730 things — Day 113 of 365

Mozart's music is soul food like no other for me. In recent times I have gone back again and again to this aria.

A sublime performance of sublime music. 

I cannot imagine a world with no Mozart in it. Of all the music in all the world, his is my very favourite.

Apart from visiting my grandmothers in East and West Yorkshire respectively, from our home in Hertfordshire, my childhood had no holidays in it. My father's work, however, took him all over the world, and most of the time he was away travelling. In the 1970s we had some blazing hot summers, and during one of those he had to spend a week driving across France, Switzerland, Austria and Germany. It was decided that my mother would go with him, and they said I could go too, because there was nowhere else for them to leave me. I think it must have been 1971, because I was either 13 or 14 at the time. 

We went in the midst of a heatwave, and spent most of the time in the car. To cross that distance and home again within a week involves a lot of driving. But I loved it — it felt like such an adventure. I loved going on the ferry, and travelling across the long arid stretches of French farmland. 

We arrived late at night at each destination, and my father would leave us in the car while he went in search of a hotel. Early in the morning he went off to seek out commercial deals to be made, leaving me to manage the French or German of whichever hotel we were in. 

Two special memories abide. We stopped at Nürnberg, where there was a castle or part of a medieval walled city or something — I remember it only vaguely, but there was a street market where I and my mother bought a bag of black cherries; and they were the biggest, sweetest cherries imaginable. My mother had the money and I had the language — it was my job to ask for the bread rolls and the fruit or whatever we were getting, and she paid. Good teamwork.

My other memory — and I have always treasured this — was the 24 hours we spend in Salzburg. We drove in late one evening, and my father found us rooms above a bakery in a narrow street. We dropped off our bags and went out for a walk in the town. It was very late, dark even in the middle of summer. On the pavements sat woodcarvers making statues and toys under the streetlamps. The windows of the houses were open in the hot weather, and as it happened we had arrived there right in the middle of the Mozart festival. From those open windows poured snatches of music, people practicing the violin or the flute or singing. In the middle of the town square water cascaded from an ornate fountain with sculptures of rearing horses in it.

My parents were chronically poor, but my mother wanted me to have the chance to go to a concert at the festival. So the next day, before my father went off selling, they took me to the Mozarteum to see if there would be a cheap standing ticket left over — just one, they couldn't afford more. And there was; so I had the chance to go to a concert in Salzburg at the Mozart festival. I cannot tell you how special and magical that felt — because I loved Mozart's music best of all the music in the world. At home we had two Mozart records — vinyl discs in those days — one with Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and the other with four Mozart piano concertos; I listened to them over and over again.

We went into one of the shops where the carved wooden artefacts were sold, and my mother bought me something she could afford — a small and simple statue of Our Lady, very pure and sweet.

Before I left Salzburg, I whispered a promise to Mozart that I would come back. Like my mother, I have always prioritised family and housing over anything else, and never been rich, so I never have been back to Salzburg. It seems unlikely now that I ever will. 

But I formed a connection with Mozart, and made a link with him in that visit. We are eternal, you know. It is possible to reach across centuries and touch somebody, so that you both know.

Last weekend, in our house, we watched a Royal Opera House performance on Alice's DVD of The Marriage of Figaro. Watching it, I realised with a sudden shock that the music master in it is Mozart telling us about himself. That moment when he steps forward to talk about the persona he has assumed to protect his vulnerability in a harsh world — it's not just a character, it's Mozart. I don't think I'm just making that up, I suddenly saw it; I think it's true.

And today, for things to send on their way, I have these — nothing much, just a die and door furniture for a keyhole. They will go into the DIY box I'm putting together for Freegle.

I have no idea if these things will be of any use to anyone. I can't understand why I've kept them for so long.