The Concert

In Wanganui there was a spooky feeling in the Victorian-era Opera House, which was made all the more evident in the disappointingly half empty cavernous space, with all its original details still intact, although the worse for wear. The Steinway Grand sat imposingly alone on the deep, weathered stage, a red spotlight outlining its classic features. Our two front seats were at a perfect angle to see the maestro's fingers work their magic, and we had the row to ourselves.

A couple of minutes after the starting time an impeccably attired smallish man walked briskly onto the stage   briefly acknowledging the warm applause give by the faithful few. Wanganui had not come out in force to hear its most brilliant exponent of Beethoven. But G and I were there to hear him play four beautiful Sonatas, one of which, the most familiar Pathetique, was instantly recognised and at the end Michael was welcomed back for a second bow. The audience was good and receptive, but the small numbers in the large chamber was not conducive to a rapturous result. But it was very satisfying and later we followed a lady back stage to pay our compliments. He was alone in his dressing room and was gracious as we stayed only a minute to express our thanks.

On walking home it was strange to think how strong the Beethoven presence had been, and now we were in somewhat philistine Wanganui streets.  G walked me back to The Grand Hotel and said goodnight, we were seeing each other for a look at the coast in the morning. As I mounted the oaken staircase to the first floor, I looked down and caught sight of a small black besuited man followed by a white bearded friend walking a few steps behind, entering the Irish Bar. Michael Houstoun obviously did need to come down after such a virtuosic performance, and it was here that he and his friend had chosen to come. Discreetly I went in to my bedroom to watch some Maori Television, leaving them to have private drinks. It was a good way for me to end a very interesting evening in Wanganui.

I'm sure I'll return one day for another visit to Wanganui, as my conversation the following day with G at his Castlecliff beach home was only a prologue.The beach which he showed me at Castlecliff had black iron filled sand, and was bleak, but somehow was quite mesmerising, with small but relentless Tasman waves breaking onto an empty but driftwood strewn stretch of sand, which ironically cast my mind to think of the Yorkshire Moors in Charlotte Bronte's 'Jane Eyre'. 

Tonight, however, I am to have my first experience of witnessing the 'Whirling Dervishes', which is apparently a very popular pastime for some in Wellington, including my friend B from Scottish Dancing, who has kindly invited me to attend. 

We are celebrating the anniversary of the most famous Persian Sufi of them all, the much-loved poet of   love, Jalal al-Din Rumi.