This week and weekend has been another busy one after our fantastic weekend in Pairs (which you can read about here, here and here).
Yesterday was my Grandad's 71st Birthday, so we were over at my Grandparents house for a birthday breakfast, candles, cake and of course digging in the garden followed by a soaking with the hose (which my nephew found very funny, I mean what two year old wouldn't). So the morning was off to a lovely start.
I then made my way into London for lunch or a second breakfast in a little pub in Pimlico. With lunch finished we then walked down to the Tate Britain, which I hadn't had the opportunity to visit since I was a teenager at school.
 |
| The Tate Britain |
I was blown away by the beauty of all the artists work that I had studied throughout my time at school, college and university. I was also shocked by how much I remembered about the art, the artists names and even how I was able to recognise the artists work by just looking at it.
There are a few pieces that I love to look at, the way the work is created and even the thought processes behind them. Freud is one of my favourite artists, I feel like you see two different paintings depending on how close you are stood to them.
 |
| The Lady of Shallott |
However, my favourite piece and one that I wouldn't mind having hung on a wall in my house is The Lady of Shallott, which is based on this poem...
The Lady of
Shalott (1832)
By Alfred, Lord
Tennyson
Part I
On either side
the river lie
Long fields of
barley and of rye,
That clothe the
wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the
field the road runs by
To many-tower'd
Camelot;
The
yellow-leaved waterlily
The
green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the
water chilly
Round about
Shalott.
Willows whiten,
aspens shiver.
The sunbeam
showers break and quiver
In the stream
that runneth ever
By the island
in the river
Flowing down to
Camelot.
Four gray
walls, and four gray towers
Overlook a
space of flowers,
And the silent
isle imbowers
The Lady of
Shalott.
Underneath the
bearded barley,
The reaper,
reaping late and early,
Hears her ever
chanting cheerly,
Like an angel,
singing clearly,
O'er the stream
of Camelot.
Piling the
sheaves in furrows airy,
Beneath the
moon, the reaper weary
Listening
whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,
Lady of
Shalott.'
The little isle
is all inrail'd
With a
rose-fence, and overtrail'd
With roses: by
the marge unhail'd
The shallop
flitteth silken sail'd,
Skimming down
to Camelot.
A pearl garland
winds her head:
She leaneth on
a velvet bed,
Full royally
apparelled,
The Lady of
Shalott.
Part II
No time hath
she to sport and play:
A charmed web
she weaves alway.
A curse is on
her, if she stay
Her weaving,
either night or day,
To look down to
Camelot.
She knows not
what the curse may be;
Therefore she
weaveth steadily,
Therefore no
other care hath she,
The Lady of
Shalott.
She lives with
little joy or fear.
Over the water,
running near,
The sheepbell
tinkles in her ear.
Before her
hangs a mirror clear,
Reflecting
tower'd Camelot.
And as the mazy
web she whirls,
She sees the
surly village churls,
And the red
cloaks of market girls
Pass onward
from Shalott.
Sometimes a
troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an
ambling pad,
Sometimes a
curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd
page in crimson clad,
Goes by to
tower'd Camelot:
And sometimes
thro' the mirror blue
The knights
come riding two and two:
She hath no
loyal knight and true,
The Lady of
Shalott.
But in her web
she still delights
To weave the
mirror's magic sights,
For often thro'
the silent nights
A funeral, with
plumes and lights
And music, came
from Camelot:
Or when the
moon was overhead
Came two young
lovers lately wed;
I am half sick
of shadows,' said
The Lady of
Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from
her bower-eaves,
He rode between
the barley-sheaves,
The sun came
dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flam'd upon
the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir
Lancelot.
A red-cross
knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in
his shield,
That sparkled
on the yellow field,
Beside remote
Shalott.
The gemmy
bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some
branch of stars we see
Hung in the
golden Galaxy.
The bridle
bells rang merrily
As he rode down
from Camelot:
And from his
blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver
bugle hung,
And as he rode
his armour rung,
Beside remote
Shalott.
All in the blue
unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd
shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and
the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one
burning flame together,
As he rode down
from Camelot.
As often thro'
the purple night,
Below the
starry clusters bright,
Some bearded
meteor, trailing light,
Moves over
green Shalott.
His broad clear
brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd
hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath
his helmet flow'd
His coal-black
curls as on he rode,
As he rode down
from Camelot.
From the bank
and from the river
He flash'd into
the crystal mirror,
'Tirra lirra,
tirra lirra:'
Sang Sir
Lancelot.
She left the
web, she left the loom
She made three
paces thro' the room
She saw the
water-flower bloom,
She saw the
helmet and the plume,
She look'd down
to Camelot.
Out flew the
web and floated wide;
The mirror
crack'd from side to side;
'The curse is
come upon me,' cried
The Lady of
Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy
east-wind straining,
The pale yellow
woods were waning,
The broad
stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low
sky raining
Over tower'd
Camelot;
Outside the
isle a shallow boat
Beneath a
willow lay afloat,
Below the
carven stern she wrote,
The Lady of
Shalott.
A cloudwhite
crown of pearl she dight,
All raimented
in snowy white
That loosely
flew (her zone in sight
Clasp'd with
one blinding diamond bright)
Her wide eyes
fix'd on Camelot,
Though the
squally east-wind keenly
Blew, with
folded arms serenely
By the water
stood the queenly
Lady of
Shalott.
With a steady
stony glance—
Like some bold
seer in a trance,
Beholding all
his own mischance,
Mute, with a
glassy countenance—
She look'd down
to Camelot.
It was the
closing of the day:
She loos'd the
chain, and down she lay;
The broad
stream bore her far away,
The Lady of
Shalott.
As when to
sailors while they roam,
By creeks and
outfalls far from home,
Rising and
dropping with the foam,
From dying
swans wild warblings come,
Blown
shoreward; so to Camelot
Still as the
boathead wound along
The willowy
hills and fields among,
They heard her
chanting her deathsong,
The Lady of
Shalott.
A longdrawn
carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted
loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes
were darken'd wholly,
And her smooth
face sharpen'd slowly,
Turn'd to
tower'd Camelot:
For ere she
reach'd upon the tide
The first house
by the water-side,
Singing in her
song she died,
The Lady of
Shalott.
Under tower and
balcony,
By garden wall
and gallery,
A pale, pale
corpse she floated by,
Deadcold,
between the houses high,
Dead into
tower'd Camelot.
Knight and
burgher, lord and dame,
To the planked
wharfage came:
Below the stern
they read her name,
The Lady of
Shalott.
They cross'd
themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight,
minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.
There lay a
parchment on her breast,
That puzzled
more than all the rest,
The wellfed
wits at Camelot.
'The web was
woven curiously,
The charm is
broken utterly,
Draw near and
fear not,—this is I,
The Lady of
Shalott.'
Once we had left the Tate Britain, we walked along a little bit and jumped on some Borris bikes. You can hire the bikes really easily and if you make sure you are only on the bikes for 30 minutes at a time, there will be no charge other than the initial £2 you paid for the bike.
We made our way down passed Buckingham palace on the bikes, through horse guards parade and across the Hyde park. We rode through all the way to Kensington Park and then back around again.
It was a fantastic day and I would highly recommend it, here are some more snaps I took along the way...
No comments:
Post a Comment