Mies van der Rohe manic grid planning; the restored Marquette Building, with its wonderful lobby having rich American Arts and Crafts mosaics featuring the American Indians, the Illini; and the remarkable La Salle Building, an Art Deco masterpiece of 1934, with a lobby that got everything right. Hollywood musicals of the early 1930s had similar décor, with remarkable attention to detail, and La Salle has frozen this in a time capsule so that we can still enjoy it. The most individual detail is the combined letter post and elevator indicator, the latter is a miniature elevation to the building in brass, with the elevator lights going up and down to the various floors. La Salle marked the end of a building boom, which had begun in the roaring twenties; by the time it was completed the Depression was in full grip of the country. Nevertheless, Chicago would not be beaten, and in 1933, organised its 'Century of Progress' Exhibition on the Lake Shore, to highlight the centenary of the city. Opinions were divided about the work of Philip Johnson and John Burgee in one of the most ambitious post-modern skyscrapers of the late 1980s. It had to be admitted that the lobby was magnificent in its scale, and the detailing was competent Italian Baroque. The central part, backing onto the elevators, featured an enormous tapestry from an image of the City Hall, as visualised by Jacques Guerlin, for Daniel Burnham's 1909 Chicago Plan. 'Make no small plans, they have no power to move men's souls', wrote Burnham all those years ago. This seemed to be the torch handed on to future generations which Johnson had attempted to pick up in this building. He didn't quite make it. We had quite a discussion about it, and there were several opinions that it was a tacky reproduction. I wouldn't quite go that far, but certainly it was compromised by the rather grotesque Renaissance-style light fittings, made worse by using patterned obscured glass.

We didn't make it to The Rookery Building, virtually opposite, before it closed. This was designed by Burnham and, notably, his partner, John Wellborn Root, in the late 1880s, a remarkable robust building in knobbly eclectic revival style - we had some time to identify the sources, which include Venetian Gothic, Lombardic, and more exotic detailing with Islamic ornament. Owen Jones's Grammar of Ornament', published in Britain in 1860, certainly had much to answer for, but it provided the springboard for the remarkable ornamentation which Sullivan specialised in, and we were to see that later. I reserved The Rookery for a revisit to appreciate the remarkable atrium, tactfully (surprisingly) remodelled by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1906. We gazed towards The Exchange Building, with its armchair-like form, promoted by Samuel Insull, including the Cereal Exchange, which accounted for the figure of Ceres atop the pyramidal roof. The Exchange block was, ominously, completed in 1929, just before the Stock Market crashed. We passed by the Monadnock Building, 1891, by Burnham and Root, a sixteen storey skyscraper built of loadbearing masonry, six feet thick at the base, and elegantly tapered - a persuasive demonstration that framed construction was a necessity for multi-storey buildings. We glimpsed the (to me) impossibly overblown neo-classical postmodern Public Library, Hammond, Beeby and Babka, 1992.

Then we retraced our steps, pausing to look at Skidmore Owings and Merrill's Inland Steel Building, completed in 1957. This was an elegant building at its time, with stainless steel cladding and blue tinted glazing, which has weathered remarkably well. There were some loose ends, including partitions which didn't always meet on the window mullions. The buildings had been refurbished and the architects' office had moved out some years back to the refurbished Santa Fe Building, which we were to visit the next day, to see how the practice now organised.

Finally, across to State Street, to view Carson Pirie Scott, the Department Store designed by Louis Sullivan in the 1890s, completed in its first phase just before the turn of the 19th century. It is still a remarkable building, with its confident look of the famous 'Chicago Window', which has a horizontal emphasis, having narrow sash windows, either side of the square plate-glazed picture window. This window fits perfectly into an iron or steel framed grid. Sullivan lightly ornamented the window reveals - in the later phases they tended to be plain but never mind, the whole elevations have a distinct rhythm, which indeed anticipate Modernism. However, despite coining the immortal phrase 'form follows function', Sullivan was not adverse to ornamentation. And boy it shows! The naturalistic forms tend to suggest European Art Nouveau, but are more organic in terms they are related to the structure of the building. Thus the clean, terra-cotta clad upper part rests on a podium with the shop windows framed in ornamental metalwork, painted with red lead and then grey/green to give a distinctive patina, and the ironwork erupted into magnificence on the curved corner pavilion, which symbolises the centre of Chicago, the point where the north and south streets divide - Carson's was on the south side. Some of the ironwork has been slightly simplified, notably when Carson's took over what originally was the Schlesinger Mayer firm which had commissioned it, and you can still see where some of the interlaced 'S/M' motif had been taken out, notably in the lunettes above the store entrance. It made a fine ending to a tour which, coming on top of our jet-lagged arrived in Chicago, left us feeling spiritually elated, but physically ready to drop.

Friday 25 August

An early start as we headed for Millennium Park. This was another Chicago Architecture Foundation tour. The Millennium Park is the culmination of development over the railroad tracks north of the Art Institute. Apparently, the idea of creating a new urban park, to add to the already magnificent Grant Park, laid out in the 1920s, came from the Mayor, Richard M. Daley, who happened to be sitting in a dentist's chair overlooking the site and suddenly came up with the idea of a spectacular state of the art urban space. Whatever the truth of that, it was certainly a brilliant idea. The centrepiece, the J. Pritzker Pavilion was designed by the well-nigh ubiquitous Frank Gehry, who had won the National Medal of Art and the Pritzker Price for Architecture. The pavilion, is a glorified spanned shell, but surrounded by his signature bent, some would say tortured, clouds of titanium-faced steel. Elegant though these may look front on, it requires a great deal of bent steel framework to hold them in place, and the backside is not exactly elegant. I find the same defect in the acclaimed Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Nevertheless, in its context it is quite a brilliant piece of giant urban sculpture. Seen side on from Michigan Avenue it appears to hover in the sky. Front on, seen through the criss-cross grid of steel arches - apparently it was considered at one time that there should be a cover, the effect is brilliant. It is used for outdoor concerts, and as we approached we heard the full force of the multiple-speaker system pumping out the anodyne strains of a boy rock band. I'd certainly like to gauge the effect when a full symphony orchestra plays. There are several thousand permanent seats immediately in front, and these are sheltered from the weather by the curved sheets overhead, which also must act as sound reflectors. I guess they probably don't leave the sound system off, however, particularly as we were told it was state of the art and cost several million dollars. Beyond the seating area is an enormous lawn, which can drain in a few minutes should the heavens open. I must admit I wouldn't want to be sitting there with crowds in a rainstorm, however. What is most notable about this is that it is built above an underground car park. The structural implications were enormous, but overcome with the sacrifice of only a few lucrative parking spaces. I remember that car park well. I brought my parents to Chicago, when they visited me in the summer of 1969, and we parked there. When we returned, the car had been broken into, and several items of clothing were stolen - happily the serious luggage was in the boot, and that had not been forced. Nevertheless, we reported it to the police, who were polite but rather distant, and I remember my father particularly admired their firearms - nothing to what they carry today!

Around the Pritzker Pavilion is 21st century landscaping brilliantly designed and laid out by Christine Gustafson. There are varied sections within, including the Lurie Garden, which supposedly reflects aspects of Chicago's history. The planting was brilliant. To connect across to the north section of Grant Park is the BP Bridge, another exercise by Frank Gehry, with serpentine approaches, inevitably clad in more sheets of titanium-based steel. The decking is Brazilian hardwood (hopefully of a sustainable kind) and the way in which the planks follow the curves of the bridge is remarkable. Even the screw heads form lines which counterpoint with the boards. Both the Pritzker Pavilion and the BP Bridge were engineered by the Chicago office of Skidmore Owings and Merrill - we would visit their office during the afternoon.

In addition to the gardens and new pavilion, there is also a remarkable sculpture by Anish Kapoor, poised on the edge of the podium overlooking North Michigan Avenue. This again exploits steel, with a complex framework onto which are welded sheets of chromium-faced steel. Initially all the joins showed, but, again as a multi-million dollar task, the sculpture was covered over and polished to remove any trace of the joins. The result is ravishing. With its amorphous shape it could be an alien space craft, with a totally reflective surface, reacts with all the surrounding buildings and the people crowding to walk up to it and underneath it. It's a genuine piece of popular urban art, but also has terrific aesthetic value. I am not an admirer of Kapoor, especially since I saw a dreadful production of Idomeneo, designed by him, at Glyndebourne two years ago. Mozart's sublime music, superbly performed with a period instrument orchestra, directed by Simon Rattle, and with magnificent singing, had to site the idiosyncrasies both of the set and the production. Anyway, Kapoor has atoned for that with the Chicago Bean as it's popularly known, rather Cloud Gate, which the sculptor named it at the opening ceremony.

The final offering was the Crown Fountain by the Spanish architect Jaume Goensan. This consists of two tall towers, from which rained down Niagara waterfalls, facing each other across a flat surface, which contains only a few millimetre of surface water. The towers have projected images of Chicagoans, who were apparently filmed while sitting in dentist chairs, and at the end of a few minutes, during which they conversed about this and that, they were instructed to purse their lips and blow out an imaginary candle. The significance of this is that at the end, the pursed lips spew out jets of water. I'm sure the Victorians would have been disgusted by it but it's all rather fun and crowded by families and children who love splashing about and waiting to be drenched by the water. That ended the morning tour, another excellent offering by the Chicago Architecture Foundation. I don't believe that there is any other city on earth that takes such a pride in its architectural legacy, both ancient (that is comparatively) and modern.

Then we were on our own for a few hours. I retraced my steps into The Loop as I was determined to visit The Rookery atrium. It was worth the effort. It is sublime space, all the more remarkable for the combination of the work of John Wellborn Root and Frank Lloyd Wright. In handling big spaces, something that Wright did not often do during his early career, he showed mastery of the relationship of decorative design to the structural elements, in a way that he didn't in some of the more claustrophobic spaces of his Prairie houses, which we were to see on Saturday. Then it was a trek back to the hotel to collect fresh supplies of film, and across the river to take in the Magnificent Mile along North Michigan Avenue. The prospect, looking across the bridge, of the Wrigley Building and Chicago Tribune Tower was always an iconic group, and it frames the avenue which has taken over all the best shopping from The Loop area. It's rather a pity that the gain of the Magnificent Mile has resulted in loss to The Loop, which has bravely struggled to maintain its status. Alas, we heard that Carson Pirie Scott, which we had viewed on Friday, was about to close. However, the Magnificent Mile certainly lives up to its title. I remember it as being a quiet, or relatively so, appendage to the riverfront. After looking at the knobbly Gothic Water Tower, one of the few buildings to survive the 1871 conflagration, I took time to revisit the Hancock Building, just about to be completed when I arrived in 1968. Then it was the world's second tallest building, just a little lower than the Empire State Building in New York. Its elegant tapered form, like a giant obelisk, punctuated the Chicago skyline with a dramatic new silhouette. The brilliance of Hancock was the use of cross braces to stiffen the tower against the wind from the lake - even so it can sway by about 10" either way. It was also a pioneer in the combination of office accommodation and apartments. I remember at the time they thought that potential tenants would not wish to rent the space where the cross braces ran across the windows. Actually, it turned out that these were the most popular. The view from the top is certainly superb, given a clear day. However, although it seemed to be relatively clear, albeit humid at ground level, 1000 feet plus up in the sky, the mist was closing in across the lake front. So the rapture of the view was modified, but after all I had seen it in the past. I looked out along the Gold Coast with its remodelled lake front, a brilliant piece of enlightened open space planning, which had been accomplished throughout most of the 20th century. Looking out across the lake there was the somewhat tacky frontier aspect of Navy Pier, once a grim enclave of the Cold War, with patrol boats and even a submarine alongside as I recall.

When I descended, I walked the remainder of North Michigan Avenue to Lake Shore Drive, then took the promenade southwards. This is a good vantage point in which to view the twin apartment towers designed Mies van de Rohe in the early 1950s, and which established the rectilinear gridded aesthetic for many downtown office buildings. It actually took longer than I thought, when I crossed the river, which is rather an uncomfortable experience as the narrow sidewalk is shared with maniac bicyclists. Then it was across the BP Bridge, through the Millennium Park, and down towards Santa Fe Building, where we were due to visit the offices of Skidmore Owings and Merrill. I'd hoped to grab lunch on the way, but somehow it disappeared. I got nowhere asking about how long food would take in the café near the Crown Fountain. I did manage to grab some reasonable food in yet another Corner Bakery, just before the deadline for our visit, which itself was another great experience.

We reconvened at 4 pm for a visit to the office of Skidmore Owings and Merrill in the Santa Fe Building. A young associate, Lucas Tryggestad, showed us around. He was a graduate of the University of Illinois School of Architecture at Urbana/Champaign, coincidentally, but much, much later than the class of 1970, to which I had belonged. This was a fascinating visit. Skidmore's are one of the best established and largest architectural practices in Chicago and they have offices abroad, notably in London, where they have been involved with Broadgate and Canary Wharf for upwards of 20 years. The practice is celebrating its 75th anniversary, and it became one of the dominant contributors to Chicago architecture in the 1950s. Presently, it is preparing to infill the Chicago skyline on the north river front with the Trump Tower, the site of which is opposite where we have been staying at Club Quarters. This building will be above the height of the Hancock Tower, Skidmore's iconic building of the late 1960s. The geometry of the restricted site gives it strange floor plan, in contrast to the rectilinear IBM Building next door, the last work of Mies van der Rohe. At practically twice the height of the IBM Building, the Trump Tower will utterly dominate, I feel to the detriment of the river front ensemble. Still, it's an incredibly sophisticated piece of design, concrete framed, with three floors completed every month. At the moment all we saw was the skeleton and the first two storeys, with trial cladding of the curtain walling at the base of the office floors.

In addition to the Trump Tower, SOM's work ranges far and wide, including the master planning of Bahrain (a whole country with the area of metropolitan Chicago with a population of only 800,000), the world's tallest building under construction in Dubai (isn't everything now) and a new phase of Broadgate in London. Skidmore's had built along Bishopsgate in a rather heavy-handed Chicago-derived style in the 1980s. They had also constructed Exchange House, a brilliant piece of engineering which literally forms a bridge above the tracks from Liverpool Street Station. The next site along was cleared, and a slab was put in which would support a 12 or 13 storey building. Then came the downturn of the early 1990s and all further work ceased. Now all is going ahead with the construction of a new scheme, which ingeniously incorporates a tower, as well as the redesigned lower building, from which it is separated by a linear atrium. Support for the tower required steel A frames at the base so as to pick up the undercroft structure, already in place, and avoiding the railway tracks. We had a presentation about this building, which is well into construction stage from a Chinese architect of the practice. Although the contract administration is largely done in the London office, the design originated in Chicago.

The office employs several hundred architects, in addition to in-house structural engineering, urban design and such support facilities as model making. They occupy three floors in the Santa Fe Building, which the practice renovated, and moved from the 1950s Inland Steel Building, which we had seen the previous day on our walkabout. I dimly remember having visited the office in that incarnation, and had practically been dazzled by the glare from the white shirts - a strict dress code was in force then. Now it appears more casual, but that is the velvet glove for the steel hand of commercial nouse. Lucas had joined, first as an intern, during his vacations from the School of Architecture, and then became a full-time staff member on graduation seven years ago. As an associate, he obviously has some stake in the running of the practice: the inner circle of partners gain the benefit of the enormous fees, but also take all the risk. Projects such as we saw must be incredibly costly to set up. While their reputation is virtually self-sustaining, getting enough work to keep the practice going must take drive, energy and above all negotiating skill. They do bring in short-term contract posts when things are busy, and of course when large projects end, or there is a downturn, there is an exodus. Employment legislation in the United States doesn't give the sort of protection as in Britain and Europe. Likewise they have two week (10 working days) leave per year, and an allowance of up to ten days sick leave, without certification. It isn't exactly generous, but it means that things get done. Likewise, although the office nominally closes at 1 pm on Fridays (there were very few people there during our visit), most times they will be working long hours - Lucas mentioned a 60 hour week before our visit. It's all light years beyond most practices in Britain, particularly sole practitioners such as myself.

Saturday 26 August

This was Frank Lloyd Wright's day, to which I had looked forward with eager anticipation. Much of it would be a rerun for things seen on previous visits. No doubt you always see something new each time you visit the work of a master architect. Oak Park is a separate municipality, bordering on Chicago, a dozen or so miles west of The Loop. Development started in the 1870s - before then it had been farmland. Suburbanisation gathered strength after the 1871 fire. So the infant suburb already had Carpenter Gothic and Queen Anne shingle style houses when the young Frank Lloyd Wright persuaded Louis Sullivan to advance him $5000 to purchase a corner lot on Chicago Avenue. He had just married Catherine Tobin, and his mother had also moved to the Chicago area. He built a simple gabled shingle style house, that nevertheless had the seeds of the more typical Prairie House in its design, notably the symbolic centre fireplace, around which open plan rooms radiated pin-wheel fashion. Between 1889 and 1898, the whole thing grew like Topsy into a veritable warren of interconnected spaces, embracing the original house, reworked several times, a playroom wing, and a large office and studio facing directly onto the Chicago Avenue frontage, giving it a purposeful visual prominence.

The tour was comprehensive and I enjoyed revisiting the building which I had last seen in 1993. Actually, back in 1969, there was no public access at all, as the building was still subdivided into apartments. By 1978, most of the apartments had been vacated, and work was starting on restoration of the original layout. Considerable architectural archaeology was necessary to reveal hidden treasures such the chains supporting the gallery in the drawings office. It was an act of faith to try to visualise what the building might one day be like. Now it's all complete and well worth a visit. Wright was almost making it up as he went along. Rooms were added, or subdivided, a bay was thrust out here, a wing there, containing the first floor playroom, and finally the drawing office and library suite, with their entrance between, were added in 1898. He was learning on the job as he went along. It was fascinating to see that the shingle style initial house had classical mouldings internally for such features as cornices. Later, Wright abjured Classicism even though he made a competent job of designing the Blossom House on the south side of Chicago in 1896. The building remained Wright's headquarters until he eloped with Mamah Borthwick Cheney in 1910, the wife of a client for whom Wright had built a neat little Prairie House in 1904. Wright was certainly having affairs with several women during this period, probably including his secretary, Isabel Roberts, who commissioned another small Prairie House, and Wright lived to refurbish it in 1955.

After Wright's departure, the house was subdivided, initially for Catherine and the four younger children, and then a further subdivision took place resulting in the warren of small rooms I mentioned above. Wright's alterations obviously had some sort of historical significance. I can image that English Heritage may well have decided that the 'layering' of the different occupancies had a historic significance in its own right, and may have vetoed the comprehensive restoration which has taken place which involved reconstruction of many missing features.

We took a walk along Forest Avenue past some old favourites including the wildly eclectic Nathan Moore House, originally built in 1895, and remodelled in 1923 after a fire, by which time, Wright played down the Old English style, and the almost Latin American exuberance of details from the Imperial Hotel at Tokyo took over on the garden front. The Hurtley House, very much cleaned up externally, with its projecting brick band, was on the market for $4.2 million dollars. Apparently it had stuck so the premium for a Frank Lloyd Wright house is not necessarily the property goldmine that might be supposed. Some owners are now very concerned about the number of walking tours and prying eyes and long lens cameras. The Frank Thomas House, which was covered in dark brown shingles when I first saw it in 1969, and was later restored to its original plaster finish, was a case in point. Our guide warned us not to venture too far towards the house, even though we were on the public highway. Elizabeth Court revealed the Gale House of 1909, with its cantilevered balconies giving a foretaste of Fallingwater, a quarter of a century later. Much restoration has taken place on this house but the sagging lines of the eaves and balconies told their own story. The house had also been repainted in the cream colour beloved of Wright, rather than the crisp, albeit unauthentic, white which I remembered. We found time to view three 'bootleg' houses, designed at the beginning of Wright's career. These were much more vertical than the later Prairie Houses, almost Victorian, but with a satisfying geometry, particularly in the projecting bay windows. They looked much better than I had remembered.

After a hurried lunch, it was time to visit the Unity Temple, designed in 1904, but not completed until three years later. This was Wright's opportunity to design a non-domestic building. It was certainly ingenious with a clerestory and rooflit square meeting room, boldly presenting a massive, and almost unbroken concrete façade to the main road. Internally, the spatial handling was ingenious, with galleries around three sides facing the dais, behind which was the slatted screen of the organ. All worshippers were within 40 feet of the preacher. I hope few of them suffered from vertigo. Wright seems to have got away with an incredibly shallow balcony front, and had the authorities insisted on a deeper frontal, as would now be required, quite a lot of the interpenetration of spaces would have been lost. The fittings showed Wright at his most ingenious, using the primary spherical and square shapes from the Froebel games of his childhood to give advantage. Of course, Charles Rennie Mackintosh was doing much the same at the same time and also turned high-back chairs into an art form. The linking foyer of the Unity Temple also provides access to the hall and classrooms. These have certainly been spruced up since my last visit and were well worth a detailed inspection.

Sated by Oak Park, we trundled back into Chicago and down Lake Shore Drive to the Chicago University Campus. On the edge, the Robie House, in Woodlawn Avenue. This has always been acclaimed as one of the most sophisticated Prairie houses. Designed in 1908/9, it was completed in 1910. The long slender forms, the dramatic cantilevering of the roof, and the emphasis on horizontal line all had been celebrated at the time of their creation. The thrusting triangular prow gave rise to the nickname 'ship of the prairie'. Nevertheless, it was a tragic house, lived in for less than a year by the original client, who faced bankruptcy of his father's firm, and the collapse of his marriage in quick succession. I had always admired the house on previous visits. This time I was severely disappointed. Notwithstanding the painstaking restoration of the exterior, which is not yet complete - several of the famed art glass windows were boarded up, as their inserts were under repair. I found the partial restoration of the original earth-toned colour scheme depressing and gloomy. The low ceiling height, a feature of Wright's work, often attributed to his short stature, bore down on the visitor. Frankly I would not have lingered long in the entrance hall. Upstairs, the famous linked dining and sitting rooms, with the fire in the centre, backed by the main stair from the ground floor, seemed contrived. Even the cornice with its square patterns of battening, and the wood frames embracing globe lights seemed contrived. It certainly made me wonder whether the great man had feet of clay.

Sunday 27 August

This was Mies van der Rohe day, so once again I donned my 'less is more' tee-shirt, and joined the party on the coach to the south side to study the Campus of the Illinois Institute of Technology. This was originally the Armour College, endowed by the baron of meat packing. The School of Architecture at IIT was headed by Robert Altschule in the 1930s, and it had stagnated in a Beaux Arts mould. Altschule was certainly competent, although conventional, as represented in the building immediately south of the Michigan Avenue Bridge. He had prepared a Campus plan based on the collegiate quadrangle layout. It was in 1938 that Mies van der Rohe came over to live in the United States. He apparently was in the running for the Harvard School, but Gropius was selected. In order to attract Mies to the Mid-West, he was informed that he would have charge of replanning the Campus. Due to the Second World War, very little was done until the mid-1940s. However, Mies loosened the layout although the buildings still enclose space between them in an abstract fashion, with remnants of the planning advocated by Camillo Sitte still recognisable - at least to me.

The whole layout was based on a 24 foot square grid, with 12 foot storey height. These were the basic planning modules, which could be broken down into smaller components. They underlay every building, and every open space between. We began at the Perlstein Hall, dating from 1946. This expressed the modules and the structural grid in the steel 'I' beams which were featured on the external elevations. This was the first recognisable building as the earlier metallurgy buildings, finished in 1942, appeared to go in a different direction, and related back to his buildings of his 1930s, and also to the Bauhaus Campus at Dessau, which had been designed by Gropius, but where Mies headed the faculty in the early 1930s, until the institution was closed down by Hitler. Internally, Perlstein Hall was also highly disciplined, with meticulous proportions and refined Minimalist design, particularly in the staircases. The plan was simple, with two blocks of classrooms sandwiching the linear corridor, the lecture halls, and a central planted quadrangle. Out Chicago Architecture Foundation 'docent' informed us that Mies had begun as a bricklayer, and that he always used English Bond. This was not always as meticulously laid as might have been expected and the alignment of the perpends sometimes looked surprisingly careless. The palette of materials was restricted - the bricks were manufactured rather like the English silicate-lime bricks popular in the 1960s, and these were combined with plain plaster walls, terrazzo floors in the main circulation spaces - thermoplastic tiles elsewhere, with acoustic tile ceilings.

Externally, the planting of locust trees also conformed with the grid giving a surprisingly Arcadian effect 60 years on. In places, ivy had colonised the buildings, softening the relentless grid. Mies stepped down in 1959, when he retired, and Skidmore Owings and Merrill were appointed. Their architects including Myron Goldsmith and Walter Netsch began by sticking closely to the pattern set by the master. Near the centre of the Campus was the Robert Carr Memorial Chapel, using for once, solid load-bearing brick walls, with the expected steelwork used for the entrance screen. This God box was completed in 1952, and now appears to be little used. On Sunday mornings these days students lie in after the heavy socialising of the night before. Talking of which, we stepped over to the new Student Union designed by Rem Koolhaas, a building which embraced literally the elevated railway line and joined on to an earlier refectory block east of this. The grid was thrown out of the window. Koolhaas planned an irregular exterior which suggested a violin squashed by a steel tube. This latter contained the railway and was a solid concrete construction, surrounded by crinkly tin - expensive crinkly stainless steel. There were bilious orange grey panels externally, and the doors incorporated an ingenious and affected graphic portrait Mies van der Rohe. The new building cost $48 million dollars, underwritten by the McCormick Faculty Tribune Fund.

If I had reservations about the exterior, the interior was absolutely brilliant. Even the all pervasive orange appeared effective in context. And the handling of space was brilliant. The new Student Union is the first of two major recent projects which have grappled with the problem of unifying the Campus across the elevated railway line. The second is the Student Hostel designed by Helmut Jahn, completed in 2003. This goes by the name of the State Street Village, and contains five pods, across a total length of over 500 feet. 257 students are accommodated in the newest Campus housing. We were told that it is so expensive that many cannot afford to live here. We saw a student room, fitted out to try drum up custom. It was very well designed, but many thought the use of exposed concrete was overdone. One of the best features of this complex is undoubtedly the rooftop terraces which give a commanding view over the western half of the Campus and includes Crown Hall. This has always considered as Mies's most perfect building; he wrote that this was the 'best to express our philosophy'. Mies the closet Classicist came out in this building, as it were. The proportions are based on Schinkel's Altesmuseum in Berlin. However, it also represented most sophisticated application of his steel beam construction, with 'floating' staircase platforms leading up to the imposing main glazed entrance. A more utilitarian version of this staircase is on the back of the building, thus distinguishing the principal façade from the subsidiary. Internally, the building is now used as studio space by the School of Architecture at IIT. They have an annual intake of about 90, whittled down to 45 who graduate. I'm not sure whether the party line in design is still dominant. I remember visiting Crown Hall back in 1969, when it hosted, most appropriately, an international travelling exhibition on the Bauhaus and its influence. Perhaps the last word should be given to Mies himself - 'the future comes not by looking back, but only if we do our work in the right way'. The right way for him I feel was ultimately a cul-de-sac, much as I admired and indeed enjoyed better than on any other visit, the IIT Campus.

Then it was back by bus to Soldier Field, an immense stadium which was built as a multi-purpose sports venue in 1924-5, in a refined Classical style, and Holabird and Roche were the original architects. It was one of the civic landmarks on the Lake Shore, together with the Marshall Field Museum of Natural History, the Shedd Aquarium and, a little later, at the end of a promontory pushing out into the lake itself, the Adler Planetarium. Soldier Field is now home to the Chicago Bears Football Team, and they lease it from the City. They desperately needed to provide increased capacity, and particularly the lucrative hospitality suites found in all new prestige stadia. They also needed to raise the capacity towards the 62,000 expected for big league teams in the NFL. So, radical action was necessary, but there was immediate controversy over the impact on Soldier Field itself, some of it undoubtedly raised by the fact that it had originated as a war memorial. We were met by the architect, Jo Bolimar, of Goettsche Partners, who had designed the project. It seems to be somewhat of a design and build exercise for the architects were appointed in 1997 after the contractors had been selected. From then on it was a matter of planning and logistics. In fact the actual contract period was 21 months and the start was delayed by the fact that the Chicago Bears got further in the league competition than had been anticipated. The overall contract including the considerable enhancement of the setting came to $630 million dollars. Within four hours of the last game being played on the old Soldier Field, demolition began. There had been considerable pressure to retain the Greek Doric arcades, which had been cast in concrete, remarkably precisely. This meant that the containment of the new stadium was even more difficult to accomplish. On the Lake Shore side, the inward canted hospitality boxes meant that the new work did not oversail the older - on the inland side it did, with 10" to spare. The irregular crescents of seating certainly makes impressive impact even if the result is somewhat schizophrenic. The new stadium opened in 2003.

What was perhaps even more impressive was the way in which the setting had been enhanced. A memorial wall in the form of a waterfall leads the spectator towards the stadium, or in the opposite direction is focussed on the portico of the Marshall Field Museum. Parkland stretches towards the Lake Shore front, interrupted only by the service drive to the stadium and its underground car park. The rubble and spoil from the excavations was used in landscaping. This apparently continued a tradition as the original fill for the site had been provided from debris of the Great Fire of 1871. In addition, part of Lake Shore Drive, which in my day had been a one-way system around the lakeside of Soldier Field had been relocated inland, thus reducing the severance of the site from the lake front. It was it a pity that we were not able to go inside as the debris from the game played a day before had not been cleared.

Then, miraculously, we had a few hours free time before the river cruise. I took the opportunity to walk down State Street, into Marshall Fields, now looking distinctly down market, almost like an Eastern European store before the collapse of Communism. It was rather sad and depressing, but the main emphasis on retail is now firmly on the Miracle Mile north of the river. In fact, it has been taken over by the May Company, whose major store is in Cleveland, Ohio. I went up to look at the Tiffany vault, which is still an impressive feature. Next it was to the other great 'cathedral of commerce', Carson Pirie Scott. We heard next day that it would close. What a pity, for this exemplified the modern the modern department store in all its glory when it was built in the 1890s. I got a few more views of the miraculous Sullivan ironwork, and then went inside to photograph the elaborate capitals of the structural columns. Alas, I had no sooner taken one photograph than the security guard came and warned me that I would need a special permit. Nobody had bothered me in Marshall Fields as I told him before I made my exit.

Then it was across to Michigan Avenue and onto Grant Park. For some reason, my visits to Chicago in the past had never seemed to coincide with the Buckingham Fountain being in operation. It looks pretty impressive and is another feature which gives a distinctly French impression to the organisation of the lake front - Versailles on the Prairie, perhaps. Sadly, grey clouds were scudding in across the lake front and my return through Millennium Park was not nearly as pleasurable as it had been two days previously. I reached the waterfront near the Michigan Avenue Bridge to join the others for the Chicago River cruise. This has always been one of the highlights of the Chicago Architecture Foundation programme. This was not exception, but the weather closed in just after we started, and the experience was punctuated by intermittent rain, sometimes heavy. A pity, for it took some of the shine of the proceedings. The guide was remarkably well-informed but it was difficult to keep up with her. We had the whole history of waterfront development and the new generation of post-Modernism recounted at breakneck speed. We began with the Tribune Tower, which we were informed was based on the Tour de Beurre of Rouen Cathedral. This set the fashion for eclecticism, reflected in many of the slightly later buildings along the way. We made out way upstream past the already familiar stump of Trump, the true blue Mies equitable buildings. Marina City, the brick warehouse designed by Richard Schmidt in 1908 (a particular favourite of mine), and the vast, rather politburo classical-style Merchandise Mart of 1930. On the opposite bank was a panorama of post-Modernism, much of it not to my taste, with contributions from Bofill and a threesome by Kohn Pedersen Fox. Then it was up the north fork of the river, to see buildings ranging from the small town houses by Harry Weese, and the upgrading of the Montgomery Ward warehouses into loft apartments. Our guide informed us that the name of Chicago had originated in the Indian word, chicagou, meaning stinking onion, apparently the only crop that grew profusely on the marshy site. Happily, the river has been cleaned up so there was no stink of onion, or anything else.

Then it was down the main southward run of the river. This backed onto The Loop, and so had been developed by a range of prestige buildings, including the Classical-style Civic Opera House, with setback office towers above suggesting a giant armchair, of Samuel Insull, who had promoted the building, it was completed just before the Stock Market crash of 1929. We got a view of Sears Tower, the tallest in Chicago, now being closed in by crowded new development along the riverfront itself. In 1900, the river flow was reversed and more earth was dug out than for the Panama Canal apparently. A 28 mile channel was dug so as to feed into the Mississippi, rather than the Great Lakes and out through the St. Lawrence River into the North Atlantic. It was in this area, that the Great Fire began in 1871, fanned by winds across the city centre. During the rebuilding, in 1884, William Le Barron Jenney designed the Home Insurance Building, long since demolished, which was the first true Chicago skyscraper. We turned around south of Hurricane Street and made out way back through the Michigan Avenue Bridge, and beyond, to see the post-Modern waterfront. Apart from the NBC Tower, SOM 1909, which has some Frank Lloyd touches, most of it was pretty indifferent. The furthest building we saw was the Mies-derived Lake Shore Point, loosely based on his glass skyscraper concept, which I'd seen on my walk along the Lake Shore two days previously. The locks into Lake Michigan had been put there in the 1930s, after a long-standing legal battle by the Michigan, Indiana and Wisconsin State Government which accused Chicago of draining their water from the lake. Now the locks control the flow and they are opened only to let boats in and out. Looking across to the north side we saw the centre of Navy Pier, with its not very attractive Ferris Wheel, not a patch on the London Eye. The navy had been here for real in 1968, and I remember taking some pictures showing the small fleet alongside, as the icy wind blew across from the north-east.

Monday 28 August

The rain had set in hard overnight, and our coach for the trip to Wisconsin had been caught up in the early morning commuter gridlock. So it was an hour late that we departed for Racine to see the Johnson Wax Administration Buildings, which Frank Lloyd Wright had designed in 1936-8. Eventually, we arrived, and the rain had lifted somewhat, but it was still a grey day. The Visitor Centre was apparently designed by the Taliesin Foundation, based on a pavilion which they had built for Johnsons at the 1964 World Fair in New York. When we arrived, we were told that we could not photograph even the exterior of the building once we were inside the security fence. This was extremely frustrating as all we could see was the laboratory research tower in the distance, over the car park. It was doubly frustrating for me, as on my earlier visit, I had lost the film with my exterior views, although my interiors came out brilliantly. This was doubly fortunate, as we could not photograph inside either. So, it was with distinctly modified rapture that we walked down to the building. In 1969, I had simply parked outside on the street, and had walked into the building - there was no security fence, nor a paranoid security policy in operation.

In 1886, Johnson began laying parquet floors, and subsequently developed wax to maintain them. Wax floor polishes took over from the flooring in 1910. The company is still family owned and they appeared to guard their ownership jealously. Frank Lloyd Wright was commissioned in 1936 by Herbert Johnson to design their administration building, which opened in August 1939. This was, together with Fallingwater, one of his great flagship schemes from the 1930s, by which he reinvented himself as a Modernist architect. The Johnson Wax Building rose as a red brick box, with rounded corners, and the usual degree of FLW idiosyncrasy. This was provided by his decision largely to admit daylight through Pyrex glass tubes, welded together. These provided both the clerestory lighting and a large rooflight for what he called the great workroom. The roof was supported by his 'dendriform columns', 31 feet high as a maximum, downward tapered, sitting in steel shoes, and supporting disc tops. These are cast concrete, 3" thick, with hollows as they taper outwards. The Wisconsin authorities demanded checks to show that the system would work. A trial column was loaded with 60 tons before it failed, 5 times more than the 12 ton load which had been calculated, and so the system was permitted. The glazing between the columns always leaked and the effect of the rooflight has now been achieved by lighting - the wrong colour added to glaring inside. Nevertheless, the problem of maintaining and renewing 46 miles of glass tubing can be imagined. Plastic tubes had replaced many of the glass originals - a process that had already begun at the time of my previous visit in 1970. The height and space of the room, with the rows of columns created a serene impression, timeless, although with something of the Egyptian hypostyle hall about it. Wright had designed all the furniture, and had made a brilliant job of it. The originals were in walnut with three different levels of surface. The replicas, with a laminate top adapt brilliantly for the use of computer keyboards. Likewise, the tubular posture chair was very comfortable, particularly for clerical assistants and stenographers. A major feature was the 'bird cage' elevators, which rose to the upper levels. Miraculously, these originals are still in use. Modern codes would forbid such. We were not able to see the laboratory tower, which has been out of operation for many years, due to the fact that it cannot be made to comply with fire exits regulations. It has been retained as the vertical counterpoint to the prevailing horizontality of the administration building, it is 133 feet high, with a footing which extends 64 feet into the ground, a real tap root, compounding the arboricultural analogy.

It was raining again as we made out way to Milwaukee Art Museum, where the spectacular new entrance foyer had been designed by Santiago Calatrava. This was a spectacular building extending the lake shore, and masking the blocky Brutalist form of the main art museum itself. The building consists of a long corridor facing the lake, with gallery space for temporary exhibitions and shops behind, above a car park. At right angles there is a protruberance thrusting towards the lake, with a wing-like roof over. Access is from a raised terrace, across a bridge, another Calatrava signature structure, and into the museum which has a spectacular curved roof, and a great window looking out towards the lake. You turn at right angles to walk along the great corridor, parallel to the lake front, to access the main part of the museum. We were pretty tired and hungry, so we made lunch a priority and the café is below the main level, looking out towards the lake. There was only time for a quick run around the exhibits, and, as usual, little remained in the mind afterwards. As would be expected from a community which originated in innovation from Germany, there was an impressive collection of German artists, particularly the Expressionists of the early 20th century. As we left the building, they showed us how the wings of the roof could close - this is done whenever the building shuts for the night, and there is one public demonstration during the opening hours. This is architecture of giant stature and in this sense it equates with the Millennium Bridge over the Tyne at Newcastle-Gateshead. The whole thing is designed to give a boost to urban regeneration, which is slowly happening. Iconic signature buildings now seem to be the theme for regeneration the world over.

As we made our way southwards, the bad news set in. The Johnson House, 'Wingspread' had given up on us and was closing for the night. This was a major blow and this fine Frank Lloyd Wright house is a domestic counterpoint, for the same client, to the Johnson Wax Building. As we reached the gates, things did not look too good, for they closed as our coach turned into the drive. However, after some skilful negotiating by Karen, we were admitted and told that we could have ten minutes to look around the house. Actually, we spent much longer, and we were able to photograph merrily away, which we had not done at the Johnson Wax Building itself. 'Wingspread' was the successor to the Prairie houses. Hearth and Home were the focus, with a two storey living atrium set around a central chimney with four separate fireplaces, and which also incorporated a spiral stair up to a rooftop lookout. Tiers of tiled roofs and clerestory windows light the space as the eaves level descent to a more human scale where there are patio windows. This central area had been a subject of dispute between Wright and Johnson, for, as often happened, the rooflights leaked. On one occasion, they were preparing for Thanksgiving Dinner, when a squall of rain set in and a stream of water dripped onto the table below. Johnson called Wright at Taliesin, and managed to get through to the great man. 'Frank, we're about to sit down for Thanksgiving Dinner, and your rooflights are leaking again. What do we do?' 'Move the Goddam table' was the reply followed by a click as Wright put the phone down.

We explored 'Wingspread', including the bedroom wing, now used as seminar rooms as the building is a conference centre. We also made our way around the outside, and saw how Wright had, as usual, fitted the building beautifully into its natural context, with, of course, some manipulation as well. I consider that 'Wingspread' deserves to be rated among the best country houses of the 20th century. Not that it appealed to the second Mrs Johnson, who felt that it reflected the personality of her predecessor who had died. Not so. If it reflected anyone's personality, it was most decidedly that of Frank Lloyd Wright. Nevertheless, the second, or third? Mrs Johnson got a new house, sited rather too closely to 'Wingspread', and a disappointing box-like structure of the sort that Wright would, rightly, have castigated. So, after all, we saw 'Wingspread', the rain had held off, and we returned along the traffic-choked highways to Chicago with some sense of well-being. After all, this was out farewell trip in the Chicago region, as next day we would be up at dawn to fly to Pittsburgh.

Tuesday 29 August

We left at 6 a.m. for O'Hare Airport. Checking in was very efficient and security much easier, although just as thorough, as at Heathrow. Somehow we never seem to be able to organise these things as smoothly as do the Americans. Then it was a short flight to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We arrived near downtown at Station Square. Unfortunately, the station is no longer functional but has been turned into a restaurant and shopping complex - surprise, surprise! We were given a break for lunch, so I wandered down to the waterfront to look across the tracks at the skyline of downtown Pittsburgh dominated by the Pittsburgh Plate Glass Company tower, designed by Philip Johnson. As I reached the square facing the river - the Mononghela, a musical fountain struck up and the jets started swaying in time to the music. This was quite funny for a few minutes, but it is decidedly kitsch and the music varied between military, popular classics, and even country and western - something for all possible tastes, but not in the best of any. I was reminded that many years ago I had seen such a feature, called the Dancing Waters, at an Ideal Home Exhibition held in Birmingham. I thought it had died a death, but clearly such attractions live in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Finding lunch in the food court was not easy, as most of the fast food outlets offered distinctly unattractive fare - as usual in the United States carbohydrate-rich plus. Nevertheless, I found something reasonably healthy including an iced lemon tea, which passed the time before we took the bus for the downtown tour.

Pittsburgh has always had a bad press ever since the 19th century, when it was described as 'hell with the lid off'. This was in reference to the blast furnaces of the infant steel industry, for which the city is famous. I suppose it's the Sheffield of the United States, which in many ways its history parallels. During the 19th century it was regarded with a mixture of awe and derision. I suppose the sight of the furnaces lighting the night sky must have been similar to those at Coalbrookdale in Shropshire, which a century earlier, had been a wondrous object of concern, as the Industrial Revolution dawned. The meeting of the rivers had a historical significance, until it was overwhelmed by steelworks. Beginning in the 1930s, with the Great Depression, there were many proposals for regeneration and reconstruction, in which Frank Lloyd Wright even participated, but to no avail. Nowadays, the area is dominated by two sports stadia of indifferent design, an opportunity missed, I would say. However, we didn't linger long in downtown - that was for later. The bus took us up through Oakland, past massive buildings endowed by Carnegie and Mellon, including the Pittsburgh Concert Hall and Arts Museum, the individual Art Deco/Gothic skyscraper of learning, and then on into the suburbs.

We got out of the bus and walker down an exclusive private suburban road. Our target was the Frank Giovannitti House, in Woodland Road, designed by Richard Meier in 1979-83. The architect had a following in the 1970s and 1980s as the inheritor of modernistic purism. The house was a crisp white box, with generous windows, and total interpenetration of space within. Only the bathrooms were given doors. It was certainly an intriguing concept, carried through with total conviction, for a wealthy client, but I found the result to be oppressive and as self-conscious as its owner, who had most generously thrown his house open to our party. His exquisite collection of furniture and artefacts included chairs by Hofmann, the Viennese Secessionist, and silverware from the French liner Normandie, as well as large abstract paintings. We entered at ground level, and made our way up a series of staircases to the top floor, where the bedroom is open to the atrium like sitting room. Generous glazing meant that the interior was visible, but gave impressive views into a woodland setting. Blinds are used only when occasion demands, apparently. Mr. Giovannitti now has his main house elsewhere, and would like to let the house to a suitable tenant. It would certainly not suit any family with children, for reasons of safety alone. However, a single owner with cats would probably be quite welcome, as there were at least two of them prowling round. I wasn't tempted to put my name down for the house, however. Mr. Giovannitti had purchased a large tract, and was originally intending to develop the backland. The neighbours were up in arms about his white box, and probably apprehensive about what would follow. The house behind, which we saw externally only, was a post-Modernist design by Robert Venturi. It had an irregular roofline, and the main façade was painted with a sunray device, partly glazed and partly taken across the boarded façade. It now looked like a tired, and not particularly funny joke to me. Others may disagree.

The final house in the area had been built in 1939-40, by Walter Gropius and Marcel Breuer, for Robert and Cecilia Frank. This was international modern style, moderated by stonework, and punctuated by large areas of glazing, including a dramatic bay window. We viewed this from below. The son of the owner now lives there, it seems as a virtual recluse, and the house is in sad decline. However, apparently, it still contains all its original purpose-designed furniture and fittings. It included an indoor swimming pool at the lowest level, and a rooftop sundeck, which also doubled as an outdoor dance floor. I bet the conservative neighbours were not too happy when the parties were going full blast. There is now, apparently, an effort being made to create a trust to restore the house as a museum. This appears to happen with increasing frequency for iconic dwellings, not least those of Frank Lloyd Wright. In a way it's rather a pity that they stop being lived in by normal people, although most of the clients of the houses we saw were anything but normal. What was also evident was that there was often an element of tragedy in the personal background of the clients during their tenure of their dream home. The Frank house came at a time when all tongues were buzzing with news of the completion of Wright's 'Fallingwater', built for the Pittsburgh Department Store Magnate, Edgar Kaufmann, about 70 miles away in rural Bear Run, which we would visit the next day.

The walking tour of downtown buildings included the Dusquesne University Campus, with yet another variation on a Minimalist theme by Mies van der Rohe. He was certainly prolific in the last decade of his life. Although we were assured that this was the real thing, it did not seem quite so refined in every detail as had the IIT Campus. Then it was downhill all the way, but not aesthetically. By far the best building we saw was the Allegheny County Court House and Jail, designed by Henry Hobson Richardson, built 1883-88. This has always been recognised as one of the landmark American buildings. The massive rustic masonry gave a suitably grim image to the jail, now no longer in use, which sits on a triangular site, and is connected to the courthouse by Richardson's wry reproduction of the Bridge of Sighs from Venice. The courthouse is a remarkable building, with soaring towers, tall gables, and rugged detailing. What was more remarkable was the fact that the street level was lowered by up to 15 feet after its completion. It was pointed out that what is now the ground floor, was added, presumably it had earlier been a basement, refaced and this had altered the internal arrangement. We made our way in and I had trouble with the security with bits and pieces of metal, all over me. Eventually I was admitted and saw the mighty entrance hall, with its murals, added under a Public Works Administration project during the 1930s, showing the urban and rural faces of Allegheny County. The staircases, with their vaulted undercrofts and robustly detailed balustrades captured a powerful image, rivalling that of the Italian Piranesi's imagery sketches of jail scenes, his carceri. The walkabout continued with some notable early 20th century office buildings, with good lobbies, past the Kaufmann Store, now taken over, as seems the case with many such, the Penn Hotel, where we would stay the next but one night, and it was time to take our bus out of town, so as to be ready for an early tour of 'Fallingwater', the next morning.

We made our way slowly, as the rush hour had started. Driving through the country, through wooded valleys, it was notable just how many tacky buildings lined the roadside. Many buildings appeared derelict. Apparently, this is now an area of great poverty, and it shows. After and hour and a half, we passed through Uniontown, and onto an historic highway up to the Laurel Highlands, to stay at the Summit Inn overnight. This had been built in 1907, and for many years was reckoned as a prestige resort hotel, handy for weekend stays not too far from Pittsburgh, and also for passing tourists. Alas, it appears to have seen better days: its glory period probably coincided with the 1930 Dodge parked on the lawn outside the porte cochere. All the great and the good from Thomas Alva Edison, through to the young Andre Previn had stayed there, according to the framed yellowed press-cuttings that lined one of the corridors. The present guests seemed to consist of the elderly nobodies; if we came into that category I feel we still added a touch of class to the building. The dinner was pretty poor, but we made up for it by an impromptu blues session on the piano in the bar, justly performed, as ever by Jaki Howes.

Wednesday 30 August

The portents were not good for our visit to 'Fallingwater'. A heavy mist had descended overnight, and it also took ages to get breakfast, even though we had given ample warning that we would require a 7 a.m. meal. However, as the coach departed, the mist began to disperse, and we turned off the main highway, onto Route 381, past the Ohiopyle Falls, where many tourists had already halted, for our entry into the 'Fallingwater' estate a few miles on. The sun was emerging as we made our way expectantly to the visitor centre, and we were only 10 minutes late. I had visited 'Fallingwater' in 1970. I was impressed, and even then had to make a timed appointment. The tour was quite comprehensive and I remembered many features of the building. Since then, of course, there have been massive structural problems with the reinforcement of the floor slab, which cantilivers out over the waterfall, giving the house its name. The building did better than was originally prophesised, as many said it wouldn't even last the first winter. However, I learned later that the contractor, in defiance of Frank Lloyd Wright, had even then put in extra reinforcement. This was wise, as without it, it may well have collapsed, and with it the architect's reputation. This was, after all, FLW's Big Comeback!

In the early 1930s Frank Lloyd Wright was at the nadir of life and reputation. Although he had eventually married Olgivanna, his daughter by her, Iovanna had been born out of wedlock. Furthermore he was bankrupt, and old friends such as the Martins from Buffalo had refused to make him any more 'loans'. He was overtaken by the rise of Modernism in the early 1930s, and was incensed when Philip Johnson only grudgingly admitted some of his work to the epoch-making exhibition of international modern architecture held at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 1931. A book of the exhibition was published the following year and contained no Wright buildings whatsoever. Wright was used to reinventing himself, and these barren years produced his autobiography, which appeared in 1932, and became a best seller. Notably lacking in hard facts and dates, it was couched in terms of the homespun prose of Wright's heroes Emerson and Whitman, both of whom had been compulsive reading for him when a youth. Nevertheless, despite its shortcomings, the autobiography became a bestseller and brought Wright much needed funds in royalties. In addition, his core group of friends suggested that he might like to mortgage his genius, and proposed terms under which they would advance money to set up a Trust, which would pay him a salary, but not allow him to draw on the capital. Wright had plenty of spare buildings at his Taliesin headquarters in Wisconsin. Thus, the Taliesin Foundation was born, and Wright offered student internships at quite high fees, but the whole thing was difficult to get off the ground if Wright had no substantive or substantial commissions on which his assistants could work. However, there was plenty to do to refurbish the farm buildings and to create a new studio suite out of the Hillside Home School, which Wright had built in 1896, with a further phase in 1903, for his spinster aunts Jane and Nell Lloyd Jones.

Never one to be cautious in his utterances, Wright gave formal notice to the Internationalists that he would outdo them within five years. This declaration was made about 1933, giving him until 1938 to fulfil his declaration. Miraculously, it was more than fulfilled by 'Fallingwater'.

Edgar Kaufmann of Pittsburgh first of all commissioned Wright for some public works projects to regenerate the city, to which reference has been made above. These came to nothing, but Wright and Kaufman hit it off, despite the latter being Jewish, and Wright's opinions verging on Fascism during the 1930s. Still, he was quite inclined to be friendly and co-operative if he could see a remunerative project in the offing. Kaufmann, a notable womaniser (with a gay son, Edgar Jr., who briefly served as an apprentice at Taliesin) had run a camp for his employees at land purchased in 1916 at Bear Run, Pennsylvania, about 70 miles from Pittsburgh. At that time, there was a convenient railroad connection, and Kaufmann eventually became so important that the halt was renamed Kaufmann and he was able to make the trains stop on request. The camp was abandoned about 1930, possibly through the Depression, and even more likely due to the fact that Kaufmann was often alone with up to 70 female employees from the company. A photograph, showing him in the midst of a bevy of youthful females, entitled 'a few before dinner', says it all! In 1933/4 his attention turned towards developing Bear Run for a weekend cottage. He re-registered title to the land in the name of his wife Liliane, incredibly at the period when his mistress, a store mannequin bore him an illegitimate daughter. Wright was invited to visit the property with Kaufmann, and the old rascal pleaded that he would need expenses to travel across from Wisconsin, due to the fact that he had so little work that he had no money for such expense. Kaufmann brought Wright across and he and Liliane motored out to the site - Kaufmann Junior was not, apparently, present, despite the fact that he later claimed that it was he who had brought Wright together with his father. Wright was intrigued by the wooded rugged country, the rock outcrops and the waterfall and obtained a detailed survey from Kaufmann. He went away to think things over. Months elapsed and nothing emerged. Was this a creative block, or was Wright playing a cunning waiting game? We shall never know.

Meantime, he got on with a special office suite for Kaufmann, which was duly installed in the store in downtown Pittsburgh (it now reposes, and is occasionally on display, at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London). Kaufmann began to get impatient. On a visit to Chicago in September 1935, he decided to hire a car and motor up to Wisconsin. He telephoned Wright from Milwaukee to say that he would be arriving in 3 or 4 hours time. Cue for action. We have it on record from some of the Taliesin apprentices, notably Edgar Tafel, that Wright brought out clean paper, and freshly sharpened pencils and coloured crayons. He proceeded to draw out the design for 'Fallingwater', showing the house cantilevered over the waterfall itself, and tied back to the rock outcrop behind. The sketches emerged one by one, a very complex design, with reinforced concrete wings going out in several directions, and a tall stone pylon, containing the fireplaces, giving the symbolic hearth and home image to the building. Just as Kaufmann arrived, so the story runs, the last drawing was finished. Wright happily explained the building to his client, suggested they had lunch, and got the apprentices to make further drawings meantime. It was a miraculous birth of a unique house. Nevertheless, as a new study on Wright and Kaufmann by Franklin Toker states, it is stretching credibility to believe that the old wizard had done nothing until the miracle of the emergent design occurred. Of course he must have thought it out, and probably privately made concept sketches, which the apprentices never saw, and which were probably destroyed.

Kaufmann bought into the idea, although, apparently he had wished to contemplate the waterfall from the house, not sit over it. Construction began the next year, and the house was complete by 1938. It was triumphantly publicised, and Kaufmann profited a great deal from the exposure, and the photographs that appeared not only in the architectural periodicals, but in the more popular press. 'Fallingwater' raised Wright's reputation to the heights, and this never really fell away, even during the fifties, when the work emerging from Taliesin was very variable indeed. 'Fallingwater' is indeed a remarkable building. As a weekend house it works well, although the penthouse for Junior was not something I would care to inhabit, consisting as it does of a landing, with a cramped space for a small single bed. The cantilevered out living room is fine, with bedrock, manipulated rather by Lloyd Wright, emerging next to the chimney and fireplace, and a glazed pergola, never really watertight, bringing light into the usual low-ceiling room, with patio doors leading out onto a balcony over the top of the waterfall itself. Wright had also devised an ingenious, and undoubtedly expensive staircase of concrete treads, hung from steel rods, leading out from the sitting room down to the bedrock itself just above the falls. For understandable reasons, visitors to 'Fallingwater' are not now allowed down there, although I did so back in 1970. The ceiling of the living room forms an extended balcony outside Mrs Kaufmann's bedroom - she got the best deal, EJ himself had a smaller room with a side terrace. For entertaining, a guest wing further up the hillside was added in 1939, loosely connected to the main house by a curving umbilical cord of a concrete stepped canopy - a remarkable piece of sculpture in itself. Is 'Fallingwater' architect or sculpture - I think it is both. Even now, some would deny that 'Fallingwater' is a Modernist house. I believe that the structural forms from the exploitation of reinforced concrete cantilevered, and the bold spatial design must rate it with the modern, although the rugged stonework, some intricate detailing, and the vestige of the Arts and Crafts hearth and home do link back to an earlier era in Wright's work. This certainly was a highlight of the trip.

But all was not over yet. Kentuck Knob was a later house, designed for the Hagans, who had made a fortune out of ice cream. It is also the later vintage, built in the 1950s, and Wright never visited the site before the design was approved - even afterwards he only visited once, and that on a trip where the main purpose was to look at 'Fallingwater'. The house is a later vintage, and not so strung-out as 'Fallingwater'. Wright had become involved with his 'Usonian' designs in the late 1930s, and declared that these were an architecture for the middle-class of America, costing no more than $5000. But that was in 1936. The Hagans spent over $65000 in the 1950s and got quite a handsome house, although one with the usual idiosyncrasies, including in part very low ceilings, and a central kitchen, with the mundane name 'workspace'. The house is well cared for and is now owned, among a string of prestige properties, by Peter, Lord Palumbo. Indeed, the noble gentleman was in residence when we arrived, just about to depart for London. Some of the party even met him, but I was more interested in looking at the house and its setting. As was usual, we couldn't photograph inside. Palumbo certainly has a collection of artefacts, not only including Wright furniture, but pieces by Charles Rennie Mackintosh and Hoffman, among others. He now tends to use Kentuck Knob himself for entertaining, having also bought a historic farmhouse nearby which is his residence. He generally spends all of August in Pennsylvania, we were told. Considering that Wright didn't see the site, but presumably had a detailed survey available, before the house was built, it sits very well on to its hilltop setting, with usual bold use of rough stonework as at 'Fallingwater', firmly anchoring the building to the ground. The geometry was hexagonal, with a hexagonal entrance court, and the living room at an angle from the bedrooms, with the usual chimney and fireplace, and the hexagonal central 'workspace' acting as a pivot. The pointed prow end of the sitting room, above its angled stone base, suggested the recently completed Unitarian Meeting House at Madison, Wisconsin, which I hoped to see during my post-tour Mid-West pilgrimage.

Happily satisfied by all that we had seen, we made our way back to Pittsburgh, for an overnight stop at The Penn Hotel. What a pity we didn't stay longer, for it is a classic American hotel with a sumptuous classical-style lobby, hanged with glittering chandeliers. And we weren't able to take in the delight of the hotel for dinner, as we were booked at The Old Station on the opposite bank of the Monongela. This was, however, a fine way to end the tour. We had our own table, and our own menus. I observed that we had come out as the Worshipful Company of Chartered Architects party, and were finishing up, probably deservedly so, as the Bergenthal party, according to the menus. In liaison with David Cole-Adams, Karen Bergenthal had certainly put together a full and very worthwhile programme for us, and all had gone pretty well according to plan, even with her ability to persuade the security guards at 'Wingspread' to let us in, after our schedule had been disrupted by the weather, and the Chicago traffic gridlock. She even managed to convince the driver of the Pittsburgh Metro that we were all senior citizens - relatively speaking some more than others, and several with that distinction still to come. For those who had not visited Chicago, or 'Fallingwater' before, the trip was a revelation; for me, it was a case of familiarity, in many cases, leaving not contempt but fresh adulation.

Thursday 31 August

We were on our own for the last morning in Pittsburgh. I used it for three things. First I had to replenish my diminishing stock of slide film. The hotel told me of a photographic shop a few blocks away, from which I managed to obtain five films. I didn't expect that these would last me out, but at least it was something to be going on with. Then, I had planned to visit the Carnegie Museum up the hill from Downtown. The hotel kindly told me which buses to take, and as I came back from the photographic shop, I noticed I had just missed one of them. Rather than wait, I decided to go into Kaufmann's Department Store - now under new ownership. I didn't intend to buy anything, but found that the summer sale was on, so I bought a new pair of cotton trousers for myself - Levi's, half price, and much less than UK prices, and two 'Miller's Beer' tee-shirts, one for myself and one for Sam. I noticed with pleasure that my credit card slip still bore the name Kaufmann, and the items were credited as young men's clothing! So much for being a senior. Another of our members visited the store, and is a house architect for Waitrose/John Lewis. He told of fixtures and fittings of the 1930s, including wooden escalators on upper floors, presumably where EJ's office once was. I didn't wait around to look for those, but caught the next bus up the hill to the museum.

As ever, with American museums, the richness of the collections is stunning. Intelligently, this collection was arranged in chronological order, and included decorative arts and furniture as well as paintings. The American pictures included historic views of Pittsburg, some from the early/mid 19th century, showing the wonder of the furnaces lighting the night sky. The night sky was lit by a different kind of fire in 1885, as the city was virtually burnt out, at least the centre, as had been the case with the better-known Chicago Great Fire of 14 years earlier. The 19th century exhibits included two Burne Jones paintings of which I was unaware, even in reproduction. And the furniture included items not only by Frank Lloyd Wright and the 'craftsman' school, but also Voysey and Charles Rennie Mackintosh. The 20th century gallery included some plywood furniture by Richard Neutra from the Modernist Frank house we had seen two days earlier, but also, spectacularly, an enormous decorative screen in gilded bronze from the liner Normandie. Together with lacquered panels, this showed how sumptuous the interior must have been, and how tragic it was that the ship caught fire in New York Harbour in 1942. Then it was time to get the bus back to the Penn Hotel, where setting up a movie shoot was in progress, and taxis to the airport.

CHICAGO, PITTSBURGH & FALLING WATER

BRAZIL STUDY TRIP
August 2007

BRAZILIAN IMPRESSIONS

Not being a great football fan, I don't know a lot about Brazil, except that it is big and hot and steamy, at least in the Amazon basin. A memory from my childhood prompts the recollection that 'there's an awful lot of coffee in Brazil' - the refrain of a popular song of the late 1940s that I cant get out of my head. Musically, I am on better ground. I have been investigating the Bachianas Brasilieras, written by Heitor Villa Lobos, which tried, sometimes more successfully than at others, to integrate the classical format of Bach with some of the traditional music of Brazil, his native country. The fifth, with its wordless soprano solo posed above an ensemble of eight cellos is now world famous; almost as celebrated is the finale of No. 2, 'The little train of the Capiro', which suggests a rather wheezy little steam engine puffing through the jungle. I doubt if we will ride behind one of those on our visit. However, my title was provided by a suite of orchestral 'Technicolor travelogues' by the Italian composer Ottorino Respighi. It seems quite apposite.

It's rather pity that we are a small party, small but enthusiastic. John and Christine Millard, Jaki Howes, Tom Ball and myself. Only three of us are going out together, and I will be on my lonesome on the return trip, as my schedule doesn't permit the Sao Paulo add-on. Rather a pity, as one of my Garden City heroes, Barry Parker, spent two years during the First World War, 1917-19 in that city, designing and laying out a Garden Suburb, drafting Jardim America, which has claims to be the Hampstead Garden Suburb of the tropics. I believe that it has been partly redeveloped and 'densified' to use the term coined by our late and unlamented Deputy PM, John Prescott.

Anyway, the combination of Rio de Janiero and, the new federal capital, Brasilia, seem irresistible. The new capital was always in the news when I was a student, particularly for the designs of the grand central buildings by Oscar Niemeyer, and the bold layout, shaped like a jet plane, by Lucio Costa. We may well have an audience with Niemeyer, who is now 100, so that will be an important part of my personal journal.

Flying down to Rio

In 1933, the first musical of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers took that title. Of course, in those days from the USA, it was done in, I think two day long flights, with an overnight stop in Cuba. At least that certainly wouldn't happen today. Nor would the improbable aerial ballet sequence, in which a bevy of Busby Berkley beauties, were strapped to the top wings of biplanes, as they circled over Rio itself. I don't think even the cramped conditions of British Airways 'World Traveller' (Economy/Peasant Class) would require that, but you never know. Anyway, its all systems go from Heathrow Terminal 4, once the inevitable fatigue of check-in and security clearance is over. I'm looking forward to it, up, up and away. Whoosh!!!!!!!

Friday 27/Saturday 28 July

Rather a difficult day, even a baptism of fire. Ominously, it began brilliantly as the journey from Ashwell by the M25 was unbelievably hassle-free. Nor was the check-in and security the mad rush that I had expected. In fact we met up and spent a leisurely couple of hours inside the terminal before the flight was called. That's when the trouble began. We were assigned to Gate 25 which seems to be an ad hoc add-on to try to increase the capacity of Terminal 4. If J. K. Rowling hadn't called a halt to Harry Potter, it would be an appropriate, scarcely credible point of departure for his further adventures. Furthest flung, it had a basic lounge with an inaudible flight-call system and boarding was absolute chaos. We got through the control and expected to walk onto the plane. Not so. It was down a staircase and into another lounge with inadequate seating so we had to sit cross-legged on the floor, cross in other ways too. No system of calling the flight whatever - it could have been a Third World airport, or Havana. When we eventually got in the plane, we found that most of the seats around ours had been filled, the overhead lockers were also straining their capacity, so we had to try to stack the bags under the seat leaving no leg room. What was even worse was the behaviour of two strapping ladettes from Sao Paulo who insisted on reclining their seats to the maximum even before take-off and then ramming home the message by bouncing on them, which caused problems for Tom and myself. At one stage they knocked my water bottle over - fortunately it still had the cap on, and if they had got the red wine, then they would have been real trouble. They took no notice of the cabin crew and proceeded to keep up the pressure, literally, all through the night. Consequently, I had very little sleep. Fortunately they got off at Sao Paulo, making rude gestures in farewell - good riddance we thought. We then politely explained the situation to the incoming cabin crew - this flight defies logic, as it touches down in Sao Paulo, to change crew for a 35 minute flight to Rio, and then after four hours returns, again via Sao Paulo, to England. After my saying that the quality of this flight was down their with Air Cubana, we got an upgrade to First Class for the rest of the flight. Not that we had much time to enjoy the facilities, and the strange tub-like seats were likened to a dodgem car (Tom), a dentist's chair (Jaki) and an institutional commode (myself).

We got through the customs procedure at Rio reasonably well. It was cloudy and overcast. We were met by our friendly guide, and three of us shared a 25 seater bus as we made our way along concrete spaghetti motorways, through the shanty suburbs - the favelas, through tunnels bypassing downtown, and emerging in the lagoon behind the Ipanema (where the girl came from in the 1960s pop song). Our guide pointed out the landmarks, even though we couldn't see, even those we couldn't see, such as the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain, and the statue of Christ the Redeemer on the Corcovada. 'He's up there', she assured us. I am sure he was, but the citizens of Rio, and ourselves as tourists, were feeling his displeasure as the weather ominously worsened.

After checking-in at the Ipanema Plaza, we sampled the breakfast, which helpfully went on until 11 am. In fact it was a decent brunch. Then we all died for a couple of hours and met up at 2 pm. The weather had closed in, there was a sea mist, with waves rolling in onto the beach, and the palm trees were straining in the wind. We tried to keep our spirits up in the rooftop café, and even, foolhardily, decided for a walk along the beach. Actually, once we got out of the wind, it was quite pleasant, but we got soaked through - at least having changed into my beach shorts I was dressed for the part, but my lightweight 'waterproof' also felt the full brunt of the wind-driven rain, which it soaked up like blotting paper. Tom and I persisted and made for the headland which divides Ipanema from Copacabana. We couldn't see anything, so we walked back, and got even wetter as the rain was practically horizontal, and retreated to the hotel. We'd got to brave the elements again if we want to go out for dinner, and, like many hotels, the Ipanema Plaza has limited options. It's great to be in Brazil, but frustrating that the stress and storms of the UK weather are being felt down here near the Tropic of Capricorn. However, gloom gathered, and the wind still roared outside, I reflected that I had bought a small bottle of Jack Daniels at Heathrow, and it seemed time for some whisky therapy.

Things perked up a bit at dinner, literally just across the street from hotel. We weren't taking anymore chances about being soaked through to the skin. Debassa proved quite a good choice with its micro brewery and party, if unsubtle catering. My 'brontosaurus' steak was reasonably good, even if a sharper knife would have helped. Then just before 9 pm, we all returned to the hotel to collapse in a heap. Looking through the toiletries in my room, I was somewhat startled to find a small package labelled 'Prudence'. Was a shower cap or a condom? I've never been blessed, if that be the right word, with such in a hotel before, if it were the latter, which it was (it didn't have to be opened to prove that). It's name suggested that it should be sent to our dear Prime Minister, although the name of 'Prudence' was rather incongruously combined with a more macho image of a snarling tiger. Perhaps that's the spirit of Brazil.

Sunday 29 July

We didn't start out until 11.30 am, which was no great loss, as the weather had not decided what to do. The palm trees were still windswept on the beachfront, as we drove through to Copacabana, then down the Marine Parade, partly closed off for the final ceremonials of the rain-soaked Pan-American Games, which ought to qualify for the aquatic events in the next, (eagerly awaited?) Olympiad. Marcelle, explained that the Copacabana suburb had become fashionable during the 1920s, and real estate speculators had developed a wall of hotels and apartments with no spacing between. Consequently, the streets behind were deprived of daylight and sunlight - Ipanema is also like this. The Grand Hotel, from 1923, set the tone with its wedding cake late Baroque, and in the 1930s Art Deco, followed by 50's functional, completed the mixed aesthetic.

Parque Do Flamengo was a good introduction to the remarkable landscaping of the waterfront at Rio, mainly carried out on reclaimed land, which pushed into the remarkable bay from the 1930s onwards. As we got out of the minibus the portents were not good, as the heavens opened. Fortunately it eased off and almost stopped as I walked around. The rest of the day was fortunate as the only time it rained was when we were on the bus, but we could see around Rio Bay that squally showers were the order of the day.

Flamengo was, in fact, the biggest land reclamation project in Brazil, designed by the great landscape architect and gardener Roberto Burle Marx, completed around 1960. It swept around Botafogo Bay in sinuous, rather erotic curves. It terminated in the Santos Dumont Airport, originally built in 1936. Partly sunk expressways, with overbridges, ran along the front, making a parkway highway. In amongst the landscaping were important buildings, including the Museum of Modern Art, and the Second World War Naval Memorial was also sited in a prominent position, seemingly at random, facing a curved inlet, but also terminating the grand axis of the Avenida da Rio Branco, one of the main arteries of the city centre. After a somewhat damp introduction, by a waterside restaurant, we drove through the park, and next stopped near the Museum of Modern Art. This bastion of exposed concrete Brutalism was designed by the architect/planner Alfonso Reidy, and opened in 1958. Its main features were the enormous outward leaning fins, which served as pilotis at ground floor level, with the entry approached under the vaulted undercroft. What was best about the museum was the way in which Marx had created a setting which included reflecting pools and remarkable formal plantations of all varieties of palm trees, low textured plants and, most distinctive of all, a lawn, in which his signature curves were planted in different grasses. The interior was a distinct anti-climax. We were allowed to photograph in the foyer, but then instead of climbing the exposed concrete spiral staircase, which is a signature of Brazilian Moderne, we were whisked to the top floor in the elevator, to some dreary conceptual exhibitions - dreary not quite the right word for one part of it was made of brilliantly coloured ticker-tape, and any photography of the architectural spaces was strictly forbidden.

Back in the bus we drove around the waterfront and the dock area, now distinctly under-used, to take the remarkable high level bridge across to Niteroi, which faces Rio across the entrance to the vast Rio Bay. The original explorers, who arrived in the 16th century, were convinced that this must have been the outlet of some mighty river - they were wrong - and it also happened to be January when they made their momentous landing on the site. Hence Rio de Janeiro. Long considered a poor relation of Rio, Niteroi is now going great guns to catch up. Its prestige waterfront development is only partly completed, and of doubtful quality, although designed by the great Oscar Niemeyer. This is intended to be a 'Peoples Cultural Centre'. Like many of his generation, Niemeyer remained a card carrying communist, a dinosaur of revolutionary politics, which dominated Latin America from the 1930s onwards. The partly completed Cultural Centre occupies a prime waterfront site, opposite, irony of ironies, the vast bus station and a Carrefour hypermarket. Also, the site is protected, presumably from the people, by a perimeter chain-linked fence with barbed wire toppings, and the buildings are only partly completed. The theatre is a brave attempt at a concrete overall vault, with a signature spiral approach ramp, and brightly coloured flanking walls, upon which erotic sketches of the female form, by the master himself, have been lovingly enlarged and set in lemon coloured tiling. More of these, were found under the end, where the vault returns to ground level. We peered inside the theatre, which is occasionally used, and also at the outdoor stage, which certainly looked like an afterthought with its plastic canopy. Other buildings are to include an exhibition of the work of Niemeyer, promoted by the Fundacio Niemeyer, and a church. One incredible building, now in dark stained concrete, looked like a nuclear bunker. Internally it had nightmarish acoustics with multiple echoes and its Brutalist credentials were enhanced by spiky reinforcing rods sticking out of the vault in all directions like some mad sculpture. It's hoped that, possibly a forlorn hope as the Mayor of Niteroi who promoted the project has lost power, a new ferry terminal would whisk culture vultures across from Rio right to the waterfront of the site itself. I suspect that it will be years before they start coming in any great numbers, and then, far more likely that they will get caught in the traffic jams, which are already slowing down traffic across the bay bridge.

Passing another barely commenced Niemeyer project - the Museum of Movie History - we then arrived at one of his signature buildings, the Museum of Contemporary Art (MAC). This stands on a promontory overlooking the bay, and an islet topped by a 17th century church, alongside. Niemeyer produced a sketch showing the building as a flower. In fact it is impressive, and, much to the architect's disgust been likened to a space capsule. Well he may be angry about it but it certainly looks like something out of a 1960s sci-fi Hollywood B picture. That's probably unfair as it is undoubtedly impressive, as much for the way it is sited as for the aesthetics of the building itself. Although very much a building of the 1960s in style, it didn't open until 1996. Rather than a flower, the curved concrete stalk rises into a bowl and firm outward sprayed walls, under a concrete vaulted top. The building is the real work of art, which quality it shares with many contemporary museums. The visiting exhibition was conceptual, and such of the permanent collection as could be seen rather dull. However, we enjoyed a snack in the basement restaurant, which also had a vision strip giving uninterrupted views around a large part of the circular form of the building. Above, entering by the usual spiral ramp, the most dramatic feature is the outwardly inclined band of fenestration. It was truly a breathtaking building and certainly worth a visit.

Then, it was something completely different. The Solar do Jambeiro was a wealthy merchant's house dating from 1872, which had recently been restored. This was a substantial building, sited in its own tropical garden. Characteristic ironwork around the entrance, was seen against a background of blue and white Portuguese tiles, which even formed the underside of the roof cornice. Internally, it was elegant, if conventional. We happily wandered round sensing a richness which had been absent from the more ascetic Modernism which had dominated the day. The final port of call was literally that, although the ferry across the bay to Rio did not, apparently, run on Sundays. It was a ferry terminal, recently completed, designed by - guess who?- Oscar Niemeyer. The inevitable circular form and spiral ramp were there, while the interior was, above the entrance to the terminal, a sophisticated, and probably pricey restaurant. We were able to look around the interior, which was quite similar to the restaurant at MAC. There were also the signature erotic drawings, rendered into tiling on the inner wall, and reports circulated that the lavatories also boasted unusual features.

Unusual, happily probably unique, lavatories were a feature of the rather nightmarish Marius Leme Barbecue House were we had our evening meal. Junk and detritus of all kinds formed the décor, if that be the right word. Staff were dressed in Mexican hats and tin helmets of WW2 vintage. We helped ourselves to an excellent cold buffet, and then were regaled by grinning dervish-like staff brandishing long skewers of cooked meat, which they sliced off onto our plates. The rather oversweet Rio Rum cocktails were, to my mind, an inferior version of the Cuban Mosquito. Every now and then there would be some staged happening of staff going berserk and throwing things around. The proprietor threw peanuts and monkey nuts all over the floor just before we left. The lavatories? Perhaps better left unsaid although they featured floors of pebbles, and unusual fitments which included old sinks filled with ice. The pebble theme also featured in the washbasins, and there were large glazed panels in the doors from the public area outside. Well, it takes all sorts … but it's not an experience I would wish to repeat if I come to Rio again.

Monday 30 July

Weather improving, wind down to a less than hurricane force and prospects of less rain, and possibly even sun ahead for the day. We went for our trip around the centre of Rio with high hopes, and were expecting to take a six hour walking tour as part of the day's proceedings.

Well in Brazil it pays to expect the unexpected. We were late arriving in the vicinity of the Parque Guinler, due to the intense traffic. We drove through an elaborate iron gateway and up a steep ascending curved road, with the park below on one side, and cliff-like apartment blocks, raised on pilotis, towering on the hillside above. Across the bowl-like cleft a large French style Beaux-Arts classical building on a promontory loomed. This was the Palacio Laranjeiras, the venue of our promised first visit. We halted outside the security gate. No, the guards had not been informed of our visit, and we were suspicious of five informally clad tourists in a minibus. Marcelle asked us to take a walk down into the park, and to look at the apartment blocks. These were rather choice examples of Brazilian modernism - prestige flats designed by Lucio Costa (the masterplaner of Brazilia) and the Roberto brothers.

I was quite impressed with this development. The blocks were well designed, and I felt were well related to the topography and landscaping. Was it a Garden Suburb? Well the Corbusier model of 'The Radiant City' pioneered tall apartment blocks in a park-like setting as an updating of the low-rise, low density concept. The sweeping curve of the road added an additional dimension. Viewed from the park below, this was an impressive development, with the blocks rising above the canopies of the trees.

We made our way back up to the gate, to find the difficulty had been sorted out. Marcelle seemed to think that her eloquence had persuaded the authorities. What she didn't know was that the Millards had a contact who had promised to get us into the building, and this channel was activated, with positive results. We gratefully walked down the drive, to be met by the immaculately suited administrator in charge of the building. It had been restored to pristine state - although completed in 1912, the builders might just have finished the final snagging. Now used for prestige government entertaining, the Palacio is a detailed, and possibly slightly pedantic, French Beaux-Arts masterwork. The composition, the detailing, the sequence of spaces, particularly the grand progression through the porte-cochere into the grand entrance foyer, and the relationship to the Drawing Room (left) and Dining Room (right) would have won high marks from the academicians who ran the Ecole de Beaux Arts in Paris. Which was where the Brazilian architect who designed the building was educated: he learned the lessons well. His name was Armando Carlos da Silva Telles (or was that who renovated it?) Some of the features, particularly decorative artefacts were imported from France, including the radiant stained glass panel that dominated the Imperial staircase. However, the building was also testimony to the skill of the Brazilian craftsmen who put the finishing touches to the building. The furniture and carpets were as sumptuous as the building.

We were invited to take the Grand Tour of the main block. The staircase and the galleried Dining Room were the outstanding features. We were offered glasses of water, followed by coffee. The Dining Room was linked by a marble-lined corridor to a detached kitchen block to ensure that cooking smells were not brought into the entertainment suite. Time was slipping by and we were now badly behind schedule for our downtown tour. Still, we had seen a building of distinctive quality, usually off limits to the tourist circuit.

One of the iconic buildings of modernism in Brazil is the Ministry of Education Building in Rio downtown. Its definitive form was designed in 1937, and Le Corbusier definitely took a role in the proceedings … but not necessarily the leading role he later claimed. In 1936 he was invited to Brazil, and Lucio Costa was instrumental in this initiative, and Corbusier was also introduced to Oscar Niemeyer. Never a shrinking violet, Corb came up with visionary plans, which included a university city, and a total reconstruction of Rio. This involved clearing much of the existing city, and replacing it with his signature high-rise blocks, and a gigantic motorway/urban megastructure with pilotis up to 300 feet high creating (sic) 'a level motorway 80 feet wide, linking all the hill tops, and creating order in the townscape of Rio' (!! - words fail me !!). Since one the glories of Rio Harbour is its humpy mountain backdrop. This was crassness of the first magnitude on Corb's part. Did his awful vision spur on the Brazilians to build the motorway network of the city? At least we were spared the megastructure.

The evolution of the Ministry Building was also complex. Oscar Niemeyer (who was credited with the principal design role in J. M. Richard's Introduction to Modern Architecture, the book which introduced me to architectural modernism 50 years ago (while I was still at school) became involved with resolving the difficulty over implementing the Corb concept, which the reproduction drawings on display in the building indicate involved a lower, wider building, longer than a city block, and spanning a highway. Of course the Corb explanation was 'not my fault, Gov'. The Minister had got the choice of site wrong, Corb found another, also unacceptable and on the eve of sailing homewards suggested 'cut the office block vertically into two or three slabs and put them one on top of the other. At ground level leave things the same …' This the team did (ie. Costa and Niemeyer: the letter's explanation to us was rather different). Also the idea of the sun screen (brise soleil) on the north face of the building was entirely that of Corbusier. Still in the sketch illustrated in My Work Corb did credit 'Oscar' with the figure drawing!

Whatever the tribulations of finalising the design and building it, the Ministry of Education is an iconic monument of the heroic age of Modernism. The major block of 14 storeys is raised on slender, sleek circular pilotis, with the entrance beneath. On one side is a projection containing the auditorium: on the other a low wing, giving the effect of two major blocks at right angles to each other. The remainder of the street block was landscaped, as were the roof of the low block, and even the roof of the high-rise block, by the ubiquitous Burle Marx. What gives the building its special character for me is its juxtaposition with the more incremental and traditional urban grain generated by the grid plan of downtown Rio - the very thing which Corbusier wished to sweep away. Aesthetically, the building is quite restrained - only the north side of the high-rise block has the brise soleil (the prevailing direction for solar gain in the southern hemisphere), which is always the side illustrated. The reverse has a smooth, rather bland curtain wall treatment. The end walls are clad in smooth Rio Granite, with a modernist mural in blue and white Portuguese tiles, set back on the ground floor. Only on the roof are the appendages for plant roofs treated in the overtly sculptural manner, which characterised Niemeyer's (and Le Corbusier's) later, more sculptural 'brutalist' period.

We entered the Ministry building beneath the pilotis and were whisked up to the roof, where we walked around looking down at Rio, over disturbingly low parapets. I kept my distance, even though I do not seriously suffer from vertigo. Even here, the somewhat sparse garden had been laid out by Burle Marx. From there, we descended to the larger, also Marx-designed, roof garden over the lower wing. It was there that the best view was had of the curtain walled treatment of the south elevation. Finally, we were taken into the more ceremonial rooms, which included a large reception hall, with, on the inner walls, Socialist Realist murals in the style of the contemporary Mexican artist, Diego Rivera. These were typical works of the 1930s and now seemed to belong to a bygone age. The exhibition gallery extended over the undercroft of the building. Among some of the items on display were originals, or reproduction of, sketched drawings by Corbusier of the earlier design. Frankly, who ever was responsible for the reworking to fit a single city block site did the whole thing a great favour. The long low plots seemed bland to a degree, not really relieved by rather finicky projections. A sketch version I have found in Corb's book, My Work, has a remarkably ugly seated figure in front of the building - it is so grotesque that the title 'man sitting on lavatory' with be the most appropriate nomenclature. Happily, the sculpture in the ground level landscaping of the Ministry, as built, was much less and in your face.

Following the visit to the Ministry, it was a case of much reduced downtown walk. This was rather a pity as I, for one, would have wished to see more of the conventional and varied developments, ranging from obvious French-style monuments such as the National Theatre/Opera House to the American-influenced Art Deco office buildings, which included small versions of those built on Manhattan in the 1930s. We compromised on a walk along a popular pedestrianised shopping street, with a lunch time stop at the Confitaria Colombo, built in 1894 and one of the most popular venues for tea and coffee in the heart of the city. The elaborate mirror-lined room was large enough, but the multiple reflections made it seemingly into infinite space.

The walk took in the earliest part of the city to be developed. Rio was founded in the 16th century, but it was in the 18th century, when it became the trading centre, particularly for gold, that the city developed extensively. The area facing the harbour was the logical site of early development, although land reclamation, and the construction of a raised freeway, have dislocated the area from the waterfront. Nevertheless, the area around the Praca XV de Novembro contains an impressive, and generally well preserved, legacy of 18th century Colonial Portuguese buildings. Unfortunately, as it was Monday, we couldn't get into any of them, and had probably run out of time for that anyway. Nevertheless, I would like to have seen some of them in greater detail, including the Church Aintiga Se, which functioned as the Cathedral of Rio until superseded by the modern replacement in the 1980s. The Paco Imperia, built in 1742, served as the palace of Portugal's Colonial Governors, and it was here, in 1808, that the Dom Joao VI established the Brazilian Court, while his native Portugal was under pressure from Napoleon. A later event included the proclamation of the end of slavery in Brazil, signed by Princess Isabel on 30 May 1888. We would see later evidence of this event dispersed in Petropolis and Ouro Preto. On the former waterfront an old water gate gave testimony to the retreat of the waterfront by several hundred yards. From this area, we wandered through alleyways (certainly not something I would have wished to have done alone or at night) past the house where the famous Brazilian singer, later Hollywood star, Carmen Miranda was born. It was she, with her fruit-laden headgear, who brought the Samba to America in the early 1940s. We emerged from this district near the Praco Pio X. This was dominated by the Church of Our Lady of the Canderario. Happily, this was open, and we were able to admire its Neo-Classical interior, contained within a late Baroque exterior. This church is aligned on the Avenida Presidente Vargas, and at one stage, it was, apparently, proposed to reverse the arrangement of the cathedral so that it was the main façade rather than the rear end, which was visible along this imposing axial boulevard. This was laid out as late as 1941-3, and it ploughed through a congested district, bringing opposition from owners of houses and businesses that were demolished. The avenue was inaugurated with, possibly appropriately, a military parade in 1944, watched by Vargas, a year before he was deposed by a coup. In places as wide as 14 lanes of traffic, it now forms a vital part of the city's transport network, and often seems to be virtually gridlocked. Such is progress. In the vicinity, in front of the church, we have seen some earlier survival including the old Customs House, built in 1820 in Neo-Classical style, by the French architect Girand Jean de Montiney.

Fortunately we had time to visit the new cathedral, Nova Catedral Metropolitana, designed by Fonsecca. This was a project of stunning scale. A hilltop was shaved off, and the spoil was used in the nearby Flamego Parque land reclamation scheme - enough was left in place to allow the building to dominate its surroundings. This was necessary as the flanking office buildings are not noteworthy for their subtlety of design. Nor is the cathedral, but it succeeds in scale and the simplicity of its tent-like form. Its sheer size is not immediately apparent until you enter - the building has a diameter of 104 m. and a height of 83 m., with room for 20,000 worshippers. The spatial quality is not impaired by intermediate columns. Far from being oppressive the richly hued stained glass windows, each 60 m. by 20 m., and using the symbolic colours of ecclesiastical green, saintly red, catholic blue and apostolic red, seem to float above. Well placed statuary is silhouetted in the glare of the open entrances. I found this an inspiring experience, and more conducive to personal contemplation than, later inside Niemeyer's Brazilian Cathedral, which is the obvious point of comparison. The Rio Cathedral was built between 1964-76, after Brasilia. In its form, I found some affinity with Frank Lloyd Wright's Beth Shalom Synagogue in Elkins Place, Philadelphia, and the tapering circular form of the external campanile at Rio also reminded me of the late work of Wright, and also the remarkable lattice and campanile at Niemeyer's Pampulha Church, which we saw a few days later.

That virtually completed our rather truncated tour of downtown Rio. By now, it was time to go to Corcovado for our trip up the mountain to catch spectacular views of Rio in the late afternoon sunset. We finished the afternoon on the Corcovada. This has become one of the icons of Rio, since 1931 when the vast statue of Christ the Redeemer was brought on top of the mountain, gazing across Rio Bay. This statue has recently been voted one of the seven modern Wonders of the World. It certainly isn't that, but it is an impressive monument, particularly as we used the funicular railway to the top. This was great fun, with some very steep sections, and parking places where we stand at the side to let the downward train pass.

At the last stop before the summit, a Samba band got on, to hustle for donations from grateful tourists. They were tuneless, raucous and awful: their name ought to have been the 'Bash Street Samba Boys'. I easily resisted the temptation to contribute, although I was grateful that their din had ceased. At the top, it is mainly tourist kitsch, but the views are divine. The vast sweep across Rio Bay on one side, and in front and the other, the lagoon behind Ipanema. The statue is undoubtedly impressive in its silhouette, with the outstretched arms also making a cross-like silhouette. The French sculptor, Paul Landowski was responsible for the head and hands, while the Brazilian engineers, Heitor Silva Costa and Pedro Viana constructed the rest. The concrete core was covered with smooth soapstone. Looking from below, the statue seems bland: indeed, the expressionless face, appeared to me to resemble David Beckham. Many people would consider that a compliment to Christ. However the Redeemer does not have to appear quite so unconcerned about the state of the world below. It was near sunset when we reached the summit and by the time we had reached the bottom and headed back to the Ipanema Plaza in a taxi, the sun was sinking in the west, behind the mountain. For dinner, we sampled 'Satyricon', which was excellent, but the Rough Guide's comment that it was the most expensive fish restaurant in Rio turned out to be true.

Tuesday 31 July

The visit to Oscar Niemeyer's office was the highlight on Tuesday. Incredibly, he is not only alive, but still creatively prolific at the age of 100. He is the last of the great creative spirits who are identified with heroic Modernism. Modernism both in the sense of architecture and also in its relationship to a new, Utopian, Communistic, society. We walked through Ipanema towards Copacabana, through buildings crowded together, which elicited the superficial trappings of Modernism, and also reflected the land boom of the 1930s/70s. This was not the Utopian vision of towers in a park set out by Le Corbusier in his 1920s. Yes, the towers were, but they had coalesced into walls of development, each trying to obtain the maximum space from the rather primitive building codes and standing shoulder to shoulder with no gaps between. The streets were as cavernous and chasm-like as anything in downtown Manhattan. Suddenly, we emerged onto the big drag that is the Copacabana Beach frontage. The wall of development was still there, but flavoured with the stunning view across an inlet of Rio Bay, dominated by Sugar Loaf to one side. This was the view that everyone prized, only those on the front row had grabbed it all - truly devil takes the hindmost in action.

The Ypiranga Building dated from the 1930s, and was next to a gridded brown clone that we had been told was one of Niemeyer's 1950s works. Surprisingly, his office was not there, but in the penthouse of Ypiranga. This building thrust two bosom-like curvy bay windows out front to catch the panorama of the view. Curves, and indeed bosoms, seemed to be leitmotif of Oscar's extended Indian Summer. We crowded into the Art Deco lift and were wafted heavenwards to the studio in the sky. This was a single space open house from two apartments. Today, the sun was in heaven, and all seemed right with the world. The view was, indeed, stunning. Pieces of Modernist furniture, including the iconic bentwood armchairs that figure in so many drawings, and a rocky chaise-longue, were placed around, while a small auditorium space had been created by heroic modernists, with a backdrop of the enlarged sketches, rendered in tiling, of female profiles, that we had seen in his work on Sunday. We waited around a few minutes, and were again ushered into the inner sanctum. Oscar was seated at his desk, with a rather old-fashioned light table alongside. He raised to greet us. He seemed incredibly small, almost like a puppet, or one of the caricatures from the 1980s satirical show Spitting Images. Outside there had been a grainy blow-up of a press photograph of the young Oscar in political mode, no doubt at a Socialist rally. His older self seemed more benign and reflective, and in his talk to us, ably translated by Christine, positively philosophical. I suppose that's what happens, and the group hung on his words as if they were profound utterances, however, seemingly obvious. Actually they were both at the same time.

The office was lined with bookshelves and it was possible to identify a few choice titles such as the complete works (ouvre complet) of Le Corbusier. There was also The Future of Architecture by Frank Lloyd Wright. A book with the spinal title CSSR denoted his allegiance to the USSR of a model of a nation and a society. In front of him, when seated around at the desk was a truly startling photograph. It looked like a landscape of undulating hills with the odd plantation. Deciphered, it was three naked women lying side by side to with heads (out of the picture), right and the other in the opposite direction between. The low profile and lighting suggested that it was taken in the 1930s, or 1950s at the latest. Was this the golden nugget of inspiration for his burst of creativity over the past decade?

Once started, Oscar was voluble. He ranged widely over architecture, the philosophy of life, the importance of designing for the people, with the odd polemic remark - 'Bush merde' didn't need Christine's tactful translation of 'Bush is garbage'. When asked about his designs, he kept going back to the Niteroi Cultural Centre, which we had seen two days before. Obviously this was very important to him and he even returned to this theme when he was asked about the much better integrated design for the Museum of Contemporary Art (MAC). Still, that was his prerogative. I asked about his work on the Ministry of Education building and this proved to be quite a revelation. I had noticed that the Corbusier sketches were nothing like the completed building. Oscar stated that Corbusier had, in effect, participated in a limited competition. He hadn't won. He didn't like this. His design was impractical and it was, apparently, Oscar Niemeyer who had produced the final concept of a tall tower, with projecting south wing, auditorium on the north, and the main block spanning the entrance on slender circular pilotis. But, he added that he had been a young man (about 30) at the time and he tactfully allowed the Swiss-French architect to take the credit. He stated that he never personally used computers, just freehand sketches, and demonstrated, although it was unfortunate that the pen he used had dried up so his lines became increasingly tremulous. Nevertheless, we were presented with the sketches when we left. He also promised to ask his right hand man, Jair Valera, to show us his latest work in the downtown Rio office at the end of the afternoon. Altogether we spent over an hour with him. I recorded the event on my hand held battery recorder. On replay it was difficult to hear anything precisely even Christine's superb translations, without which we would have been left staring incomprehensively at the great man.

After a rather chaotic lunch, courtesy of the rooftop bar of the Ipanema Plaza, we climbed into the bus and headed out beyond the beaches into the hills beyond. This is were Niemeyer had built his own house on the Estrada dos Canoas, on the slopes of Sao Conrado, virtually in the middle of the tropical rain forest, in the early 1950s. It was sheltered in a deep cleft, and looked rather gloomy. Nevertheless it was an interesting design, with a terrace featuring the swimming pool and a curved concrete roof, on slender supports, beneath which was a building with different geometry. Almost total glazing was used for the centre, giving the building a transparency but the ends were more enclosed. On the main floor this gave a secluded end to the main sitting room. The dining area looked down towards Rio, while the kitchen was discreetly hidden at the far end of the building and, rather unfairly, there was a curved screen outside the kitchen door to conceal views for the cook. So much for the democracy of Modernism. The staircase led down to the floors below, which had a small library area and study in some of the former bedrooms. Niemeyer hadn't lived in the house for over thirty years. It looked rather forlorn in consequence. Outside, the forest was cut back, with minimal landscaping that had obviously grown up concealing the existence of the house and making it rather dark. However, on a hot summer's day it probably remains a bastion of coolness. On the hillside above was a derelict, possibly never finished Modernist apartment block. I'm not sure whether it had anything to do with Niemeyer's architecture or plans for the area, but it seemed to symbolise the death of the heroic age which had produced the generation of architects between Gropius and the younger lions such as Niemeyer himself. He seems to be the last of the line.

We then took a bus tour of the nearby favela. The shanties seemed to cling to the hillsides, with vertigo inducing glimpses of precipitous slopes between the buildings. These were now substantial communities, contributing to the tax base of Rio. The authorities had been forced to concede a fait accompli in many areas of the city, and often in areas where the ecological consequences must have been profound. I dread to think what might be the consequences of a landslip, and how the downpour of the past few days had affected the rudimentary drainage.

The final call was to a very different house, built by a rich industrialist, and now a local cultural centre. The house was nothing special being rather eclectic. The gardens were by Burle Marx and seemed rather bitty as indeed the house. We headed back downtown to Niemeyer's main office. This was housed in a rather run-down 1930s high-rise block. Oddly enough, the name board in the foyer didn't give any hint as to who occupied the office on the tenth floor. It was rather a run-down outfit, with little evidence of the intensive work, or number of people that are found in a leading European practice, let alone the world's giants SOM, which we had visited last year in Chicago. Nevertheless, Jair Valera, Niemeyer's right hand man was very pleasant and took us through an amazing power point presentation of his master's work over the past decade. These really took the form of giant sculptures. Nor did they seem to be necessarily intensively service, or sustainable in the sense that we now recognise. It seemed that local authorities and national governments were queuing up to acquire an iconic design. Certain practicalities were obvious in administration centres and we wondered how these were worked up. We were told that there were only 15 architects working in his practice, but clearly there must be another office somewhere dealing with the engineering and servicing aspects, plus the costing and all the features of modern corporate construction practice. It seemed strange that there was this small office handling such designs, with no indication as to who did the donkey work in getting them to be realised. I happily sketched many of the schemes that came up on the screen and it was evident that were some recurrent themes including the auditoria and the pathways, whether an elevated walkway or not linking the various elements of each scheme. Furthermore they were quite independent of their context. This is Modernism writ large, based on universal solutions and ignoring the restrictions of existing towns and urban form. They resembled the dinosaurs of the past, with their bleached bones protruding from the primeval desert. Although Niteroi was never exactly a desert, it was a blank site, with a set of sculptural statements which, on the face of it, had little practicality.

I do wonder how many of these late works will be built, or deserve to be built. It was rather similar with Frank Lloyd Wright's late work, some of which was built long after his death, and which was, in consequence, downright unsatisfactory, such as Monona Terrace at Madison, Wisconsin. Possibly, we may feel the same about Niemeyer's Indian Summer. Still, it's not every architect who can enjoy a burst of creativity in his centenary year, with clients only too eager to pay to obtain one of his late utterances.

Wednesday 1 August

We hit the road to Paraty at about 8.30 am. It was going to be a nice day and we were sad to leave Ipanema without adequately sampling the beach life. Presumably, that's what we had been expected to do on the first disastrous day, and got soaking wet for our pains. We didn't immediately take the coast road, but went back through the tunnels and out past central Rio to join a busy highway running south-west. The journey through the dreary suburbs seemed interminable, particularly as the traffic was slow-moving. It was more than an hour before we cleared the city, which now stretches over 54 kilometres. However, the Green Coast highway was spectacular. I certainly didn't realise that Brazil had such a beautiful coast, indented with sweeping bays, with clones of Sugar Loaf either framing the seafront, or as islands out to sea. The highway was not heavily trafficked and wound agreeably up and down, with connections to small fishing villages, some of which are now developing a tourist trade for day visits from Rio. We also passed a large shipbuilding yard, now building oil exploration platforms, and a nuclear power station.

Paraty itself is about 300 km from Rio and is the main attraction of the Costa Verde. Originally founded about 1650, Paraty has remained unaltered since it served as an important staging post for 18th century trade in gold passing from Minas Gerais en route to Portugal. The gold route followed the old Indian trail down to Paraty and its sheltered harbour, but eventually, raiding parties by buccaneers and avoidance of the tax imposed by Royal Decree resulted in an improved road to Rio bypassing Paraty. It rapidly declined into a ghost town, and apart from a revival for the coffee trade in the mid 19th century, it was a forgotten city. That is why it was so unspoilt when it was rediscovered through the construction of the new coastal highway in the early 1970s. It is a typical planned colonial city, basically a grid plan, but with some irregularities, with a main square close to the river and at the opposite end, a market and open space adjoining the seaside. The settlement was low lying and deliberately designed so that the incoming tide could flush away the garbage and sewerage from the streets. Each individual house drained into the street, but there was, wisely, a higher pavement. The streets are still paved with their original granite facings.

As the weather had been so awful during the previous weekend, our guide told us that the city had flooded above pavement level. Evidence for it lay in the mud, which was evil smelling towards the marsh, which now forms the frontage of the town on the west. She explained that while most of the buildings had been constructed in the 18th century, the short-mid economic boom in the 19th had resulted in their rebuilding, between 1850 and the late 1880s. This had been the case of the major church, facing the principal square near the riverside. There were also other churches, one for the society ladies, one for the fishermen and workers down by the harbour, and one for the slaves - not freed until 1888. Down by the harbour, in close proximity, were the red light district, the fishermen's church and the jail. We speculated that the police and jailers could have visited the red light district, then returned via a quick confession to their work at the jail. The bay of Paraty was characteristically fringed by mountains, rising almost sheer from the blue water. It is a very pleasant little town, now on the Heritage List of UNESCO, but not yet a world heritage site. Everyone is now trying very hard by painting up the buildings, beginning to bury the electric cables, and spruce up the town generally. It certainly had its share of attractive shops, and was not yet overtly touristified. We felt that it was comparable with Trinidad in Cuba which had also had the same sleeping beauty existence, with recent rediscovery through a highway improvement in the 1950s. Its ambiance, apart from the smells down by the harbour, was very pleasant and it was a distinct relaxation after Rio. Our hotel, the Porto Imperial occupied an important merchant's house on its frontage, and many little houses running along the side streets, with attractive planted courtyards and even a small swimming pool, which we were unable to sample due to lack of time. It would have been nice to have a couple of nights for a relaxing day between, but this was not to be. In fact, we suspected that it would be an early get-away, although, incredibly, no time of departure appeared to be given on any of the documents.

Thursday 2 August

This day proved to be hard going. Literally a long day's journey into night. We set off at 8 am from Paraty and took the coast road halfway back to Rio, then climbed up into the mountains along a steep and very bumpy road. The scenery was spectacular but it was hard on the anatomy. As we rode higher the coastal forests cleared and there were farms with cattle grazing on the hillsides. Then we rejoined a state highway between Sao Paulo and Rio but only for a short while before we diverted on to a lesser road through Volta Redonda. This town was a massive steelworks, set up in the 1940s to produce high grade steel, much of it for the war effort. It was certainly not an attractive town and rather unexpected in what was still essentially a rural area. We still had a long way to go even before our delayed lunch break. The bus ran onwards through Passoras skirting a national park, again with spectacular mountain scenery, and then dropped down back towards Rio to Petropolis, where we arrived more than an hour late for lunch. It was another of the Brazilian barbecues. They get rather monotonous after a while with waiters running round brandishing long skewers off which they carved lumps of meat for your plate. Still, as usual, the salad buffet was varied and of good quality.

Having come in a vast arc, we were now only sixty kilometres north of Rio. It seemed rather perverse itinerary. Petropolis has its interest, but I would not rate it as an unmissable city. Perhaps that's doing it down, for we had little chance to see the centre itself, as our visit was confined to the Imperial Museum, once the Royal Palace of the Portuguese monarchy. This was a rather provincially designed Neo-Classical building and was remarkably modest as the Summer Palace of Emperor Dom Pedro II. It was austerely furnished, some of it in high Victorian style and other parts in more attractive earlier Neo-Classical style. His crown and commode and other artefacts made up a pleasant if hardly outstanding exhibition.

Petropolis itself was a staging post on the road between Rio and Minas Gerais but became prominent due to the royal residency during summers from 1843 onwards. There was considerable German immigration and that influenced the architecture of the period. Names like Bingen and Mosela hinted at the strength of German settlement. The areas around the palace could have been in a provincial middle European city of the late 19th century. We caught a glimpse of the Gothic Cathedral, began in 1884 but only finished in 1939. Among later immigrants to Petropolic was the Austrian Stefan Zweig, a great writer and librettist for one of Richard Strauss's operas who arrived at as a refuge from Nazi Germany. He and his wife committed suicide together in 1942.

We left Petropolis at 4.30 pm for a long and bumpy ride through the mountains, much of it after dark, to Ouro Preto, where we arrived after 10 pm. The hotel occupied several older houses and was agreeably picturesque, although low sloping ceilings of our rooms proved rather impractical and frustrating. From what we could see, this was an outstanding Baroque hillside town, once the capital of the State of Minas Gerais. I was practically sleepwalking when we went out to find out dinner, which I really could have done without. This certainly proved a challenging day in all respects and was frankly, too much to bear as far as I was concerned. Having been overtired on arrival, I had a bad night being unable to sleep for long periods.

Friday 3 August

It was a fresh morning when we emerged into Ouro Preto. The previous evening had not been the best introduction, coming at the end of a long journey. Now we could see clearly the charms of this Colonial city, founded in 1698, high among the hills of Minas Gerais, of which state it had been the capital until the late 19th century. Now it was a relic of the development of the gold mining industry during the 18th and 19th centuries, one of a number of Colonial towns of historic value. Ouro Preto is probably the finest as it is now a World Heritage Site. Not that it lacked unsightly modern development, an industrial area, and shanty favelas on its outskirts. We hadn't noticed them on our arrival the previous evening and most of the view was taken up with the spectacular topography of deep valleys and far off hillocks, each one seemingly crowned by a Baroque church. All the buildings were now white-painted. This was a requirement of the UNESCO experts in assessing and confirming the world status of the city. In some ways it was a pity. Our guide explained that buildings had been colourwashed a variety of hues, and this would have given it some variety and a passing resemblance to Portmeirion. The fruity Baroque architecture would certainly have appealed to Clough Williams-Ellis.

The Pousada do Mondego Hotel had been a converted town building of the period and it looked across to the Baroque church of St. Francis of Assissi, which was our first visit of the day. This was a local interpretation of the standard Baroque church, with its twin western towers and embellished central doorway. It had been begun in 1765 and was the work of the mulatto artist turned architect, Aleijadinho. It contained soapstone panels carved by the architect, who also supervised its construction. It was, stylistically, rather old fashioned by about 30 years, and even more so when it was completed in 1801 with ceiling paintings by a Baroque master, Manoel da Costa Athayde. Nevertheless, it was a local masterpiece, both externally and internally, particularly for the trompe l'oeil of the paintings, which created the effect of a canopy with glimpses of clouds above.

We then made out way below the little market square and sampled the streets running downhill. We were, almost literally, sidetracked by forays into jewellery shops, for which this city is now famed. We got partly down the hill to a lesser church overlooking a rather nice square, the Church of our Lady of the Conceicao. Then we mounted the hill to walk across the central Praca Tiradents. For me, this was a superb piece of Baroque urbanism. The town hall, now a museum, faced the former barracks, now the School of Mind (and a museum) across a broad square, which slopes down to the centre, then up again. In some respects it was rather like a vernacular reworking of the Capitol in Rome, though totally without the subtlety of Michelangelo's great architecture. This was the main urban space of the city, with roads entering from several directions. We crossed to the Rua de Mosquerira, along which we had trudged the previous night to find our very late night dinner. Now we could see the flank of the Church of our Lady of Carmo veering above on the left side hilltop. Before we went inside, we glanced down in the valley to a hotel, the Grand Hotel of Ouro Preto, which had been designed by Oscar Niemeyer in 1940. Not totally uncompromising, it appeared to have a low pitched roof covered in vivid orange Roman tiles, the local material. But below it appeared more modernist. Our guide said that it was a blot on the city. I didn't quite believe that and marked it down for a possible later visit, if time permitted. Then we paused in front of the façade of the big church. This had been designed by Manoel Francisco Lisboa (obviously Portuguese), who had fathered the local wonder boy, Aleijadinho. In fact the latter took over from his parent in the late 1760s and finished it. He carved the exterior and the interior and worked on the building for about 40 years. We were told that he had an argument over payment for the sculptured cartouche over the entrance, and chopped off the angels' wings in revenge. Internally it was fairly elaborate, with some rather gruesome statutory, finished with real hair. I liked the Sacristy behind the main church, and approached along a blue tiled corridor. This also had a painted ceiling, out of which the all-seeing eye of Freemasonry stared down. The relationship between gold mining, freemasonry, urban development, and specifically Baroque churches is something that would be worthy of further exploration, but I will probably never get time for it any way.

Unfortunately we didn't have time to enter the Church of Pilar, the most elaborate and one of the earliest churches in Ouro Preto. What a pity, for it has a fantastic gold plaster interior, and is one of the most elaborate churches in Brazil. Instead, we made our way back to the main square for a visit to the Museum of Mining. But, it was moderately interesting, and we went around a fabulous display of minerals and precious gemstones. However, I would have preferred more architecture. Indeed, I got my opportunity as we were let off the leach for half an hour and I strode purposely downhill, along one of the best streets which we had unaccountably omitted, the Bobadela. Flanked by 18th century town houses, many of which were now jewellery shops, restaurants and grouping together beautifully. Just off the street a subsidiary space led across to the Rua san Rocha Lagoa, on which fronted the Grand Hotel, designed by Niemeyer. I went up to see it and was quite impressed. Yes, it had all the trappings of Brazilian modernism, being raised on sculptural pilotis, with a large foyer at first floor level with spectacular views over the valley below towards the Church of Pilar. The furnishing was pretty mundane, but this was an exciting architectural space, liberating the views, rather than enclosing them in false Baroque work. Moreover, an irregularly shaped swimming pool on a raised forecourt had, apparently, been added by Niemeyer not so very long ago. It was now time for our group lunch, and I hurried back up the hill.

It was yet another barbecue, quite a good standard, however, with some local dishes. Trays of cocktails were sent over, and we had ambiguous advice as to whether or not they were included. We hoped for the best. They weren't. However, the bill at the end was not unreasonable, and in a happy frame of mind we got on the bus for the trip to Belo Horizonte. We made our way down through the hills, to a plain, and when we got there, we encountered the straggling suburb of the city which is now the capital of Minas Gerais, developed from 1897 to succeed Oura Preto. There were more Colonial cities strung out along our route, which would have required only short diversions, to visit. However, we headed straight for the outskirts of Belo, through a featureless suburb, to a 1970s tower block which was the Ouro Minas Palace. Actually, it was rather a good hotel, and once of the best that we had encountered. This was fortunate, for it lay stranded in a featureless suburb, facing a half completed flyover. We were told that we could obtain dinner in the shopping centre opposite. Three of us didn't bother, and negotiated a light meal in the hotel itself, which was of excellent standard, and we found a surprisingly moderately priced Bordeaux to accompany our meal. The next day would be devoted to exploring Belo Horizonte, and we wondered what we could find that would erase the impression of featureless urban sprawl which had marked our arrival on the outskirts of the city.

Saturday August 4

Belo Horizonte had not seemed promising on arrival. We didn't know what to expect when we set out for the Pampulha Suburb which lies to the north of the city. We were assured that this included buildings by Oscar Niemeyer. In contrast to the mixture of half constructed buildings and shanty housing which flanked the highways, Pampulha was an exclusive Garden Suburb built an artificial lake, now overlooked by some of the finest buildings by Niemeyer, with landscaping by Burle Marx, both of whom were avowed Socialists and yet designed the setting for perhaps the most exclusive suburb in the city. We stopped by the lakeside and looked across to the Museum of Art (built as a casino), the Dance Hall and the Tennis/Yacht Club, all of which were Niemeyer designs from the 1940s. Then we began a perimeter journey along the lake. The first stop was the Dance Hall, an elegant structure, basically circular, but with a curved canopy extending outwards and embracing a small water garden. It was certainly elegantly designed, and the main interior is now an exhibition hall for architecture and design, most appropriately. The building appears to have weathered well, although it has recently been restored. The extensive glazing seemed typical of Niemeyer, with an emphasis on transparency, and little worry about insulation for solar gain. Not for the first time, it appeared that he was interested more in sculptural form than mundane practicalities.

We carried on past the Tennis/Yacht Club, a comparatively ordinary building, but with a butterfly profile concrete roof, and paused to get our first sight, across the lake, of the Church of St. Francis of Assisi. This is one of the most iconic Modernist churches, being a series of elegant thin slab parabolic concrete vaults. Completed in the early 1940s, I was not until the late 1950s that the Catholic Church permitted its consecration. Its open form was, apparently thought to be anti-religious. We parked close by and looked at the building in greater detail. The vaults are covered with abstract designs in blue-toned mosaic, and appeared to have survived well. The main vault is the church itself, with subsidiary vaults for a chapel and parish offices/foyer. The total glazing facing the lakeside connected exterior and interior very elegantly indeed. Within the building there were features covered in modern adaptations of the characteristic Portuguese blue tiling. Below a gallery, could be seen a mural of St. Francis. Niemeyer designed the church and Candido Portinari was responsible for the mural of St. Francis, the Stations of the Cross and the tiling. The Baptismal font was by Joao Ceschiatti, who later worked on the Cathedral at Brasilia. The immediate setting was landscaped by Burle Marx. We went inside the building and were struck by its serenity and intimacy. Mass is still held there, but there is no sign of seating - this possibly may be brought in and then cleared away for otherwise the space would look cluttered. Ingeniously, the tapering concrete vault of the nave was extended by an independent parallel vault with high level glazing between the two to provide permanent light for the mural.

Externally, the vaults at the rear of the church are in line, and covered with more blue tiling in both figurative and abstract designs. These are difficult to appreciate, as the road runs close by, but are certainly worth looking at as they complement the more open arrangement on the lakeside. Finally, there is a small, sculptural lattice-sided concrete campanile. Altogether, this must be one of the most thorough and convincing of Niemeyer's early works.

We then retraced our partial circuit of the lake, drove across the highway on top of the dam which forms the barrier to the lake, and on the peninsular which is crowned by the Museum of Art. Another Niemeyer building, this had its origins as a casino, an exclusive club completed in 1943. Brazil outlawed gambling a few years later, and it was not for many years until a permanent use, as a Museum of Modern Art was established. Judging by the exhibits now on display, it might well be called the Niemeyer Museum. Sited on a promontory, the approach to the building gives a good impression as it crowns the rocky protrusion which rises from the lake. The influence of Corbusier, as in many of Niemeyer's early buildings, was apparent. The canopy, with its 'G' form support was taken from Corb's Salvation Army building in Paris. Internally, the double-height space, ramp approach to the first floor (surprisingly steep) and the piloti supports relate to the early houses, particularly the Maison Savoye. Again, generous glazing was evident, with pale pink mirror tiles on the outer wall dividing the foyer from the ancillary cloakrooms and administrative office. These days a faintly camp refraction of the main space. A curved projection houses the Museum Café and Ballroom above. We were not quite sure which was the main gaming room. The Ballroom is more closed than usual with Niemeyer (certainly more than the glazed transparency of the Dance Hall on the opposite bank of the lake). There was a small stage for the dance band and the room apparently had peculiar acoustic properties with multiple echoes confined to the centre, above which rises a shallow circular dome, but with less reverberation on the outer part of the room. We were told that this had been deliberately designed to focus the sound of the dance band on the ground floor itself, while permitting intimate conversations at the surrounding tables. I'm not so sure, it seems to me it was an accident rather than design, and the multiple echoes might well have caused strange discords from the dance band. We were reminded of the weird echo effect at the incomplete concrete vault at Niteroi.

This completed the tour of Niemeyer's buildings in Pampulha, but we drove back through the Garden Suburb and paused to visit a large, rather coarsely designed post-Modernist house designed by our guide. He talked his way in and his former clients, two wealthy dentists, showed us around the ground floor, possibly with gritted teeth, although they seemed friendly enough at the time. The building was entirely without personality, with large, rather ugly formally arranged furniture and little sense of individual taste. The bus trundled back past our hotel, which is on the outskirts of the central area of Belo Horizonte. There was little sense of place due to the confusion of the buildings flanking the highway, most of which were, at best, indifferently designed. The city itself is relatively new, having been planned an laid out as the capital of Minas Gerais state in 1897, succeeding Ouro Preto, which was an impractical location for administration of a state which had begun to grow, both in population and in economic terms. The layout of the centre of Belo Horizonte, which appears to have been designed for a population of about 150,000, was sophisticated with a major and minor grid overlaid with an angle of forty five degrees between the two. This provides a super block arrangement of the major boulevards, with the internal streets within each grid square having minor blocks and triangular plots facing the main grid. Architecturally, this could have worked very well, as in Barcelona, whose plan by Cerda appears to have influenced the layout. The clarity of this layout had been compromised by architecturally inept development over many years, but particularly since the 1970s. A few buildings remained as reminders of what had probably been a very civilised looking city. We passed the Central Station, rather old-fashioned Italianate Classical style of 1920. This was now a museum and the long-distance trains had been cut to one slow journey to the coast each day. However, the suburban routes were flourishing and a metro system had also recently been constructed.

We then stopped in the Avenida Alfonso Pena for a brief visit to the Palacio das Artes, which had been designed by Oscar Niemeyer in the 1940s, but had not opened until 1971. More recently than that it had suffered a disastrous fire but had been rebuilt largely in its original form. This building stood next to and above the central Parque Municipal. Inside the Palazio there was a comprehensive exhibition of the work of Oscar Niemeyer (surprise, surprise - he is well-nigh ubiquitous). It seems that everywhere and everybody is celebrating his centenary. The foyer of the performance hall was dominated by a large spiral staircase without any handrails at all (a signature feature of his). Even in the gallery, the balustrades were about half the height that would be required in the UK. The hall itself was high, wide and handsome, I would guess better for theatrical events than for symphony concerts as its width would not limited reverberation. We found out that the Russian Ballet was performing that night, but that it had been sold out for weeks ahead.

Our final city centre stop was the Praca Liberdade. This was the heart of the city, a spacious square with landscaping the French style and laid out in 1897. The Palacio da Liberdade dominated the end of the square, and was in French Beaux-Arts style, built in 1898. It stood at the end of an avenue of tall Royal palms. By the far the best of the surrounding buildings, although incongruous in style and scale, was the Edificio Niemeyer, built in the 1950s, with a free-form curved plan and horizontal louvers, three to each storey, which distorted the apparent scale. Niemeyer had been fortunate to win the favour of the Mayor of Belo Horizonte, Juscelino Kubitschek, who would become President of Brazil in the 1950s and would establish the new Capital of Brasilia. The rest is now history. We had seen a good selection of Niemeyer's buildings of the 1940s and early 1950s and this had been the most impressive feature of Belo Horizonte. Certainly there was little else of this standard, particularly in recent buildings, as the tortured Post-Modernism of the Mineralogy Museum, built in the 1980s, showed. This building has dated badly and now appears like a weak joke with little point. A stroll through the crowded central market, built in 1929 and occupies an entire city block, full to the brim and overflowing around the bars, completed our tour of downtown.

We drove out to the heights above the city to view it from the Papal Square, which commemorated one of the two visits of the late Pope John Paul II. It was unusual to find the city ending in a prestigious residential suburb rather than the usual shanty town favelas. Seen from this vantage point, distance did not exactly lend enchantment to the prospect of Belo Horizonte. The whole of the horizon appeared to be built up with little rhyme or reason and the overall prospect did not please nor was it beautiful. Such is the hasty urbanism of Brazil, although it is reported that the major cities have now finished growing. We back-tracked through the central area and drove out to our lunch at the Minas Shopping Centre opposite the hotel for yet another barbecue meal in the 'Baby Beef' restaurant. That was the end of the formal visit, and for want of something better to do, some of us walked around the shopping centre, which was, frankly, crowded and rather awful. It seemed ironic that we had ample free time in Belo Horizonte, and yet only two days in Brasilia itself. There didn't seem any reason to explore the district around the hotel so, again, three of us had a pleasant meal in the building and watched the choreography of what was either a large wedding party or an episode from a Brazilian Soap Opera.

Sunday 5 August

This was welcome as a virtually free day, but it meant that the departure for Brasilia was not until late afternoon and there didn't seem much to do in Belo Horizonte; indeed, our guide had told us the previous day that he had shown us everything worthwhile in the city. While that was not strictly true, there didn't seem to be too many options. He had recommended taking a car to a historic Colonial city about 20 kilometres away called Sabara. It did sound a little bit of a risk as we were advised to be back at the hotel by 3 pm so as to leave plenty of time to travel to the airport. We settled for the Arts and Crafts Market in Belo itself, which occupies the whole of the Avenida Alfonso Pena every Sunday. It was worth a look, although the crowded stalls made movement difficult. I am almost never in a shopping mood and therefore didn't pay too much attention to what was on offer, which seemed to be the usual rather crude products in vast quantities. Probably there were some bargains to be had, but the effort seemed to be considerable. Oddly, the adjacent Palacio das Artistes did not appear to be open. However, the nearby Parque Municipal was a haven of shade and had a boating lake, which gave quite attractive views of the high-rise buildings above the greenery. From there it was a short walk to the restored railway station, now a museum, which had very few entrants while we had a light lunch at the café. We considered taking the metro back to the hotel as it served the nearby Minas shopping centre. However, we didn't know how frequently the trains were so we sought a taxi. The one that we flagged down discharged what we presumed were passengers, but were what turned out to be his family. He didn't wish to miss customers and speeded back to our hotel, then turned tail, to reclaim his nearest and dearest.

The flight to Brasilia was crowded and two of us ended up on the back row. The third passenger in the row was a Portuguese engineer who was anxious to try out his English. Limited though it was, it was much more extensive than our Portuguese. He was an engineer working for an offshoot of Alsthom, the electrical engineers, based in France, but now with offshoots all over the world - they manufacture most of the electric engines for European trains. It was growing dark when we landed in Brasilia, but the position of the airport didn't appear to allow us to see its characteristic layout from the air. We were met and transported along an endless boulevard leading into the heart of the city and checked in the Kubitschek Plaza. This is in a downtown location close to both the commercial centre and the Ministry district. However, all we had time for in the evening was the now inevitable barbecue buffet in a nearby restaurant. So much meat being waved around on skewers brings out the closet vegetarian in even such a confirmed carnivore as myself.

Monday 6 August

Brasilia was begun as a young city in a hurry: it's still that although the purity of its original concept has, perhaps inevitably, been modified. Intended for a population of half a million by 2000, Brasilia today has about four million people, not only in the central city, but in satellites, some of them shanty favelas, and others planned Garden Suburbs for the elite. It was by diktat of President Juscelino Kubitschek (JK), who as part of his election campaign promised to fulfil the constitutional commitment to move the capital city from Rio inland, who won the election in 1955 and had to get it finished by the end of the term of office five years later. At that time, the constitution allowed the President only a single initial term of five years, and then a wait of another presidential term of five years, before standing again. JK had experience as Mayor of Belo Horizonte in modernising urban development. He had also worked closely with Oscar Niemeyer at the Pampulha Suburb, which we had seen on Saturday. Niemeyer was adviser to the President, and thus was not able to make an entry in the competition for the layout. He had been offered the job, without competition, but apparently felt that this was such an important project that there had to be competing entries. It was Lucio Costa who produced the winning plan. I've no idea what the others might have been like and, presumably, some were pretty terrible. However, Costa's visionary plan proved to be the ideal background for Niemeyer's buildings. So much so, that I personally feel that Costa has somewhat been played down as creator of the iconic Capital City of the 1960s.

The plan had a central visionary theme of a grand axis - well-known from plans as diverse as Washington DC and New Delhi, allied to a secondary axis which curved away on either side, creating a basin for bird or even aeroplane footprint. The grand axis was for the Government buildings and the most important private buildings including the banks and also Government projects. The axes crossed at the mundane central bus station. The two wings contained a grid plan, based on the neighbourhood superblock concept, which had dominated city planning since the 1920's. Taken together, this was a comparatively simple concept, which in the working out achieved complexity, which had the advantage that the iconic Government buildings could go ahead relatively early, to make the statement of a permanent city, while the filling out of detail in the wings could proceed incrementally. Considering that the site was virgin Savannah, with bright red earth and stubby trees, many miles from any railway, highway, let alone airport, the progress was impressive. It was also incredibly expensive because virtually everything had to be brought in. A construction camp had to be built ahead of the arrival of the workers and all plant had certainly to create its own temporary access to the site before anything positive could be done. Hardly surprisingly, the project was viewed with jaundiced opinion by the opposition parties. It was therefore vital to have something which was substantial and could not be easily reversed by the time that Kubitschek's term of office expired.

The masterplan was unveiled in 1957, so during our visit it was the 50th anniversary of the adoption of the whole rational basis for the implementation of Brasilia. Little more than three years later the new capital was officially inaugurated on 21 April 1960. Five thousand visiting dignitaries had been invited to participate in the event, and there were only one and fifty first class hotels available. Did they all share, or was there a 'tent city'? Nevertheless, in addition to the Government Headquarters and Ministries, there were ninety four buildings completed, with generous provision as incentives (bribes?) for the Civil Service to move from Rio, plus five hundred individual houses, schools and shops. The massive highways, which are such a feature of Brasilia, particularly along the grand axis, had not even been commenced, but would follow in due course, creating the nearest thing to the 'radiant city' of Le Corbusier, that has ever been realised. It was realised not only with its iconic combination of buildings in parkland settings, strung out along super highways, but also with the little remarked inherent defects of being pedestrian unfriendly and difficult for the individual to find their identity within the overall gargantuan concept. Furthermore, as with Corb's Utopian vision, only the elite urbanistes were able to dwell in the central city, consigning the unfortunate workers (ouvriers) to distant 'satellite cities', several little better than the shanty towns, causing those with least remuneration to spend scarce time and money commuting. Even the recent development of a metro hasn't helped much as the low density of Brasilia renders it ineffective for the extensive areas away from the line. I was also disappointed by the lack of presence of the lake, created from a dammed river valley. Compared to Canberra, where the lake (admittedly nearly in danger of omission for cost reasons) takes centre stake in the realisation of Walter Burley Griffin's visionary plan, Brasilia's lake, Lago do Paranoa, is far distant, and doesn't register presence on the perception of the governmental complex. What a pity … but critics said the same about New Delhi, which is now irretrievably cut off from the Yamuna.

So much for the plan: what about the architecture? It was with a sense of expectation that we set out on our Monday tour of Brasilia. Expectations were not always fulfilled in a pre-conceived manner. The first stop was at the T.V. Tower, which had been designed by Lucio Costa. At first sight it seemed distinctly utilitarian, a cross between an enormous oil derrick and an old-fashioned television antenna, such as was added to Alexandra Palace in the 1930s. The viewing platform was about one third up. From here, there was a view of the grand central axis, with the city set out below as on a giant architectural model. We would see a real model later in the day. While the sweep of the axis was certainly impressive, the government buildings seemed to be very distant indeed, with the lake even further away. And it was evident from above that trying to cross the highways, which lined the sides of the grand axis, on foot, would be asking to be run over. Many of the junctions with the roads which ran into the angled wings of the plan had now been converted to flyovers. Our guide enthusiastically proclaimed that Niemeyer had insisted on curved bridges. Well, yes, but it didn't make a ha'porth of difference to the problems for the poor pedestrians. Looking back inland from the government complex, there was a new conference and congress centre that was one of the few major governmental buildings not to be designed by Niemeyer.

We set out to look at some of the lesser-known buildings, passing the large public park named after the widow of President Kubitschek. We then, having passed the JK Monument turned towards the military academy, another major Niemeyer building. In this case, the residential block was comparatively ordinary, but the signature curved concrete canopy formed a less mundane frontispiece. As often in Niemeyer's buildings, the acoustical characteristics were said to be a part of the overall concept. Certainly there were strange echoes to be generated from handclapping. The canopy was fronted by a tall obelisk and there was a distinctive auditorium, seemingly suspended from curved concrete beams beyond. These features faced a vast highway, set out with the markings for military reviews, of the time which rejoiced the hearts of politburo members of Soviet Russia. Across this was a large park, which had been laid out by Burle Marx - our guide lamented the fact that it was so untidy, with little management, but on the morning of our visit, recruits were given make work jobs of tidying up.

Retracing our route to the grand axis, we passed a more interesting looking building without stopping. This originated as a papal altar - Pope John Paul II had visited Brazil twice. It had now been converted to the military cathedral of Our Lady of Peace - is this an oxymoron? This building had the signature tent roof, with windows which appeared like random slashes and cuts in the wall surface - though not as random as on the Daniel Libeskind Jewish Museum in Berlin. Had Niemeyer been aware of that I wonder? Our next stop was at the Kubitschek Memorial itself, one of the most prominent features on the grand axis, beyond the Television Tower. Once again, there was a curved concrete shell, over a long low building, much of which, characteristically with Niemeyer appeared to be dug into the ground. The most prominent feature was a tall memorial. Some had seen it as a question mark, others as a barely described hammer and sickle. Well it certainly looks like the latter, and featured in the open-ended sickle curve was a statue of the great man himself, perhaps the hammer, greeting the grand axis. On the opposite side of the axial boulevard was the Kubitschek Park, which we had seen earlier, but there was no time for a visit.

Next we made a foray into the residential quarter. As I explained above, these are personalised to the extent of few road names, merely distinguishing the central boulevards in the districts - Rodoviario-sul (south) or Rodoviario-norte (north). The subsidiary parallel boulevards were then numbered east and west from the centre, while each block was given a number. How impersonal! This really fits the concept of an individual being of much lesser importance than the community cells. Before we stopped off to inspect one of these superblocks, we made a visit to a very impressive church, particularly notable as it was not designed by Niemeyer, but by Carlos Alberto Naves. Externally, it looked a little grim, being of the characteristic board-marked concrete, a square fortress, with numerous needle-arched slits along each façade. Inside, it was ravishing. This was, for me, a modern church with a sense of due reverence. This was the Dom Bosco Sanctuary. The square interior was simply laid out, with a raised sanctuary in white marble, a marble altar, and an impressive crucifix. The backdrop to the sanctuary, and indeed, around each side of the building, were the blue and violet glass windows, which created a stunning quality of light, with, for no discernible reason, accents of enumerable small rectangles of different hues leaded together on a grid. Unlike some of the more extravagant styles, which we saw, this comparatively simple design was capable of almost infinite slight variation. All were impressed by this building, which the local guidebook states, not unreasonably, that it is thought by many to be the most imposing church in Brasilia.

We then saw something of the residential district, with low-rise terraced housing, interspersed with local shops, some now rather run-down. We made our way to Square N3, which contains a small chapel by Niemeyer, built in 1958. Although not as beautiful as the Pampulha Church in Belo, the Espaco Cultural Renato Rosso and the Church of our Lady of Fatima had a certain simplicity which created serenity, particularly the soaring fin, upon which the downward sweeping thin shell concrete roof appeared to be hooked. Early photographs show that it predated the apartment buildings, which now surround it. We walked around the superblocks, and were impressed with both the design of the blocks, and the maintenance. These had been high status apartments, some of them even including maids' bedrooms, with floor areas of up to 1800 sq. m. The blocks were raised on pilotis, with the space beneath faced in marble, and flowing out into the landscape grounds. These certainly represented modernist urban living at its most sophisticated although there was the usual lack of defensible space. What was the district like in the evenings, we wondered. Some answer was, perhaps, given by the fact that the schools, particularly the nursery school, had the appearance of fortresses within their security fences.

From there, we travelled back to the central axis and down towards the Federal, District, where the principal government buildings were located. We halted at the Cathedral, to view its exterior. The Cathedral was closed on Mondays, so our internal visit would take place on the morrow. However, we were able to get a good external view. The corona of slanting curved concrete ribs was a characteristically elegant concept by Niemeyer. It has proved a ready model for modern cathedrals, not least Frederick Gibberd's Roman Catholic Cathedral at Liverpool (Paddy's Wigwam). Externally, all seemed reasonably well, although, as so often with Niemeyer, sculptural form was all, and inconvenient ancillary accommodation tended to be hidden beneath the podium. I reserved judgement until I had seen the interior. Nearby, was an exhibition featuring a giant model of Brasilia. As was to be expected, it looked exactly like the full-scale reality, which we had viewed from the Television Tower at the beginning of the morning. There were also some good exhibits about the plan and early implementation, including an impressive photograph showing the twin axis of the plan, and nothing else, carved across the virgin savannah of the site. On a more mundane level, that crossing point is now commemorated by the Central Bus Station, functional but resolutely utilitarian in character.

We were also able to view the buildings of the Federal District on a short walkabout. Again, we were scheduled for a visit to the National Congress on the following day. The view of the Ministry buildings looks exactly like a realisation of Corb's 'Radiant City'. Presumably, wherever he is, the master must look down on the work of Costa and Niemeyer with pride. Set at right angles to the flanking boulevards, the impersonal stone-clad end of each ministry building stride impersonally towards the architectural climax of the Congress. Actually, some of the Ministries are full to overflowing, and many have changed their function since the inception of the Capital. This is a hazard of planning new administrative districts. The same thing has, of course, happened at New Delhi, but the building there have distinctive personalities, claiming the former Viceroy's Residence. And the new ministry buildings are set back enough from the grand axis of the Rajpath so that their indifferent architectural quality does not impair the grandeur of the whole. At Brasilia, such grandeur as there is, is provided by the relentless march of the ministries.

We were also able to get our first reasonably close glimpse of the Congress itself. Here, Niemeyer has brilliantly juxtaposed the extreme horizontal and the extreme vertical. The horizontal represents the podium, upon which contrasting circular shapes protrude, the dome for the Senate and the more open bowl for the Congress itself. The essential administrative buildings are elegantly slender at their ends, but swell out in the space between the two, and they are joined with an umbilical cord about halfway up. The angled inner spaces are barely noticeable - indeed from certain angles they look like optical illusions, so Niemeyer managed to gain elegance by contrivance. Form doesn't quite follow function, it is distinctly massaged to create an effect, with the awkward bits interred in the podium, or below ground..

The setback set pieces beyond the serried ranks of ministry buildings include the Palacio Itamaraty and the Palacio da Justicia, both by Niemeyer. The former has a very elegant arched arcade around its perimeter, while the latter features concrete scoops which form external waterfalls. Whatever my criticism of Niemeyer, these are masterly works. We also looked at the Square of Three Powers, which lay beyond the Congress complex. This included views of the Supreme Federal Tribunal, again by Niemeyer and the Palacio do Planalto, which is also his work. The only really discordant feature of the square is the enormous flagpole, flying a giant Brazilian flag. This is even more utilitarian than the television mast, and, moreover, it interferes with appreciation of the Federal buildings. Beyond here, the grand axis rather peters out, to end on motorway junctions. Surely, it was not meant to end like this.

We had now had a busy morning and were given the afternoon off. Three of us found the hotel pool, small, and pleasantly shaded in the early afternoon by the bedroom tower above. Following poolside relaxation, I visited one of the major shopping centres, the Brasilia Centre, which is the usual enclosed mall, but with a bold curved office block above. The shops were nothing special, including a remarkably poor bookshop for a capital location - even the worst of Waterstones would be better than this.

Tuesday 7 August

This was to be a full day, partly repeating and elaborating on what we had already seen, but also allowing more detailed visits of some Niemeyer projects. The day began promisingly with two of his latest buildings, both located on the grand axis. The National Library, which is not yet fully open, is rectilinear (one would expect that for a library, but Niemeyer has never been one to shrink from imposing a curve if he sees fit). This looked comparatively ordinary to me, but had the merit of forming a subsidiary visual stop, and concealing the tangled mess of the junction of the twin axis, with multi-level flyovers and the Central Bus Station. The other building was a major new museum, the Museum of Honestino Guimaraes, which had only just been opened. Frustratingly, it was between exhibitions, but Roberto, our guide, managed to talk his way into the building. It looked deceptively simple externally, a vast dome, with a span of 100 metres, with a bold curve and signature sinuous curved ramp approaches. We actually entered the service doors and were in a cramped foyer. We were led along a mundane curved corridor - again Niemeyer was hiding as much of the functional spaces 'below stairs' in the 18th century classical sense of the country house hierarchy. We found the main foyer, which did not seem that much larger than its service counterpart. We made our way up to the main exhibition space and, lo and behold, the space literally burst around us. Whatever you may think of Niemeyer, and his late burst of creativity, this building has to be highly rated for the visual, and indeed structural daring of its interior. Some light filtered in from the openings to the ramped approaches. The space was amazing, no other word will do. The exhibition, such as it was, was laid around in stages of completion, or what was already complete? That seemed to be irrelevant. This is a case where the building justifiably, is the exhibit. In this case it joins with Frank Lloyd Wright's Guggenheim Museum in New York, under construction 50 years ago. However, Wright's exploitation of the potential of the spiral curve doesn't aspire to the pyrotechnic virtuosity of Niemeyer's structure. Who was the structural engineer? How was this built? These are still unanswered questions. We never got answers when we asked Niemeyer and his amanuensis.

We were now virtually ready for our visit to Congress, but first there was time to catch up with the interior of the Cathedral. This partly answered, and partly confirmed, the doubts I had felt the previous day. Yes, it was immensely impressive internally, with spectacular lights pouring in from the stained glass windows between the supporting concrete ribs. The alternation of blue and white in curves seemed to represent the infinite sky out of which the firmament was created. Suspended angelic forms represented the heavenly host. The interior of the building symbolised the Biblical command 'let there be light, and there was light'. Why then do I feel doubts about it. First of all it's a technical matter. The expansion and contraction of the concrete ribs, and the traditional leading in which the glazing is fitted has moved differentially and more extensively than was anticipated. Some of the glass has suffered, leaving gaps in the design, rather like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. This is most notable in the blue sections. The other doubt is that somehow the interior seems too easy, not challenging enough. This lacks, to me, vital atmosphere, that I felt in the new Cathedral at Rio, and also in the Dom Bosco Church in Brasilia. It wasn't just a matter of light either, for, on its much more modest scale, the Pampulha Church of St. Francis, an earlier Niemeyer work, I feel combines light with reverence and serenity. Another thing that worried me was again the tendency of Niemeyer to hive off awkward spaces into the podium. Later, I saw the back of the cathedral podium, which frankly was as featureless and lumpen as the delivery approach to any shopping centre. Maybe my judgement is too harsh, and the cathedral is rightly numbered among the architectural icons created by Niemeyer for Brasilia.

We then made our way to Congress for our internal visit. What we didn't do was to walk up the ramp, unguarded by handrails, on the rooftop promenade, as had been the original intention. For security, rather than, incredibly, health and safety concerns, it is now off limits. However, the approach to the entrance is also untroubled by handrails and I would be interested in statistics which reveal how many people had been maimed or killed by falling off Oscar's signature podia, ramps and staircases, with too inadequate, or no, handrails. Once inside, we were in the Black Foyer, so called because of its marble flooring. It was a comparatively unremarkable space, but the Green Foyer beyond had more personality, particularly from its semi-outdoor garden, another work by Burle Marx. Niemeyer worked so often with him, that I would like to know the root of their eventual falling out. When I asked about his work with Burle Marx during our interview, he hastily changed the subject. The Green Foyer fulfilled the function of the main lobby in the Houses of Parliament in London. We saw Congress Members meeting the press, or being set up for T.V. interviews, before we took the long corridor down to the Senate. This corridor also ran under the road by the Palace of Justice, and we saw yet another tropical garden, this one below the level of the external waterfalls on the buildings. We were conducted briefly into the Senate, which lies below the dome protuberance above the podium level. This was a typical prestige interior from the 1960s. It seemed to fit elegantly into the circular shape with the domed ceiling attractively finished. The Rough Guide considers that the interiors have not worn well. I felt that this was more the case in the Congress Chamber, which seemed to be arbitrary related to inverted bowls of the exterior. Moreover, the podium for the Speaker and the rostrums for the Members speeches were placed in front of a specially detailed screen - designed by Niemeyer, featuring green and yellow enamel panels - the Brazilian national colours. Still, this was a worthwhile visit to some of the most important spaces of the centre of government.

We then drove into the undeveloped territory around the lakefront. Much of this has been reserved for leisure and sports. We drove down to the recently completed JK Bridge, and intriguing series of three arches, from which the carriageway is suspended, striding across the lake. Surprisingly, this was not by Niemeyer, but a Chinese architect, Alexander Chang. We crossed and saw the impersonal, and expensive, residential development beyond, some of it overlooking the irregular configuration of the Lago do Paranoa, the lake created from flooding the river valley. The development itself was as bland and eclectic as any modern subdivision in the USA. Then it was time for lunch, and we retraced our steps to the Cultural Centre of the Bank of Brazil. Surprise, surprise, another Niemeyer complex. This one had a bold geometric sun screen supported on concrete pyramids. Below the curving office block was a cool, marble floored patio, which featured a pleasant café and bookshop, and also gave access to two small circular auditoria. In one of these a lunchtime recital was to be held. Tickets were free, so I obtained one for a concert which included, rather unusually, Brahms's Liebleslieder Waltzer. However, I didn't get to hear them because, as seems to be customary in Brazil, the service of salad lunch in the café was anything but quick. Still, it was a pleasant interlude in a busy day. From the Cultural Centre it was short drive to view the Presidential Palace, Palacio da Alvoraea (Palace of the Dawn), which was sited on the extreme end of the peninsular jutting into the lake. Another signature building by Niemeyer, we could view this beyond the moated haha, from which the lawns swept without interruption towards the façade of the building. This seemed to be less than perfect, for the inverted curves of the external arcade were parted asymmetrically, with three bays on one side to five bays on the other, to reveal a comparatively ordinary curtain wall.

The afternoon featured more culture allied to commerce. The Central Bank building, a black glass monster, set between two ribbed concrete supports, featured a small gallery of modern art, not particularly interesting but an unusual appendage to a bank. Nor to be expected was the Museum of Money, which also paid attention to the gold mining heritage of the nation. Rather unexpected were the stained glass windows of the ground floor foyer of the Federal Economic Bank, again a rather monstrous squat circular building with its perimeter defined by concrete fins. It was between the latter that windows by Austrian artist had been installed commemorating every province in Federal Brazil. We easily found Rio, Brasilia itself - with details of Niemeyer buildings, and also Minas Gerais, with the Baroque heritage of the mining towns, and also the elegant vaulting of Niemeyer's Pampulha Chapel of St. Francis - how often I seem to be coming back to that little building, which seems to prove that it was one of the most memorable discoveries of the tour.

The afternoon ended with two more Niemeyer buildings. The Palacio Itamaraty we had seen externally when looking around the Federal complex. However, the interior was one of the best we had seen. Somehow, Niemeyer seems to have convinced his political masters that great uncluttered internal spaces were justified. I couldn't begin to calculate how much of this building was occupied in this way and I would have liked to see just how cramped the office spaces were in consequence. The major foyer was vast, with a Burle Marx indoors/outdoors garden at one end, and at the other a view across the Congress complex. Between there was a double height space, with a gallery across half of it, joined by a spiral stair entirely without handrails. Oscar had done it again. We toured the entertainment suite on the first floor, used for important government receptions. In these the abstract nature of pure space had been moderated by the installation of choice antique Portuguese and Brazilian furniture. The artworks were similarly eclectic. I felt that it worked well. We were led through the reception suite, through the banqueting hall, and to a rooftop garden, again by Burle Marx. This was enlivened by sculptures which combined social realism with rather inferior copies of Henry Moore.

Our final visit was to the National Theatre, on the grand axis, not far from the Bus Station, which did not improve its setting. The National Theatre was set back from one of the flanking avenues. It took the form of a concrete mound, covered in textured concrete blockwork. This had problems of deterioration, and the blocks were being replaced, which required the builders to abseil up and down the floating curved sides of the building. I wonder what our health and safety would make of that! I felt that Niemeyer had gone rather off the boil on this building, although it was not one of his more recent efforts. The foyer was quite impressive, again with an indoor/outdoor tropical garden, carefully sculpture and another non-handrailed spiral. The interior was rather featureless. I would, however, have liked to see how it worked for a concert. Regrettably, the only concert coincided with our last evening in Brasilia this night. We went to a fish restaurant, the Bargaco, close to the lake, in a post-Modernist restaurant and leisure complex. The food was good, and at least it was not another barbecue, but perhaps I was getting rather annoyed by those, just as I felt that I had had my fill of certain aspects of Niemeyer's architecture, however great its acclaim is during his centenary year. I am glad that I have seen Brasilia, and for all my criticism, it remained one of the most powerfully iconic modern cities. Perhaps time is what it needs in order to obtain a patina of history - the kindly hand of time. Or, just as possibly, it won't mature, but will deteriorate in the unfortunate way in which modern architecture has failed over the past fifty years. I'm not going to be around to see what happens and I wish this well. I also felt regrets that I would not see Curitiba or Sao Paulo. Perhaps I'll get another bite of the cherry, who knows?

Wednesday 8 August

A day of travel, a long, long day's journey into night. There's not much to say, except that, as often, things took a turn for the worse unexpectedly. My departure from Brasilia worked like clockwork, with an early journey to the airport, unnoticed by anyone except Tom. I don't blame the others for not speeding me on my way when they had several hours before their departure. At the airport they helpfully checked in my luggage through to Heathrow and confirmed that I was expected on the BA flight from Rio at 1300 hrs. So far so good, but the old maxim of many a slip twixt cup and lip returned to haunt me.

Arriving at Rio Airport with ample time before check-in was necessary, I nevertheless hurried across to the international flight check-in area. It was pretty quiet, but then Rio doesn't have that many international flights these days - they all seem to favour Sao Paulo. There was one girl at the entry to the BA check-in area, who seemed more concerned about an Air France flight and eventually disappeared. Others turned up while I waited, and waited, and waited. The check-in desk was due to open three hours before the flight's departure. The time came and went, but then that's Brazil! By now a considerable queue had built up behind me. Then the indicator board informed us that the check-in was open. It wasn't. I waited another 40 minutes and had stood on the same spot, not wishing to lose my place, for 1 hr. 40 mins. An official came over and confirmed the rumour that had been circulating that the BA shuttle to and from Sao Paulo, to pick up passengers at Rio, had been cancelled. It really was exasperating. We weren't given any explanation as to why this had occurred, nor have I yet found out since returning to England. We were informed that we would be put aboard a Portuguese Lap flight to Santiago, Chile (!), which would get us to Sao Paulo in time for the departure of the BA flight. This was ominous news as I had visions of everybody rushing to a different check-in desk, and losing my place in the queue. I continued the waiting game with apprehension.

Eventually, they did open the BA check-in desk and I was in pole position. However, it took ages for me to check-in as they hadn't received the special plastic check-in cards, which were required for this change of plan. Don't ask me why. I took advantage of playing the age card, stating that I had stood in one position for over 1.5 hours, my back was beginning to hurt (this was absolutely true) and, moreover, I was 65. I pleaded for a possible upgrade as I stated that I would be in virtually immobile condition by the time I arrived at Heathrow given the lack of space in the economy section. The lady said she would do her best, but couldn't promise anything. However, things began to look up. Having gone through security I forgot information about the connecting flight and asked the youngish man who had been behind me in the check-out queue to confirm my understanding. He not only did that, but invited me into the Club Lounge where I helped myself to a free Gin and Tonic and snacks. This turned out to be the turning point. When, at last, I returned to the check-in desk I was told that I had an upgrade, which would be issued at Sao Paulo. I climbed aboard the Santiago flight feeling infinitely more cheerful.

Having arrived at Sao Paulo, there was a small downturn as we all had to go through security, duplicating what had happened at Rio. Not that we had been in contact with any people from the other side of the security barrier anyway. Then it was a long haul across to the International part of the terminal, and they had practically finished boarding the BA flight. This was held for another ¾ hour while everybody made there way across. I sat comfortably in the Economy Plus section, where the seats were much wider and had footrests. It was going to be a reasonable return flight. Not that I slept much - I don't usually. I half dozed off looking at a couple of movies - the acclaimed German production The Lives of Others and the cult New Zealand film, The Piano. Not that I made head or tail of the latter as I was in a distinctly dozy condition. Arriving at Heathrow, even the luggage was returned - a massive achievement given the amount they had lost between flights during August. I gratefully submitted to the Executive Taxi journey around the M25 and reflected on all the highpoints of the visit. In perspective, the flight problems seemed be minor irritants, although they were vivid enough at the time. Flying down to Rio was not such a bad experience after all.

BRAZIL STUDY TRIP

SOUTH INDIA STUDY TRIP

DECCAN ADVENTURE: THE WCCA SOUTH INDIA TOUR
1-19 FEBRUARY 2008

Anticipation builds up expectation. There's a lot riding on this. The South Indian Tour, concentrating on the historic sites of the Deccan, was planned nearly a year ago and there have been several hiccups along the way due to the lack of consistent organisation on the part of the Travel Company. Even in the last few days confusion has seemed to reign supreme. My friend, Christine Maiwald, had not received her documents and was rightly concerned last weekend that they might not reach her in time. In the end, additional documents were mailed out to me and Christine also received emails of the email ticket, which would have worked without the Bales padded folder in which it was sent. Anyway, as I said to Christine, we hope it's a case of 'Ende gut, Alles gut'. Somehow, I haven't been able to concentrate on finishing off work, and I've also felt very tired. I'll feel even more tired when we are on the long flight via Dubai to Hyderabad. For once, I am going nowhere near Delhi. I'm not sure that this is totally an advantage, as I have got used to the ways of urban India, and much of this trip will be travelling through hot country in the south. This is going to be my first experience of what people call 'the real India'. Anyway, I expect the experience to be the same mixture of elation and apprehension. Somehow, I've never quite adjusted to the idea of travelling in India. The problem is I didn't start young enough, and I've never really been able to work on the basis of travelling hopefully, without any idea of when or where I might arrive. At least it's going to apply this time as the itinerary seems superbly organised as to places, but one or two days heavy going travelling between the major south sites.

There isn't any Lutyens in Hyderabad. However, the great man designed a palatial mansion, close to the India Arch, in New Delhi. The Nizam of Hyderabad was one of the world's richest men. Lutyens didn't stint on the project, which included a commodious harem wing. Alas for the Nizam, his pleasures, and that of his family didn't last too long, as the building was commandeered by the Republican Government in the late 1940s. At least, unlike in other former Maharajahs' palaces in Delhi, the Government seems to have taken reasonably seriously the fact that Lutyens buildings need to be maintained to a high standard. I've been in the building twice, last time in October 2007. There were a few awkward alterations, but on the whole it looks pretty good, while the restored Mughal Garden is brilliant - it's a smaller version of the one at the former Viceroy's House. So, I'll be particularly interested to see what the hometown palace looks like.

In addition, we are also visiting the Palace of the Maharaja of Mysore. (Lutyens, who had a somewhat infantile sense of humour, produced a typically rude and lewd cartoon with the inscription 'have you seen My - sore?'). All I know about the Maharajas of Mysore is that the one that ascended the throne at a comparatively early age in the 1940s, had been studying with the composer Rachmaninov to be a concert pianist. Duty called, and he abandoned that ambition. However, he still continued to be a great patron of music, amassing a huge collection of musical scores and records, and in 1950 he funded the newly formed Philharmonia Orchestra in London and underwrote premiere recordings of the music of the Russian composer Medtner. I wonder if we will see any evidence of that, or whether later Maharajas were obsessed with other matters, such as fast cars and hunting?
Anyway these random thoughts are but a prelude to what we all hope will turn out to be a splendid journey and an unforgettable experience of Southern India. We were issued with a detailed itinerary, compiled by George Michell, with hotel details by Bales. Would it live up to expectation? I've reproduced it in italic, to precede my diary entries so as to compare the two.

Special guest lecturer - George Michell

Trained as an architect in Melbourne, George came to London at the end of the 1960's to study Indian archaeology at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. His PhD topic was the Chalukya architecture of Badami then a little known subject. In the years since he has conducted diverse research projects, including a 20 year survey of the Hampi ruins. Among his publications are "The Hindu Temple, An Introduction to its Meaning and Forms"; "Blue Guide, Southern India"; "Royal Palaces of India"; "Hindu Art and Architecture"; and "New Light on Hampi". He has acted on numerous occasions as a lecturer/guide accompanying groups.

Overall, George was good value, even if he was rather unworldly at times, ignoring human shortcomings and frailty, both of which afflicted a good number of the party during the tour.

Friday 01 February
Depart London Heathrow on your Emirates flight via Dubai to Hyderabad 0.85.

The journey seemed endless. We all gathered at Heathrow Airport, with the exception of Jonathan and Victoria who had been re-assigned to Gatwick. The incoming Emirates flight was late and we waited expectantly at the Departure gate. Finally, way past the departure time we were allowed to board. Only to encounter one of these imponderable Heathrow delays whereby we had missed our take-off slot and at least 50 minutes more was spent before we were allowed to taxi along to the runway.

Once in the air it wasn't bad. Indeed, Emirates is one of the more comfortable economy class flights that I have encountered. Both Christine and I felt that the food was good, and palatable and the movie channels were excellent. There was a classic channel which allowed us to watch High Society, The Philadelphia Story (the original 1940s production with Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant, upon which the musical with Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly been reworked from the 1950s). I watched Spellbound with Gregory Peck and Ingrid Bergman. So it was in a more relaxed state that we arrived at Dubai Airport, having made up some of the lost time. Alas, the glitz of the airport, which justified one of the longest terminal buildings in the world, we know because we walked the length of it to our departure gate for Hyderabad, proved to be the scene of further delays. Yes, the Emirates incoming flight was delayed and we lost at least another hour before we moved across the Arabian Sea, above Bombay (Mumbai) to descend to Hyderabad at something after 4 am local time.

Saturday 02 February
Arrive in Hyderabad early in the morning. On arrival you will be met and transferred to the Taj Residency where you will stay for 2 nights. This morning is at leisure. This afternoon you will have a tour of old city of Hyderabad (Char Minar). Laid out in 1591 by one of the Sultans of the Qutb Shahi dynasty, Hyderabad is a formally planned city, at the core of which is a crossing of two great streets marked by a ceremonial portal with four minarets - the Char Minar. It stands today, surrounded by crowded markets, and the great Mecca Masjid, the principal place of worship in the city. Located in Hyderabad's elite Banjara Hills, the Taj Deccan Hoted caters for both leisure and business travelers alike.

It took ages to get the luggage, and even so Michael Welbank waited in vain for his suitcase never arrived. The rest of us had gone ahead, with his blessing, and finally checked in to the Taj Deccan Hotel at nearly 5.30 am. At last we were able to access our rooms, which were pretty comfortable, and Christine and I had an early morning whisky to celebrate our arrival. This proved a good restorative and eventually, sleep drifted over me. It had been, to quote the Beatles, 'a hard day's night'.

Just about caught breakfast 10 minutes before serving ceased. Generous buffet in the central atrium of the hotel, which is a very strange space, with a rooflight over an ornamental pool containing a few rather unhappy looking fish. The fact that the hosepipe connecting the pump to the waterfall is visible doesn't exactly convince the illusion. Then it was a few more hours to get the hang of the time difference, a light lunch of wild mushroom soup, it was excellent, and then at 2 pm we were on our way for a tour of the city.

The hotel is actually on the ridge above the city and is actually part of Secunderbad, the modern enclave, which has now expanded to include the high-tech and cyber industries. The bus slowly made its way down to the traffic-choked streets towards the river, now dry for most of the year, and then into the Old City, which was laid out in 1591 by Mohammed Quli Shah. This was an enlightened grid plan, dominated by the contemporary Charminar, where the twin axes cross. The structure consists of four minarets connected over tall arches. Halfway up are viewing balconies, approached by very constricted spiral stairs. On top is a former mosque, which acted as a madrasa in which the children of the ruler were instructed in the Koran. The outlook was quite spectacular, with the four major streets now built up with too many alleyways between.

We headed off down one of the crowded roads past stalls selling everything, with many concentrating on jewelry, mainly baubles, bangles and bling, with a smattering of fabrics suitable for bridal wear. A short distance from the market square, we headed towards a Nizamite Palace, which had only recently been restored and opened. We entered a broad garden, flanked by two storey wings, with, in the far distance, a large wedding cake structure, which appeared to be a French Beaux-Arts wedding cake confection, played in Indian detail. It was built during the 19th century, and shows that the Nizams were always keen on updating their buildings, although always also rather behind the times as regards the height of fashion. The wings contained an impressive sequence of doorways giving the impression of the false perception of a classical stage set. However, all the doors were the same size and did not get smaller and smaller as in Alice in Wonderland. There seemed to be a range of minor accommodation for officials, but why was it necessary to cut them off from each other, when you could just as easily approach from the path along the central garden.

The central building contained a grand ceremonial throne room, with enormous crystal chandeliers and elaborate decoration. It was a traditional Durbar Hall, with colonnades giving the impression that it was also an updated Egyptian-style hall. The rooms off this center, presumably smaller reception rooms originally, were used to display some of the possessions of the Nizams. In one of them, in a display of the various buildings, there was a rather unskillful drawing, obviously based on a photograph, showing Hyderabad House in Delhi, with, above a faded blueprint, attributing this to an Indian architect. Lutyens would not have been amused! The displays of ceremonial weapons and armour left me cold as it usually does. However, there was a pleasant garden to the rear, and beyond that yet another courtyard. The further the distance of the courtyard from the original entrance, the more important was the visitor, approaching the Nizam on home ground so to speak. To the side of this inner courtyard was another reception hall, also elaborately decorated, but with a distinctive Victorian feel. This probably communicated with the living quarters behind, which had yet to be opened to the public, if they ever will. Thus we got some appreciation of the hierarchal way in which the accommodation was laid out.

Sunday 03 February
Today you have a full day's sightseeing. This morning you will have an excursion to Golconda. Before shifting to Hyderabad, the Qutb Shahi Sultans ruled from their mountain citadel of Golconda (5 km west of Hyderabad) in the 16-17th century. The formidable ramparts and gateways of this fortress still stand, together with dilapidated audience halls, pleasure pavilions, mosques, hammams, stores and stables. The Qutb Shahi sultans are buried in a number of domed tombs in the nearby royal necropolis. The Residency is where the British "advisors" to the Nizams of Hyderabad lived in the 19th- 20th century. It was built by Kirkpatrick, the subject of William Dalrymple's famous "White Mughal". This afternoon you will visit Salar Jang Museum.

Sunday's programme heralded the more intense visits, which would become a feature of the tour. In the morning we headed out to Golconda Fort, which was the capital of the Qutb Shahi Kings who ruled from 1518, until the end of the 16th century, when in 1591, Mohammed Quli Shah founded the new city of Hyderabad, which we had visited the previous day. George had warned us that, as time travellers, we would often be visiting sites in reverse chronology over the next few days. The transition from a formidable walled fort on a hill site to a modern city on the plains, albeit walled, seemed to indicate growing confidence in the Muslim rulers that they could consolidate their presence other than by force, which proved to be the case.

Golcanda's rock outcrop imposingly dominated the surrounding plain, and the settlement that had grown up around its main Balahisar gate, through which we entered. The grand portico took us into the outer wards, then up steps, past the mosque of Ibrahim Qutb Shah, upwards to the three storey Durbar Hall at the summit of the hill, with spectacular views downwards over the intricate layout of the Queen's Palace and across the plain, rather hazy on a dull morning - the sun didn't break through until later. Nevertheless, the climb was well worth the exertion, and good training for what we could expect later on. On the way down, we looked into the ruins of the Queen's Palace, and saw domes and vaults of the private apartments, now rather scruffy, with graffiti (not widely found on other historic sites in my experience). It was the topography, rather than the architecture that gave the distinctive character to Golconda.

The Royal Tombs were a short distance away. We took the bus gratefully, as the sun had at last emerged, and the day was hotting up fast. There were 82 tombs in the enclosure, which contained the remnants of a garden setting. The domed tombs and loggias were a primer of 16th C Islamic architecture, of which we would see many variants over the next few days. In addition to all but two of the Qutb Shah Kings, a range of tombs accommodated their relatives, doctors, important retainers, and even their favourite singers and dancers. Originally brightly coloured, the exteriors were faded and the worse for wear. The dynasty eventually succumbed to the Mughals in 1687 after an 8 month battle in which Aurangzeb triumphed over Abdul Hasam Qutb Shah, by bribing a palace doorkeeper to allow his troops to enter.

Sunday afternoon featured two very different projects in architectural terms, yet linked in their connection with the exercise of political power over Hyderabad. We began with the museum devoted to the last Nizam, Mir Asman Ali, who ascended to the throne is 1911, a few months before the Delhi Durbar and the visit of the King and Queen Emperor and Empress of India, George V and Queen Mary. The Nizam was reputedly the richest man in the world, heir to a fortune amassed through the exploitation of diamond mining and pearl fishing. The Koh-I-Noor, presented to Queen Victoria, and now in the Imperial State Crown, was one of the largest diamonds mined in the area. The Nizam himself used a 185,000-carat diamond as a paperweight. Famously extravagant, marrying a Turkish Princess, and having multiple wives, the Nizam is said to have fathered more than 100 illegitimate children. Nevertheless, he was looked upon almost as a god by his subjects, perhaps compulsorily.

The Nizam Museum is situated in a set of late classical buildings, of early 20th century date, where he lived, one among many palaces. Part of the buildings were constructed in order to house his extravagant lifestyle, which included a walk-through wardrobe, said to be the largest in the world, with proportions approximating to Trinity College Library in Dublin, as one of our members observed. Having seen the wardrobe, and a hand operated Waygood lift, we then walked through numerous rooms set aside to display the gifts bestowed on his Excellency, in honour of his Silver Jubilee of 25 years on the throne, which was held in 1937. No doubt he had observed, and had probably visited London for, the Silver Jubilee of King George V two years earlier in 1935.

Among the fabulous and expensive tributes presented to the Nizam, was case after case of silver mementoes, from all branches of the professions and groups of his subjects. The Nizam was keen on progress and there were numerous ceremonial trowels presented to him in connection with buildings he had either laid the foundation stone for, or had inaugurated. These included not only a new railway station but the first airport in Hyderabad. In fact it is the one we arrived at, and the original 1930s buildings may still be hidden around somewhere. Because of that numerous silver aeroplanes, were presented to him. There were silver railway engines and an incongruous ship, which had a tiny aircraft set in its upper deck. Not only that, there were numerous caskets containing loyal addresses and silver trivia, some of it hideously ugly, including cigar boxes.

The Nizam was toppled in 1948 by Nehru, after he had attempted to establish an autonomous State of Hyderabad. This would have been a Muslim state, although they are in a small minority of the population, but particularly numerous in Hyderabad city. The Nizam died in 1967, having been awarded a state pension of 5 million rupees, and pleaded poverty. His son, born in 1934, nominally holds the title of Nizam, although the office is officially redundant. His first wife, of five, had assumed control of the finances of the Nizam Trust, which has funded this museum. Altogether it gave a vivid picture of the eccentric and extravagant lifestyle adopted by the Maharaja class (Nizam being the Muslim equivalent).

I found the second visit of the afternoon inspiring. This was to the British Residency, which had been established in 1779, when the British were attempting to consolidate their position in India, by negotiation with the Princely states. The Residency occupied a site north of the Nusi River, outside the old walled city, which lay on the south bank. The British established a camp, with a large military contingent, and prepared to offer protection to the Nizam. It took some while before the military resident was granted an audience. Nevertheless, negotiations produced a situation whereby the Nizam actually funded the construction of a substantial building, set within a 200 acre garden estate. This, a grand classical building was begun in 1803. No one has identified an architect for this. It is said that it was designed by a military engineer. This tied in with the fact that other skilful classical designs had originated through this channel in Calcutta, and in New Delhi, the fine original garrison church of St. Martin, built in 1827, was designed by Colonel Skinner, a Royal Engineer.

The origin of the design was discussed in detail as we toured the building. George introduced us to the young conservation architect, Sarath Chandra, who had been working on the project for four years. While much of the land originally occupied by the Residency estate has been built upon, it still sits in a spacious garden, although its immediate setting has been impaired by the construction of new buildings for the Wonvens' Women's College which now occupies it. We walked into the grounds and came to the north front, an impressive pedimented building, with a grand staircase and flanking walls, upon which were placed large lions, clearly modelled on those by Landseer, in Trafalgar Square in London. We were told that these replaced earlier sphinxes, and we later saw these had been re-erected flanking the entrance of the Empress Gateway, originally close to the riverbank.

It was a skilful, although not faultless building. The grand portico seemed to have too little flanking mass, and the three windows at either side looked rather cramped. Nevertheless, it was a magnificent building, with an enormous conservation challenge. We appreciated the scale of this as we walked around the interior. The portico leads into the impressive Durbar foyer, which is at the heart of the building. This spacious interior had some impressive features, not least the fact that in it were set four splendid pier glasses, with Neo-Classical frames, surmounted by British lions (only one of which had its full tail undamaged). These, together with the dusty chandeliers, now in need of tender loving repair, apparently came from the Brighton Pavilion, designed by Henry Holland, when the Prince Regent was remodelling it, ironically, in the Indo-Saracenic style, which became fashionable in the early 19th century.

This was not all. There is a distinct layering of decoration, as the ceiling had been reworked with a moulded papier-mache ceiling in the 1870s. We could dimly see some sort of pattern when below, but later saw a survey which showed that the front of the ceiling was an Islamic design, and the curved coved margin was of modelled golden chrysanthemums on a green background. Sarath told us of the long and patient research which appeared indicate that the design was derived from the exhaustive pattern research by the architect Owen Jones, who had compiled The Grammar of Ornament in 1860. In addition, the ceiling under the gallery had been restored at the same period with pressed metal patterned panels, which appeared to be of American manufacture. This was all very exciting, and produced a complex history of the evolution of the interior. This magnificent hall was now used as a classroom, and there were rows of old-fashioned wooden school desks along it. An archive photograph, one of many which are aiding the restoration plans, shows that when it was the Residency, it had the comfortable furnishings of the London clubs. Indeed, the Neo-classical architecture looked rather like the Athenaeum, Travellers' or Reform Club established in the angle between Lower Regent Street and Pall Mall. Penetrating further into the building, we noted the impressive circular stair, which had been added about 1813, which combined a delicate Neo-Adam style, with a more Neo-classic space.

Unfortunately, a later block had been added, obscuring the circular central projection from view. Had that not been there, the architectural composition reminded me of Tyringham, Buckinghamshire, by Sir John Soane, or even, with its continuous colonnade, of the garden façade of The White House in Washington DC. Sarath explained more about his researches and showed us some of the photographs that he had found, giving an evolutionary history of the building and its grounds. I, and others, began to wonder about the layout of the building and its wings facing south. It looked like a Baroque palace on plan, such as the Belvedere in Vienna. However, the curving on the wings and the 'T'-form courtyard looked back to the grand classical houses of the early 18th century, as illustrated in the portfolios of Vitruvius Britannicus, published in several volumes in England from 1721 onwards. We also wondered which pattern books would have been available to assist the detailing. Certainly something showing Adam's work, but also earlier volumes, possibly including Lutyens' favourite, Batty Langley. Finally, seeing the engravings of the house and its river frontage, it occurred to me that the Baroque plan was overlaid by something more Neo-classical in architectural terms, yet with late 18th century, mainly Adam, detailing.

The Empress Gateway, added in the 1820s, looked very like the Hyde Park Corner screen, by Decimus Burton, built in the 1820s. And in the background, the house, unimpeded by the insensitive later additions, looked even more like Tyringham. I felt it would be a good thing to refer Sarath to Margaret Richardson, who, after all, worked for many years on the RIBA Drawings Collection, before becoming Curator of the Sir John Soane Museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields in London. Another good connection was the fact that Colin Amery, now President of the Royal Heritage Organisation, was also President of The Lutyens Trust. I, and others, certainly felt that we could tie-up some loose ends and give pointers to further research for this excellent project. Although the planned completed survey of the building as it stands had been made, the resources for restoration will be formidable. However, it is without doubt, one of the key early buildings of the British residency in India. Obsession over, I got back on the bus, we returned to the hotel. Some people, brave souls, were intending to go shopping. I'm not a good shopper so I declined to take a restorative Jack Daniels in my room, while getting my mind around what we had seen during the afternoon.

Monday 04 February
This morning you drive to Bidar (140 km approx 3.5 hours) the capital of the 15th century Bahmani sultans, previously established at Gulbarga (see below). At one end of the city is a fort with audience halls and finely ornamented residential apartments. The Madrasa inside the town has coloured tiled mosaics of Central Asian inspiration, while royal tombs outside the tomb have paintings and cut plaster decoration. This afternoon you will continue to Gulbarga (120km approx 3 hours) where you will transfer to the Sun International Hotel. The hotel is set in a convenient location and enhanced with modern amenities. All the guestrooms at the hotel have all the comforts expected in a hotel of its class to make guests feel at home. With a full range of popular amenities and a friendly, caring staff, it's no wonder guests keep returning to the Sun International Hotel.
[Re-reading the hotel description after my return made me determined to get Bales to eat their words, which must have been gathered from the hotel itself: alas I am doing the final edit nearly a month after my return, and Bales have acknowledged but not yet replied to my letter of concern, sent to them within a few days.]

Bumpy rides ahead

Travelling hopefully seems to be the order of the day. The road outside Hyderabad was packed with slow-moving traffic interweaving in a ritual choreography. Either side of the road were ribbons of buildings, many half-completed and perhaps never to be finished, we reinforcing bars protruding like ghostly palm fronds. Advertisements for the most unlikely goods and services were liberally plastered across façades whose architectural veneer is often peeling away. By the roadside squatted huddled families and tents among dusty litter and human detritus. Mile after mile, the buses, tuc-tucs, cars and motorbikes, and lorries of all kinds, wove in and out cutting in towards seemingly inevitable collisions, which somehow dissolved away at the last nanosecond. After the first hour, the two-lane carriageway became a tarmaced strip, with a dusty gravelled margin at either side, beyond which the buildings were set back - highway planning 1930s UK-style. At last fields could be seen beyond the highway and buildings were fading away, although signs of their impending presence were all around. Bullock carts amiably plodded along the road, and were yet another hazard to be overtaken. This was the vulnerable urban fringe, next in line for development, which the Tiger Economy will surely through up, probably within the next decade. Even here, shopping parades and workshops proliferated, interspersed by the odd temple and mosque. The terrain itself was as flat and featureless as mid Mid West USA. However, the landscape became one of the key features of the next few days.

First impressions were the village India seems to be a small incarnation of the big city, and presumably it's only along the more remote rural roads that the peasant farms and smallholdings survive in their traditional form. We were to see much of this over the next few days. Ominous clusters of factory chimneys indicated that in the rural area, the tentacles of change were spreading like bindweed. Some of them, of course, belonged to agricultural industries, particularly sugar cane refining, which is one of India's most successful cash crops. A few small pantiled roofs and plastered walls proclaimed a very tenuous survival of local vernacular buildings. Mostly, however, it was evident that once money was available, families preferred to rebuild in a more urban style, with reinforced concrete frames and infill of mud brick and plaster, which would often take many years to complete. As we got to more hilly districts to the west, on the way to Bidar, we began to see rice paddies, fed by irrigation systems which were often centuries old, and this was evidence of the skills of Indians in developing the principles of hydraulics to a high degree of sophistication aeons ago. These rice paddies were sometimes enlarged to fill whole valleys as a result of more ambitious flood control schemes, which involved modern concrete dams. We seemed to reach high plains, which were reminiscent of the South African veldt.

We crossed the state boundary from Andhra Pradesh into Karnataka shortly before we arrived Bidar, the capital of the 15th century Bahmani Sultans, following their earlier establishment at Gulbarga. The roads condition deteriorated sharply, with a very uneven central strip of tarmac, and an elaborate game of chicken played between our bus, and lorries and buses approaching in the opposite direction. Processions of bullock carts loaded with sugar cane presented confident hazards. We were now running an hour late to a timeless landscape. Mounds of red earth either side of the road and some basic road mending with mediaeval tools appeared to be taking place. With the dirt shovelled into baskets, carried on the head and dumped into another hole - moving it from one pothole to another without any purposeful result. There was a mud brick mosque under construction, with low saucer domes laid over a framework ready for plastering and consolidation. In the heat of the afternoon we approached Bidar, the 14th century fortified city. The fort was built on sloping land, with elaborate 15th century walls and a rock moat - these being rather later than the foundation. Typically, there was a sequence of gates through which all would pass to gain the castle ward. We saw 16th century architecture in the Audience Hall, an impressive timber survival, with elaborate overhanging corbels and temple bell capitals - I wonder whether Lutyens saw these although I don't think he visited Bidar.

There was also a 13th century mosque inside, which had been adapted as an audience hall. The fort occupied an enormous walled area, much of which is open undeveloped land. A small part had been fenced off for a rather feeble recreation of a Mughal-style garden and there had been elaborate hydraulics with a tall water splash at the far end - George balled-out school children climbing on the latter, which was entirely justified. The Tuglughs, a formidable band of marching warriors, had been involved with the court, and I was reminded of Tuglughabad Fort in Delhi which seems to be its equivalent in the Deccan.

We then took a lunch break in a greasy branch of the Kamat chain, recommended as good and cheap by George: it was certainly the latter, but to quote W. S. Gilbert 'good is not the word for it'. In retrospect, I feel sure that the Masala Dhosa, albeit freshly fried, wreaked its revenge and did for me later. Bidar itself, is an ancient city on a 1420s plan, with a crossing point in the centre, as in Old Hyderabad. The city authorities seemed to be bent on destroying as much as possible to widen the main road. It all looked as if a bomb had hit it, or rather carpet bombing along the main street had taken place. It was very uncomfortable to drive past piles of rubble, with partial rooms of previous houses, shops and even schools, open to view, rather like dolls houses with the fronts torn off. Such is progress. We then visited the Madrasa, just outside the city, the only example of its kind in southern India, with a tradition, according to George, of buildings found in Samarkand in Central Asia. Mosaic tiles, much deteriorated, with calligraphic inscriptions were tenuously surviving in fragile form. These features were dated around 1436, from the era of Achmed I. The patterns were like carpets, with a suggestion of rose windows in the Jali screen above the door.

Hotels: a cautionary tale

Then it was all systems go towards Gulbarga for the night. A slow journey on bumpier and bumpier roads, with an overnight stop at the Sun International Hotel!! The bus pulled off the bypass road around Gulbarga into a dusty forecourt, with a scruffy and poorly lit façade. This had not been the original choice of hotel - Bales had revised the booking as the original, near the centre of the city, did not have a restaurant. The fact that the Sun Hotel International did have such a facility was not exactly an advantage in my opinion. As a fully paid-up 'grumpy old man' I'm prepared to bore for Queen and country on the subject of the hotels we encountered over the next three nights. I'm sure they are not the worst of what India has to offer, and there was scarcely any choice given the fact that we wanted to see architectural heritage sites in out of the way places. But whoever sanctioned the glib comments that 'many people return to the Sun International Hotel' clearly had not got the first idea of what the hotel was really like. It was built both inside and out of a dusty grey marble, which combined with the fluorescent lighting, gave it the air of a minor police headquarters in middle Europe during the Cold War. We were assigned our rooms, and many people found that they had got no open-air connection, or ventilation. The beds were hard - this feature would recur over the next few days, and the lighting quality in the rooms was just as bad as in the public areas. The bathrooms were scruffy, not to say dirty. No hot water was available except between 6 and 9 am. The showers were fed from taps which had never been cleaned since the moment they were installed. Pails and jugs were helpfully provided so that you could pour water over yourself. All this went on at one end of the room and the w.c., which at least was of European pedestal style, was at the other, with the cause and effect that the water from one end of the room went down to the other. At least that's what happened in my room. Pam and Philip got lucky with the Bridal Suite. As well as a stuffy sitting room, lit only from corridor windows, they had a king-sized bed, with a faded reproduction of Picasso's Guernica above. This must do wonders for conjugal relations!

The food was quite abominable. They had rustled up three varieties of chicken curry and one vegetable curry, all of which tasted more or less the same, and this seemed to be the second significant food event which contributed to my downfall. Breakfast the next morning was just as grim. I had, at least, managed to get hot water to have a shower in the morning - I was lucky, many didn't manage this. At the back of the hotel, excavations were under way for concrete pads, for an extension - although Philip hazarded that they were graves in which to inter the unfortunate travellers who had stayed overnight. The hotel swimming pool was another matter - seen distantly it had the most disgusting brown water in it. I would have thought it was derelict, but I glimpsed an attendant sitting hopefully at the top of the steps, when we returned to collect our luggage before moving on.

Perhaps it's as well to get the other hotels out of the way now. The Hotel Madhuvan in Bijapur, where we spent Tuesday night, was painted a bilious slime green. It had balcony access rooms overlooking the garden, which served as an outdoor restaurant. By the time we reached there, I felt in a very bad way, and went straight to my room. It might have been a slight improvement from the Hotel Sun, but the bathroom was, if anything, worse. The plumbing fixtures were just as grubby. Furthermore, on using the flush handle for the w.c., a spurt of water came out of the wall which minimised the effect of the flush itself. This was an important consideration, as at 6 am on Wednesday morning, all works were all systems go - I observed later that my ears were the only orifices which did not discharge some form of liquid. From then on, I attempted a strict regime of steamed rice, or more often abstention from food, in an attempt to rectify matters. It took quite a few days, and there were relapses.

The Badami Court Hotel, where we spent two nights, was slightly better. However, the single occupancy people got the worst rooms by far, which were really no improvement on the previous hotel, particularly the hardness of the beds - Christine had back trouble lying such unyielding surfaces - the thin foam mattress provided no margin of comfort at all. Nevertheless, the public areas of the hotel seemed reasonably clean, and most people reported that the food was quite good. I found that I could only tackle a half day of monuments on Wednesday, came back and lay comatose for the rest of the day, not even rousing myself for dinner.

Finally, we checked into the Malligi Garden Hotel in Hospet for three nights to use as a base for our visit to Hampi. It actually had a three star rating, and despite some eccentricities, was not bad overall. Christine drew the short straw in that she was allocated the bridal suite, which featured a circular bed with surrounding mirrors, and a mirror above on the ceiling. The downside was the room smelt of damp and mildew, as did several. I did rather well with a suite consisting of a living/dining room, with a half bathroom and fridge (which did not work), then my full bathroom, which included a corner bath and shower - both of which worked, but suffered from grubby tap syndrome. Another eccentricity was that when you used the bath or the shower, the waste somehow seemed to find its way across the floor to the lavatory corner. However, the bedroom was rather good, and well lit, except that the one that I wanted to use which was near the phone and control for the fan, had a bedside light which didn't work. Never mind, all things considered it wasn't bad. I didn't take too much in the way of food, but that seemed reasonably OK, although service seemed to take forever. So that's the week's hotels out of the way, and I can now get back to the architectural focus of the tour.

Tuesday 05 February
This morning you will visit Gulbarga the first centre of Muslim power in the Deccan, established in the mid 14th century as the capital of the Bahmani sultans of the Deccan. The circular fort that stands in the middle of the city is of interest for the Jami Mosque, the interior of which is roofed entirely with domes divided by low arches. On the outskirts of the city are the 14th-15th century, massive tombs of the Bahmani sultans, and of the great Sufi mystic, Gesu Daraz. This afternoon you drive to Bijapur (140km approx 3.5 hours) where you will spend one night at the Hotel Madhuvan. The Hotel Madhuvan in Bijar is centrally located.

Shrove Tuesday proved to be a watershed in more ways than one sense. Gulbarga was established as the Muslim capital in succession to Bijapur (which we would visit the following day - the sequence was beginning to get confusing, and so were we as the digestive problems began to manifest themselves). It was good to get out of the Sun International Hotel, although we left our luggage there for collection en route to Bijapur in the afternoon.

The first call was at the fort which had been built in the 14th century by Bahman Shah. It was surrounded by a moat, and was heavily fortified by semi-circular bastions, and even a solid keep within the walls, which was used as a platform for heavy guns. Fortified capitals were typical of Deccan architecture, which was developed by the Tughluks who incorporated Persian style, as we had seen at the madrasa of Mahmud Gawan at Bidar on the on the previous day. The fort contained the Jami Mosque, notable for its arched structure, supporting low domes over each compartment with corbelled squinches. Together with pendentives, these became a theme over the next few days, as we visited the prominent monuments of Deccan architecture. The Gulbarga Mosque was notable for its understated elegance in contrast to the spatial virtuosity seen elsewhere.

It was a long, hot walk around the fort, and we were pestered by a gang of children demanding pens and chocolate - as if we were capable of keeping the latter in a solid state in the heat. A few of the party discreetly fell by the wayside to relieve digestive stress. In the corner of the fort a cloister, with beehive domes, had been turned into a village street - it was a pitiably squalid sight with rubbish strewn around and an obvious lack of drainage. From the keep we had sweeping views across this unkempt city to the distant horizon, with a group of tombs which over the visit, and a madrasa in the city center, which we would see later, before driving to Bijapur.

The tombs of the 14th/15th century Bahmani Sultans were on the outskirts, ranged in a linear sequence, each a square box (most plain, but one with blind pointed arches or 'jaali' screens), with one large dome above. Internally these were supported on elaborate squinches, stepping diagonally across the corners. The madrasa was back in the city, approach through a bazaar, but George had a plausible theory that the original gate, on the opposite side of the complex, had been blocked in. The buildings were whitewashed and dazzling in the strong sunlight. The heart of the madrasa contains the tomb of the Persian Sufi Mystic Hazat Gesu Daraz, of 15th century origin, but recently decked out in mirror mosaics to garish effect. Hazat Gesu Daraz's tomb is the most holy Islamic shrine in South India. He was a powerful holy man, who influenced the destiny of the Bahmani rulers. The buildings were in a mature Islamic style, with onion domes, capped by bulbous finials topped with crescents. The madrasa still maintained its collegiate function, and the rear courtyard was lined with lodgings. The great arch, now blocked with 17th century additional cubicles and a rooftop loggia, led from the lake shore, and rose towards the inner doorway, above which the domes rose to beckon the pilgrims onward. This seemed to have an architectural and spatial logic, compared to the arbitrary modern approach.

During the afternoon we had a pleasant drive to Bijapur. Jonathan announced that there would be a pancake race at a suitable stop. He also introduced us to 'Gimkas', a concoction of Indian 'Limca' lemonade and Gordon's Gin, which we imbibed from stainless steel beakers, raised and lowered more or less in synchronism. To enliven the journey he introduced us to the Chronicles of Denzil Penberthy, loveable rogue from a sink estate on the outskirts of Camborne, and Cornwall's answer to the television escapades of Frank Gallagher, shameless denizen of the fictional Chatsworth Estate on the outskirts of Salford. The stories were worthy of a latter day Baron Munchhausen, narrated with aplomb, and with a blue tinge, that by the end of the tour had become so politically (and socially) incorrect that the thought police back in the UK would have impounded the raconteur and his audience. Shaggy dogs (one of which turned out to be a crocodog) abounded, and the simplest stories, such as the trains which did not stop at Camborne on Wednesdays (First/Worst Great Western are perfectly capable of some arcane regulation which actually involves this) turned out to be the best. We relished every moment of the stories, despite (and probably because) of their inherent naughtiness.

As the late afternoon sun turned to gold we neared Bijapur. George, bless him, had found the perfect venue for our pancake race - Kuonatki, a 17th century Sufi pleasure garden, originally surrounded by formal pools, and with sophisticated hydraulics for fountains driven by water raised by water wheels to a multi-storey stone tower, to provide the pressure to feed the fountains. The interior of the pleasure chambers had plaster vaulting, with faded scenes of revelry. It was evocative of a long civilized culture of mysticism and eroticism. I'm not sure that our pancake race fell into either category. The pleasure garden was just below a small lake, impounded to provide irrigation and water features. A squat little pavilion stood on the lakeside, facing the setting sun. The teams were marshaled and off we went, with a large naan bread and stainless steel dish doing duty for pancake and frying pan. Honours were more or less even (I surprised myself with an unexpected turn of speed). We were in a cheerful mood as we turned down the cul-de-sac towards the lurid green paint of the Hotel Madhuvan, which was (literally) to prove to be my nocturnal Waterloo!

Wednesday 06 February
This morning and into the early afternoon you will visit the Bijapur monuments. After the dissolution of the Bahmani kingdom at the end of the 15th century, the northern part of Karnataka came under the sway of the Adil Shahi sultans in the 16th-17th centuries. Tehir capital of Bijapur was furnished with magnificent religious monuments, of which the tomb of Muhammad Adil Shah is the grandest, supposedly the largest domed space after St Peter's in Rome. The much smaller tomb of Ibrahim Adil Shah is notable for its exquisite stone relief ornamentation and dense arrangements of rooftop turrets and finials. Later in the afternoon you will drive to Badami (140km approx 3.5 hours). On arrival you will be taken to the Badami Court Hotel where you will spend two nights. The Badami Court Hotel is centrally located within the city.

Not able to face any breakfast (and according to others I didn't miss anything) and feeling shaky, I just hoped that I wouldn't disgrace myself during the day. As a city, Bijapur was not inspiring. As an Indian guidebook says:

The modern city of Bijapur is a run-of-the-mill unexciting place where the local population move around seemingly oblivious of the multitude of ancient architectural wonders that lay haphazardly scattered around.

Yet the first visit was one of the outstanding sights of the whole trip: a little-known architectural wonder, the Gol Gumbaz, the mausoleum of Mohammad Adil Shan. The city was part of the Kingdom of the Chalukyas of Badami, but they were overthrown by the Bahmani Sultans of Gulbarga. In 1489 the Governor of Bijapur, Yusuf Adil Khan declared independence and founded his own dynasty. His successors built extravagant and architecturally sophisticated tombs, of which the Gol Gumbaz was the climax, built by Adil Shan during his lifetime. Size clearly mattered! Gold Gumbaz or Round Dome stands on a podium 183 m (600 ft) square. The vast dome rises from a six storey height building with eight storey octagonal corner towers, capped by small onion domes, which probably buttress the main structure. Just below the roof is a continuous arcade, corbelled out on brackets, with a lotus flower parapet and square columns with min-domes, all of which add to an intricate roofline framing the grand central dome. The main door is set in a large screen, within a pointed arch, with narrower arched bays at either side, noble and austere, with little superficial ornament: such a structure does not need this to make its visual impact.

The interior too is a noble piece of architecture. The volume is larger than the Pantheon in Rome. A series of intersecting arches converts the square plan into a uniform springing level for the dome, and there is a 'whispering gallery' at this level. The dome has an internal diameter of 38 m., just 5 m. less that St. Peter's in Rome, with which the Gol Gumbaz is more or less contemporary. The dome is brick built and finished with plaster. Mulhammad Adil Shan's gravestone, along with those of his wife, favourite mistress, daughter and grandson, are on a stone podium below the center of the dome. The dynasty was in its latter years, and lasted until 1688 when Emperor Aurangzeb overthrew Sikhandar Adil Shan.

Next it was back into town to make another sequence of visits. The Jami Masjid (Friday Mosque) was impressive and had rich decoration around the mihrab with architectural symbols in indigo and gold. The arcades were impressive, with low domes over angled squinches which joined in a system of zig-zag ribs. As ever, the plasterwork, presumably over a rough stone and brick core, was impressively precise - something that most modern Indian buildings seems to have abandoned. Externally the main dome over a square base was hemispherical. The mosque was built as a monument to Ali Adil Shani's victory over the Vijayanagars at the Battle of Talikota in 1565.

Completist as ever, George then led us to an imposing gatehouse, the Mithain Mahal, notable for its corbelled out oriel windows, which in turn had overhanging chujja cornices, supported an imposing, exquisitely carved gallows brackets, and with tall octagonal faux minarets with small onion domes bursting into flower above the intricate jaali parapet. Unfortunately, my system began to close down at this point, but on we went through the stifling heat to a low and structurally suspect Hindu Temple, of which we would see many and far better examples later on, and a fragmentary citadel and palace quarter, some of whose buildings were adopted as government offices. I felt that any benefits to our understanding of this type of architecture were becoming marginal to the effort involved. However, one gem remained - the Ibrahim Rauza, the delicate counterpoint to the massive Gol Gumbaz. Ibrahim Adil Shah (1580-1626) or his favourite wife Taj Sultana, commissioned this tomb, and the complex, now set within a peaceful garden, includes a mosque as well as the mausoleum, and cool colonnades and verandahs. Elaborate Koranic inscriptions, some as unbelievably intricate jaalis bedeck the exterior of the tomb, and the buildings, which are largely stone, parts a sense of timeless permanence. Bijapur had its ups and downs, but the highs were on an exalted level indeed. We had an unregretted farewell to the Madhuvan Hotel with a late lunch (I was unable to eat anything but a few mouthfuls of steamed rice) and were on our way to Badami.

The journey had a hellish surrealism about it. The driver had ideas of his own, which didn't include either a sense of direction or map reading skills. The roads were appalling - at one stage we had a standoff with a bus from the opposite direction on a narrow bridge. Mostly tired and worn out, we eventually arrived at the Badami Court Hotel around 9.00 pm. Those of us who had single rooms were condemned to a scruffy annexe, with the hardest beds so far encountered. By this time I was shivering all over, and practically collapsed in a heap. The Immodium tables had just about kept me from having to go behind a hedge during the journey, but it was an uncomfortable night in all senses.

Thursday 07 February
Today you have a full day's sightseeing in and around Badami, Pattadakal and Aihole. Badami was the capital of the Chalukyas, a dynasty that ruled the Deccan in the 6th-8th centuries. The sandstone temples that they built in and around Badami are the earliest and best preserved examples of Hindu architecture in all south India. They range from artificially rock-cut grottoes to structural monumental adorned with sculptured figures of great refinement.

Fragile though I felt after the very late arrival the previous night, I understood that Badami had something special. The cave temples high above the Agastya Lake proved to be well worth the effort involved to walk up the hillside. Badami had been capital of the Chalukyas from 543-757 AD. The gorge between two hills of raw red sandstone had been dammed to form the lake, and from the 6th C the sequence of temples related to the South Fort had been cut into the sheer surfaces. Cave 1, a Shiva Temple was probably the earliest, a letterbox slit supported by precisely cut solid pillars, with exquisitely carved Shiva scenes on the entrance flanks. Cave 2 above was a Vishnu Shrine, with two panels showing Vishnu as a boar and a dwarf Brahmin, who miraculously grew to bestride the earth in three steps. Cave 3, from 578 AD was cut at the foot of a 30 metre sheer cliff, and was the largest of the group. On the terrace outside there was a spectacular view over the lake, and troupes of inquisitive monkeys flitted around us in search of food. Finally, Cave 4, the earliest and simplest was devoted to Jainism.

After our descent, we skirted the village below the dam impounding the lake. It was certainly less scruffy than many settlements we had seen. The main street ran below the North Fort, and out to the Bhutanatha Temples which hugged the lakeside, which was formed of ranges of steps, upon which groups of women were doing the weekly wash, or dhobi, by immersing the clothes in tight bundles, and beating them on the stone steps of the ghats. It was a lovely walk, but I found the heat oppressive, and asked to go back to the bus, while the others climbed to the Shivalaya Temples above the village. The heat was even more oppressive on the closed bus, without the air-conditioning in operation. I roasted for about 30 minutes, and arrived back at the hotel feeling that I was about to pass out. The others visited the Pattadakal Temples during the afternoon, while, incredibly, I shivered in a near comatose state upon my unyielding bed. I managed to join the group at dinnertime for a briefing session from George (he rather relished doing these), but was barely conscious, apart from the odd mosquito bite, as we sat out in the garden beneath the stars.

Friday 08 February
This morning you will drive to Hospet (140km approx 3.5 hours) where you will stay at the Hotel Malingi Garden for 3 nights. This afternoon you will visit the Hampi ruins (16km approx 1/2hour). Hampi was the headquarters of the rulers of the largest South Indian Empire in the 14th-16th centuries. Their capital was built up as a showpiece of imperial magnificence, and though now ruined is still impressive for its surviving ramparts, bazaar streets, great Hindu temples, palaces, pleasure pavilions and elephant stables, all built in local granite. These ruins stand in an extraordinarily rugged landscape, through which winds the Tungabhadra River. Much of the Hampi site can only be reached by foot, and there is ample opportunity for walking, as well as riding on the circular coracles that traverse the Tungabhardra. The Hotel Malligi Garden in Hospet is a 3 star hotel and provides the best base for visiting the World Heritage site Hampi 13 kilometres away.

We were now about to be inducted into the complex cosmos of Hinduism and its temples. The only vaguely funny joke told by Mr. Nagarajh involved three trainee parachutists in the Indian Air Force, whose equipment proved defective on their first training jumps. The Muslim jumped first, and as he careered towards the ground shouted 'Allah, save me!' whereupon the chute opened and he drifted gently to earth. A Christian was next, and called upon Holy Jesus to save him, with the same result. The hapless Hindu debated long and seriously about which of the Divine pantheon might come to his aid, hit the ground splat! And joined his Gods in Hindu heaven.

Hinduism is nothing if not inclusive, with a big tent (rather like New Labour) and an element of pick and mix. I'm sure that I am doing the religion a disservice, but it operates on three levels and has an astonishing range of deities. In this respect it bears a resemblance to Ancient Crete and Roman religions. The lowest level of Hinduism consists of helping you to get through the daily grind and common task, and keeping evil at bay. There are local Gods to help you do this, and sacred trees, which we had seen on our travels. This level typifies village life. The middle level includes the pan-Indian Gods such as Shiva, Vishnu and Krishna. The top level involves abstract principles of the universe. In the Karnataka region Pampa, who was betrothed to Shiva was particularly important and was the basis of Hampi, the ancient capital we would visit on Saturday and Sunday.

Shiva was the ultimate all-powerful God, who also was Lord of Yoga, and the crescent moon. He carried a trident and shaker in many images. He was related to Ganga, God of the sacred River Ganges, and worshipped at Benares. Rama-Krishna was the ultimate little boy and sexually promiscuous. The cult of Krishna was more heterogeneous. Vishnu could be seen as a tortoise with a cosmic pillar rotating as the cosmic pole, or he could be seen wearing a tall crown, holding a conch shell and discus. He married Laxmi. Hindu Kings had to be patronized by a Goddess shrine, and this was celebrated at Hampi by a pilgrimage festival, perpetuated in the national Shivarah Festival. Durga was created by the Gods to vanquish the Buffalo Demon. Kali, Goddess of Death, the Black Goddess, was most dangerous, worshiped in a tantric ritual, with a crossover to Buddhism, found in the Himalaya region and across South-East Asia. Most Hindu priests are Brahmins, a high caste, but not all Brahmins and priests. This was the gist of George's introduction to Hinduism, or such of it as I had taken note of. We would hear much more of it over the next few days, as we explored more complex temples. Some were still in use; others were not historical monuments. We got used to taking off shoes and shuffling around in stockinged feet, but the state of some floors was not conducive to pedal cleanliness.
The morning call was at Aihole, which boasts 125 temples from the 7th-12th centuries. We didn't see them all, but first climbed a hillside above the village, where some abandoned temples have been converted into houses and little sheds, and reached the Jain Meguti Temple. This may never have been completed, and is dated 634 AD. It commanded an impressive view over the village and towards the plains, with scattered sites of Hindu Temples. The architecture seemed to suggest a timber origin, and there was charming naïve sculpture, with full frontal elephants, around the base.

The colonnaded Durga Temple from the late 7th/early 8th centuries is the best in Aihole, within an Archaeological Survey garden. George is rather scathing about these - I felt that the garden provided a very pleasant, if hardly authentic setting for an important artefact, with its distinctive curved sanctuary, said to be influenced by Buddhist chaitya halls. The erotic relief sculpture was outstanding, and there was more repetitive sculpture on the superstructure. The Ladh Khan was more orthodox, based on rectangular plan, late 6th /7th centuries, with a cave-like interior and a Nandi Bull at the centre. We also saw the Ravanaphadigudi, a Shiva shrine in the form of a rock cut temple, with an awesome sculpture of a ten-armed Natechan dancing with Parvati, Ganesh and the Sapta Matrikas (Seven Mothers).

The journey to Hospet was uneventful. This city is close to the iron mines, and a red dust has settled over everything. We didn't stop off at the hotel, but pressed on for a late afternoon introduction to Hampi/Vijayanagar. In the golden light of the later afternoon, we climbed Hemakuta Hill, and looked over the village of Hampi, dominated by the Virupaksha Temple, with the lush valley of the Tuglabhadra visible beyond, and the rock-strewn Virupapuragadda hills beyond. It was an inspiring sight. The ancient city of Vijayanagar had been the powerhouse of the region from the mid 14th century, but its glory days lasted only through the early 16th century, under Krishna Deva Raya, whose dynasty had reasserted Hindu rule against the Bahmani rulers from Gulbarga. In 1565, the regent, Rama Raya was drawn into a fight with a confederacy of Muslim forces, and the city of Vijanagar, thought to be impregnable fell to destructive raids, and became a forgotten ruin of past glories. A historic dam occupied the site, its hydraulics creating the nucleus for the irrigation system, and this was supplemented by a major new dam about 25 years ago, which resulted in a verdant ribbon, running through the otherwise arid site. The ingenious hydraulic systems which had served the palace buildings had fallen into terminal disrepair. Modern settlement consolidated at the Hampi Bazaar, between Hemakuta and the Tuglabhadra River.

Hampi is also a tirtha or holy site. The Goddess Pampa would bathe in the river, and attracted the attention of Shiva. The Hindu epic, the Ramayana contained a description of a site, which coincides closely with Hampi, in the Kishkinda chapter where Ram and Sita arrive at the kingdom of the monkeys, Bali and Sugriva and their ambassador Hanuman. The piles of rocks are said to have been flung down by the mythological armies flexing their strength. The legend gave impetus for Hindu occupancy and between the 14th-16th centuries Vijayanagar was the most powerful Hindu capital in the Deccan, rich in gold, diamonds, silks, spices, sensual courtesans and opulent palaces, which even today impress by their skeletal scale, and ornate carving.

This was the inspiring prospect which greeted us from the hilltop, and a sense of pleasurable anticipation rose in the golden glow of the setting sun. Retracing our steps to the bus, we found that Ursula, who had had to miss out the more strenuous walks, had suffered a fall, and was in painful immobility. On returning to Hospet, medical advice was summoned, and the remainder of the trip to Mysore proved to be a feat of endurance.

Saturday 09 and Sunday 10 February
Two days in and around Hampi to explore the ruins- extra excursions can be arranged -boating in coracles etc!

George made sure that we were up early, if not exactly bright, and we bussed it out to Hampi. It was going to be a hot day. We drove past the turn we had taken the previous day, and approached past the uncompleted bridge spanning the river, a crude rusting suspension structure, lacking the highway deck. The Vitthala Temple complex is on the northern side, a walled enclosure at the end of a long colonnade. It is a World Heritage Site in its own right, built for Vishnu, with a stepped tower of brick and plaster, unusual for a district dominated by stone. The open mandapa has granite musical pillars, though I feel that this was coincidental rather than by design: anyway, nobody can touch them now, so we were unable to test the matter. Friezes of elephants and other beasts run around the plinths. In front of the temple was an elaborate sculpture of a stone chariot, complete with wheels. Nearby was the remains of the King's Balance, where the King was weighed annually with gold and jewels, which were then donated to the priests.

We walked on over an uneven path, touching the riverbank at one point, where we were offered fresh coconuts - the sour taste of the milk rather turned my still delicate stomach. Then, in the hot sun we made our way to Hampi Bazaar, with its impressive street sweeping a half mile towards the village centre, marked by the Virupaksha Temple and its piled up roof. There were bargains to be had, but I didn't feel up to shopping, so George flagged down a tuctuc to take me over to the Mango Tree where we took our lunch break.

This was on the western edge of the village, overlooking the river valley below, with workers toiling in the rice paddies. Young people, today's hippies walked along the narrow footpaths, and some climbed the hillside to the Mango Tree. I sat in the shade, taking in the scene, sipping Coca Cola, which stabilised my digestive system, as the others arrived. It was a truly inspiring scene, which created an inner calm. After the others left, I remained rapt in contemplation, before walking slowly back to the village centre, where we rejoined the bus, to drive a couple of miles to the Royal Centre, which contains the finest remains. The function of many of the buildings is hypothetical, as there is no surviving documentation to confirm which was which. Some of the claims were taken on oral evidence in the late 18th century, over two centuries since the sack of Vijayanagar. Some of the attributions were on quality alone. George had spent over 20 years researching (although not excavating the place in the archaeological sense). He had found some remarkable photographs in a private collection in London, taken in 1856 (the year before the Uprising/Mutiny) by Colonel Alexander Greenlaw which showed many of the buildings with features which are now missing. Perhaps even more remarkable were watercolour views made in 1799 by Indian artists, under Captain Colin Mackenzie, of 'the ruins of Beejanugger' [sic]. Some of the nomenclature of the buildings dates from these pioneer views. Even more astounding was Mackenzie's comprehensive map of the whole site, which shows the major sites and buildings with astonishing accuracy. The Royal Centre had been one of the principal concerns of this historic material, and whole some of the attribution of the buildings' functions may have been apocryphal, it was certainly appropriate in most cases.

This certainly applied to the Lotus Mahal, in the centre of Zenana Enclosure, defined by its tapering interlocking masonry walls, which denoted an exclusive site. George now thinks that the building originally functioned as a Council Chamber - what a letdown! Its exquisitely profiled arches with multiple cusps protected an arcaded base, with a distinctive sloping chujja cornice above, and a first floor capped by stepped tapering towers. In the corner of the enclosure, an octagonal watchtower in a simplified version of the same style huddled in the corner of the enclosure. Nearby overlooking a parade ground were the Elephant Stables, topped by a variety of domes. The arched entrance gave on to compartments, said to be large enough to accommodate a pair of pachyderms - I bet that they were only put there just before the parades, which were watched from a raised arcade on the north side of the parade ground. This was a lovely group of buildings, and I found that the minimal lawns and trees laid out by the Archaeological Survey of India provided an appropriate setting. This concluded a day in which the intrinsic interest of the buildings was complemented by the grandeur of the overall setting.

Next day began near the Royal Centre. Outside the enclosure standing on its own is the Queen's Bath, another of the architectural highlights. Externally this looked plain and fortress-like. But this gave way to a cloistered walk looking into the square central tank, with steps down to it, or open platforms from which to jump in. In the five bay façades, overlooking the tank there were unglazed oriels, presumably to sit in to watch the fun below, and there was the usual variety of domed and coffered ceilings.

Next we moved to the Mahanavami platform, like many of the structures of 15th century origin, which appears to have been the height of architectural achievement of the city. It is a massive granite and chlorite structure, where the monarch publicly worshipped Durga before leaving his capital on military campaigns. It was also used for festival celebrations with music, dancing, wrestling and fireworks. There was, according to contemporary Portuguese observers, originally a jeweled pavilion atop. The walls of the platform are adorned with relief sculpture showing rows of elephants, above processions of dancers, and warriors leading camels, horsemen, wrestling with animals, and, on the bottom row, infantry and soldiers on horseback. Grander sculptures of an elephant and lion formed a balustrade to a staircase. Despite the unyielding nature of the granite, the sculpture had individuality and personality, although the slightly softer chlorite permitted greater detail and refinement. The panoramic views from the platform top were inspiring sweeping away to the rocky hills.

The other major feature was the stepped tank, one of several ponds in the enclosure, and excavated by the Archaeological Survey of India during the 1980s. This was astounding, with its precise masonry forming an inverted pyramid, with the steps diminishing upwards in sixes to intermediate walkways. The grounds of this area had been planted with lawns, about which George was customarily scathing. I rather pointedly asked him if the Archaeological Survey had got anything right! He was not very forthcoming. Alright, he's had more than 20 years exploring and recording Hampi, with his mates, and his published works are formidable, but surely there is some credit to be given to the official custodians who are not all knaves or fools. Grouse over, for now!

The Hazara Rama (or thousand Ramas) Temple was at the core of the Royal Centre. This was another highlight - they came thick and fast at Hampi. It functioned as a royal chapel for the Vijayanagar Kings, and was built in the early 15th century. The outer face of the compound is covered with relief sculptures in legible friezes, and on the exterior they are in self-contained groups, rather than crammed together as in many of the other temples we saw, and were more legible and comprehensive in consquence. There are processions with elephants and horsemen, and contingents of different soldiery. Framed by elaborate arches there are sinuous, sensual women playing drums, dancing and enjoying the watersports of the Vasontosava Festival. The gateway to the temple is to one side, and is almost classical with its portico of four columns. The shrine and temple within also have a columnar treatment, with pilasters separating the relief panels. Scenes from the Ramayana epic feature in the decoration. In the sanctuary there are splendid sturdy columns, with block bases and intermediate blocks set across the shafts, with undercut capitals and square abaci, almost an exotic eastern variant of Greek Doric. The brick and plaster superstructures seem crowded and rather tawdry, compared to the nobility of the main ground floor - or is that western prejudice asserting itself? The austere mandapa interior has four columns, of highly polished black chlorite, not found on site, sculpted with the 24 aspects of Vishnu, and Ramayana figures.

There were two more sites before lunch. One was the grotesque statue of Lakshminarashima, gazing out with bulging eyes above an evil grin from an absurdly wide mouth. This was the man-lion incarnation of Vishnu cross-legged in a Yoga pose, backed by a looming hooded serpent cut from the same single piece of rock. Alongside was a never completed shrine for the now missing figure of Lakshmi, that sat on the lap of the main statue. We also looked at the Krishna Temple complex nearby, dating from 1513. Rather dilapidated, particularly the superstructure, the carving seemed fussy and pernickety compared to the Hazara Rama Temple seen earlier. About the nicest feature was a simple relief on the underside of the lintel over the entrance, a startled hare being confronted in a pincer movement between two approaching cobras. Nearby we looked over a ruined plaza, a deserted version of the broad street reincarnated as Hampi Bazaar. Then it was time for the lunch break, again at the Mango Tree: I don't think that I would easily tire of the view over the river, however physically weary I was.

I decided to stay put when the others left for the Virupaksha Temple complex in the center of the village. There were reports of fun with the sacred elephant, trained deftly to handle banknotes, and of the ceremonial under way. I remained prone on the concrete surfaced terrace, then Mr. N. took an age to get a tuc tuc to take me to the far end of the bazaar street to see the photographic exhibition which included prints of the 1856 Greenlaw photographs alongside modern views of the same buildings. The reproductions were pretty terrible - the illustrations in George's book show what remarkably good results had been obtained by the intrepid photographer working to military requirements. I would love to have known something about the camera, the exposure, and how the precious wax paper negatives were kept cool to avoid deterioration in the heat. Also, it was remarkable to see such a feature as the column outside the Vithala Temple complex upright, and looking distinctly Lutyensian with its careful graduations and splays from a square base to an elegant fluted circular shaft, with a branched lantern at the top - how on earth did they light it? The Lotus Mahal and Elephant Stables looked overgrown with vegetation, and the Queen's Bath seriously neglected, but still retaining part of its superstructure. Perhaps George would rather it were like this, rather than girded with lawns.

Finally, we had a fun end to the day. We had seen the coracles on the river, circular-rush basket frameworks, covered with tarred cloth, which take about five people. We took a voyage downstream to the landing by the Vithala Temple complex, where we had begun our exploration the previous day. It was a memorable farewell to Hampi/Vijaynagara, which, despite my underlying ill health and lack of stamina, was a highlight of the whole trip.

Monday 11 February
Today you have a long drive to Chikmagalur (340km approx 8 hours) where you will stay at the Taj Garden Retreat (cottages) for 2 nights. Chikmagalur is a small town nestling at the base of the wooded mountains of the Western Ghats. The Taj Hotel is attractively situated outside the town, with a lovely garden and swimming pool and distant views of the mountains. Visits to nearby pepper plantations can be arranged. The Taj Garden Retreat is a resort perched on the gentle slopes of the Sahyadri Range, just 6 kilometres from the coffee town of Chikmagalur.

We left the Malligi Garden Hotel at 8 am. The morning rush was under way and the narrow streets were choked with traffic. We saw a little more of the centre of Hospet. It's not an attractive city, having been developed finally as a consequence of exploitation of the local iron ore deposits in the surrounding hills and the opening up of steelworks. We made our way out onto a very intensely used highway. As we wound up through the hills, everything was covered in a fine red dust. This can't be a very healthy environment in which to live. As we neared an oblique junction, we saw that an accident had occurred. A bus had, apparently, impaled itself on the back of a long, unloaded, flat bed truck. What we saw next was remarkable. The drivers of the truck simply left it in the centre of the road and ran away into the bushes alongside the road. We picked our way cautiously around the blockage. Goodness knows how it would have been sorted out, or whether there were many injuries to the people on the bus. It appeared that it was the fault of the bus, but if so, why had the drivers of the lorries reacted in that way. Some suggested that they were afraid of being beaten up by the more active male passengers on the bus.

We ground our way along the highway with lorries continually coming and going from Hospet. Some of the overtaking was distinctly hairy and we saw another accident a few miles further on. It was after this that Mr. Nagarajh assured us that in 25 years guiding Bales Tours he had only been involved in one accident. He didn't say how many he had seen, however. We then had to face Mr. N boosting the power of India in all phases of the development of science and technology. The Tiger Economy certainly is no shrinking violet these days.

After the inevitable comfort stop in the bushes - I really find I don't work under such conditions - we eventually met a main road. It seemed that an elevated highway was being constructed in the centre as there were the inevitable stunted concrete columns, sprouting turrets of reinforcing bars. I suppose that these structures are calculated, but they must allow for error in the setting out and construction. A few miles further on there was an A1 Plaza. We had met one a few days previously on the way to Hospet. This was India's answer to the Motorway Service Station. For now it was reasonably clean, although there were reports that the lavatories were distinctly grubby. It served fast food in the form of rice, with or without vegetables, and the inevitable curries. I risked a lightly fried rice with vegetables which seemed to be OK. I also drank a Cola - Pepsi this time - which I have found settles my stomach. No problems at the time. George announced that the food would have been better, more tasty, and the service more friendly at a local restaurant. Well I take that with an enormous pinch of Dioralyte salt replacement powders, for my experience the previous week of local restaurants seems to have set everything thing in motion - quite literally.

Off we went, for a few miles along a main motorway. This probably leads in the direction of Bangalore, which is one of India's high-tech bastions. However, we peeled off and it was back to local roads, with a vengeance. We had about four hour drive during the afternoon. The landscape was stunning - the surface of the roads also had a percussive quality. We seemed to drive through a plain that stretched away in all directions. During the morning we had come through a grim area full of wind turbines. Now there was no unnatural intrusion to spoil the quality of the natural environment. But for how much longer? The road got worse and worse and there was a particularly bad patch when we were driving along a raised causeway which was part of an ancient irrigation system. In the distance we saw the silhouette of steep hills. We aimed for these and drove through the path between two of them. Then it was up into the hills above Chikmagalur. The Taj Garden Retreat lies on the slopes of the Sahyadri Range, in a district noted for coffee growing. After all the indifference to downright disgusting hotels to which we had been sent over the past week, this was Utopia. An irregular scatter of chalets clings to the lush hillside, and the grounds are planted out with all varieties of local flowers and perennial shrubs. Paths lead up to the centre block which contains the reception, restaurant and bar. It was bliss to unwind in a bathroom which was not grime-encrusted, with hot water on tap!

But there were problems. We had managed to bring Ursula with us on the bus, but by the time we got to the hotel, she was virtually immobile. Nevertheless, she protested enormously about the wheelchair, which was provided in order to help her to her room. This garden retreat is clearly not designed for the 'other abled'. Moreover, she really needed some form of care in the room. Mary Cole-Adams had been a tower of strength the previous night, when it appeared that Ursula might have to be hospitalised. The hotel managed to sort out local overnight care, which was a relief. We'll just have to carry on as best we can. This had repercussions for the tour, in that it was decided that it would be preferable to go direct to Mysore on Wednesday rather than include the temple visits, which were provisionally retimed for Tuesday morning.

Tuesday 12 February
Day at leisure in Chikmagalur. There are plenty of local attractions such as the Badhra Wildlife Sanctuary, botanical gardens and the coffee plantations for those not in need of R&R.

It rained hard practically all night. This was refreshing, but had complications. The roof of my chalet sprang a leak, fortunately over the far corner of the bed of where I was lying. At breakfast it was a question of slowly walking along the streaming path, huddling under a small umbrella, to gain the comparative shelter of the restaurant block. That brought news of a rescheduling of the tour from Wednesday to Tuesday had been abandoned for the morning. This was as well because my stomach problems had erupted once again, and I felt drained. I was practically comatose for the rest of the day, coming back into consciousness late afternoon, only to find that the rescheduled tour had not left anyway, due to the condition of the roads in the area, many of which had suffered from flash floods. In the evening I managed a light dinner, with vegetable biryani rice, and hoped that there would be no nocturnal repercussions. Happily there weren't.

Wednesday 13 February

Morning visit temples at Belur and Halebid. The temples at Belur and Halebid were patronized by the Hoysalas, principal rulers over this part of south India in the 12th-13th centuries. The temples are built of grey-green schist, and are remarkable for their star-shaped plans and intricately carved walls, densely covered with sculptured figures and animals. Porches and halls have meticulously crafted lathe-turned columns. This afternoon continue to Mysore (170km approx 4.5 hour drive) via Jain hill site of Sravana-Belgola. Sravana Beloga is a sacred Jain hill site dating back to the 9th-10th century. The chief focus of worship here is a colossal monolithic image of a naked Jain saint sculpted out of a single granite boulder. It is reached after climbing some 250 steps. On arrival in Mysore you will be taken to the Royal Orchid Metropole Hotel where you will stay for 2 nights in a Heritage room. Originally built by the Maharaja of Mysore in the early 20th Century the Royal Orchid Hotel is now a heritage hotel with 30 rooms and suites with modern amenities. The property exudes a great old fashioned charm about it with high tea served daily.

It was another early start as there were temple visits during the morning. Again I felt reasonably secure, and after a modest breakfast, consisting mainly of an omelette, I joined the bus. These visits had always been programmed for this day, and the proposed rescheduling appeared to have been a panic measure due to the problems with Ursula's mobility. She had not become any worse, and it was felt that she could remain on the bus while we walked around the temples. These were at Belur and Halebid. The surfeit of temples over the past week was becoming a bit of a blur (not to say Belur), and I wondered how I would react to the latest, actually earliest examples of the genre. Actually, they were quite outstanding, if not exactly likeable - admiration for the sheer craftsmanship overcame my apprehension at a lack of logical architectural form in both of them.

The Hoysala dynasty ruled South Western Karnakata between 11th-13th centuries. Their distinctive temples were encrusted with an incredible explosion of intricate sculpture, including processional elephants and warriors around the podia, with elaborate scenes from the Ramayana, and erotic sculptures above. Belur was the Hoysala capital before Halebid, during the 11th and 12th centuries. At a 'T' junction in the centre of the small market town on the banks of the Yagachi River, looms the portentous gateway into the temple, with its sloping sides formed by different levels of high relief sculpture, almost too rich to take in during a short visit. Belur is the only one of the three major temples to remain in use for worship. It was built by King Vishnuvardhana in 1117 to celebrate his conversion to Hinduism, victory over the Cholas at Talakad, and independent from the Chalukyas. Today, it is well visited and generally appeared well maintained. One of the religious attractions in the region is a processional festival of bullock carts, held in the Spring. The local cart, enriched with carved sculpture was housed in a barn-like structure outside the temple precincts, while there were painted elephants and horses in the courtyard.

The temple plan is star-formed; one would believe that this was to allow as much space as possible for the carving. In addition to the main Chennakeshara Temple there are smaller shrines, and Mandapa cloisters, and a large immersion tank in once corner. The temple is flat-roofed, and there is speculation as to whether it ever had a superstructure. The hallway was later embellished with pierced stone jaali screens, inserted between the lathe-turned stone pillars. But it is the sculpture that makes the most visible and memorable impact. Inside, the gloom takes some getting used to, but there is also detailed carving, without repetition, of more than 100 deities. Did one mind control this extraordinary feat of carving, or were the sculptors, particularly of the important panels, given more of a free hand. The basic form of the temple appears to have been set, with prescribed sculptural forms for the podia, but did individual enterprise take over above, or did the priests specify what was required in an overall scheme. Once posed, these questions remained unanswered at the other Hoysala Temples we saw.

Halebid was more of the same, but being an ancient monument, it was now set within a pleasant garden, as well because Halebid is now a scruffy village, whose existence seems largely to prey on the visitors. The fact that its name translates as 'dead city' doesn't exactly help its image either. The Hoysaleshvara Temple was commenced in 1141, and appears to have been left unfinished 40 years later. It follows the same general arrangement as Belur, with a comparable sculptural richness of Hindi deities, sages, animals, birds, and friezes showing the life of the Hoysala Monarchy. Shiva and Parvati, Krishna and Vishnu appear prominently, with dancers and musicians. Alongside the temple are shrines with two of the largest Nandi bulls in India, staring haughtily, if benignly, at visitors.

Temples for the day done, we visited a tourist village colony for lunch. It was certainly one of the better choices during the trip. It consisted of a group of chalets in a wooded setting, with a central dining hall. It was not unlike a level ground version of the Taj Garden, where we had spent the two previous nights, although rather less pretentious, I felt. The buffet lunch was good and tempted me to my first solid lunch for several days - I remained relatively careful in my choice, abjuring the local chicken and fish dishes, about which others of the group were enthusiastic. Still off the Kingfisher, I again opted for Coke. It seems to be reasonably good for me, which is not what you usually feel about this global drink.

Off we drove towards Mysore. Or rather we didn't take the main road. Actually, this turned out to be a good choice and we went through some beautiful unspoilt countryside and relatively tidy villages. In the event we didn't get the chance to peer at the Gomateswara, Asia's largest monolithic statue at 58ft. high. Late in the afternoon we approached the outskirts of Mysore, along a dual carriageway - one of the best roads we had so far encountered. We crossed the river close to the Srirangapattana Fort, which we were scheduled to visit on the following day. Perhaps Mysore lives at a less hectic pace than Hyderabad, for we didn't encounter the traffic problems even though it was rush hour. Turning through the suburb we soon arrived at the Royal Orchid Metropole Hotel, a heritage hotel, based on one of the many building complexes constructed by the Maharaja of Mysore in 1920. This one seemed to be a lodging for officials, with a central courtyard surrounded by colonnaded buildings, in a low key classical style. The entrance foyer boasted a splendid dark-stained timber staircase clinging to the walls as it rose. Everyone appeared to have shaded balconies looking out onto the more public areas. It was one of the most promising arrivals of the tour, and I looked forward to the next two nights of comfort. Mr. Nagarajh had suggested a walk to the fruit flower and vegetable market about 20 minutes away from the hotel. This seemed rather bizarre for an evening jaunt as all the best produce would have been sold early in the day. I didn't take up the offer and will probably find that I have missed something absolutely unique and splendid.

Thursday 14 February
A full days sightseeing today visiting the nearby Somnathpur temple and Srirangapattana fort as well as the Mysore Palace and market. The temple in Somnathpur village, an hour or so out of Mysore, is another outstanding Hoysala period monument, but more completely preserved than either of those at Belur or Halebid. The fort of Srirganapattana on an island in the Kaveri River was headquarters of Tipu sultan, the Muslim general who usurped the Mysore throne, and who challenged the British in south India, but who was eventually killed in 1799. His tomb and garden palace can still be visited. Ambar Vilas palace in Mysore was built in the 19th-early 20th century by the maharajas who were restored to the Mysore throne by the British. It is a remarkable example of the "Indo-Saracenic" style, complete with imported Scottish ironwork and stained glass ceilings.

There is a rather silly Lutyens cartoon entitled 'have you seen Mysore?' Lavatorial and rather schoolboy in its humour, it nevertheless conveyed a message for today. Frankly, there were times when I thought the reply was going to be 'not quite, yet!' The day began with temple hunting, a pursuit which had dominated the earlier part of the trip. Admittedly, most of what we have seen have been masterpieces, and the temple at Somnathpur, was small and perfectly formed, on an intricate star-plan, which was reflected in the opulence of its sculptural expression. It was quite similar to those at Belur and Halebid, which we had visited yesterday. And getting there was certainly not half the fun. A tantalising 35 km from Mysore, this entailed a journey of almost 1½ hours on some of the most appalling roads we had yet encountered. The temple visit was shortened in recognition of the concern of myself (and a few others) who felt that having checked into a hotel near the centre of Mysore yesterday, we should certainly spend the better part of the day looking around the city and its environment.

As the only complete example among the 80 Hoysala Temples around Mysore, Somnathpur certainly commands scarcity value. I only wish that it had been possible to visit it the previous day, on the way to Mysore. The Hoysala King Narasimha built it in 1286. It has three sanctuaries, and stands in the centre of a courtyard, surrounded by handsome ranges of cloisters. The same star plan as at Halebid and Belur was complemented by the almost conical piles of sculpture above the wings, and by the low stepped superstructure above cornice level - it is in the style of a trikutachala or 'three peaked hill'. Once again the sculpture was almost incredible in its richness and inventiveness. Unusually, it is claimed that the sculpture was the concept of a single individual, Malitamba - though surely not the execution, which would have demanded teams of skilled assistants.

That was not to be and we bumped our way back towards the main road for a more relevant visit, taking in the surroundings of Srirganapattana on the Kaveri River, 14 km north of Mysore. This had been a site of Hindu pilgrimage, and subsequently a Gijayanagar fortress in the 15th century. However it is associated with Haider Ali, who deposed Wadiyars in 1761 to take Mysore, and the heroic struggle by his son, Tipu Sultan, in 1799 in a bloody battle against the British, known by us as Seringapatam. Our conquest by an army, which included Arthur Wellesley (future Duke of Wellington), consolidated British dominion over India. We visited Tipu's Summer Palace, to the east of the fort. This is a two storey colonnaded square plan building, shuttered by wooden sunshades, at the end of a not very well restored Mughal garden. It was a charming discovery. Behind the screens is a cool summer residence, elaborately decorated with exquisitely painted plaster, now in a state of advanced decay, alas. Mural paintings commemorated Tipu's wars against the British, whom he beat twice, only to be beaten himself on the third occasion. There are sketches made of Tipu's family and retainers following the capture of Mysore by the British. He himself was slain and his body was recovered and buried nearby. However, his large family was exiled, and the pencil portraits by a British artist are most evocative, as they quietly succumb to decay and attack of paper mite. There were a few engaging engravings of the area and of the battles by British army officers who did a capable job of capturing the local landscape. There was a rather naïve painting showing the height of the battle as the British struggled across the river bridge to enter the fort. Finally, a full length painting, which appeared to be in great need of conservation, showed a life size portrait of Tipu, and was a product of the artist John Zoffany. All of this made for a moving experience and a prelude to other nearby visits.

The Gumbaz Mausoleum, the east of the palace, was erected by Tipu Sultan to commemorate his father, and later served as his own burial place. Tipu lies beneath a grey granite structure, crowned by a dome of white brick and plaster. Exquisite ivory-inlaid rosewood doors lead to the tomb chamber. The pall above Tipu is appropriately of tiger stripes, as that was his nickname. Finally, we drove into the fort, which is occupied by a scruffy village. We saw the water gate, through which the British attempted to capture the fortress and, nearby, the spot where Tipu fell, not far from the battlements of the innermost wall. There wasn't time to see much more, and frankly, the fort was a disappointment from the point of view of an historic monument. After a lunch interval back at the hotel, we at last set out for the centre of Mysore itself.

Mysore originated as the town where the demon buffalo was slain by the Goddess Durga. This Hindu city was ruled from around 1400 and until Independence by the Hindu Wadiyars. However, their rule was interrupted in 1761 when the Muslim, Haider Ali conquered the city and demolished the teeming old quarter, to replace it with a more spacious capital, laid out on a grid plan, with the fortress at its heart. The conquest of Tipu in 1799 led to the restoration of Wadiyars, and their rule was codified and absolute. It was the late 19th century Maharaja who was confronted with the problem of rebuilding the old wooden palace, after a disastrous fire in 1897. His architect, Henry Irwin, who was already a consultant architect to Madras State, produced a vast palace, on an almost superhuman scale, designed in the Indo-Sarecnic style that the British had adopted for their great public buildings in the late 19th century. Widely eclectic, they were borrowing from both Hindu and Muslim traditions, as well as from European style, with planning on a grand scale, influenced by the monumentality of the French Beaux Arts. This was the style which many were encouraging Lutyens to adopt for the New Delhi buildings. He certainly visited, hence the quotation at the head of this day in the diary. I can well imagine the shudders which passed through his refined soul as he gained his first view of the wedding cake structure which dominates all around it to this day. And yet, and yet, I'm reluctant to write it off, as have many as 'the eyesore of Mysore'. It has sweep and panache which more or less carries all before it, only it's not for the pure minded or squeamish even now.

If the exterior was exuberant to the end degree, the interior extended that to the zillionth realm of ornamental overkill. Having duly deposited our cameras (how frustrating), taken off our shoes, and walked through into the reception area, we began to understand something of the cumulative impact of the building. Subtle it is not. However, there were enough details along the way to excite curiosity, and indeed admiration. The gilded bronze elephant gates which formed the Maharaja's site entrance into the inner courtyard, for example, flanked by two large jumbo heads of those which the then Maharaja had slaughtered in the field. Then there was the vast cloister, with murals depicting ceremonial scenes from the 1930s, all meticulously observed and now a precious document of a way of life that has certainly now passed. The great wedding hall, the Kalyana mandapa, has a central octagonal cupola supported by tall cast-iron columns made in Glasgow, with a glass lantern with fashionable details of peacock feathers made in Belgium, and Bohemian chandeliers. The tiled floor was entirely laid in tiles from Maws of Jackfield in the Severn valley near Ironbridge. On the first floor was the Durbar Hall, with its seemingly unending colonnades and scalloped plaster. The columns had odd striped fluting which looked as though they were dressed in skirts. In front of the Durbar Hall was the open platform where the Maharaja, seated on a throne of 280kg of solid Karnakatan gold, with V.I.P. guests and retainers alongside in strict order of precedence, could watch processions and military parades in front of the palace. The Ambavilasa was used for banqueting, and had a central atrium, again with coloured and fashioned glass, and the most sumptuous chandeliers. This was so ornate that it felt a bit claustrophobic. A craftsman was retouching some of the painted glass decoration and stood on a rickety erection of scaffolding near the door through which we passed to complete our visit. It had certainly been a singular experience and rounded off the first part of the tour. We shall not see its like again.

The last Maharaja of Mysore came to the throne in 1940 and still remained a power in the state even after the declaration of the Republic in 1947. He survived until 1973. He was a man of great culture and was passionately interested in western classical music, particularly the Russian school. A formidable pianist, he is said to have been taught by Rachmaninov, but was prevented from pursuing a career as a pianist by inheriting the mantle of the Maharajas. Nevertheless, in the late 1940s he underwrote one of London's great orchestras, the Philharmonia, founded in 1946 by the classical music director of EMI, Walter Legge. The Maharaja also subsidised recordings of the piano concertos of Medtner and several orchestral works, including the First Symphony of Balakirev. None of this was, of course, apparent to the visitors to the palace, and it's perhaps now of marginal interest, but it is a subject of fascination to me. I'll certainly listen to the recordings subsidised by the Maharaja in a different light having visited his domain.

The evening became a frustrating non-event. Frankly, the hotel, while fascinating in its built fabric is very poorly run. The same basic buffet which had served for lunch, had changed little for dinner. We had been told that there would be a special menu for Chinese New Year's Day. There wasn't. The tired old buffet really was a rip-off. I remonstrated with a surly chef about the lack of choice of sweets. There were the usual glutinous Indian Jellabi, some small pastries and a tub of rather nasty looking ice cream. He said that that was perfectly adequate. I said that there should be some fresh fruit. 'Oh no, that's for breakfast'. I said 'well we want fruit tonight'. 'Ok, I'll send some bananas to your table'. He didn't. The surliness was, I'm afraid, the watchword of the Mysore Golden Orchid Metropole.

In addition they did little to curb the noise of the disco next door, which was just off our open corridor, by which we gained access to our rooms. It was impossible to shut out the noise, which reverberated through the structure. By dint of persistent complaining it was terminated at 11.00pm, but the preceding stress was hardly conducive to refreshing sleep. A pity, as the beds were the most comfortable encountered on the tour.

Friday 15 February
Optional Cochin extension

After an early start drive south into the Nilgiri Hills to Ootacamund, the Queen of Hill Stations (158 KMS/approximately 5 hours). During colonial times, the British administrators in Madras and other southern cities escaped to the hills in the hot season to enjoy the cooler climate and Ootacamund was undoubtedly the popular choice. Today 'Ooty' is slightly down-at-heel compared with its glory days, but there are still many reminders of life that has gone for ever. Afternoon sightseeing, including the Botanical Gardens and St. Stephen's Church. Two nights at the historic Savoy Hotel, which is located amidst 6 acres of lush green lawns and overlooks the valley and hills around it. This graceful 150-year old building was once a school for European children.

Most of the party left for Bangalore and the return flight to the UK. Indomitable Ursula bade us farewell; it was au revoir too to David and Mary, who were off for a few days rest and recuperation on a plantation, with Helen. At the last minute we had been told that Bales had assigned us a bus and driver - no mention of a guide. Also, our accommodation voucher seemed only to provide for bed and breakfast, rather than the full board which they had printed in our itinerary. Distinctly unsatisfactory. Nevertheless, we made our own way out of Mysore, with a sense of bloody determination. We hadn't got very far when Mr. Nagarajh came on the phone to say that we had George Mitchell's bag. We swore blind that we hadn't, but on checking we found that we had! We had to wait while the bus taking him and Mr. N. to Bangalore Airport caught up with us. Still it's a good thing we didn't carry on to Ooty.

Jonathan had ordered the bus for 8 am, and that's when we left. However, it was nearly 9.30 am before we really got going. All travel guides state that you need 5 hours to travel the 158 km from Mysore to Ooty. However, we found that there was a short cut, much more picturesque, with hair-raising hair-pin bends and we took that. The whole journey became a delight after the sturm und drang around the Deccan. And there was not a temple in sight! The landscape became more hilly and we passed through the Bandipur, then the Nagarhole National Parks (the latter means 'smoke river'), and across the border into Tamil Nadu, through the Mudumalai Park. The Rough Guide states that this is one of the best areas for spotting elephants. I was rather sceptical because of the traffic noise. However, Pamela yelled out 'elephant, elephant!' and there was one, in the wooded hillside above, shaking its ears. Rather distant but still one jumbo spotted. Further on, another one was padding away alongside the road, with a rider atop. This really was a moment to record digitally for our nearest and dearest and eventual distant descendents.

We crossed the border into the State of Tamil Nadu, and into yet another wildlife reservation.
This time it was the Mudumalai Wildlife Sanctuary. Actually, it might have been here that we saw the elephant, but the impression of location had become a bit blurred. It was when we got through the sanctuary that we had a choice of route. The driver stated that the hillier left hand option would be the best. This immediately knocked about 20 km off the distance. We roared away and charged the hairpins. Our driver was extremely skilful, but even so, the bus laboured in a low gear while it turned around the tight bends, with little acceleration up the straights between. The hairpins were numbered in reverse order from about 36, all the way up to the top. From below, we couldn't see the summits of the hills as they were shrouded in low cloud or mist. However, we rose, with one vertigo-inducing experience following on another. We paused and looked down from a bridge above a small stream running down the hillside. As we looked, the sky lightened, we eventually emerged above the clouds. It was a delightful prospect. We completed the journey with great hopes of a good experience in Ooty. We really felt we deserved it, after some of the let downs over the past few days.

Clear blue skies were the order of the day as we drove into the hill settlement, named by the British Ootacamund, which is actually an Anglicisation of Udhagamandalm. It wasn't long before we found the Savoy Hotel, a Taj offshoot, set in spacious and beautifully maintained grounds. In fact, the Savoy Hotel had been opened in 1841 by Dawson's Hotel, and was built around the site of a cottage called 'Woodville', built in the 1830s at the time of St. Stephen's Church. The main building of the hotel had been constructed in 1829 as the School for European Children in the region. It's said, as in the case of St. Stephen's Church, that the massive beams came from Tipu Sultan's palace at Srirangaphattnan, and were dragged all the way up to the site by elephants. Through the years the guest list included the great and the good, and the entourage of the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII on a visit in 1875.

It was great to relax in our chalet-like blocks, with comfortable rooms, which included fireplaces, for winter nights are cold in Ooty. We had lunch in the dimly lit panelled dining room, which was a wonderful leftover from the days of the Raj. Fish and chips seemed to be an appropriate choice, although we'll probably go Anglo-Indian later in the day. By dint of patient negotiation, Jonathan managed to get us onto the meal inclusive tariff, which our itinerary offered. Things were looking up.

After refuelling we took the bus out for the afternoon. In the absence of a Bales Guide, we made our own itinerary and Jonathan suggested that we look first at St. Stephen's Church and then at the Botanical Gardens. These were good choices. The church was completed in 1830, and designed by a Royal Engineer cum architect. It was a spacious building, with a thin veneer of Gothic architecture, overlaid on a broad classical basilica plan, with tall timber classical columns forming the main arcade and a small projecting apse at the east end. This was Colonial history writ large. We looked in amazement at the memorial tablets, often to people dying at very early ages. The wife of one army officer expired at 30, probably in childbirth, and left seven children. I wonder how they were looked after following their mother's early death? Indian ayahs were an integral part of most British families, and their charges often saw more of them than of their parents. The memorial tablets also recorded officers who had died from 'jungle fever', and bachelors whose tablets had been erected in their memory by their regiment. It must have seemed incredibly remote at the time. Many must have longed to return to their homes in England, but the transport difficulties made it impractical for all but those of the highest rank. Therefore, they made a little enclave of old England (or Wales or Scotland) in the hills. Indeed, they were so successful that with the generous tree planting, supplementing the native species, some parts looked rather like Scotland. The church was well cared for, and we were told that there were congregations of a hundred families at weekends. This is amazing, presumably most of them being Indian Christians, rather than the relics of the Raj. Outside the churchyard was overgrown, but not worse than many in English churchyards I have seen in recent years. And there were some superb Neo-Classical graves, with obelisks, pediments, and even an Egyptian-style sarcophagus standing on claw feet. And there were some more recent, post-Independence commemorations.

After contemplating the past, we drove into the centre of town. Ooty had been described as being down at heel. It is rather, and many of the buildings of the Raj have been replaced with the usual Indian half-constructed developments. Nevertheless, it was an extremely pleasant afternoon, surprisingly hot given the height of the settlement, and after getting our tickets we turned into the Botanical Gardens. These had been laid out, in place of a vegetable patch, which provided vegetables for the British residents. Indeed, we had seen bunches of very healthy looking carrots on our way up to Ooty, so the tradition still exists. As Jonathan observed, the position of the Botanical Gardens was an enduring aspect of British Colonial rule. These were outstanding. In 1847 gardeners from Kew had come out to complete the layout on a hillside of 40 acres of immaculate lawns, lily ponds, formal beds and more than 1000 varieties of shrubs and trees. There were picturesque lodges beyond the main gate, timber fern houses dating from the 1890s, sweeping formal lawns, which are obviously very popular with the present population who were streaming in after school or work. The picturesque tradition of Jean Cladius Loudon had influenced the layout, which had been admirably adapted to the configuration of the terrain. There were more obvious later gardens which we didn't have time to look at, including a Japanese Garden. As we were coming to the end of the afternoon, and had resolved to drink sundowners on the lawns outside our lodges, we cut short our visit just before 5 o'clock. It had been a delightful introduction to an important aspect of Indian life and also a nostalgic backward glance at the days of the Raj, now more than 60 years distant. Ultimately, there would have to be a day of reckoning with Bales for the lack of proper support for our stay - no guide - and for the way in which they had tried to renege on providing full board at this hotel - happily that appeared to have been resolved by late afternoon, but it had been touch and go at lunch time.

For once, a buffet meal proved to be excellent quality. None of us had any complaints about the range and choice, between Indian and European dishes, with a bit of fusion in the middle. We retired to our rooms happily, and I enjoyed the novelty of having the boy in to light the fire. It's been many years since I have gone to sleep with an open fire and the reflection of flames flickering on the nearby walls and ceiling. Enchantment, enchantment, followed by sweet dreams (only I didn't get the sleep I deserved, again!).

Saturday 16 February
Time to Ooty - sightseeing options to be finalised but could be visits to surrounding area, toy train trip etc.

Jonathan had been able to arrange at short notice for a guide through the hotel. Rajiv had an excellent knowledge of the origins of Ooty and of its key early buildings, many of which are not publicly accessible. He was also a personable character and we had a splendid day assisted by his initiative in opening doors to us. One door remained firmly closed - the Ooty Club - it seems that the tradition of snooty Ooty still prevails in this benighted organisation. Despite approaches to members, the club concluded that without a written introduction submitted in advance it was a no go area. Well, my reaction is that of Groucho Marx - 'I wouldn't want to belong to a club that would have me as a member!' That apart we were most successful in gaining access to a number of buildings, which greatly enriched our understanding of the hill station in its original form, and as it now has become.

First off was to the Art College, with a distinctive stone-built house dating from 1875, now occupied by the Principal, and, more significantly, the central part of the college campus, known as Stone House, which had been built in a modest classical form in 1819 by John Sullivan, the creator of the settlement. Such was the pervasiveness of British-influence in southern India, that Ooty was founded a mere 20 years after the defeat of Tipu Sultan at Srirangaphattnan on the river outside Mysore, in 1799. Sullivan's bungalow had developed into an unruly ornamental house, still with a little touch of the early picturesque in its wings, and with splendid ironwork, undoubtedly imported from England, which had embellished it at a later date. Of course, during the whole of the 19th century, Ooty had not been connected to the train by rail, so it must have been an incredibly difficult journey to haul the cast-iron components and other building materials up to the settlement.

Then it was time for tea. We visited a pleasant, modest tea plantation, about four acres in extent. The way in which the hillsides had been terraced through the years adds a wonderful sheen to the topography. Tea is still picked by hand and is labour-intensive. The small plantations sell to the local factory, which we also visited and saw the whole process through to the packing. At the tea factory there was a helpful display about the history of tea drinking and the process of manufacturing the tea was explained. First of all, the fresh leaves are withered to remove a certain amount of the moisture content. Then they are fed down a chute into a succession of machines which cut and curl the leaves before transferring them to the next process of passing them through a centrifugal drum, then laying them out on metal trays, to be passed through to the final process of trimming and packing. The machinery is not complicated - it seems to be an ideal medium technical process suited to local agriculture. There are tea auctions conducted further down the valley, which we might have the opportunity to glimpse. The tea we saw was processed and largely used locally, but a high proportion of the crops goes further and ends up with one or other of the big manufacturers. Tetley, who have a name for low-grade tea in England, are clearly trying to upgrade their image and also increase their economic profile. During our visit they were the most often encountered manufacturer to be found in the hotel hospitality trays. Of quality manufacturers, such as Twinings, there had so far been no trace, even in the posher hotels. Nevertheless, it was fun to visit the plantation and factory and we snapped up samples to take back to England. We only saw the processing of loose tea - naturally the manufacturers were very scathing about the now ubiquitous teabag.

Then we made our way to the centre of Ooty, to the original Assembly Rooms, which had been built in 1883, and were now converted to a cinema, but run by a Trust established by Lord and Lady Willingdon (later Viceroy and Vicerene) in the 1920s. The interior had obviously been made over to adapt to its new use and it was difficult to visualise the stage with amateur companies, including army personnel playing the latest Savoy Operas from England - Gilbert and Sullivan was a staple of light entertainment during the British Raj. The trustee who showed us around was a correspondent locally for the Hindu Times. We were asked about our impressions of Ooty at some length and explained that we had come not merely to retrace the legacy of the Raj but also to see what had become of the place in its modern context. The population seems to have risen about tenfold from the days when it was a secluded hill station - from 20,000 to 200,000. And that had brought with it the inevitable redevelopment, overwhelming the charm of many of the early buildings which survived often in a deteriorating context. We hoped that it would not be too late to give some priority to heritage issues as Ooty was not merely a remnant of the Raj, but also a city with a wonderful natural setting which needed protection at the highest level. We had been impressed with the way in which certain features had been preserved and managed, particularly the Botanical Gardens. No doubt there will be something about our visit in tomorrow's paper if it reaches us before our early departure, since Jonathan is no retiring violet when it comes to publicity for the Worshipful Company,
After lunch in which Rajiv joined us, we made our way back into the hills to look at the Regency Lodge and Fernhills Palace. Both these buildings were projects of the Maharaja of Mysore in the 1870s. The Regency Lodge was modest in size, rather rundown, but a charming example of late picturesque architecture with its gabled roof and ornamental wooden bargeboards. We paid a fee of 100 Rupees each to be taken around the Fernhills Palace by the manager of the new hotel that is supposed to open in the next two months. This was the Mysore Palace in the hills, which was a larger and much more ambitious version of The Lodge. On the way we inspected some outbuildings which were being converted into bedrooms within the grounds of the new enterprise. We were surprised that they had been entirely stripped and repanelled with rather mixed results. Furthermore, the character of the buildings seemed to have been compromised by some of the internal alterations, which were not very well finished off. The tiled roof had been relaid in the traditional manner, over an undercloak of corrugated iron, which is the traditional detail. However, it seemed that the roof was not watertight and there was a damp atmosphere within the building.

Our reservations about this were as nothing compared with the main building. It certainly was the product of a taste, which, a couple of decades later, commissioned the great palace in Mysore itself, rebuilt between 1897 and 1904. The exterior enlarged the picturesque style to the grand manner, with some details that looked surprisingly like the work of that singular late 19th century Glaswegian architect, Alexander Greek Thompson. We were led inside. Plans for the interior were nothing if not ambitious. The manager almost boasted that no architect or engineer had been involved, and that the decorations had been done entirely with the personal involvement of the present Maharaja. If so, then they have wasted a great deal of money - millions of Rupees - over the past seven years it has taken to refurbish the building. The original fabric had survived in parts and was impressive, with some good panelling and also elaborate but beautifully crafted ceilings. To these had been added stock period plastered panels in arbitrary groups above the lower panelled part of the wall and the cornice of the ceilings. These panels, of ornamental flowers and some animals, had been painted, very badly, in bilious colours, and the boast was made that the gilded highlights were 24 carat gold leaf. We wandered through the main reception hall, where the workmen were having fun polishing the floors by dragging one of their colleagues around on an old curtain. We noticed that heating pipes were visible, running around the edge of the room, and even across a doorway - a not obvious benefit of declining to use architects or competent service engineers.

Next, we were shown the Maharaja suite - this was just as tasteless as the public areas, only the panelling was apparently new, plain walls, were told, were insufficient in themselves. Plaster panels and garishly coloured crude reproductions of 16th century Renaissance paintings were dotted around the walls of the reception hall. The bedroom was equally tastelessly decorated, off which there was an enormous bathroom with a stock corner bath and the usual ancillary fittings, stuck around the perimeter walls, with enough space to hold a dance in the centre. The marble floor and new tiles added to the character of ostentation without taste.

Everywhere there was careless detailing. In the main reception hall radiators had been carelessly fitted, obviously at a late date and in one corner the pipework, not yet concealed, ran at skirting level across the doorway. In the rather nice glazed walkways connecting the various suites, there were small panels of distressed wood framing light switches and fuses. Photographs from the Maharaja's collection were everywhere. Some were of modest interest - the remainder gave an impression of a family, which was dysfunctional in that it didn't really known what to do with its money. That character is clearly a genetic trait. Finally, we were shown a gruesome cocktail bar, which took is theme from the Ooty hunt. Photographs including slaughtered tigers and dead elephants ranged around the walls. Cosy it was not. The dining room featured brand new murals by a not very skilful Indian artist, one with a jolly scene of pig sticking, a pastime which subalterns indulged in for light recreation. We were offered the chance of a dinner there this evening: we declined as graciously as possible. Then the manager asked us as architects, for our opinions on what had been seen. Silence fell. I volunteered that we had seen an amazing transformation, or words to that effect. A few polite comments were made about it setting new boundaries for alteration and reuse of buildings in the 21st century, recognising that things could not remain as they always had. All of us wanted to shout 'monstrous'. But instead, rather crestfallen, we made our way down the drive back to the bus.

Then there was an interval for a fruitless search for a book about the Nilgiri Blue Mountain Railway. We had witnessed the departure of the morning train and had purchased our tickets ready for Sunday's departure, travelling down to Coonoor. But there was no bookstall open at the time. Rajiv promised that he would visit the Higginbottom Bookshop, and with that name, I had high hope, as the name is close to that of my maternal grandparents. Returning in the afternoon I enquired about books on the railway to be told 'oh no, we have nothing'. I felt that somebody had hit me in the gut. I really wanted to get something for Sam, preferably of a technical nature, and even a DVD to show how the railway works. All there was was a small size five rupee postcard. I am going to have to have a look tomorrow when we reach Coonoor as the bookstall will yet again not be open on the station when we depart.

Finally, we visited the Ooty Library. This had been established in the 1860s, and was a classic literary society of the period with a building to match. It's now in a rather overgrown garden, still proclaiming that it is a private organisation and not publicly accessible. However, we got in, and were rewarded by a detailed tour, including rooms full of damp-smelling bound volumes of ancient periodicals, including Punch. There was a Golden Jubilee portrait of Queen Victoria, which had been donated by the residents of Ooty. The circulation books appeared to be well-thumbed paperbacks. The first collection, if that be it, included many classics, probably first editions, and all in a sadly deteriorating state. Jonathan found a biography of his grandfather-in-law, a prominent official in Colonial India, in the Dictionary of National Biography. The most recent acquisition appeared to be Hillary Clinton's autobiography. How much longer can such an organisation carry on? I felt rather depressed as we made out way back to the hotel, via a very brief stop to look at a Toda House.

The Todas had been displaced by the English, and had lived in almost total isolation from the cities of the plains. Sullivan tried to set up plantations to provide employment, but the more skilled labour from outside seems to have displaced them in that work and they retreated to forest clearings. Their cause has recently been revived and they are building small grassed-roofed houses and indeed a small village. However, when we arrived, their spokeswoman was quite aggressive, demanding large sums of money and even a bag from one of our group, and tried to stop us taking photographs of the house on the hillside above. It was an unfortunate end to a splendid day. We certainly didn't want to get their backs up but that's how it turned out.

Sunday 17 February
A long drive today takes us to Cochin (282 KM/approximately 8 hours including stops) for our stay at the Taj Malabar Hotel overlooking the attractive harbour.

Situated on the waterfront on Willingdon Island, the Taj Malabar Hotel provides excellent views of Cochin harbour.

Farewell to Ooty. The distant bell of St. Stephen's rang across the valley as I walked down to our bus. We had been comfortable at The Savoy, which seemed like home from home after less than 48 hours. The service was efficient and friendly and it was certainly a good choice combining reasonable modern facilities with a historic complex of buildings, which had not been tarted up. Our visit was reported on page 5 of Tamil Nadu edition of the Daily Hindu, with the theme of development and conservation going hand in hand. This was something which I had emphasised during my comments to the journalist yesterday. There were extended quotes from many of us, including Jonathan, and we had certainly got fair treatment in an earnest piece of reporting. However, it made us feel good, but it would be unlikely to halt the juggernaut of progress in its tracks as Ooty modernises itself often, as we found yesterday, to the detriment of its heritage.

We had booked the first stage of the journey on the narrow gauge Nilgiri Blue Mountain Railway which grinds up from Mettupalayam on the plains below. The first part was relatively conventional, a 3 ft 6 gauge diesel hauled train with comfortable carriages. They would have been more comfortable had not there been an incessant accompaniment of loud Bollywood style music throughout our journey. As I feared, there was nothing available about the railway, or the journey, or the places through which we were passing, with evocative names such as Wellington. The journey reminded me of the Ffestiniog railway in Wales, which was why I was so anxious to get some information for Sam, particularly about the middle section, steam hauled since its completion 100 years ago. We had an enjoyable journey down to the first major stop Coonoor, which took about an hour. At Coonoor Station, there was excitement as an up train had just arrived, steam hauled, and the engine was watered and switched to the track where our train had arrived, to take us down along the rack rail stretch. We pottered round the engine sheds in which there were four more of the steam locomotives, all originals, which had not been replaced by diesel haulage. They seemed to be doing very well after 100 years, and again it would have been great to have Sam around for some technical explanations, or even to buy something about the railway. I've banged on about this a great deal. The station master at Coonoor was sympathetic, and said that any books about the railway would be available at Higginbottoms Bookstall on Ooty Station. Well, we couldn't crack that one.

We rejoined the bus for the journey down through the hairpin bends. This was one of the main access roads with many fewer bends and not as spectacular as the back route upwards through which we had driven 48 hours before. The views were still spectacular and once again we had the sense of driving down through the clouds onto the hot and dusty plains below.

The journey to Cochi was lengthy, but we had expected that. We made good progress through Coimbotare, a sprawling town on the plains, with a reputation for textile manufacture - indeed in the 1930s it was called the Manchester of Southern India. Then we chugged onwards on roads which were reasonable, and sometimes quite good. We had the sense of reaching the coastal plains with more intense heat and a greater coverage of palm trees. Beyond Thrissur, we followed the line of the coast, a few kilometres inland. Development began to hug the highway, rather like the strip development in Florida. Apparently, some of the finest temples in South India are to be found in and around Thrissur, but we made no stop: I think everybody was sated with temples in and around Hampi. Nevertheless, there are several pages about the town and its attractions in the Rough Guide, including references to the large Christian population which focuses on the Syrian/Catholic Lourdes Cathedral. This seems to be ecumenism at its most extreme, embracing many diverse branches of Christianity. It would have been a fascinating visit.

As we drew towards Cochi the development either side of the highway grew in size and status. Unfortunately its architecture didn't match its aspirations, as there were many tired expositions of post-modernism, as found in the United States 25 years ago. The topography became more interesting, however, as we crossed river inlets which reminded me of the Florida Keys. This was compounded when we suddenly turned off the main highway to cross several inlets via a toll bridge

Monday 18 February
Cochin, on the Malabar coast, is an attractive city influenced by many cultures - Arab, Dutch, British and Portuguese - and is rich in maritime history. In the morning there will be a tour of Fort Cochin, the oldest part of the city, visiting the 16th century Church of St. Francis, the Mattancherry (or 'Dutch') Palace and the enormous cantilevered Chinese fishing nets characteristic of the Kerala coast. We have left the afternoon free.

Kochi (Cochin) is an attractive waterfront city facing the Vemanad Lake, with Willingden Island, where we stayed, opposite. This was dockland, but the warehouses were not obtrusive. Considering that Kochi is now the second port of India, we didn't see too many cargo ships making their way to the jetties. A new container port is about to be built on Vallar Padam Island, opposite which the Taj Group are planning another resort hotel - not exactly the best mix of waterfront uses. The Taj Malabar had originated as a hotel, built in the 1930s, and underwritten by the Bibby Line Shipping Company, which maintained a large coastal fleet serving India and Burma. Today, the large cruise liners, QE2, Queen Mary II and Queen Victoria, call at Kochi. This is understandable as the Fort Cochin waterfront remains most attractive, and the harbour is criss-crossed by local ferry routes. In fact all we had was a standard tourist day, with brief calls at the main attractions.

Probably as a result of Jonathan's phone calls, a Bales rep had called the previous night, and today we had the services of Susan, a plump, cheerful Indian dressed in a vivid blue sari. We decided to take the bus inward, and return by the hotel ferry at 1.00 pm. It was a wise move, as the heat was oppressive, and even walking between the concentrated sights would have been uncomfortable. Kochi is now a thriving tourist location, port and growing business centre, with a population of 200,000, and rising. Happily, the modern development, which includes high-rise commercial and apartment blocks is taking place at Ernakulam about 3 miles to the east. It would have been worth a ferry ride to cross over there had there been time. The community was ethnically and religiously diverse, with a surprising 20% Christian, 20% Muslim, 60% Hindu, with a tiny proportion of the original Jewish merchants, 4 families, 13 people, a balance of Sephardi and Askenazy faiths. The Christians were largely Syrian Orthodox persuasion. The historic St. Francis Church is now under the Anglican umbrella, however.

Fort Cochin, at the head of the peninsula is the oldest part of the city, originally settled in the 14th century as the best harbour on the Malabar coast, for trade across the Arabian Sea. The Europeans arrived in the late 15th century, when Vasco da Gama arrived further north in 1498, and a few years later in Cochin: the inhabitants were not impressed by the paucity of his presents, but the Portuguese established a long-held colony at Goa, and profited from enmity between rival royal families to build the original fort at Cochin. The Dutch expelled them during the 17th century and their presence is marked by a number of surviving buildings, and by many more, which were embellished with 'Cape Dutch' gables during the late 19th century. The Church of St. Francis is said to date from the 16th century, and Vasco da Gama was buried there in 1524, though his body was later returned to his homeland. The Dutch appear to have embellished the church, with stucco facing in a simplified classical style, and it became Protestant in 1663: there are several impressive gravestones, simply carved on the tough and rough granite surface. These are now housed in the church, which has an impressive scale, with a Tuscan-pillared narthex beneath the west gallery, and a broad nave, beneath a steeply pitched roof, which must surely date from the late 19th Century restoration, along with the Gothic style pulpit and the fittings in the Chancel. One distinctive feature is the punkah system of ventilation - hanging cloths on suspended battens, worked from outside by ropes and pulleys - the punkah wallah was a common sight during the British occupation, which began in 1795, four years before the hegemony of the Raj was consolidated by the victory over Tipu Sultan outside Mysore. Near to the church there is an historic Dutch cemetery, but we did not have to explore it.

Next came the Chinese fishing nets on the north shore. These curious gossamer-like structures are both elegant and practical. They work with the stone counterweights, which help to keep the nets, which are stretched between a triangular arrangement of poles and are dangled in the sea at an angle so that fish can swim in. Periodically the nets are raised on a system of wooden levers and pulleys, which require vigorous hauling on the ropes, and awareness of the counterweights which swing violently. We tried it, and such is the efficiency of the pulleys that it was not too hard work for a hot day. As a demonstration of elementary mechanics it was superb, while the aesthetics prove that form follows function. In the dying afternoon sun, the nets looked wonderful as we cruised along the waterfront.

The next port of call was at the Mantacherry Palace, the so-called Dutch Palace, actually erected by the Portuguese as a gift to Raja Vira Keralavarma in the mid 16th century. The decoration of scenes from the Ramayand is outstanding, rich in colour and decidedly erotic. Shiva's six hands and two feet were fully occupied as he was surrounded by cowgirls, one with a very knowing expression. This painting was actually downstairs in the concubines' quarters. One of the murals had elephants mounting each other: clearly physical lovemaking, and its contemplation played a significant part in the daily (or nocturnal) life of the court.

More sober, and none the less impressive was the Pardesi (White Jew) Synagogue, founded 1568 and rebuilt 1664. It was a sober white building, opening off the main street into the Jewish Quarter. The interior is dominated by the flooring of precious 18th C blue and white Cantonese tiles - each hand painted showing a love affair between a Mandarin's daughter and a commoner. The chandeliers are 19th century Belgian, the Ladies' Gallery is supported on gilt columns, and the Ark houses four scrolls of the Torah, encased in silver gilt and gold. It's a richly-eclectic room, yet barely functioning for its original religious purpose, as most of its active congregation moved to Israel 60 years ago. Likewise, the Jewish merchants have long been superseded by their Indian counterparts, mainly Kashmiris selling souvenirs, bric-a-brac, fake antiques and a few genuine ones.

Shopping is a pastime that I am no longer comfortable with, or competent at. One or two of my purchases were over enthusiastic, but at least I found a good little book of evocative black and while postcards of scenes from the golden age of steam, on Indian Railways. Something for Sam at last!

The morning was hot and humid. Susan led us to the pier for the ferry back to the hotel - but to the wrong pier. Eventually we managed to get the boat to return to pick us up. I was prepared for a relaxing afternoon before the sunset water cruise. Fate intervened in the form of a massive nose bleed, which was quite frightening. I was actually rather hungry and had just ordered a steak sandwich for lunch, but had to retire to my room to try to quieten things down. I returned to the restaurant clutching damp warm cloths to my face, and leaned back between mouthfuls of food. The hotel management became quite alarmed, and I retreated to my room to try to lie flat and rest. Whereupon a manager rang the doorbell, and I had to get up to talk to them. Then a doctor telephoned, and I explained that I was trying to rest, and promised to call back if the bleeding had not ceased after 30 minutes. The Philip Baldwin came on the scene with the doctor, who insisted that I should have my blood pressure taken, to make sure I was fit to fly. Things were getting alarming - I knew that my blood pressure had been diagnosed as too high, and felt that the nosebleed had intervened as a consequence of overheating during the morning, although I had not felt too bad until we were waiting for the ferry to return to the hotel. I uttered a silent prayer, and was mightily relieved when the doctor pronounced that my blood pressure was normal. That was the good news - the bad news was that he stuffed a bandage up my right nostril, an extremely painful procedure, and recommended that I keep it in place until I was back in England. He also prescribed antibiotics. I lay back on the bed to take stock of the situation, feeling like a limp rag - only that was up my nostril.

I emerged in a shaky state for the cruise, but I was jolly glad that I'd made the effort. The golden sun was sinking in the west as we set off - firstly towards the Vypeen Island opposite the site for the proposed container port. There were a few Chinese style nets working in the shadows, and a great many painted fishing boats - one bearing the name Jesus Christ, evidence of the comparative popularity of Christianity in South India. After passing beneath Goshree Bridge 3, part of the modern highway linking back eastwards to the main commercial centre of Ernakulam we retraced our route, then turned west into the sun. There was the sound of a political orator addressing an outdoor meeting near the Government Jetty. We had barely been aware of the considerable amount of political unrest that had been going on across Southern India during our tour. A lorry drivers' strike had been called, which had also spread to buses. We had been told that to avoid difficulties when we left for the airport on Tuesday. The agitated tone of the speechmaker reminded us that all was not hunky dory in a state that had notoriously pursued its own political agenda by consistently electing Communist governments.

Any thoughts of policies were swept away as we rounded the promontory, and saw the glowing fiery disc of the sun behind the Chinese nets. These were as evocative as any sculptures, seemingly as fragile as gossamer, and as elegant as giant cobwebs. Yet we had earlier seen how robust and practical they were for their purpose. This was an unforgettable sight, which even digital cameras could not quite capture.

Finally, we swept across to the waterfront of Fort Cochin before returning to the private jetty of the Taj. My nose dressing was now soaked through, and I wondered how on earth I could follow medical advice and keep it in place. Furthermore, it was an open advert to Emirates Airlines that all was not well. After phoning Philip to borrow scissors to trim the end of the dressing, which would have been quite useless, I pulled the whole thing out and flushed it down the lavatory. Ominously my bathroom still bore traces of bloodstains from earlier in the day, but I was relieved to find that I was not adding to them. After taking Dutch courage in the form of a weak Jack Daniels and water, I crept down to the evening barbecue supper. There was rather a subdued atmosphere - it wasn't really the last night dinner we had thought that we might have, but as I ate I began to feel normal again, and thankful.

Later, packing completed, including the repackaging of the remaining Jack Daniels in a small plastic water bottle, encased in a plastic carrier bag and dirty socks (it survived the rigours of the luggage throwing contest in which all airports so punctiliously indulge nowadays), I reflected that I hadn't really seen enough of Kochi. An extra day or two for the backwater cruises, or a more thorough exploration of Fort Cochin would have been good. While I don't imagine returning to the 'temple route', or even Hampi. Having seen enough of the faded charms of Ooty, apart from a full ride on the railway, I can envisage returning to Kochi, and perhaps elsewhere in Kerala.

Tuesday 19 February
Early morning transfer to the airport for Emirates flight via Dubai back to London Heathrow (10.30-13.00/14.30-18.15).

Five a.m. wake up call, and breakfast at six - it was going to be a long day. We set off in the bus at 6.30 for the 18 mile drive to the airport which passed without incident. Although the bus hadn't been too comfortable - particularly on the bumpy roads, our driver had been excellent, always willing to respond to our requests for touring. He disappeared with the bus, when we did not require it, and slept in it overnight. He washed it every day and always kept it scrupulously clean. So we collected a good tip for him, which we all felt he had earned so much more deservedly than had the driver in the main tour (though apart from the crucial doubling of the journey time to Bijapur due to his ill-advised short cut, he was pretty competent).

We had a Bales representative to help us check in - he told us he would try to get the three of us in Economy - Tom, Christine and I - upgraded. It didn't work but obviously he felt that it increased his chance of a good tip. Then we sat in the Emirates Lounge - not very pre-possessing, and heard the last of the Denzil Penberthy stories from Jonathan - hilarious although not fit to appear in print. I added a mild Enoch and Eli (Anok and Ali) story from the Black Country, then we passed through into the Departure Lounge. I often find that I'm more comfortable with airport shopping than bazaars, and Kochin was no exception - the range of goods was nothing special but I found sets of geometrical wooden place mats and coasters at a reasonable price - and I hadn't had to carry them round with me.

Emirates flight to Dubai was uneventful, apart from the fact that my seat developed an instant collapse mode shortly after take-off. I reported it and they were trying to move me when I got up, worked it from standing position and hey presto it righted itself. My large gin and tonic consisted of a full plastic glass of gin, with a can of tonic, and another glass with ice for me to mix my drink in! The best airline G&T ever! It compensated for the awful choice of films including an irritating Indo-American homage to the hippy trail, whereby three brothers created havoc aboard an Indian train, chasing up the whereabouts of their mother who had gone to ground in a temple in the hills. Then I discovered that the classical music channel was playing a centenary tribute to Rimsky Korsakov. It was pleasant to hear 'The Sea and Sinbad's Ship' from Scheherazade as the plane flew over the Arabian Sea and the gulf coastline, towards Dubai.

Anti-shopping set in again at the airport - the arrangement of the gates seems deliberately to force you to walk the length of the world's largest duty free hall. As far as I could see, the prices weren't much less than back in the UK. But there seemed to be whole families from the eastern fringes of London or thereabouts, who were obviously doing their duty to uphold the national reputation for conspicuous consumption, as they fell on designer labels like starving vultures. Perhaps they have long weekend shopping breaks to Dubai Airport, with a coach tour of the spectacular new buildings thrown in. As Christine remarked when we touched down, it was good to be landing somewhere where the buildings looked clean, and had actually been completed, rather than left half-finished for decades. That may be so, but I can't warm to Dubai, which is way down my list of 'must visits'.

As on the outward flight, the Dubai-Heathrow leg was made more tolerable by the excellent choice of classic films - although it took some time before the system was up and running. My personal choice included Disney's Lady and the Tramp (sentimental middle-America and the cartoon equivalent of Meet me in St. Louis) which I last saw at the age of 12, How green was my valley (an impossibly sugar-coated saga of 19th century life in the Welsh mining valleys) and (best by far) Spencer Tracy and the 19 year old Elizabeth Taylor in Father of the Bride. Added to these pleasures, the food was really good, for Economy. It was with a pleasurable sense of fulfilment that we landed at Heathrow.

Reality set in as we trudged through the interminable corridors to Baggage Reclaim. The luggage took ages to come through - Jonathan and Victoria had already left, and presumably their cases had been among the first to arrive. We didn't envy them their connection to Reading, worst Great Western to Exeter, and taxi to Bude, Cornwall. My case was pretty late coming through and Christine's appeared to have been lost - but it turned up 55 minutes after we had touched down. I called Lee from the reclaim area, and it was good to settle down into a luxury car for the trip back to Ashwell. First we dropped Christine off at Hounslow West to her modest B&B. It was only later that I learned of her nightmare of cancelled flights and delays so that she didn't get back to Hamburg until 11.30 pm on Wednesday 20th.

Arriving home at 8.25 pm, I unpacked, and put the first load in the washing machine. Next day Sheila came in, and I collected Beecham, whose new lease of life seemed to be flourishing. It was only as I downloaded and began to sort through my pictures on the evening of the 20th February, that I began to appreciate the magnitude of what I had experienced over the previous three weeks, as the blur of temples and forts began to focus. Yes there had been frustrating difficulties along the way, but it had been overall a richly rewarding experience, perhaps only to be fully appreciated after the dust of travel had been shaken off, and the system returned to what passes for normality.

Dr Mervyn Miller
India 01-19 February 2008; Ashwell 20 February - 20 March 2008