Tag: travel

Hamburg

Hamburg, officially and rather grandly the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg, is perhaps surprisingly Germany’s second largest city (Berlin takes first prize), home to 1.9 million residents and second largest economic centre. By cargo volume Hamburg port is the third busiest after Rotterdam and Antwerp. I’m sure Hamburg wins at something.

It does. Hamburg comprises more waterways than the combined efforts of Venice and Amsterdam. It’s also one of the greenest cities in Europe. Stick that up your portals Rotterdam and Amsterdam.

I have visited before – Sus hasn’t- but that was 40 years ago as a spotty teen maxing out my Interrail card. I suspect it’s changed.

An especially pissed off storm – whose silly name alludes me – delayed our flight by a day and we arrived on the Friday, not the Thursday as originally planned. In fairness we weren’t heading home until the following Friday and busy Wednesdays made any delay less onerous than it might have been. And we went to the pub.

More annoyingly, our BA flight was delayed by about an hour delaying our arrival at our hotel until about 8pm.

NH Mitte Hamburg is a 5-10 minute walk from the magnificently named Schlump (U2/U3) and a 5 minute walk from more traditionally named Christuskirche (U2). If you prefer a stroll, and we generally do, much of tourist Hamburg is reachable within about 30 minutes. The staff were friendly and helpful, our room clean and welcoming and the breakfast – we had it twice – excellent if expensive.

Like any other metro, in any other city the Hamburg Metro is not especially complicated. It’s clean, regular and extensive. The ticket machines less so. We observed the lesser spotted staff member though none appeared equipped to sell tickets to frustrated tourists. Probably wise.

Nevertheless, the most distinctive aspect of Hamburg’s Metro was the total lack of barriers. Anywhere. Now the good folk of Hamburg seemed a decent bunch but a system built on trust? For use by humans? Bizarre.

NH Mitte Hamburg is located in residential and pleasantly upmarket Eimsbüttel – the German language continued giving all week – one of Hamburg’s 7 boroughs. Once checked in, and a chat with the ever helpful staff, we wandered onto the wonderful Weidenallee. Literally around the corner from the Hotel this charming street is packed with interesting restaurants, local bars, bakeries and other speciality shops. And architecturally attractive with many handsome late Victorian and early 20th century buildings.

Weidenallee is a grown up street, witnessed by seemingly hoards of pram pushing parents. This is not the Reeperbahn and much the better for it. Unless you’re under 20 with raging hormones. We, however, loved it.

Denns, an organic supermarket, became a regular haunt (sad but oh so true) as did Beyond Beer (www.beyondbeer.de), a bottle shop full of beery treats. Sus had chosen the hotel. I hid my delight well.

For a little more craft beery stuff please go to https://wordpress.com/post/tonysbeersnobblog.wordpress.com/575

There’s also a Michelin one star restaurant (Jellyfish), annoyingly closed until after we returned home.

Hang a right at Denns and you enter Schanzenviertel, an area nicked from the lovely Eimsbüttel borough by the naughty Altona borough. Hamburg’s Hunger Games. Considered only second to the Reeperbahn for nightlife Sternschanze is chock full of bars, boutiques, takeout food joints and graffiti. Hamburg appears to attract graffiti artists. Must be the climate.

Depending on viewpoint, Schanzenviertel has definitely benefitted or suffered from gentrification. We both liked the area, with it’s Schanzenpark and convenient Sternschanze U Bahn (U3). We often stopped there for a cheeky takeout, a cheekier Denn’s or extremely cheeky light ale at Beyond Beer. All were between Sternschanze station and our hotel, perhaps a 10-15 minutes walk away.

The Long Walk

We had no set plan, just head towards Nord Hauptbahnhof, the Central Station. We took the roundabout route. Very roundabout route. And, I felt a tad unfairly, it rained on us. On and off all day.

Sus. Being Sus.

After starting as we’d finished the previous evening (Weidenallee and Schanzenvierte) we took a left somewhere (probably) before passing Hamburg’s very own entry into ‘Sexiest Telecom Tower’ along with the BT Tower near Tottenham Court Road here in London. Next modern exhibition halls (Messehallen on U2) before a welcome stroll through the quite lovely Stadtpark.

On leaving the park we discovered both the Radisson Blu and Central Station. The Radisson Blu was indeed the Radisson Blu. The Central Station was not the Central Station. It was the beautiful Bahnhof Dammtor and, an in another city, a main railway station.

Continuing our wander we came across the Binnenalster (Inner Alster Lake). On the opposite bank spires peeked out from between handsome edifices and a resplendent Christmas tree.

A pretty 19th century bridge took us across – not literally we had to walk – to Hauptbahnhof. Victorian residential architecture is undoubtably handsome though I actually prefer the Art Deco and Georgian period. Nevertheless, Victorian residential architecture pales in comparison to Victorian industrial architecture. Temples to power and influence. Hauptbahnhof is such an example. Hamburg had arrived.

It’s gorgeous, both on the outside and perhaps more so on the inside, rivalling such masterpieces as London’s St Pancras and New York’s Grand Central.

However, it should be remembered many accuse those same Victorians, with some justification, of architectural vandalism tearing down beautiful historical buildings in the name of progress.

The area around the Hauptbahnhof is a tad sketchy though literally across the road is the main shopping centre. High end shops vie with large department stores and chains for that holistic shopping experience. Agreeable enough not necessarily our cup of designer cufflinks.

Perhaps the highlight was a fish ladder enabling finned ones to navigate a difficult stretch of the Elbe. It’s a human solution to a problem often created by humans. Heartening to witness.

The Adam and Eve Soul Food Restaurant (Schanzenvierte) was our chosen eating establishment. And delicious it was too, easily recommended. Cheeky ales at Beyond Beer (https://www.beyondbeer.de/en/) polished off our long walk – 10.5 kilometres according to our suspiciously clever iPhone.

New Years Eve Day/Lubeck

After our first attempt to eat as much as our own body weight at breakfast – as would you at 20 Euros a pop – we began our exploring.

It was a Sunday. Hamburg, with the exception of a few restaurants and bars, closes its doors on a Sunday – vaguely reminiscent of England in the 1980s.

However, if you find yourself need of retail therapy or schnitzel sandwich the larger railways stations, including their shops and bars, are open as near normal. And Hauptbahnhof was our destination, a Lubeck daytrip the purpose of the visit. Not a schnitzel sandwich.

Located at the end of the platforms a small glassed in area served as a bar and smoking den. It was busy at 11.30am and appeared to have been open for some time. Perhaps glassed so that passing passengers might judge and feel better about themselves. I certainly did and did.

From our own observations, smoking was more prevalent in Hamburg than London. Conversely, vaping appeared considerably less popular particularly amongst the young.

Acquiring tickets and the 45 minute train journey were painless. The unfolding scenery, comprising of uninspiring countryside and somewhat dreary conurbations, was disappointing.

Lübeck was neither dreary or uninspiring. This mediaeval marvel, and UNESCO World Heritage Site, is surrounded by water and perhaps surprisingly built to a plan. Which survives intact, in part thanks to 1970s activists, to this day. Mediaeval and Renaissance town houses, 5 gothic churches and canals dominate Lübeck’s old town. Much of Lübeck originates from when the Hanseatic League was top mutt with lucky Lübeck controlling North European long distance trade.

Lübeck is gorgeous even on a wet, cold and windy Sunday afternoon. We spent several happy hours wandering contentedly around only stopping for vegan nosh at NI Vegan. Genuine surprise – it was open and the food was possibly the best we ate all week.

Suitably foddered we explored further discovering the Rathaus – a sometimes appropriate moniker for those town hall folk if a tad unfair on rats – and beautiful churches. Popping into one showed the outside was no fluke. Magnificant.

We had a 27 minute walk back to the train station. Our train was in 29 minutes. Rain added further incentive. A little drama, particularly when cruelly tricked by google (sent down a blocked road). Cue dramatic rousing music as we boarded with minutes to spare. In truth, the next train was only half an hour behind. More ‘Railway Children’ than ‘Brief Encounter’.

Back to hotel, beers bought the previous evening, whilst listening to New Year fireworks. Not the barrage one hears in London.

St Pauli

Knowing New Year morning would offer sparse breakfast options we, at the hotel buffet breakfast, again maximised our food intake against body mass. Including a donut. The fine people of Hamburg – and they really were – love a donut or several.

Predictably, tranquility reigned as we strolled towards St Pauli. With the exception of a Trans club. Apparently and rather admirably still drum and bassing (or whatever) the day after the night before. It was loud. It was after midday. Making it beyond 10.30pm fills us with a sense of pride.

Detritus of Hamburg’s partying masses was, unremarkably, everywhere. Debris from unimaginative beverage and food choices were expected. What wasn’t was evidence of deceased fireworks liberally smeared over the urban landscape. Though Germany has relatively strong laws surrounding the sale and setting off fireworks Hamburg appears to favour the pavement as a launchpad. Bizarre.

On our way to the infamous Reeperbahn we passed FC St Pauli, a football team in the 2nd tier of German footy. So what? FC St Pauli have developed a cult following within Germany and outside for their strong and politically liberal stances. The stadium is sold out game after game. Sales of their merchandise out strips most top tier clubs.

I love football, have most of my life. Nevertheless, occasionally it’s not about trophies, the football on the pitch or owner’s money. It’s about a strong community and a better world. Go FC St Pauli.

A carpark sits in front of the ground and a bizarre construction to one side. Part evil factory, part futuristic garden city in the sky. This bastard child is still under construction. What will it become when it reaches building adulthood. A destroyer of worlds or a bringer of peace?

The Reeperbahn is a street, or neighbourhood, infamous for nightlife, bars, fast food joints and prostitution – legal in this bit of Hamburg. Unsurprisingly, a street both loved and loathed, was quiet early afternoon on New Year’s Day.

Epic levels of detritus from the previous night’s festivities covered the street. The homeless gathered around in small groups. An air of vague menace added to the weird vibe. The Reeperbahn, particularly one side, is all rather nasty. Sus wanted off as soon as she arrived on. I felt similar but wanted to better understand this notorious street.

Not for us, not our cup of fizzy lager. We are in our 50s, not 20s. For any hormone laden, late teen the Reeperbahn might appear a nirvana. Vague memories of my 20s offer insight. If not understanding.

Cold weather and age had adversely affected my apparently shrinking bladder. A Brewdog, at the top of the Reeperbahn, proved most welcome. I chatted to the manager, acquired an ale, went to the toilet a second time. Then left.

On leaving the dog that brews – now that would get the punters in – we ambled over to Hamburg’s Speicherstadt, the warehouse district. Built between 1881 and the late 1920s this UNESCO World Heritage site is the largest warehouse complex in the world. And quite beautiful.

I’ve always admired warehouse architecture – Butlers Wharf being a favourite building in London – and Sus adores miniature worlds. One of these beautiful warehouses contained Miniatur Wunderland (https://www.miniatur-wunderland.com/). Put together my 2 enterprising brothers back in 2000 Miniatur Wunderland happens to be the largest model railway system in the world and been voted the most popular German tourist attraction. Apparently, many agree with Sus. I found it’s often the best way.

Miniatur Wunderland is properly spectacular with numerous miniature worlds including an airport. We spent 2 absorbing hours wondering at both the details and scale. Unfortunately, we weren’t able see all the worlds – somehow missed South America, not easy to do. There’s always next time.

Highly recommended.

Back to our hood for a beverage and food. Then sleep. We’d somehow walked further than the day before.

Harbour Cruise Day

Breakfast was at Denn’s. Obviously. It was an unpleasantly wet and cold day. Thermals were an invisible part of our wardrobe, probably a good thing seeing how figure hugging they were. No one wants to see that early on a back to work day.

We squelched our way down to the harbour – or Sus did. Leaky shoes, each foot encased in a plastic bag, doomed her to freezing feet for much of the day.

An English chap, with a disconcerting resemblance and manner of an ex colleague, explained the merits of the various boat trips. After careful consideration, we chose the first to leave. The weather may have influenced our decision. Being allowed on board to wait out the 20 minutes before departure perhaps played a part.

The small and agreeably serviceable boat was equipped with large expenses of glass, clean toilets and a bar selling snacks and beverages. An improvement on other watery excursions where a tiny wave might turn the boat into a mini Titanic.

We journeyed through the warehouse district, passed streets both recognisable and yet to be explored before the port proper.

I was utterly captivated by the balletic loading of a huge container ship enduring the freezing cold and rain on a small open area at our boat’s stern. No human activity was visible only adding to this magnificent mechanical ballet.

Though expensive (30 Euro each) and with an overly loud and enthusiastic German commentary (English was available via an inevitable app) this hour long cruise, with and perhaps even because of the awful weather, was hugely enjoyable.

After again wandering around the shopping area, and with the weather unable to compromise, we headed back to the hotel so Sus could thaw out her feet.

You’ve guessed correctly, off to another craft beer spot for an ale or two. A 15 minutes stroll from our hotel brings thirsty patrons to the unimaginatively named Craft Bier Bar. The lack of the oft silly name more than compensated by about 30 taps of quality crafts and delicious pizza.

An Alien Invasion. Or a wet carpark outside a supermarket.

Bremen

Bremen is a little more than an hour by train from Hamburg. The charming scenery (a welcome upgrade from between Hamburg and Lubeck) is speckled with similarly attractive towns and villages. Noticeable was the amount of flooding in passing fields.

Bremen is another of those once successful Hanseatic cities this time located on the river Weser.

The UNESCO world Heritage sites of town hall (1405) and oddly named Roland Statue (1404), symbolising the city’s freedoms, both play a their part in Bremen’s beautiful market square. The town hall, in particular, is a proper stunner and worth the train money alone.

Contentedly installed in the town hall cellars Bremen’s Ratskeller houses one of the oldest and finest collections of German wine. St Peter’s Cathedral, dating back to the 11th century, also competes for your affections with its UNESCO chums.

And do check out the wonderfully quirky Bremen Town Musicians statue (1953) close to the town hall. A fan favourite. Including us.

Böttcherstraße (1922 to 1932), and built in the architecturally rare expressionist style according to the Bremen Tourist Site, and a gem to meander slowly down. Bremen’s oldest district, the Schnoor quarter, is a maze of pretty 5th and 16th century lanes lined with similarly pretty shops and houses.

For those craving a little modernity and retail therapy Bremen also has an attractive town shopping heart with all the usual suspects.

We knew what we were getting with Lübeck, Bremen was more of an unknown. Somewhat unexpectedly we preferred the latter to the former.

The return train was at least 30 minutes late. So much for famed German efficiency.

Omnipollo (https://www.omnipolloshamburg.com/) was another craft brew spot. And pink. Undoubtably the quirkiest of the 3 Hamburg craft outposts. Great beer and friendly service were a given.

Very pink.

Große Elbstraße

Our last full day in Hamburg. Late start, metro to Landungsbrücken (harbour) hanging a right and not our usual left towards the town centre. We like to live dangerously.

We wandered into St Pauli. Tiptoeing gentrification apparently replacing ‘don’t ever go there’ to ‘Darling, I think we should buy in St Pauli’. After Reeperbahn nastiness this was both a significant and welcome upgrade.

Große Elbstraße, scampering alongside the Elbe, was especially charming. Original fish market buildings attractively converted into shops, fish restaurants and bars. FrischeParadies is an upmarket supermarket with a fish cafe at one end. We ate there. It was fab. The wine was also splendid. We later discovered it on the shelves for less than half the price. Bugger. Should have stuck to the house wine.

Back to Schanzenviertel, breakfast treats from Denns, beer treats from Beyond Beer. It had been a bitterly cold day, even our thermals were thinking about a holiday, but a thoroughly enjoyable one.

Flying Home Day

It was snowing. Rather alot. A gallery appealed.

We slipped and slithered our way to the Kunsthalle enjoying an hour or two with some Grand Masters.

They say hi.

Back to the hotel, airport, flight home.

Final Thoughts

Highlights? Warehouse district, Miniatur Wunderland, distinct neighbourhoods, the water.

We’ve visited Berlin and Munich each a couple of times. Great cities both. But you know what, we preferred Hamburg. Even with the cold and wet weather. Hamburg is attractive, green and friendly. And perhaps doesn’t take itself too seriously.

Loved it.

Many thanks for reading.

Athens

I mentioned in my previous blog – https://wordpress.com/post/constanttravel.travel.blog/305 – that the Good Ship Croydon cruise originated and concluded in Athens. Our Airb&B was in Plaka, old town Athens. Five nights, six days stretched lazily into the near future.

A bit of history. Annoyingly ambitious Ottomans conquered Greece in the 15th Century. Silver lining? They booted out the Byzantines. The Greeks reclaimed their country, following several unsuccessful attempts, in 1821 during the War of Independence. Happy endings all round.

A bit more history. Much of modern Plaka was constructed, by returning Greeks and non Greek settlers, in the decades following 1821 though remnants of older civilisations dot the city landscape.

Once settled into our commodious temporary home we explored Plaka.

Tourist central and not difficult to understand why. Plaka is charming, close to the bestest touristy bits and resplendent with tavernas, restaurants and shops.

Kolonaki, an upmarket Athens suburb, clambers steeply from the centre making a nip to the shops an endurance exercise. Or torture. Architecturally, uninspiring comprising of mid to late 20th century low rise apartments with an occasional modern block or church offering welcome relief. Nevertheless, the shops, restaurants and people all appear upmarket with a bustling main drag and welcome greenery. The panoramic vista back down into plebeian society emphasising perhaps where you came from.

An inevitable craft ale before Netflix and bed. More on the genuinely surprising Athens craft beer scene can be found at https://wordpress.com/post/tonysbeersnobblog.wordpress.com/525

Athens and the Acropolis. Synonymous with one and other. A total love in. And after queuing for about half an hour Acropolis tickets were ours. A 2 hour wait until our allotted entrance afforded us time for light shopping and to arrange a trip to Delphi for later in the week.

History thing again.

The Acropolis site has been occupied, and unsurprisingly fought over, for 6,000 years. But not by the same 2 adversaries. That would be silly.

In the mid 5th century BC, at the golden age of Athenian culture and power, the Acropolis became the seat of the Athenian League – a little like a modern day protection racket.

Perikles was a renown general and politician from a moderately wealthy background who found himself top dog through this so called golden age. Thankfully, he happened to be rather good at war whilst conversely promoting democracy and the arts. One of those irritatingly good at everything kind of chaps.

The Parthenon. And Chums

Perikles initiated an ambitious building project lasting the entire second half of the fifth century BC. The most important buildings visible on the Acropolis today – the Parthenon, Propylaia, Erechtheion and the Τemple of Athena Nike – were erected during this period.

The winding, though not overly taxing, route upwards (obviously) meandered pleasantly by a number of ruins including a quite beautiful amphitheater.

Once the acropolis is reached, even with some modern reconstruction, it’s impossible not to marvel at these 2,500 year old buildings. And it never occurred to me that it wasn’t just the Parthenon up there – it was the Parthenon and chums.

We took our time, taking in the architecture and vista over Athens. My favourite – apologies Parthenon groupies – was actually the Τemple of Athena Nike.

It had been teeming on the way up but, to our surprise, it wasn’t on the way down. Perhaps mid afternoon is the time to visit.

On descending we popped by the Ancient Athens Agora (meeting place and triple alliteration) and the beautiful Temple of Hephaestus dating again from a bewildering 2,500 thousand years ago. Our final cultural delight was, not to be outdone by those show off Greeks, a Roman Agora gate opening into what had been the centre of public life during Roman rule. This Roman upstart is a relatively modern 2,000 years old.

We relaxed with a predictable craft beer at Strange Brew (again, check out my beer blog), probably our favourite of the craft beer tipple houses.

Strange Brew, walkable from Plaka, is located in Koukaki. We’d stayed in Koukaki a week earlier – before our cruise – and peeked around. Our verdict wasn’t encouraging.

‘Koukaki is well kept – as we discovered Athens to be generally – though architecturally uninspiring. Late 20th century, low rise apartment blocks make up the vast majority of Koukaki with only colourful awnings offering any interest or glamour’.

Our second Koukaki outing challenged these initial thoughts. A week didn’t beautify Koukaki – I doubt several years would – though modern apartment blocks added a little architectural glamour. Nevertheless, exploring Koukaki further we discovered an up and coming neighbourhood with a creative, bustling vibe. It very much appealed with both preferring Koukaki to the posher Kolonaki.

And wouldn’t Koukaki and Kolonaki make great children names. Better than Brooklyn. Or Croydon.

Zeus, Hadrian and a Museum

The following day was a tad more tranquil. After breakfast – good reviews, average breakfast – a short stroll took us to the miraculously surviving 2,000 year old Gate of Hadrian. The gate is, somewhat congruously, situated close by a busy main road only emphasising it’s survival instincts. Hadrian would not have been best pleased.

Next up was the Temple of Olympian Zeus opportunely located alongside Hadrian’s Gate. Yep, the same rather busy chap who built Hadrian’s Wall in the north of England to keep out those troublesome Scots. If you wish to get close up and personal to the temple and into the architectural park there is an entrance fee. If you’re skint, tight or short of time the temple is easily observed from outside of the park. We went down the close and personal route and, even today, it’s mightily impressive. What an incredible spectacle it must have been in ancient times.

The temple was started in 515 BC and consisted of a 104 columns. The actual construction spanned an incredible 650 years – reminding me of London’s Crossrail – and finally completed by Hadrian. Somewhat cheekily, Hadrian put statues of himself into the sanctuary. Like his style.

Tragically, during mediaeval times, columns were destroyed or reused for construction. Upcycling isn’t always a good thing.

Our final culture adventure was the Acropolis Museum. We queued for about 20 minutes for tickets.

Wrong queue.

Another similar amount of time in the right queue deposited us in front of a lovely lady who promptly sorted 2 tickets. We loitered in the museum for a good hour and a half and, on leaving about 2pm, discovered both queues inexplicably disappeared.

Even so, the Acropolis Museum is a fine way to wind away an hour or more. And queuing. Twice.

Wine was our choice of tipple late that afternoon. Finewine (https://www.finewine.gr/) was the venue. It’s small with a couple of tables outside with ample people judging opportunities. The wine and service were both top notch – the last wine the owner recommended is particularly memorable.

A couple of days later we popped by a second time but it was closed. A pity.

We ate – the setting better than the food – before heading back to our digs.

Delphi

Delphi, our destination the following day, necessitated an inevitable early start. Transport options include driving, public transport or an organised tour. We chose the latter. And enjoyed a personable, knowledgeable and refreshingly honest guide.

The journey, by bus, was to stretch to around 2 hours. The outer Athens suburbs and the outskirts of the city are a tad drab. Not on the tourist trail and you won’t need a town planner to work out why.

I’d been expecting an arid and brown landscape but once clear of said drabness Delphi trail tourist are greeted by mountains, rolling hills, woods and farmland. Genuinely striking and a most welcome surprise. Delphi itself is situated at the base of Mount Parnassos.

Quite alot of history time.

There’s architectural evidence that the Delphi site was occupied 6,000 years ago with the cult of Apollo established in the 8th century BCE. Prompted by this Apollo chap Delphi developed into both a sanctuary and the oracle. Athena, fashionably late, appeared a little over a century later.

According to literary and archaeological evidence many other gods were associated with the sanctuary including Artemis, Poseidon, Dionysus, Hermes, Zeus Polieus, Hygeia and Eileithyia. Must have been irritating.

The Amphictyonic League, an association of twelve tribes of south-central Greece, controlled the sanctuary and, under the protection and administration of the League, made it autonomous in the 6th century BCE. The oracle blossomed boosting its territory, political and religious influence throughout Greece.

Between the 6th and 4th centuries BCE, the Delphic oracle, was kicking ass. The Pythia, a priestess delivered the prophecy, typically interpreted by a bunch of blokes, the priests of Apollo. The oracle was for all – cities, great rulers rich and poor – with all leaving gifts enriching the already enriched.

The Aetolians conquered the sanctuary in the 3rd century BCE before they themselves were driven out by the Romans in 191 BCE. Some Roman emperors favoured the Delphic oracle (Hadrian), others just nicked anything valuable (Sulla).

In the 3rd century BCE, the Rationalist philosophy movement damaged the oracle’s authority. People stopped believing. Later abandoned, partly destroyed and left to ruin the village of Kastri was ignominiously constructed over the site in the 7th century AD.

Still atmospheric over 2,000 years later. As is the scenery.

We toured the main site, along seemingly with most of Europe and the US. Below is the theatre and the pillars bottom left are the remains of Apollo’s Sanctuary. Where many an unfortunate goat met an unhappy – for the goat – sacrificial end.

Briefly abandoned to our own devices, and as had been suggested, we trudged to the pointiest bit of the Delphi site. Here lies a well preserved ancient stadium – the best in Greece – originally built in the 4th century BCE though tinkered with for the following 200 hundred years or so.

An incredible 6,500 sports fans could ogle their favourite atheletes win, lose or fake an injury. Online gambling would be all over it.

Next up for our weary travelling companions was a small but interesting museum followed, after a very short bus ride, the Temple of Athena Pronaia. Told you it was a long day.

Built in the 7th century BCE, and in keeping with much of the Delphi Sanctuary, was in ruins with only small sections still standing. Nevertheless, in those surroundings, with only a few people around it was properly atmospheric. Back in it’s heyday chez Athena must have been spectacular.

Perhaps surprisingly, my favourite old bit of the Delphi Sanctuary, along with that stunning scenery, was The Stadium. Undoubtably the most complete, a tad more secular and, to me, more real.

We stopped at a village for fodder – I spent the 45 minutes exploring, others sat down for a meal – before our return to Athens. It’s a lengthy day but, if you have the opportunity, a worthwhile one.

Chilling was the goal for our last full day in Athens. We wandered aimlessly exploring neighbourhoods we’d yet to explore. Some upmarket (Psiri), others less so (Omonia), all interesting.

We drank a little ale (Tales of Ales) listening to Jazz, ate delectable food at Ferouz (https://feyrouz.gr/) and completed our Netflix series smugly discovering the murderer before the big reveal. All in all a perfect day to end our 2 week jaunt.

Athens from Anafiotika, a pretty village within a city

Final Thoughts

Athens. Grows on one. Stunning ancient ruins are sprinkled pleasingly across the city, the Acropolis chief amongst them. Pretty neighbourhoods such as Plaka and buzzing neighbourhoods such as Koukaki are certainly not the exception but neither are they the norm. Much of the city, from what we observed, is a tad drab, lacking personality.

Nevertheless, if Athens isn’t on your tourist trail list, give it a go. No-one should be unmoved by those ancient ruins and the city has much to offer.

Would it be our favourite European capital? No but we’re very glad we went.

THE NEW FOREST

That’s been a decidedly odd few months. And, writing as I do in October, continues to be so.

I’m working from home for the first time in my life and initially discovered separating one from the other annoyingly difficult. This I’ve come to terms with by burying my work laptop in the deepest, darkest corner I can find once my working day is over. In a one bedroom flat this has meant a little creative thinking.

I’m based in our kitchen/diner; Sus is set up in the bedroom. With a recently acquired executive chair no less. Sus, who’s a total guru in all things project management and expertly delivers project management courses, has taken to the home working lark splendidly well and would have no qualms with this way of working becoming her norm.

After rebooking a Seville trip for February 2021 – a re-rebook a distinct possibility – we decided on a September staycation. The New Forest is the new Seville.

Lymington

West London to Lymington took us a remarkably reasonable hour and 45 minutes. Britannia House (www.britannia-house.com/), our B&B, was ideally located 2 minutes from the harbour, 2 minutes from the high street and 20 seconds from the train station.

The posh Victorian bit was one side of the residential street, the less posh bit (part of a small apartment complex) was on the other. We were in the less posh bit, having booked late, though this proved a splendid base for our 4 night stay. And there was off street parking. Beware of centrally located establishments advertising ‘self parking’. Self parking often necessitates driving around your chosen destination desperately searching for that elusive spot less than a 2 mile hike back to your chosen place of rest. And morning fry up. We checked in and chatted with our ever amiable and helpful host Tobi before exploring the very un-mean streets of Lymington.

Lymington is a picturesque Georgian town set on the equally picturesque Lymington River on the equally picturesque Solent. Lucky Lymington. The old town quay was indeed quaint though, surrounded by pubs and independent shops, annoyingly busy. Clutching our packed lunches – anything remotely perishable from our fridge – we moved on. As we were – and still are – playing ‘avoid the human’ game a little more space was needed to enjoy the fruits of my morning labours.

We car and people avoided along a busy road, passed a very private yacht club before discovering a small though lovely park overlooking the marina. No suitable water facing perch was available so lunch was eaten facing a row of pretty houses that unlike us did face the water. After deciding on a favourite (thinned to 2 fortunate contenders) and a very pleasant 15 minute amble – the marina on one side, a large outdoor pool on the other – we came upon an impressive working boat yard. A number of organisations were based there along with a tempting selection of dry docked boats one in particular Sus took a liking to.

More ambling took us through attractive neighbourhoods and returned us to our B&B. Once refreshed we explored the quaint and attractive Georgian high street before a long walk (cue more pleasant neighbourhoods) brought us to a craft beer haven. Actually it wasn’t. However there was just enough to entertain my beer snobbery. And the food was excellent.

Beaulieu – Cars, monasteries and green bits

The following morning, after heroically dispatching the first of 4 splendid fry ups, we drove to Beaulieu and our allotted time slot. Sus is still trying to understand how a word spelt Beaulieu is pronounced ‘Buley’. I explained the whole English destroying the French language thing though she’s still a tad vexed. I felt it counterproductive to argue that as an American her fellow countryman had mangled any number of words and spellings.

The short drive takes one through a sliver of the National park that is the New Forest. Horses and donkeys amble randomly oblivious to traffic and humans alike. Can’t say I blame them. With thousands of acres to munch on one does wonder why their chosen and presumably choicest green bits have a tendency to cause a traffic jam. Neither of us cared – the horses are beautiful and the donkeys utterly adorable. The latter show a curiosity that means windows are better left closed.  

Beaulieu is an 8,000 acre estate housing the National Motor Museum, The Palace House and the ruins of Beaulieu Abbey. There are lots of green bits too.

My car test was passed at 17 and a full bike license collected at 21 – though I’d been riding motorised 2 wheelers since the age of 12. I’m huge petrol head and the National Motor Museum is a mecca for such as I. Sus, who has only a passing interest, indulged me. For 2 hours. There are nearly 300 fabulous cars and motorbikes on show with a fondly remembered favourite around every corner. If you love cars then please do go. If you love someone who loves cars please indulge them.

A petrol head I may be but I’m a petrol head fully embracing the electric car revolution. Electric cars are capable of ludicrously quick acceleration and with ever improving battery technology it is only a matter of time before they ride and handle as well as their petrol cousins. Most importantly electric cars, though not without their own issues, are considerably environmentally kinder to Mother Nature. And the petrol engine will live on in the wonderfully diverse and often eccentric classic car world.

Suffering a tad from combustion engine fatigue we emerged into the outside world, gratefully removed our masks enabling a leftovers chow down. Refreshed we headed to what is left – thank Henry VIII and his libido – of the 800 year old monastery. To our surprise much more survived than either had envisioned. The original monk’s refectory survived, became the parish church and is now a popular wedding venue. The cloister walls remain and, 800 hundred years later, still are an oasis of tranquillity. However, it is only when one explores the pretty gardens that you understand the sheer scale of what was once here. It must have been magnificent.

Palace House, once the gatehouse of the medieval Beaulieu Abbey, was upgraded to the Montagu family home in 1538 and remodeled Victorian style throughout the 1800s. Because of this deeply unpleasant lurgy, queuing was necessary. We both preferred the atmospheric abbey and, though the pub might be beckoning and the kids demanding their iPads, the Palace House is a worthy indulgence.

We wandered back via the lovely Beaulieu River millpond which that lucky Palace House overlooks. The weather had become a little annoying with the vast majority of day trippers deciding on a direct route to shelter. A shame (for them, not us as we were virtually alone) as it’s a pleasant stroll. It’s hard not to notice (unless you’re embedded in your iPhone) the intricate wood carvings fashioned into branches of dead trees across numerous, managed open spaces – parks, National Trust properties, common, heaths. These are fabulous, creative pieces of art and Beaulieu has a few of its own.

Beaulieu is a truly magical day out – and it is a day, plan on it. It’s not only the amount of entertainment on offer it’s the sheer diversity of that entertainment. Beaulieu is not a cheap option, especially for a family, though bringing one’s own lunch will help in mitigating this. And if you did decide to pop back within a year of your visit – and still have your original tickets – entrance is free. Very civilised.

We celebrated with wonderful fish and chips from Elderflower restaurant. Being a take out, and as such understandably not encouraged at our B&B, we ate ensconced in our car overlooking the harbour.

Towns, villages and pedaling

The next morning, once a nourishing fully monty had been dealt with, we journeyed into the New Forest. First up was Brockenhurst – underwhelming with an overwhelming bakery; then came Lyndhurst – larger and prettier; and finally Burley – small, pretty with bike hire. The young chaps at the bike hire were friendly and efficient; we were quickly furnished with our mounts and let loose onto New Forest cycle paths. This was the first time either had been a something with pedals for an embarrassingly long time.

We rode along established cycle paths and ventured off road actually losing any inkling of a path at one point. Though the trails were virtually human free traffic was always audible. Never were we in danger of being eaten by a hungry and grateful mountain lion. We did rest briefly to eat those delicious muffins.

1 tree, 2 bikes, no muffins

I’ve 2 brothers – I’m the eldest – with less than 3 years separating us. We’re close in a middle class, middle aged English kind of way. Both are keen cyclists, middle brother prefers road biking – which I don’t totally get; youngest brother prefers mountain bikes – which I do. I sent a picture of our hired bikes. They sneered. Seems snobbery runs in the family. However, Sus and I were amazed how easily we came to grips with our 2 wheeled chums. We loved the whole experience.

Our day’s drive was wonderfully interspersed with the beautiful New Forest landscape of unenclosed pasture land, heathland, forest and occasional water. Plus those randomly roaming horses and donkeys. That scenery undoubtedly stole the show.

Where’s the chippie?

Back in Lymington we popped into Solent Cellar for a glass of wine. M&S provided dinner.

Conversation, wildlife and pork pies

Breakfast passed pleasantly nattering to our fellow B&Bers. Socially distanced fellow B&Bers. Post socially distanced breakfast we drove to the National Trust Northern Commons confusedly not located in Yorkshire but in the very southern New Forest. To be honest we never properly found it or them. Perhaps they really are in Yorkshire. However we did discover the wonderful Blashford Lakes.

Hampshire and Isle of Wight Wildlife Trust (www.hiwwt.org.uk/) manage over 50 nature reserves – Blashford Lakes is one consisting of 159 hectares of what were once lifeless gravel pits. Woodlands, lakes and grasslands make it a haven for wildlife particularly migrating birds. And again we had the place pretty much to ourselves happily wandering for an hour and since made a small donation.

Next up, pork pies. Award winning pork pies. I’ve had a fondness for pork pies since birth though, appreciating such are not one of life’s healthy pleasures, eat lamentedly few. Nevertheless, an awarding winning and nearby farmshop was shouting my name. I purchased an artery worrying 2 pork pies, one sausage role and a cheese and onion pasty. The pork pies were delicious though the sausage role and cheese and onion pasty were perhaps even better – eaten over a couple of days to prevent a pork induced heart attack.

Ringwood Brewery (www.ringwoodbrewery.co.uk/) was only minutes’ drive away (rude etc). I acquired a 4 pack of their traditional English ales all since proved an excellent alternative to the equally excellent modern session pale ale.

Returning to Lymington via that gorgeous New Forest scenery, and after a brief hiatus to freshen up, we went shopping. Without buying anything. Blubambu (https://www.blubambu.co.uk/) severely tempted both with its stylish furniture crafted from reclaimed wood. Temptation may become reality at their next sale.

An excellent wine flight was provided by The Cellar along with conversation with locals including Stephen Lees a well known artist. Check out his shop opposite, you won’t be disappointed. Waitrose provided dinner.

Last breakfast, checkout, a beach with no name

After our final breakfast Tobi pointed us towards a beach frequented by locals and not necessarily by tourist hoards. We checked out and drove straight there.

Beautiful

We’ve visited some fabulous beaches over the years including Bondi, San Sabastian and those of Rio de Janeiro – though Rio itself was a huge disappointment. This small estuary beach in the southwest of England is one of our favourites. And it doesn’t even have sand.

The tide was out exposing small green hummocks encircled by water channels and small pools. Mud was prevalent as my shoes can testify. Predominately a pebble beach it backs onto a private wood and large 18th century country estate.

Visible from the beach were the Needles, sailing boats and the Isle of Wight. Having recently visited the latter both felt the island somewhat improved from distance.

Two small SUVs were parked on the beach accompanied by 2 fisherman preparing their rods and tackle. Cows lounged amicably close by. An actor might seem smaller in real life, our four legged milk producing chums don’t. When one of these lumbering beasts wandered your way, possibly because you’d strayed near a calf, you didn’t hang around to ask why they preferred a beach to a field.

We had a stroll, the sun was shining. A perfect ending to our time in the gorgeous New Forest. We both adored the area – for me perhaps even beyond that perennial people’s favourite, the Cotswolds.

Staycations are nothing new, to us or to anyone else. However, the inability to travel to the more exotic has necessitated longer and more frequent trips within one’s own country. Where ever you live in this troubled world you will have discovered or had reinforced the beauty and diversity of your homeland. Familiarity does not always breed contempt but an appreciation of what you might already have. And that’s a huge positive.

The drive back to West London was painless and we were happy to be home. Nevertheless the New Forest made a huge impression on me and we’ll certainly be back.

SPAIN

I’ve chosen not to dwell on COVID-19 and have only mentioned in passing. Nevertheless we’re both fully aware of the truly unpleasant nature of this virus and hope you and your families are safe and well.

And my thanks for reading this blog – I genuinely do appreciate it.

Wishing all good health, Tony and Sus

Bilbao – San Sebastian – Bilbao

When travelling abroad we endeavour to pick places yet to be blessed by our presence. Unusually, this trip, we chose as already visited bit of Basque.

Our reasoning; a dodgy shoulder kyboshing skiing, generous flight and hotel deals plus a chance to further explore an area we’d both loved. A democratic 3 nights in each.

And, only adding to the reader’s excitement, for the first time, I’m including the odd photograph. For those interested in what we look like there might even be a Sus approved mugshot. Please don’t become too excited. 

Bilbao

Arrival and Re-acquaintance

Our outbound flight was scheduled for late evening on 8 March – I was genuinely concerned the deeply unpleasant coronavirus would decide otherwise. It didn’t.

Yet another strike by French air traffic controllers did. Though only for an hour. Is it instinct? Was it because it was Sunday? I doubt the strikers themselves remember.

A short bus trundle trundles one from the airport to the centre of Bilbao. A shorter non-motorised trundle to our hotel. Tiredness and the lateness of the day meant only a 45 minute stroll re-acquainting ourselves with the city. On our last visit we’d discovered the wonderful Bodega Urbana – superb wine and service. Tragically it has since closed its doors for good. More tragically still, the Hollywood burger bar a few doors down was thriving. And had been since 1971. Spanish teenagers love that authentic taste of America. I could have cried.

New town, old town, concrete beanstalks and tasty breakfasts

Less than 30 seconds from our hotel is Sua San or Susan’s as it became known (https://suasan.com/). We ate breakfast there the following morning and the following, following morning. The food is neither clever nor healthy but is cheap and tasty.

With morning ablutions completed we continued our Bilbao re-acquaintance. The Bilbao’s shopping and commercial districts are agreeably agreeable coming liberally garnished with late 19th and 20th century architecture.

Meandering but gravitating towards the old town we discovered steps. A lot of steps – a concrete and less plant based beanstalk. Once we’d clambered to the summit it started to rain. Heavily. A tree provided cover until this weather malfunction rebooted. The panoramic views across Bilbao and the surrounding hills were (thankfully) agreeably pleasant. Sus loves funiculars. I prefer beer. Bilbao does have one. It was being renovated. In a sudden (and rather too late) flash of insight we realised said stairs were the free, healthy and open air option.

On our previous visit we contrived to completely circumvent the old town (Casco Viejo). No idea why and so, having descended from Mount Bilbao, we headed directly there.

With the exception of the Catedral de Santiago, dating back to the 14th century, Bilbao old town is not actually that old. Dating back to the 19th century some cities would consider it their new town fit only for peasants. Oh the shame. And this older Bilbao quarter was devastated in a 1983 flood necessitating major restoration. And the first street we happened upon was rather run down and rather closed.

Do not be put off. These so called seven streets are a charming place to wander window shopping and shop shopping with sustenance needs thoughtfully met by numerous bars and restaurants.

Craft beer and chocolate

Google discovered Singular (http://singularbar.com/) a cracking craft beer bar with a relaxed vibe and great music. After a thoroughly deserved beer or 2, and equally deserved pintxos (Basque for tapas) or 2, we wandered over to Azkuna Zentroa – Bilbao’s Contemporary Culture Centre. Though devoid of culture or culture types at that particular time, and reminding me a little of an underground carpark, it’s a genuinely impressive space. The centre incorporates early 20th century wine and oil warehouses with the 43 pillars holding the structure up individually decorated. There’s also a swimming pool on the roof with swimmers clearly visible from below – a human aquarium. Prefer fish.

We both adore chocolate, a genuinely life affirming pleasure. Searching for a little sweetness in our lives we stumbled across a local chocolatier and, feeling a need to investigate, popped in. As is our way we began chatting with the 2 charming young ladies behind the counter – one surprisingly English, the other Spanish. They offered us a sample, then another, then another. Sus, by this time was feeling a little guilty. Me less so. All is fair in love, war and chocolate. After spending an enjoyable 20 minutes chatting and sampling we made a purchase or 2, said our goodbyes and left. The chocolate was excellent, the company perhaps more so.

Unfortunately neither remember when we went, where we went or what it was called.

For stupidly expensive but stupidly fabulous chocolate take a peek at Melt (https://www.meltchocolates.com/), a London based chocolatier. Though only a rare treat this is the finest chocolate either has ever eaten.

Our final stop that evening was the Penguin Bar – another craft beer spot which, on arrival, we recognised as a previous haunt. Yet more taps of beery loveliness to choose from. Back home brewery/tap rooms offer samples to the uninitiated and beer snobs alike. In Spain trying means buying. Or certainly did in the Penguin Bar. You live and learn.

Bustling Bilbao, bus station, bus journey

The following morning we checked out and moseyed on down to the bus station. Which had moved and improved since our last visit. Tickets bought we had a couple of hours free before our hour and a half bus ride to San Sebastian – trains are a pain and do not take the strain on this particular Basque A to B.

The latest incarnation of the bus station is perfectly pleasant though not a place either wished to devote 2 hours of our lives. Thankfully, habitually travelling light enabled us, even with luggage, to explore Bilbao’s close by Alameda de Recalde district (City Centre). This bustling neighbourhood, though not architecturally grand (Croydon rather than Venice), comes with a wide and tree lined main thoroughfare, local shops, cafes and bars. We liked it.

We sat in the main square for perhaps half an hour watching a world, seemingly consisting almost entirely of the older generation and often with carers, wander by. Slowly. At 55 I was just a babe in arms. Surreal, uplifting even, one was very much aware of one’s own mortality.

I loathe littering and litterers – ignorance and an utter disrespect for the environment and those inhabiting it. It’s not as if bins and, better still, recycling are complex concepts to grasp. Anyway – and who doesn’t enjoy a righteous rant to make themselves feel a worthier human – the assortment of roads, towns and villages between Bilbao and San Sabastian were probably the cleanest I’ve witnessed anywhere. The journey was only let down by one stretch of the river (which we followed most of the way) that had acquired an unfortunate plastic habit – the unlucky recipient of same plastic holidaying downstream.

San Sebastian

Digs, pintxos, new town, old town

Our self catering digs, a 5 minute walk from the bus station, was from a time architecture took an extended holiday. A large 70/80s vintage block of flats only town planners of the day could love. And, preferring a semi in the ‘burbs, certainly never lived in. The interior, or at least the fragment owned by Atotxa Rooms, was an antidote to our ‘70s town planner chum – modern, clean with shower, air conditioning and TV all functioning splendidly. Alas, not always a given.

Our ever helpful hosts explained where we were, where everything else was and how to get to everything else. Atotxa Rooms is situated on the wrong side of the Urumea River for most of the loveliness, including the old town, San Sebastian has to offer. Dishearten not, all that charm is walkable within 15 minutes. And having to cross the Urumea everyday is never a chore, only a delight.

Fortune favours San Sebastian. There’s an attractive Centro, a 19th century old town and the Bay of Biscay. And, perhaps a tad selfishly, San Sebastian has the Atlantic Ocean on its doorstep along with one of the most beautiful beaches – La Concha – of any town or city visited. Though said beach does have an unfortunate habit of mostly disappearing at high tide.

We had a quick recap of Centro (new town) before an indulgent recap of old town. Centro, though with shops familiar to consummate consumers everywhere, is splendidly likable with handsome architecture, immaculate streets and easy strolling. Though not entirely immune the old town has avoided the worst ravages of tourist tinsel and corporate indifference. The streets are narrower, the architecture prettier and resident eateries some of the choicest on offer. The vibe is bustling, the feeling is local.  

The Spanish have tapas. The Basques have pintxos. Though similar to the untrained eye (mine) these little bundles of joy are differentiated by regional variances common throughout Spain. Pintxos are available in the vast majority of bars largely doubling up as cafes. You get down with the locals, whilst enjoying that well deserved break, by standing up with the locals. For those needing to park a posterior many establishments do offer seating.

And, with one exception we lived on these little beauties. I love the little buggers though Sus is less keen. As a vegetarian – occasionally tempted by our water loving ancestors (she’s partial to fish and chips) – her options were somewhat limited. Often to Spanish omelette. Undoubtedly delicious (cooked recently at home) if a tad tedious when the only alternative.

Early evening was upon us. Gandarias (https://www.restaurantegandarias.com/es/), recommended by those nice people at Atotxa Rooms, is a well known cafe, bar and restaurant. It’s an ideal spot, located in a typically beautiful old town building, perfect for pintxos and wine bashing. We duly indulged. Standing obviously. The food was genuinely delicious, the wine decent if not fabulous.

We polished off pintxos at numerous café/bars while in Bilbao and San Sabastian and, nearly without exception, those bundles of deliciousness were indeed that. Gandarias and Sua San were 2 favourites with a third coming later.

It had been a long and enjoyable day. We strolled some more, ate some more, drank a little more before wandering back to our hotel. No complaints.

Rivers end, the Atlantic, 3 beaches and inconvenient tides

We started the following day with a healthy breakfast before hitting the not so mean streets of San Sebastian. San Sebastian has a charming riverside walk bringing one (if one is going the correct way obviously) to the end of days for the Urumea as she empties into the Atlantic.

The Urumea is not tidal. However, swells generated out at sea find their way back up the Urumea (sounds vaguely painful) causing dramatic changes in water levels. When the locals notice a larger swell there’s a headlong rush to the river by men and women dressed in tight fitting rubber and carrying what looks like ironing boards. The Urumea has become a surfer’s paradise, not a mildly disturbing local custom.

I was born and morphed into an adult in Sheffield, in the North of England. Though some (parents) may contend the ‘adult’ bit. Sus did her morphing in California.  She grew up by the ocean, I didn’t. We both have a deep love of the sea. Tides slowly exposing land and equally slowly stealing it back has forever fascinated me. It’s a phenomenon I find utterly mesmerising, primeval, a living thing. And to think this magic has occurred for millions of years fills both with genuine wonder.

Anyway, after spending several minutes marvelling at this watery love-in, we headed towards La Concha beach. The beach is accessible via the town though we, like many others, chose the peninsula. The sun was shining, we had beautiful vistas over the Atlantic, it could have been worse.

Within half an hour, and after passing the small port and harbour, we strolled onto La Concha beach. This stunning beach very much reminded us of the equally stunning Bondi beach. Though Bondi beach keeps its dignity during high tide Bondi town is nowhere near as attractive as San Sebastian town.

La Concha is 1.5 kilometres of come hither goldenness and our arrival conveniently coincided with low tide. Because of that troublesome and afore mentioned high tide, the golden stuff stays wet between tides, making strolling a doddle. Those clever Basques think of everything.

And let’s not forget Santa Clara Island artistically placed in the middle of the bay. Talk about overkill. This little gem, part of a larger island chain, is 400 metres across and, with jagged cliffs, a green interior and encircled by water. Picture postcard does it a disservice.

Though uninhabited summer brings the tourist masses – temptations include a beach (again disappearing inconveniently at high tide), pleasant strolls and, naturally, a bar and restaurant. There’s also a small port and uninhabited lighthouse.

With floating platforms at opportune moments one can easily swim across to the island from the beaches. Or, for those wishing to preserve holiday haircuts, a regular boat service is also available.

After strolling pleasantly for 20 minutes or so (wishing we’d discreetly worn swimming costumes), we came upon a rocky promontory – submerged during high tide. An easy clamber and one finds oneself on Ondarreta Beach, which for all purposes, is an extension of La Concha Beach. At about 600 metres long it’s somewhat shorter and, because of the angle of the sun, less suitable for sunbathing aficionados and those wishing to imitate cooked beetroot. Neither is our cup of sand. It’s quieter and equal in beauty of its more illustrious neighbour.

On leaving the beach you enter an attractive residential neighbourhood which, certainly for Sus, has one of San Sebastian’s most attractive attractions. A funicular.  The young chap taking our money was friendly, the 20 something operating this Victorian engineering masterpiece less so – perhaps contemplating that his life hadn’t quite lived up to his once youthful dreams. Or suffering from a hangover.

Views, views, views. And a funicular

The funicular rumbles and creaks its way up a predictably steep incline valiantly attaining the summit in a mere minute or 2. It’s genuinely great fun and a must if burdened with children. Once safely on flat land the visitor is confronted by a small and quite dreadful amusement park squarely aimed at young children. Mercifully, this being out of silly season, the park was closed. It proved the only touch of tackiness encountered in Bilbao or San Sebastian. Saying that, kids will quite rightly love it.

However, and worthy of their very own paragraph, were the views. Wow. Seriously, wow. San Sebastian, its 3 beaches, the Bay of Biscay, Santa Clara Island plus the Atlantic are all laid before lucky you. It brought to mind one of those beautiful, scale models. And, yep there’s more. Glance away from the always mesmerising wet stuff and you’re rewarded with green hills and mountains surrounding San Sebastian. Gorgeous.

Reluctantly leaving those various vistas we jumped on the funicular before leisurely (tiredness does that) walking through San Sebastian back to the hotel. After a spruce and reboot, and sticking to our riverbank, we determined to explore the local neighbourhood (Egia) and the adjacent neighbourhood (Gros) – the latter located alongside San Sabastian’s third beach, Zurriola.

Pick of the pintxos, Gros, a space for art

Fodder first. Bergara in Gros (https://pinchosbergara.es/). Which meant majoring on Gros and minoring on Egia – we’d show a little more love to Egia the following day. Bergara is not particularly traditional, overly bright and a little out of the way for those based across the river. Don’t be fooled. The slightly sparking white wine, using a grape local to the area, perhaps the best drink – my wine snob went missing when queried to the varietal – and the pintxos quite possibly my favourite. Sus would probably choose Gandarias as her top tip. Neither will disappoint.

Suitably fortified our exploration of Gros proper could begin. The area bordering Egia, and furthest from the beach, is not unlike Bilbao’s Alameda de Recalde district (scroll up about 1650 words) though a little less prosperous. Nevertheless, perfectly pleasant and where the local population (or part of it) go about their daily lives – without tourists somehow occupying the first 5 places of any queue.

Curiously (or maybe not), as you progress towards the sea and San Sebastian’s third beach (Zurriola), Gros becomes edgier, and let’s be honest, more interesting. Graffiti is common; litter more commonplace (I know, I know) and the populace more diverse. The older architecture is distinct with the shops and bars typically more idiosyncratic. There’s also a large square bustling happily with community – this slice of Gros has long passed up and coming and now considered hip and trendy. We slotted – self consciously – right in.

Strangely graffiti, though often silly and juvenile, offends considerably less than litter. And graffiti can be glorious, an art form very much deserving a place in art history. Who doesn’t love a bit of Banksy or marvelled at a colourful masterpiece brightening up a drab wall. Litter can never be glorious, only rubbish.

You emerge onto the waterfront to be confronted with a main though not especially busy road. If one chooses to navigate said road Zurriola beach is conveniently arranged before you. Peering out over Zurriola beach and the Atlantic Ocean is the Kursaal, a modern modernist structure, trebling up as a concert hall, art gallery and event host. There was a free art show. We popped in. It was enjoyable.

Beach number 3, surfing, more craft beer

Zurri beach – as it’s known by those of lesser years than myself – is 800 metres of sandy comeliness and, usefully, less impacted by high tides. Befitting the area it’s notably younger, hipper and edgier than either La Concha or Ondarreta beaches. Zurriola beach charms larger waves much favoured by surfer types. Who were numerous even on a damp, cool and breezy evening.

Peering out over the main road, beach and surfers is Kanabikana Craft Beer Shop (http://kainabikaina.com/). It’s a little strange. There are 3-4 small high tables without stools or anywhere else to plonk a posterior. Obviously a recent addition to Gros and equally obviously geared for take outs – the taps being set up to pour into assorted receptacles brought in by expectant punters. There’s also a decent selection of cans to run away with.

The proprietor appeared somewhat surprised when we suggested sitting (standing) inside to drink our chosen malted barley beverages – he warmed up over the course of our 2 visits. Amusingly, he needed to tap beer into a plastic bottle before pouring into glasses. A legality or practical problem we were never to discover. Nevertheless the views were always interesting and the beer from the 18 taps – certainly the few sampled – top quality. If you love beer go. If you don’t, don’t.

Egia, old town, a wine dearth and a solution

The following day was Egia day. Or at least the first couple of hours were. Egia is largely residential with a selection of local shops and bars. The community rises up from the river to, as is so often the case, loftier and posher residences. Of which a lucky few have far-reaching views back over San Sebastian. Egia is not especially exciting or especially architecturally fabulous and, located on the wrong side of the river, not a tourist tick box exercise. Nevertheless Egia made for an interesting excursion into tourist free local life.

We returned to old town and searched in vain for a wine emporium of excellence. One looked promising – an uninterested (‘we don’t do tasters’) and phone obsessed shop assistant ruined our wine sipping dreams. A second wasn’t open and a third had long ceased to exist. In a region famed for wine it came as a bit of a shock, that aside from the now defunct Bodega Urbana and possibly Bergara, the wine drunk in both Bilbao and San Sebastian was disappointing. If any of you know of a hidden gem in either Bilbao or San Sebastian then please do pass it on.

There is a solution. It’s the small town of Haro an hour’s bus ride from Bilbao. The scenery between Bilbao and Haro and the town itself are pleasant enough though motivation for such an outing are cunningly concealed on the town’s outskirts – a good 20 minutes’ walk from the centre. Haro is set at the heart of the Rioja wine region. Better still, the outskirts don’t consist of run down trading estates, but pretty bodegas representing many of the region’s best wine houses – including Muga (love Muga) and Cune. You can literally sway from one to another sampling their wares at very reasonable prices. Less Bermondsey beer mile more Basque bodega wine barrio.

We’d visited Haro on that previous jaunt to Bilbao. And don’t be suckered into taking an overpriced bodegas tour. It’s a simple do it yourself excursion and a marvelous way to spend a sunny afternoon. If you enjoy good wine of course. If wine is not your cup of fermented grapes this excursion will not be a highlight.

Having despaired of ever finding a worthy wine establishment  – which was friendly, open or in existence – we grabbed a couple of cheeky pintxos before making for Gros generally and Kanabikana Craft Beer Shop specifically. It was still strange. Beer was still superb.

Architecturally attractive, with 3 beautiful beaches and surrounded by lush green hills San Sebastian is an awfully appealing place to find oneself for a day or 2. Undoubtedly and deservedly a tourist hotspot, and driven by the same, San Sebastian is both vibrant but remains remarkably livable. We certainly could.

Bilbao

Wonderful markets, wonderful food

The following morning an early bus took us back to Bilbao, a successful negotiation of the underground to our hotel. We were kindly allowed to check in and, once cleansed, headed to the old town.

And discovered the wonderful La Ribera market; supposedly the largest covered market in Europe. La Ribera, constructed in 1929, is very much a product of its time boasting elegant proportions and large, beautifully stained glass windows. Across the market’s 2 floors are numerous fishmongers and butchers. If your preference tends towards products once less alive cheese, vegetable and fruit stalls plus a bakery will happily take one’s money. The second floor has an area set aside to sample the produce in the shapely form of pintxos. Wine and beer are also thoughtfully available. Even the toilets were spotless. 

We were severely tempted. And proceeded to be severely tempted for about 15 minutes while deciding, not untypically, where to eat. Hunger and a slight feeling of embarrassment forced a decision. Sus decreed a non pintxo related meal – this being our last day in Northern Spain.

Google directed us to a vaguely downmarket – but transitioning upmarket – Bilbao neighbourhood a few minutes’ walk from both the old town and attractive Atxuri train station. The latter was built in 1912 and definitely worth a quick gawp. Our destination was Sokarrat (http://sokarrat.eltenedor.rest/en_GB/), a local and well thought of neighbourhood restaurant.

We wandered tentatively in. We called tentatively out – of life there was none. The chef, genie like, magically appeared and ushered us to a table. Not especially difficult – we were his only customers. A waitress appeared, again a little genie like, with a menu and wine list. The desert menu, rather charmingly was a handwritten scrawl. We each had a small starter, the seafood paella and desert. There was also a bottle of Lanzarote wine involved. At one point, the same chef, he was probably the owner too, came out to enquire about his culinary creations.

Sokarrat is not posh – more a hip café befitting the area with locals popping in and out (and back in) for a beer, coffee or a glass of wine. Diners are seated on mismatched furniture with the large open kitchen – and slightly scary looking chefs – clearly visible. Do not be fooled. The food was delicious, the wine excellent – the best we’d had in either Bilbao or San Sebastian. The staff were a delight and Sokarrat is rather splendid value. We would not hesitate in returning.

We left Sokarrat late afternoon and wandered, including a short hotel refresh, aimlessly for a couple of hours or so. Said aimlessness brought both to a decidedly edgy neighbourhood, an Aldi for snacks and Singular for a 2 half cheeky recharge. Returning to the hotel we indulged in a snack bashing session before retiring gracefully for the evening.

A strange day, kindness of strangers

Breakfast was weird. A group of perhaps 10 Mexicans, plus staff, were our only company. COVID-19 had reached Northern Spain. Spain would shortly be in lockdown.

Humankind is fucking up the planet; Nature may well be taking her revenge. And, I along with Sus, are part of the problem. We recycle, use recyclable products and avoid plastic wherever possible. However we love to travel. Often requiring planes.

In the UK, as presumably elsewhere, we’ve had the warmest Spring since quite possibly the Ice Age. Only to be told – quite rightly – not to go out for more than an hour. Nature may also be having a laugh.

The rest of the day was weird. Our flight home wasn’t until late that same evening and so, once checked out, we pottered over to Duesto, the neighbourhood we’d stayed our first time in the city. Duesto is a bustling mingling of locals and university students, liveable with easy access to Bilbao, and rather to our liking. In fact the Guggenheim is just a short stroll and is where, enjoying a coffee, you next find us. Oddly the museum was closed, their café open.  A mixed message response to COVID-19. Boris has since become the master of such messages.

With the exception of Duesto Bilbao had felt unnaturally calm – little appeared open, people were scarce, traffic was light. This was Saturday.

Returning to pick up our bags we spied a lovely local bar considerately open. The pintxos looked tempting, a glass of wine more so. After partaking in a glass we collected our luggage and ambled to the airport bus stop. Again, as is our way, we chatted with 2 delightful university students teaching English abroad – one was English, the other German and spoke better English than I do. With their schools closed both were desperate to get home.

The bus duly arrived. There was a problem. Because of COVID-19 the driver, grumpily if understandably, would only allow passengers to board via the rear doors. He wasn’t accepting cash; only the requisite travel card. This we didn’t have. Joy.

Not only did our new found student chums pay for us using their travel cards neither would except a cash reimbursement. The kindness of strangers never ceases to amaze and humble us.

We like Bilbao. A lot. It’s not a beautiful city just an agreeable one. As with Rome Bilbao is one of those rare places we both feel very much at home. Throw in San Sebastian and it’s a region we could happily live.

The journey to the airport, the flight back, even the trek from Gatwick to West London were all uneventful and straightforward.

Home.

Lockdown.

The Cotswolds

The Cotswolds are a range of gently rolling hills in the south of England; the largest Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty in England and Wales; sprinkled liberally with quintessentially English market towns and villages built from honey-coloured stone.

We realised quite recently the delights of this green and pleasant land lie only an hour and a half drive (M40 in a good mood) from Ealing. Splendid. This revelation has led to 2 recent jaunts, one last May and one in January 2020.

May 2019

After a tolerable hour-ish drive on the M40 we fancied a nibble to eat. Sus had found, with a little help from that clever internet, Daylesford Organic Farm (https://www.daylesford.com/). This Gloucestershire mothership has given birth to another 4 outposts in London and included a shop, restaurants, butcher, baker, alas no candlestick maker, fishmonger, grocer and homeware. Much of the produce is grown, reared or hatched on their organic farm. It’s expensive, busy and perhaps a little too commercial but worth a wander and a gander. And our pizzas were excellent.

We drove to our B&B, freshened and made our way to Cirencester. Which appeared closed. Nevertheless, Cirencester is an attractive market town with Roman remains, medieval morsels, 18th century Cotswolds stone buildings and the ubiquitous Victorian architecture. Fortified with a healthy takeout of chips we wandered agreeably for an hour before returning to our B&B.

After a splendid and obviously healthy full English we waddled our way to Stow on the Wold. Another extremely attractive market town Stow boasts many 16th century limestone houses (one even dates back to c1450); a beautiful 11th century church pimped up in the 15th century; a Victorian hall; numerous cafes, pretty pubs and restaurants galore. Originally a wool town Stow on the Wold is genuinely a beautiful place and would make an excellent base.

Next up, the wonderfully named, and perfectly safe, Upper Slaughter and Lower Slaughter. Though sounding like a B horror movie and an equally dreadful sequence the name actually relates to location. Both are blessed with 16th and 17th Cotswold Limestone dwellings, Upper Slaughter acquired a Manor House dating back to the 15th century, Lower Slaughter a 19th century water mill. Both happily share the River Eye and are less than half an hour stroll apart. Both are gorgeous.

And, as luck would have it, Jane Austin’s Emma was being filmed at the time of our visit. Thanks guys. The incongruence between 21st technology and early 19th century costumes was genuinely surreal. Americans were dribbling with excitement, the English stood around looking smug. The reverse is true when the English find themselves gazing into the depths of the Grand Canyon.

We pottered off but only after watching a scene being filmed that really will be on a screen near you quite shortly.

Burton-on-the-Water was teeming with tourists – quite possibly millions of them. We drove through and headed to Cheltenham. After ambling around the sometimes pretty, sometime not city centre we headed back to the car – quite deliberately discarded a minute’s walk from the wonderful Favourite Beer (http://www.favouritebeers.com/). They have perhaps 10 beers on tap and hundreds of cans and bottles to either quaff in or quaff out. Sus drove home.

For reasons unknown I chose this as the finale of our first Cotswolds adventure. And threw away the notes Sus makes on such trips. It wasn’t. We had 2 day left, including the event this trip had been built around.

Whoops. Let’s play a memory game.

Another morning, another delicious and healthy full English. Snowshill Manor and Gardens was our intended venue to burn off, for me anyway, all that fatty loveliness.

Snowshill Manor is a beautiful Tudor manor house bought by a chap called Charles Wade, thanks to an inheritance from his parents, shortly after the Second World War. Charles, an avid collector, revamped the Manor to house his ever growing collection and transformed the farmyard into an Arts and Crafts garden. He lived in the small Priest’s House opposite. It was that or a barn conversion.

His eclectic collection (much admired by the lovvies of the day) includes a magical model village, a room full of bygone bicycles, and weirdly, one of the finest collections of Samurai costumes outside of Japan. 

There is nothing not to like. The Manor, collection and gardens blend superbly to create both a fascinating and beautiful place to be. The National Trust might own half the country but they do it so very well.

And it’s here dear readers where memory and Google fail me. Neither can recall anything of that evening…….

…….segueing seamlessly into the next morning. We drove to a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Maidenhead for this particular jaunt’s raison d’etre (an expression crafted by the French, destroyed by the English). 

Excited? We were.

We checked in, freshened up and taxied to Bray, a small, pleasant suburban village on the Thames. This bijou Berkshire community boasts, as near neighbours, the Fat Duck and Waterside Inn. The former is the domain of Heston Blumenthal, the latter of Alain Roux. Both are restaurants, both are 3 star Michelin restaurants.

Sus, though certainly not looking so, was to be 50 that June. The Fat Duck was the lucky recipient for this undoubted celebration.

The taxi dropped us outside a 16th century building. We looked around – there was a pub but no neon sign pointing the way to this temple to gastronomy. Thankfully, within a few seconds of our landing in Bray, a door opened, a waitress emerged and a 4 and a half hour journey began. I was genuinely nervous, Sus considerably less so.

And please be assured, what follows will not be an in depth dissection of what we slurped, burped and gulped. With accompanying selfies.  I‘d be bored.

The restaurant was surprisingly small (40 covers only) with tables well spaced. We had the taster menu with matched wines – 16 courses (yep 16), some being small plates, others literally just a mouthful, most inbetween. The incredibly inventive menu is based around Heston’s seaside memories and, for one delectable fish course, includes headphones with sounds of the sea. Astonishingly it really did make a difference. Never saw that coming. I’m presuming the fish didn’t either.

It was stupendously expensive. You could probably purchase a McDonald’s franchise for the same cost. The seaside narrative is occasionally stretched and the food, though of superb quality, very occasionally misfires. However, the waiters and waitresses were fabulous, the wine wonderful and the food, when it does work, was without doubt some of the finest either has ever, ever eaten. One particular small plate was the tastiest I’ve perhaps eaten anywhere, anytime. And we’ve been lucky enough to dine in many a fine establishment.

Taken in its entirety that 4 and a half hours is one of the many highlights of our 10 plus years together.

Would we go again? Fuck yeah.

January 2020

Eight months later, another birthday. Partly in celebration of my 55th birthday, we were back. It was cold.

We based ourselves in the Bear of Rodborough Hotel on the outskirts of Stroud. Two particularly unfortunate bears, having been shot and stuffed, stood as silent sentinels menacing reception. The hotel is a rambling 17th century coaching inn and, though perched on a busy intersection, proved a delightful and quirky place to stay. There’s a lovely bar, real fires, decent bar food and a full English as splendid I’ve bothered in sometime. My mornings are generally reserved for cereal or porridge.

Stroud is yet another market town. The Cotswold’s seem to have a knack of producing such places. Stroud was very much closed. And very much cold. Stroud, once an important wool town, boasts 17th, 18 and 19th architecture, still has a large and successful market and an active local community. Though not postcard pretty Stroud is certainly an attractive spot. When open.

The next morning, and following an obligatory and healthy full English (something non meaty for Sus), we drove to Lacock Abbey. The abbey was founded by one of the most formidable and powerful women of the Middle Ages – Ela Countess of Salisbury. The cloisters, somewhat surprisingly, were incorporated into a Tudor country house in the 15th century. The canny courtier, who purchased the abbey shortly after the Dissolution of the monasteries, presumably picked up a bargain. We should thank him; the cloisters are a rare example of medieval monastic architecture. Cheers Bill (Sir William Sharington).

John Ivory Talbot inherited Lacock in the 17th century and went about pimping up the olde yea place in the totally on trend Gothick style. In the 19th century William Henry Fox Talbot inherited this impressive pile and, depending on your nationality, may or may not have invented modern photography. It might have been a French bloke. However it does explain the rather incongruous appearance of an excellent photography museum in the grounds of a building dating back 800 years. 

In 1944, a surprised recipient of the Lacock estate sensibly entrusted its future upkeep to the National Trust. Of which we’re members.

Parts of the house were undergoing conservation and not open to the public. This is a common practice during the winter months, as we learnt from the guided Conservation Tour we booked on arrival. It may sound a tad drab but was a fascinating insight into the ongoing battle between nature and old buildings. There’s surely a Sky original series in there somewhere. Thinking hobbit but more insect focussed. 

We bravely braved immodest weather to explore Lacock village the setting for many a film and TV series. Most of the village houses date to the 18th century or earlier, there’s a 14th century tithe barn, a medieval church, an inn dating to the 15th century and an 18th-century village school still in use today.

You could easily spend a day wandering around Lacock abbey, town and estate – all are quite beautiful. A half day is the least Lacock and you deserve.  

Our day ended on a trading estate on the outskirts of Cheltenham. Somewhat disappointing architecturally after Lacock. There were mitigating circumstances. This particular trading estate was home to the delightful DEYA brewery and tap room. As Sus heroically volunteered to drive I enjoyed only a couple of halves before we headed back to the hotel. Thoughtfully the lovely chaps and chapesses at DEYA sold their delicious brews in cans. We purchased several.

And shared a couple before struggling to finish a decent and very substantial seafood platter. With an equally decent gin and tonic. It had been a long day.

After another delicious and wholesome full English we said goodbye to the hotel and our 2 bear chums. Our next stop was a literally freezing salvage yard (too cold to get wallet out) before meeting daddy Tony and Bev (second wife) in Stow on the Wold. Dad, a regular visitor, loves the Cotswolds and it’s actually simpler to meet them both here then it is their Derbyshire home. After enjoying a pleasant hour catching up in one of the numerous coffee and cake establishments we headed back to London.

I may not always agree with dad – his worldview, being 80 plus and living in Derbyshire, veers right of my own – but his love of this area is totally understandable. The Cotswolds genuinely are a beautiful part of the world. We’ll be back.

WALES

Cardiff

Sus, though generally London based, is offered work throughout the country. Bridgend was the lucky recipient this time. A short hop from Bridgend is Cardiff and this seemed an opportune time to explore the Welsh capital city. I tagged along for a long weekend. And rather glad I did.

Cardiff is a sensible hour and 45 minutes from London by train. Though, because of a carelessly flooded tunnel, a detour was necessary adding another 20 minutes or so onto our journey.  

Cardiff has a population of around 335,000 with, or so it initially seemed, nearly as many pubs. Weatherspoon’s is perhaps the second sight a tourist sees on leaving the train station. As you walk onto the thoughtfully pedestrianised Queen Street (Cardiff’s main thoroughfare) several other large establishments are lined up for your consideration – O’Neill’s, All Bar One and others of similar awfulness. All were packed, a couple remarkably had queues. This was a little before 3pm on a Friday afternoon.

At this juncture you may be thinking of abandoning both myself and Cardiff. Please don’t. My scribblings might not, but Cardiff certainly deserves a little more of the reader’s good will.

Once a bewildered tourist escapes the parade of pubs Cardiff city centre thankfully improves. Attractive Victorian and Edwardian architecture vie with the ultra-modern Principality Stadium, the River Taff and of course that imposing castle. There were food stalls, Christmas stalls and large indoor shopping centres.  We strolled past and through many of these delights on a 20 minute yomp from the train station to our self-catering apartment.

It was late afternoon, getting dark and desperately trying to rain. We bravely decided on a stroll to the regenerated Cardiff Bay. The strolling took 25 minutes, with a beautiful old wall on our immediate left and a mildly sketchy low rise estate to our right, making it a tad more exciting than it needed to be.

Nevertheless, Cardiff Bay was a very pleasant place to be. There’s a beautiful Victorian church, the magnificent Welsh Assembly building and numerous generic restaurants and bars. With added view. May I also recommend the Makers Guild Wales which, housed in an attractive modern building, is a retail outlet for quality Welsh made, unique craft products.

It started to rain. We headed back. Feeling adventurous we chose another route taking us through an area of regeneration. Considerably more agreeable. And quicker. Which was weird as the distances were the same.

One of the highlights of Cardiff city centre are several beautiful Victorian arcades housing mainly independent shops, bars and restaurants. These Victorian delights should be explored at your leisure perhaps stopping for a drinkie, a bite to eat or a little light consumerism.

We had a takeout curry. In our defence we both were feeling a tad delicate from the previous night’s tippling. Sus drank conspicuous amounts of wine with colleagues, I caught up with a mate who seemed intent on trying at least half the beers available. Mother Kelly’s has 30 taps.

We had an early night.

My youngest brother lives in Herefordshire with 2 kids, 2 dogs but just the one wife. Probably wise. Al, obsessed by mountain biking, spends a surprising amount of time falling from various 2 wheeled contraptions in Wales – the border is a short drive from his house. We met up with Al and Carol (the one wife) spending a very pleasant couple of hours ambling in Abergavenny.

Abergavenny is an attractive market town surrounded by lush countryside. A visitor will discover cosy cafes, interesting pubs and a large partly covered market. The market had some genuinely quality products and produce – we bought wrought iron candle holders, which if purchased in London, would necessitate flogging the car; and ridiculously cheap homemade chocolates that would embarrass any chocolate(s) found in your local supermarket. Like Monmouth Abergavenny is one of the prettier Welsh towns. And like Monmouth I would encourage you to visit.

After saying our goodbyes we headed back to Cardiff and our hotel. I scoffed reheated curry, Sus destroyed (with my help) a splendid ciabatta – from Abergavenny market. Obvs. Then out on the lash. When in Cardiff….

A quick snifter in the splendid Tiny Rebel tap room, an excellent Welsh craft brewer, was followed by a couple more snifters in the seriously sedate Hopbunker. After a total of 3 pints (between us) we headed back. Told you, out on the lash.

Sunday morning was cold and wet. We drank an excellent coffee in one of the numerous arcade cafes before spending an hour vainly searching for a place to leave our bags for a couple of hours. Our self catering apartment catered not for left luggage. Finally the lovely people at the tourist information were able to oblige.

If one examines the castle walls from outside a red brick line should be apparent roughly one third of the way up from the base. Anything below this line was constructed by those much travelled Romans; anything above that same line is courtesy of those helpful Victorians.

The Victorians were well known for renovating ancient monuments in their own image. Well built they might be, sympathetic they were not. Some, perhaps even many, historians now believe these renovations more destructive than constructive. This is not new. In the 17th century Capability brown landscaped Cardiff Castle grounds destroying a number of ancient buildings. Many at the time thought this vandalism.

Sunday morning was still cold and wet. Heroically we decided to explore castle and its grounds. Visitors will discover remains from the site’s Roman past, a well preserved Norman keep, a World War Two air raid shelter and a small museum dedicated to the Welsh Guards. The manor house is a Gothic Revival edifice much favoured by Victorian architects. Some might consider it a tad gaudy, others an 18th century masterpiece. Pay the entrance fee and decide for yourself. Then let me know. I’m yet to decide.

We returned to the Tiny Rebel tap room for a cheeky half and bite to eat. The latter was a deceptively large plate of chips with cheese and gravy. I opted for the Christmas special which included, for the health conscious, pigs in blankets and stuffing. It’s still journeying through my digestive system 3 weeks later.

The trains were having a bit of an off day, this being a Sunday and all. At least half decided not to bother. Wrong kind of drizzle presumably. However, and rather fortuitously, I was able to catch an earlier train back to London. Sus was to spend the following week on an industrial estate in Bridgend. Lucky girl.

Cardiff is difficult to define – a little of the northern English town, a sprinkling of a wealthy southern city and a dash of the modern capital city. It’s friendly, surprisingly cosmopolitan and agreeable. If you do happen to materialise in South Wales Cardiff merits a visit. With a side trip to Abergavenny.  

JORDAN

JORDAN. BACK TO ITALY

Back in the distant 2013 we took a year off to travel (When we were in….). Whilst in India we met a couple strangely similar to ourselves. Spooky. We became firm friends and arranged to meet up again in SE Asia. A happy happening over a beer or several. Rich and El were also travelling for that same year (told you, spooky) but unlike us were doing it in three sections – popping back to Blighty every 3 months.

Six years later we were to do the same over a less ambitious 2 week period in September.

JORDAN

Amman

Our flight arrived at the less than convenient time of midnight. Public transport was somewhat absent. On the plus side Sus, in her infinite wisdom, had sorted an airport transport to our hotel. Not cheap but we’re totally worth it. Considerably more research than my meagre efforts meant Sus had pre-purchased the Jordan Pass which includes the £40 visa. Because of this foresight we sailed through passport control. More of that infinite wisdom thing.

We’d brought along an old iPhone and, with the help of our taxi driver, sorted out a sim card with data. This was our first purchase (£20) in Jordan and arguably the best value. As you will see.

The taxi ride to the hotel took about 30 minutes and, though we couldn’t see much, was straightforward. As you may remember I drink copious amounts of water and asked the taxi driver to suggest where might buy some of this magical liquid. Within a few minutes of leaving the airport he pulled in to a roadside shop (very India) buying several bottles and handing them to us. He wouldn’t accept any payment. He did accept a tip.

The hotel was basic but decent, the staff lovely. Our balcony overlooked the blue domed and imposing King Abdullah I Mosque built as recently as the eighties.

One peculiarity, which we’d come across in SE Asia, allowed no toilet paper in the toilet. There was a bin (thankfully lidded) once one’s nether regions had been cleansed. Jordanian sewage systems are not as robust as peoples’ digestive systems. Lovely.

An excellent (mainly) Jordanian breakfast was included along with views across Amman. Worst ways to start what became a very, very long day.

A 40 minute downhill walk (we paid later), mostly via a busy shopping street and the odd Amman neighbourhood, took us to the Citadel. And our first proper use of the Jordan Pass. The Citadel proved to be considerably larger than we first thought. And hotter. There’s Muslim, Byzantine and Roman ruins some dating back a mad 4,500 years. We meandered purposely (I know) for a good couple of hours finishing at those iconic Roman columns. Sus used her beloved selfie stick to take the money shot (her words). It was the last we saw of that selfie stick lost shortly afterwards. Sus was inconsolable.  A small Archaeology Museum is worth a peek as are the surprisingly grand views across Amman. 

Our second Jordan Pass treat was the magnificent 2nd century, 6,000 seat Roman Theatre. And this beast, though partly restored, is still in use today. Take heed town planners.

That modern affliction, fear of missing out, encouraged us to climb to the top. The gradient, added to the uneven steps (you’d be a little worn after 1,800 years), meant coming down was genuinely scary. There are also 2 small museums at the base of the stairs. We only went into the one which had a beautiful collection of traditional clothing, jewellery and equally beautiful mosaics (a particular fave of mine). Take the time to have a look.  

It was late afternoon and we were starving. And hot. So we decided to walk another half hour (uphill obviously), through a thriving market, to Rainbow Street. We’d actually followed a couple for much of the way trying to pretend we weren’t following them. We decided to choose a different restaurant. Happily Rainbow Street boasts numerous restaurants and bars. The whole neighbourhood is most agreeable with tourists and locals alike choosing to eat here. We like to be on-trend.

Sus spotted a restaurant that was advertising grandmother’s cooking. Normally we might ignore such an obvious ploy but hunger made a snap decision. We sat outside, ordered 4 vegetarian sharing dishes, pita bread (which comes with everything in Jordan) and 2 fresh fruit juices – a measly £15 worth. The food was some of the best we were to eat in Jordan. And grandma really was there.

Now fully foddered another walk was needed. Half an hour largely uphill (what is wrong with building towns on a flood plain?) we arrived back at our hotel for a little air conditioned loveliness.

Shopping and shopping malls are not normally our glass of fruit juice. However, when they happen to be in a foreign country, they can be a curiosity. This particular specimen was 15 minutes from the hotel past some government buildings guarded by army types carrying large guns. The mall was part of a regeneration area with new apartment blocks and office space.

There was a sprinkling of local stores but most were western chains and fast food outlets recognisable across the world. It could easily be that shopping Mall near to you. There was also a large cinema. Many of the locals were dressed up – it was definitely a place to see and be seen. As I said, we like to be on-trend. However my highlight was a large supermarket. I love supermarkets. Not as much as I love the wife. Obvs. We rather enjoyed our hour there.

We learnt 4 things on our first full day in Amman – the Jordan Pass is a must; a local sim card is a splendid thing to have; Jordanians are a rather friendly bunch; and have a penchant for hybrid cars.

Finally back to…….zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The breakfast and view were just as enjoyable as the previous morning. The traffic was not. We were catching a taxi (hybrid) back to the airport, leaving Amman not by plane but by car. Rental car.

There are some who believe Amman is not worth a look. I would disagree. It’s more Croydon than Rome though grants travellers an insight into a large, modern Middle East city. There are ancient sites to see and some likable neighbourhoods. A one night stay should do it.

Jerash and Dead Sea (briefly)

The chap at Sixt was delightful, so delightful in fact that he gave us an upgrade. To a larger (not necessarily a good thing) Chevrolet than presumably the very little one we’d booked. The Chevy (to his friends) Aveo was not a car you would ever buy but it proved to be well-mannered companion over the next few days. The air-con was particularly good.

Two hours in our new chum, including an unexpected and unwanted detour into Amman, took us to Jerash. A flash of the Jordan Pass and we were in. The site encompasses the ruins of the Greco-Roman city of Gerasa though evidence of occupation dates back as far as the Neolithic period or an unconceivable 7500-5500 BC.  The evidence includes skulls of 2 unfortunate (and very old) individuals.

We meandered purposely (again) for a couple of hours taking in temples, a paved street, columns galore, 2 theatres and even the ruins of a hippodrome where blinged up, boy racer chariots competed. Guidebooks and similar can better describe the sites and history of Jerash. Suffice to say it is utterly beguiling. Go.

After another hour and 45 minutes in the motor we arrived at our Dead Sea resort – basically a luxury hotel complex built in the late nineties for a boom in all inclusive beach holidays. We did wonder if much of its custom arrives in coaches disgorging tour groups with both vanishing in a cloud of exhaust fumes a couple of nights later. We were staying only the one. Though would be back.

We jumped in front of an afore mentioned coach party, checked in and headed to the beach. There was a sign, as one strolled to the beach, telling eager guests they had arrived at the perimeter of hotel property. That same eager guest still had 100 metres walk, over undistinguished ground, to the sea. Fifteen years ago this undistinguished ground had been under water. The Dead Sea is receding by about a metre a year. It’s literally drying out. It was quite eerie following the contours of what once had been seabed. And rather sad. 

I did have a dip (more on our return) though Sus was content to stay on the beach. Then happy hour, or at least amused hour, beers and a surprisingly decent light supper before bed.

We love a leisurely breakfast when travelling. And after a second stroll to the beach, that was exactly what we had.

Petra

Buffeted up, we waddled to the car and headed to Petra. The unimaginably named Dead Sea Highway had picturesque views of the sea on one side and arid mountains on the other. Until we hung a left and started to climb up and over those arid hills (mountains?). The road, unlike the easy-going Dead Sea Highway, was a rather cantankerous winding and steep thoroughfare. The views however were wonderful. Back home we drive a wonderful Mini Cooper – not one of those ridiculous SUV versions – but a 10 year old two door. Lydford (as we call the little guy) adores twisty bits. The Aveo didn’t. I briefly lost the back end when braking late into a corner. I slowed down.

The Jordanian Works Department has built a number of well maintained highways though neglected to include anything that connects them. On several occasions this necessitated negotiating sometimes pleasant, often non-descript and occasionally ugly small towns to do so. You might argue it makes the drive more interesting seeing the real Jordan and all that. You might be right.

We stopped in one of these small towns to pick up a six pack of 1.5 litre bottles of water. The lad behind the counter was friendly, the price of the water friendlier still. An absolute bargain at 2JD.

About 60km from Petra Sus was becoming bladder challenged. Usually it’s me. Just as the situation was going critical we found a Rest House. The toilets were clean, the coffee proper and juices excellent. Additionally the shop sold surprisingly good quality local arts and crafts – expensive though.

Shortly afterwards we arrived at our Petra Hotel – the advertised free parking a little exaggerated. We abandoned the Aveo in front of the hotel, checked in and, with the help of one of the staff, made the car appear a little less abandoned. Petra awaited. As it has for some considerable time.

Our hotel, deliberately chosen for its proximity to Petra, was a mere 5 minute walk to the entrance. Our Jordan Pass included a two day pass which bizarrely is only a few quid cheaper than the 1 day pass. This encourages visitors to rest their weary bone in Petra for the night helping the local economy. Makes sense.

Once passes and passports had been scrutinised (one chap failed to make it beyond the entrance) we were let loose in one of the world’s most celebrated ancient sites. It wasn’t to disappoint.

We arrived mid to late afternoon so the crowds had lessened as had the infamous heat. The entry ticket actually includes a short horse ride. We, as most people seem to do, declined. There’s also an opportunity to have yourself (and a friend) pulled along in a carriage by one of these unfortunate creatures. I know a little about many things and a lot about a very few. Horses I know only the obvious – they’re bigger than a cat and don’t speak a word of English. To my untrained eye most appeared OK but there were definitely a couple that were not. It’s unnecessarily cruel to subject these magnificent beasts to the heat, an oft unsuitable surface and fat people. With the growing awareness of animal welfare a majority of our fellow Petra explorers would seem to concur.

There are a number of trails in Petra, this being our first day, we stuck to the Main Trail. Your journey starts down a gravel path with tombs on both sides leading into a limestone canyon (Siq). After about 30 minutes the canyon shows tantalising views of the Treasury (the photo always on a friend’s Facebook page) and ending in a large open area fully revealing the Treasury. A stroll through another short stretch of canyon opens up to the Street of Facades and the third Roman Theatre of our trip. A touch greedy. Croydon is crying out for a Roman Theatre.

The desert gorge, where you can still see the water channels, is a wonderful introduction to Petra and the Treasury is everything you’d expected. However, my favourite was the Street of Facades culminating in the Roman Theatre.

The trail continues, we didn’t. We were conscious of the time and had the whole of the following day to explore. We walked back up the trail – and up indeed it is, as down it had been. A little beyond the entrance is a small, modern museum. Give it a whirl.

We made the mistake of asking the hotel reception for an eatery recommendation. Which they did and we wished they hadn’t. Not awful, just a tad mediocre.

The following morning, fortified with a buffet breakfast, we headed out to Petra. It was around 10am, as I said, we do enjoy our leisurely breakfast. Particularly when it’s included. Tastes that much better.

We followed the same route as far as the Roman Theatre before climbing up to the Royal Tombs along the Al-Khubtha Trail. The climbing isn’t especially difficult, finding the route up is. Whilst being bemused, a couple, plus a guide, strolled confidently past us. We discreetly, as discreetly as one can 10 feet behind, followed bringing back memories of stalking the couple in Amman. Their guide was understandably a little miffed though relented somewhat as, reminding me of a particularly bad seventies sitcom, we did our best to avoid them once at the top. 

The Royal Tombs are large and atmospheric – even the ones smelling of donkey wee – their elevated position keeping tourists hoards to a minimum. Staying away from the edges (mountain goats we are not) we explored the numerous tombs and gazed down upon stupendous views back along the Street of Facades and Roman Theatre. These were worth the entrance fee alone. The sheer number of tombs is genuinely astonishing and it’s when one realises just how massive the Petra site actually is.  We bravely (obviously) clambered down by a different route returning to the main path which, at this point becomes the Colonnaded Street.

The Petra Colonnaded Street is similar to the Jerash Colonnaded Street. Just not as good. The roadway isn’t as defined and the columns only half columns. I might sound disparaging, and probably unfairly, as anywhere else this colonnaded street would be extraordinary. Unfortunately we had visited Jerash. However one does pass the intriguing sounding Nymphaeum, a couple of smaller ruins (Market area, Garden and Pool Complex) before arriving at the fabulous Great Temple (Qasr al-Bint). Jerash who?.

We climbed into the temple and on finding shade at the back demolished our pilfered breakfast – bread, cheese and the ever versatile egg. Hard boiled on this occasion. Fried would have been a little messy.  

After our second breakfast, exploration continued of this huge temple complex some of which is fenced off for renovation. And made a new chum. I’m not fond of children, babies even less so. I do, however, love dogs. Our new friend thankfully was furry with 4 legs. He was one of the many mongrels scraping a living amongst ancient ruins and modern tourists. After I’d given the little guy (he wasn’t actually that little) water he followed us for a while. A reversal for us. I was sad to say goodbye.

As were saying goodbye to one chum, we discovered another. This time without fur and just the 2 legs. George was Irish, tall and a little like chum number one, very good natured. Bizarrely we’d heard about an Irishman travelling around Jordan by taxi (not unusual) from a Dutch/German couple we’d encountered at the bladder rescuing Rest House on the way to Petra. George was indeed that mystical Irishman. More bizarrely still the 3 of us re-encountered that same couple later in the day. Travel serendipity at its finest.

George was to join us. And I’m very glad he did. He changed, for the better, our plans for that day by persuading, especially me, to take the Ad-Deir trail to the Monastery – 800 plus steps dispersed randomly along a winding path. In the midday sun.

In preparation we applied suntan lotion, drank water and offering manly encouragement to each other set off. I’ll not lie, this is a proper workout and not for those less able or unused to exercise. It took the three of us about 35-40 minutes passing stalls flogging overpriced water and the usual tourist trap crap. Probably made in China.

Once tired, sweaty and dehydrated tourists clamber to the top they are presented with a large flat area partly covered by a steroid version of a stall. Plus the Monastery. It’s larger and less ornate than the Treasury though for Sus and I more impressive. It almost has a sense of calm. We took a 20 minute break before resuming our seemingly endless need to climb. This was a relatively short stretch to the highest accessible point offering remarkable views back across the arid and rather beautiful landscape. A stall cum sitting area dispensing tea and trinkets for a price somehow manage to perch itself at this very spot. I might dislike their wares but you can’t but help admire their tenacity.

The hike up to the Monastery is an absolute must. Plan it in or you will be disappointed.

Two things sprang to mind clambering back down. It was a lot easier than climbing up and donkeys. These poor creatures are made to climb up and then back down those 800 plus steps ferrying an unworthy and often overweight human. Sections of the trail aren’t easy for hooved animals and the sun can make it stupidly hot. It’s cruel. It’s wrong. One donkey, with an overweight passenger, refused to climb down a particular steep section of the trail. I cheered.

Many of the donkeys looked desperately unhappy and a few looked malnourished. One abject creature was tied to a post by its halter with only a foot of rope for movement. I wish now I’d videoed this sad creature – it was only when we left did I realise there was an official process to complain. Again, it’s heartening to see that the vast majority of our fellow visitors walked up. Those who made a donkey do their work should be ashamed. 

We retraced our step to the Great Temple before heading up to the 6th century Byzantine Church. Though the ruins are impressive what really impresses are the stunningly beautiful mosaics preserved after being buried by successive earthquakes. This is just a short detour from the main trail and very silly to miss.

What we hadn’t initially realised was that the Al-Khubtha (Royal Tombs) Trail was a trail of 2 halves. As the great Jimmy Greaves once said. And so, against my somewhat (and ignored) grumpy protests, we climbed once more. Not by stalking a guide but by some conveniently obvious steps. The tombs, like all the others we’d ventured into, were carved out of the rock. These particular tombs had a bonus feature – a wonderful display of mineral coloured rock running through the walls and ceiling. It was quite stunning. It reminded me of pictures, having never been, taken of the Northern Lights.

Outside the tombs 2 oriental girls asked a young Saudi chap for a selfie. That young Saudi chap was Argentinian and called Gaston. Book and cover etc. Gaston was to become our third new chum of the day. He had hoped to make it to the Monastery, we dashed those hopes. And so, after agreeing he should pop back the following day, the fab four went to the pub. Sus and I had spent fully 7 hours in Petra, George had spent even longer.

The pub, the oldest in the world, imaginatively re-purposed a number of tombs for seating areas.  Unnerving perhaps but the original patrons no longer had need of a seat or cold beer. We, however, very much did. For a companionable hour we sat outside sipping Petra Beer – not a beer I would ever buy but perfect for that moment in time.

Start early, finish late and much of what Petra has to offer can be seen in one day – our second day route for instance. Nevertheless, I would suggest a day and a half to 2 days for those taking things a little easier. Three days should be enough to walk every trail though ancient monument fatigue and heat exhaustion will have set in long before. For those wishing to live through the Petra experience pack copious glops of suntan lotion, drink enough water to satisfy a camel and wear comfortable shoes – flip flops or high heels make the coolest person look very silly. I probably drank 2 litres of water without ever feeling the need to urinate. A personal best demonstrating, even out of the hot season, how dehydrated one becomes.

My favourite part undoubtedly was the Street of Facades with a 3000 seat Roman Theatre thrown in. Sus’s was probably the Monastery.  I’ve written 1,400 plus words describing just this one day which might give the reader a hint of our thoughts on Petra. Petra is a legacy of the Nabataeans, Romans and Christians dating back at least 2000 years. Petra is genuinely incredible – it’s worth all the hype and more. Please go.

Beers finished we headed our separate ways, a little sad though inevitable. A much improved meal in a rooftop restaurant rounded of our day splendidly.

Crusader Castles (2) and the Dead Sea (again briefly)

We’d risen, bathed, breakfasted and were on our way by 9.30am. Yes, we were proud of ourselves too. A 40 minute drive, via that barren but striking landscape, and less striking small towns, brought us to Shobak Castle. Shoback was built in 1115 by Crusaders and sits on a barren hill within a barren landscape. One does wonder why any invading hoard would hanker after it. We were mildly underwhelmed, Shoback being imposing as one approaches though less so from the carpark. We were short of time, only making it as far as the toilets just within the castle walls, before moving on.

A quirk of Jordanian main roads is what seems to be, and would be in the UK, a generous cycle lane. It’s not. On faster single lane roads one quickly learns to straddle this lane in order to let faster traffic pass. It soon becomes second nature though not a habit to continue once home. Mayhem and fines would inevitably ensue.

Roadside police patrols are also a common occurrence on most Jordanian Roads. Speeding is taken very, very seriously. I had radar several guns pointed my way and we were pulled in on 2-3 occasions. Only to be immediately sent on our way, sometimes without stopping, once the local plod realised tourists we be. However, if you do choose to channel your inner Hamilton, then expect to be nicked. And heavily fined.

We arrived into the grubby outskirts of Karak and headed towards our second Crusader castle of the day. Karak, it turned out, was a busy and bustling place a little at odds with the huge, mediaeval Crusader fort plonked in its midst. We were within 2 minutes’ walk of the castle when a car backed out of a parking spot right in front of us. Hesitate we did not.

Karak Castle was constructed a decade or two after Shoback Castle and has survived the abuses of man and weather better. It’s a bit of a monster (literally coming over the hill) and has been occupied by a diverse range of owners – though never seemingly for long – ending in the Ottomans. We spent an enjoyable hour or so exploring tunnels, vast rooms and pathways. Strategically dominating (what self respecting castle doesn’t) the landscape Karak has elevated views over the town, farmland and surrounding desert. Though the visitor centre was closed a small museum wasn’t. And was worthwhile of a short side trip.

If these 2 castles had been the first Jordanian attractions seen they would undoubtedly have beguiled. Unfortunately, and entirely unfairly, Petra, and Jerash, had spoilt us. However both, Karak in particular, are magnificent examples of Crusader Castles and deserving of your time.

We climbed into our gently roasted Chevy, wound the aircon to artic and headed back to the same Dead Sea resort hotel. We had spotted, on our previous stay, a shopping mall that looked vaguely intriguing. It started badly when charged 1JD for some bloke pointing out where we should park. It wasn’t to get better. There was a small, overpriced supermarket, a couple of upmarket (expensive) souvenir shops and several fast food joints. There were 2 pubs, The Rover’s Return (I jest not) and The Dubliner (still not jesting) literally next to each other. It really was that awful.

We beat a hasty retreat and drove the 2 minutes to our pre-Petra hotel. We checked in, splashed about in the outside pool area before tackling the Dead Sea. This was late afternoon but the temperatures were still in the 30s with added humidity from the salt water.

The sea, in reality an inland lake, is the lowest place on earth with a pucker inducing 34% salinity. Only bacteria and fungi call it home though the somewhat larger Homo sapiens are able to float on the surface. Bollocks I opinioned. Wrong. Not only could I float but stand upright without needing the sea floor. Once you emerge feels as if your skin is covered with a graphite film. A genuinely bizarre sensation. Swimming, however, would be a grievous error. That salt concentration and delicate eyes can never be friends. Eyes, nose and mouth will burn like fuck if water sneaks in. For most, including us, this fate is easily avoided.

The benefits of Dead Sea mud is often spoken about by numerous companies trying to flog the stuff. Conveniently an ample supply of this oft talked about black goo was happily bubbling from a well metres from the sea. We smeared the stuff liberally all over (no £5 jar for us) before sunning ourselves for around 5 minutes. I felt like a battered fillet. Which obviously led to a ‘I’m so travelled/humiliating’ selfie. Though you will have to have someone take it as you, hands included, are covered in mud. 

Once dry we romped back into the sea and cleaned off again. The Dead Sea was an amazing experience. Unless you have a huge capacity for lying in the sun or floating in the sea 2 nights should do it. An undoubted highlight.

Madaba

And the next morning we did the same thing before a totally righteous and deserved breakfast. Mount Nebo was next. Actually it wasn’t. Another short detour took us to Mount Nebo, coachloads of devotees and an entrance fee – the Jordan Pass not being welcome. We’re not religious, the views were already impressive and we had a date with Madaba. We buggered off. No regrets.

Once parked up and checked in we bravely braved 35 degree heat to explore Madaba. Even the locals thought it unseasonably hot. We started at St George’s Church, finished with the hard to find Archaeological Museum with several slices of the Archaeological Park inbetween. St George’s Church was our only visited site that the Jordan Pass didn’t wield its magic. The cost was an extortionate 1JD each.

Madaba is mad about mosaics which are, as you may remember, a particular favourite of mine. They are stunning, even St George’s Church has an incredible mosaic map on the floor. Madaba itself is much smaller than Amman but very likable. Though the mosaics, quite rightly take centre stage, the town is attractive, friendly and walkable. Some travellers use it as a base to explore Jordan – it’s a short drive to the Dead Sea.

Back at the hotel we wallowed in air conditioned fabulousness before, this being our last evening in Jordan, heading back out for a beer. Sus had conjured up a craft beer place that looked promising. The hotel bar only had one beer on tap (Carakale proved better than Petra beer), was smoked filled with only 4 other patrons playing pool and becoming steadily drunker. We watched the deterioration. It might sound horrendous but was actually rather fun.  

As we were leaving the leader of this motley bunch insisted on buying us a beer – he was absolutely captivated with Sus. On meeting Sus you might understand though I did wonder if a camel or 2 might be offered in exchange. Three could have swung the deal. We politely refused, several times, but eventually succumbed. I asked the lovely Thai barmaid to split a bottle and, after a number of toasts, we made our escape.

They’d been a friendly and surprisingly mixed gathering – our leader was Middle Eastern though not Jordanian, there was a Russian, another East European and a reasonably sober local. A memorable and enjoyable last evening.

Black Iris, the name of our hotel, conjures up spies and political intrigue. Away from my vivid imagination it’s an incredibly friendly place, has excellent rooms and an utterly delicious evening meal – as good as anything we’d eaten in Jordan along, strangely, with that very first meal in Amman.

That last morning we checked out, fuelled and dropped off our faithful friend and flew home.

Jordan is one of the friendliest countries either has visited, perfectly safe and a little bit exotic. Jerash, perhaps partly because I didn’t know what to expect, was my favourite. Sus would probably choose Petra. Both are absolute musts.

Very close behind are the Dead Sea – a great spot to relax – and Madaba and her mosaics. Karak is also worth a peek if you have time. Not being huge fans of organised groups (hence the car hire), or tents and having spent time in the Peruvian desert, Wadi Rum was never in our plans.

There are issues – plastic pollution, trash and unsafe tap water all spring too easily to mind. However, perhaps the biggest compliment I can pay Jordan is a desire to explore this fascinating region further.  Jordan doesn’t have the natural resources of other Middle East countries and therefore heavily reliant on tourism. I suggest you help them out.

Christmas in the Balkans

Introduction

My name is Tony Leigh, my wonderful wife is Susan Tuttle. We enjoy numerous interests and live in London, a city we love. We are a fit couple of fifty somethings who love to travel.

This is blog is a travelogue of those travels.

Other Stuff

When looking for a place to stay, eat or drink we, like many of you, peep at Trip Advisor. Human beings have an annoying tendency of differing opinions to other human beings. This makes Trip Advisor a tad hit and miss.  Trip Advisor’s top rated eatery in one particular town we visited was McDonalds. Enough said. We now only use it as a reference point utilising local guides local, recommendations and everything inbetween.

A place to stay, eat or drink will only get a shout out if they’re particularly good or particularly bad. The vast majority of places stayed at, eaten in or drank from are instantly forgettable. It’s often the people we meet that make a place memorable.

The Trip

We landed in Venice on the 23 December and left Dubrovnik, arriving inconveniently late into Heathrow, on the 13 January. Which also happens to be my birthday. Only the flights, a hotel in Venice and car hire had been booked in advance. We’d researched where we wanted to go, how to get there and how long to stay but little else.

Italy – Venice and Trieste

Courtesy of Ryan Air (reasonably efficient if not favourite airline) we landed in the middle of nowhere. Also known as Treviso Airport. For €12 each a coach (easily booked in the airport) takes the weary traveller to the outskirts of Venice. A half hour walk (assuming no directional mishaps) would have taken us to our hotel. We decided on a water taxi. This is an expensive way to enter Venice but somehow feels the right way to enter Venice.

We spent the afternoon wandering around the tourist haunts – St Mark’s Square, the waterfront and the remarkably tourist populated Rialto Bridge. You need to do this if your first visit to the city. All truly are magnificent.

As both have been to Venice a couple of times before (though never together) the following day, our only full day in the city, we explored outside the usual excursion tourist habitat.

We started at the wonderful Peggy Guggenheim gallery which has a world class collection of modern art. Highly recommended. We then took a circular route back to our hotel which, in reality was only a short stroll from St Mark’s Square. Though the distances are actually quite small we explored for around three hours. To be honest, this was our favourite part of a very short stay in Venice. Though, to be clear, no part of Venice is tourist free.

Venice is one huge tourist trap. With reason. It has the double whammy of beautiful buildings artfully interwoven with water in the form of canals. Many of the shops sell tourist trap crap in the various forms – food, drink and souvenirs. However there are a few outposts of quality particularly around glass and clothing. And there’s D’Angelos, a small take out place selling great value, delectable pizza.

Our hotel was also on a canal. When hotels boast of being on a canal it’s like saying ‘the hotel is on a road’. Everything in Venice is located on a canal, it’s just a matter of which one. Saying that, our hotel was most agreeable reminding us both of hotels we had stayed in when on European family holidays. Even the soap smelled the same.

The following morning, after half an hour walk (we beat Google’s estimate by four minutes) from St Marks Square is the Mussolini era train station. And a handsome beast it is too. We wandered into the ticket office, bought a ticket to Trieste and an hour and 45 minutes later we were coming into Trieste station. Total cost was €28. Marvellous.

Venice is not a green city in any sense. Green spaces are rare with canals doubling up as the main sewage system. This does lead to a slight whiff, sometimes more than a slight whiff of residents’ toilet habits.  However, if you haven’t been do Venice than you should. Before it sinks.  It’s a magnificent city.

Trieste. First impressions were it’s OK. Then we had a walk about. They’re the remains of a small Roman Theatre, an elegant city centre and a small but well proportioned older quarter. The main square, boarded on three sides by grand 19th and early 20th century buildings and the other by the Adriatic Sea, is particularly splendid. Trieste main square, glammed up for the Christmas season, was one of the prettiest either had seen at this time of year.

The sea front offers an interesting (and cold in December) stroll past old and new. Though much is open to the Adriatic, one of the newer delights was Eately consisting of a collection of gourmet food, drink and crafts in a handsome modern building. Annoyingly, to us and locals alike, this temple to all things tasty was closed even though a notice on the main door proclaimed otherwise.

A steep climb via steps or a marginally less strenuous climb via a small park area takes you to a thoroughly impressive medieval castle and slightly later church. The castle, which has later additions, wasn’t open on a chilly December afternoon. However it’s an impressive sight and offers majestic views back across the city. It was also a great way to warm up on a chilly December afternoon. Or sweat profusely on a hot August afternoon.

We chose the steeper step route (obviously) and heavily breathed our way past an area that may have been used by methadone users. There were also a couple of needles for those presumably still on the hard stuff. A reminder that Trieste is a port town that like many others has suffered its fair share of hard times.

I’m a huge craft beer fan and, with the help of friends, have even tried my hand at home brewing – with mixed and interesting results. My IPA is an acquired taste and has a tendency to explode from the bottle. If like me, you prefer craft beers to dreadfully awful generic lager may I strongly suggest a visit to Hops Beerstro. The second ‘o’ has one of those continental marks above it. Though that may be just a mark on the beer mat I borrowed. Your inner beer snob will have a wonderful time. Mine did.

Food choices in Trieste consisted mainly of pizza, pasta and tiramisu. Most of the restaurants didn’t open to 7pm. We were starving. It was only about 5.30. We found Navigator (pun just realised), a restaurant desperately vying for a USP in a city of generic Italian restaurants. Thankfully the seafood pizza (me) and seafood pasta (Sus) were considerably better than their rather sad branding.

Slovenia – Ljubljana and Lake Bled

The next morning was another train leading to another city. Ljubljana is the capital and largest city in Slovenia. Not that you would necessarily know. The old town architecture swings from Art Nouveau to Baroque and anything inbetween.  It works rather well. There’s also a huge castle above the town (where else) which, from a distance looks spectacular. It dates back to the 11th century though much of what you see today dates from the almost modern 15th century. We walked up (15 to 20 minutes) though there is a funicular for wimps. And old people. And people in wheelchairs. And old people in wheelchairs.

Close up the castle still looks fairytale though on the inside (there is a reasonable entrance fee) it looked and felt a little sanitised. There’s an excellent restaurant (allegedly), an interesting museum tracing Croatia’s history and the obligatory cafe. We popped up the tower for the views and then popped back down, to what we felt, was the far more interesting town.

Two days in Ljubljana meant a visit to a brewery and another to a wine bar. Back in Blighty a visit to a brewery might mean cold premises, interesting toilet choices and sparse seating. However, the beer nearly always makes up for those minor inconveniences. Union Pivnica (which has another outpost in Makarska where we’re currently staying) had beautifully climate controlled premises, great loos and ample seating. And they serve proper food. Unfortunately their beer, certainly the three we tried, was rather bland. The owners had presumably visited a Brewdog but had left without tasting the beer.

Ljubljana’s reputation was saved by Slovenska Hisa, a splendid restaurant that served hearty, local food and superb beer – try the bizarrely and mildly worryingly named Human Fish and Reservoir Dogs breweries. Both sound a little like death metal bands but please be assured – both breweries produce cracking beer.

And a very special mention must go to Wine Bar Suklje (more continental wackiness above the ‘s’). We walked in about 4pm when it was very quiet. We had a flight of 4 wines, the first a little underwhelming, the following three excellent. A bargain at €8 per flight.

A local, who was already a little tipsy (pissed) asked if he could vape as it was markedly chilly outside. We had no problem (though neither smoke) and thought nothing of it. As we were finishing the barman came over and said the now considerably more tipsy (really pissed) local would like to treat us to a sample on one of the best wines Slovenia produced.

No thinking time necessary.

And he was right. The wine was superb. Our tipsy chum next offered to buy us a sample of the wine made by the owner of the bar. The owner and winemaker came over himself, partly to stop our tipsy chum further verbally molesting his customers (us). He was a youngish and affable chap whose family owned a vineyard on the coast. His wine was agreeable, an easy drinker and French in style.

A 40 minute bus ride from Ljubljana , the following morning, took us to the Hammer House of Horror Lake Bled. Discovering the whereabouts of bus stop taking one to Lake Bled was not as simple as one might think.  After an aborted attempt the previous day only Sus’s uncanny sense of direction got us there. I would still be looking. Take advice.

In itself the bus ride is worth the very reasonable fare. You pass through attractive scenery and villages before reaching the disappointedly blood free lake.  Lake Bled has a Bled Island (surely a statue of Dracula?) which has a 17th century church plonked on it. Might explain the utter lack of anything Draculaish. There’s a mediaeval castle clinging to a rocky cliff and a backdrop of the Julian Mountains. It truly is spectacular. An hour and a half leisurely wander takes you around the 6 kilometres of the lake. Worth every step.

Sadly, this was our last evening in Ljubljana a city we both very much liked. It’s very much a proper city which just happens to have a pretty old centre. It’s friendly, walkable and rather fun. Go.

Croatia – Zagreb, Funtana, Porec and Rovinj

A two hour, 15 minutes train journey from Ljubljana trundles one nicely to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia. A new country awaited.

Zagreb reminded us of Linz in Austria. A city yet to be fully discovered and perhaps appreciated by the masses. The capital is distinguished by 18th and 19th century Austro-Hungarian architecture. There’s the picture postcard favourite 13th century St Mark’s church (with the 18th century tiled roof) and the rebuilt twin towered Cathedral of Zagreb. A pleasing amble can be had exploring the area around St Mark’s.

There’s a Museum of Broken Relationships (probably not a first date destination) and Tkalciceva, a street aimed squarely at the tourist masses with its almost indistinguishable bars and restaurants.  We did have a rather good coffee there though.

However, the main square is impressive and, when we were there, they had the best ice ring either have seen. There was a food and drink market and an excellent live band playing in a park a short stroll away.

Reasonably close to the large daily market there’s Craft Room – yep, you guessed it, a craft beer pub. The beer and chips were excellent.

To be honest, a day is enough in Zagreb. Compared to Ljubljana it felt strangely parochial and perhaps a little scruffy.

The following day we headed to Istria and, three hours later, we arrived in the wonderfully named Funtana. There’s a Funtana Dinopark which sounds like an episode from the wonderful Phoenix Nights. It was closed.

So was Funtana. This was New Year’s Day. However, Funtana is a pretty village with wonderful views across the Adriatic. There’s a decent size harbour, restaurants and bars all surrounded by green hills. We stayed at a friend’s holiday home which was lovely. A little like Funtana.

Our second afternoon in Funtana was spent in the beautiful Porec, a 45 minute drive away. Porec is lucky enough to have a UNESCO listed, 6th century basilica, the odd Roman bit, medieval towers and a lovely old town dating back to at least the 18th century. If that’s not enough Porec happens to be located on the Istrian peninsula adding watery loveliness.

The following morning our baby VW (the ironically named UP! even though hills weren’t the little guy’s forte) took us to Rovinj another of those pretty Istrian towns. It’s similar to Porec and worth a couple of hours if you happen to have them spare. If you only have time for one choose Porec.

Croatia – Opatija, Zadar and Nin

From Rovinj we blasted down to Opatija – or a sedate meander in our mildly underpowered UP! The exclamation mark is VW’s, not mine. I dislike exclamation marks. To be fair, we were to spend 1500 kilometres in the UP! and all were stress free. The little guy was somewhat underpowered on motorways but more than capable everywhere else. Third gear very much became our friend.

Opatija surprised us. Architecturally Opatija was utterly different from Venice, Ljubljana and most of the other coastal towns. It has a long bay much of which is fronted by grand late 19th century and 20th century buildings. It feels very upmarket with elderly, well dressed (sometimes overly dressed) ladies with small dogs frequenting upmarket shops and boutiques. We were only there overnight but had a morning walk along the main street. Though one night is enough we both thoroughly enjoyed Opatija. Our hotel was also excellent with a breakfast my digestive system is still processing.

A couple of hours down the almost empty A8 we arrived in Zadar. Because we were travelling out of season and Croatia has a total population of a little more than 4 million people the roads (particularly the motorways) were refreshingly clear of cars. We also contributed about £50 to the road toll holiday fund. Probably a contributory factor. My understanding is, in peak holiday season, the non-toll roads become a car locked. 

I will mention our accommodation (Zederia Accomodation). It was an apartment – basically a large bedroom and bathroom. This was better than most and we were shown around and given Zadar tips from the lovely Inga. Apartments are common in Croatia and Montenegro (and often come with as small kitchen) often dominating accommodation in historic areas of towns and cities such as Kotor and Dubrovnik. I can’t help feeling this rips the soul from these historic centres and we – tourists – are the reason.

Unfortunately for Zadar, Croatia picked the losing side in World War Two, caught the wandering eye of the RAF who then made a bit of a mess. Thankfully enough of Zadar’s old bits survived and the town boasts Roman ruins, medieval churches, cosmopolitan cafes and quality museums all set on a small peninsula. The Roman ruins were discovered, somewhat ironically, because of the bombings. Silver lining and all that.

There’s a promenade along the Adriatic with marvellous views across the water to the settlements on the other side of the peninsula. You may hear eerie reverberations – this, thankfully is not the locals, but a sea organ, the first of its kind anywhere in the world.

Nin is about 15 kilometres from Zadar and recommended by one and all. It’s the oldest royal town in Croatia with a ruined Roman temple, the 9th Century St Church of the Holy Cross (the smallest cathedral in the world – allegedly) and restored cobbled streets. Queen’s beach, situated in Nin Lagoon, is one of the few sandy ones in Croatia. The water is shallow and the medicinal mud plentiful. Every mud bath comes with stunning views of the surrounding mountains.

Unfortunately we chose the coldest day of the three weeks. Perhaps ever. The place was deserted, everything was closed and it was fucking freezing. Nevertheless, we did a quick walk around. Sus, who feels the cold much more than her hardy husband (California versus Yorkshire), buggered off back to the car after an indecently short time. I, bravely, battled on and walked around the town by the water. It was indeed beautiful though neither would rush back.

Croatia – Makarska, Pogdora

Two and a half hours or a little less than 210 kilometres, largely down the E65, brought us to Makarska. With the exception of the impressively barren Biokovo Mountains that surround Makarska and the obligatory Adriatic panorama the town is a little underwhelming. It’s very much a beach town with a small limestone oldie bit, a similarly small harbour and an agreeable waterfront promenade which meanders around the modest bay.

Unless using Makarska as a base to explore the Dalmatian Coast a couple of nights will suffice. Makarska is not horrible, and makes an excellent stopover on the way down to Montenegro, it’s just not especially pretty or architecturally interesting. The views, however, are. 

Montenegro – Kotor, Budva

It’s about a month since the trip and I contrived to omit both Montenegro and Lake Bled from these scribblings. A lake is perhaps forgivable but a whole country?

Makarska to Kotor (surprisingly located on the Bay of Kotor) is a four hour plus drive down the E65 – you will learn to love the E65 if you drive down the Croatian coast. More quality time with our UP! Bizarrely, because of the brutal Balkans War in the 1990s, you leave Croatia, pop into Bosnia and Herzegovina, pop back into Croatia before meandering into Montenegro. I can tell you little about Bosnia and Herzegovina apart from its unsurprising similarity to Croatia. It used to be the same country after all. And we were there for less than half an hour. Twice. 

Kotor’s old town, encased by staunch, defensive walls, is a collection of mediaeval streets, squares and Romanesque churches. If this isn’t enough, Kotor is surrounded by water and mountains. It is genuinely gorgeous. Cruise ships arrive with the regularity of the Victoria line. Thankfully not when we were there.

We spent a number of hours during the next few days wandering around this mediaeval gem. Like everywhere else, little was open allowing us to enjoy the splendour of the place without the distraction of tourist hoards searching for the next Lonely Planet must do.

One numbingly cold evening the main square hosted a local band. The annoyingly good looking, English speaking and undoubtedly charming lead singer also played lead guitar. Brilliantly. Their covers of 1970 rock classics made for a mildly surreal experience. I remember a number of food and drink stalls. Everything was free.

Another day, another old town. This time Budva, less than 25 kilometres from Kotor. The road between Kotor and Budva is, I sincerely hope, an anomaly. It travels through what looks to have been a failed business enterprise zone.  Some businesses have set up including a very disappointing hypermarket. However, there are far too many gaps, an occasional half built, abandoned building with litter strewn everywhere. The whole area is a little grim. 

Budva new town is non-descript and, for many over developed. It houses abundant, shops, bars and clubs. Add into this hedonistic mix numerous beaches, a stunning bay and glorious weather and you have party central. Though not when we were there. Mercifully.

The old town, parts of which date back to mediaeval times, is parked on a small peninsula and surrounded by 15th century walls. Five gates are the only way in. Being pedestrianised Budva old town is enjoyable to stroll round. As you would expect, there’s no shortage of bars, restaurants and souvenir shops waiting for the unwary. The Citadel provides, for those who paid the small entrance fee, unparalleled views back across the Adriatic and the town.

I was unaware, until researching for this blog, that much of the old town had been rebuilt after a devastating earthquake in 1979. Unlike Dubrovnik, it doesn’t show and still worth a gander. Nevertheless, unless you’re a super cool party person it may be best avoiding the peak summer season.

Montenegro – Perast, Risan, Tivat

The following day was wet, blustery and cold. The weather was never to improve. A little unenthusiastically, we climbed into our faithful UP! and headed  up the coast. We were to have one of the best days of those three weeks.

Perast a few kilometres, and a short drive, from Kotor is a UNESCO world heritage site. It’s a 17th and 18th century town masquerading as a village with numerous churches and Baroque palazzi. The only road (paved track) in or out separates it from the Bay of Kotor which, in turn, is surrounded by mountain scenery. There are two picturesque islands, one man made (with obligatory legend) housing a 15th century church, the other natural boasting a 12th century monastery. Both can be visited in the summer, neither could be visited in January.  On the plus side both islands are clearly visible from shore.  And we had the freedom of the parking bays.

Perast is often called little Venice and it’s easy to see why. The town, bay and mountains make it one of the most beautiful places either has been to.

Onwards to Risan. Risan is not a Perast. Not even close. Risan was once a bustling Roman town, the oldest settlement on the bay. Today a huge abandoned hotel on the sea front stands testament to its current state. However, one thing Risan does have that Perast does not is Roman mosaics. And, for a small entrance fee tourists, can view this stunning reminder of those glory days. We were the only visitors, a shame, the mosaics are beautiful.

Our final stop that rainy day was Tivat, a mere 12 kilometres from Kotor. Tivat is a modern and non-descript place with one redeeming feature – the naval base has been sexed up and is now a stylish, uber posh Marina. There are upmarket flats, upmarket shops and an upmarket delicatessen which was surprisingly good. We nipped into the upmarket Crush Wine Station to warm up, dry out and enjoy a couple of the local vinos. However, the undoubted stars of the show were the mind boggling super yachts moored in the marina. A few years ago we were captivated by the motor yachts at the London Boat Show. These Tivat residents were on a completely different scale. Smart car versus Range Rover.

A proper travel day.

Croatia – Dubrovnik

If you only do one thing in Dubrovnik have a stroll around the city walls. It’s expensive (everything in Dubrovnik is) but gives fantastic views of the old town, the Adriatic and the surrounding hills. And then lose yourself (and you will) in the beautiful streets of the old town. Once you find yourself passing the same souvenir shop for the fifth time head up to the fort – those of you who are Game of Thrones devotees will be particularly excited. There’s the Rector’s Palace, another expensive option, though worth a peek if you’ve run out of ideas.

We didn’t but it’s worth considering the Dubrovnik Card if you intend to visit the many attractions the old town has to offer. We, by accident, walked to a second harbour about 40 minutes from the old town. Though quite pretty, with large banks and shopping malls, the area felt more a commercial centre. Again, if you’re running out of tourist delights, it might be worth a stroll.

Kawa sits just outside the city walls and sells only Croatian goods – handbags, scarves, oil etc. They also have a cracking selection of local craft ales and a small selection of similarly local wine. This may not be the cheap option but it’s certainly the quality option. And a huge improvement on the omnipresent souvenir shops selling tourist trap crap. Most of which is probably manufactured in China.

Old town Dubrovnik is undeniably beautiful (even the newer bits aren’t exactly horrible) plonked in an equally beautiful setting. We found it a little soulless. Too many tourist apartments, too many bars, restaurants and shops peddling the same tourist rubbish. Much of the old town was rebuilt after the tragic Balkan wars of the early 1990s giving an almost Disney feel – especially with Games of Thrones and, to a lesser extent, Star Wars advertised everywhere.

That’s a shame. I suggest you avoid the summer (and therefore most of the cruise ships) and overcrowding. But go. Dubrovnik is worth it.

Final Thoughts

Favourites. Probably Ljubljana and Lake Bled closely followed by Kotor. Porec and Opatija also made a favourable impression. Zadar and Trieste were agreeable places to spend time. There was nowhere we hated, Zagreb and Makarska only underwhelmed.

On that very first morning, during the boat ride into Venice, we’d chatted to a lovely young, English couple. He was a line backer sized black guy; she was a diminutive (and much prettier) Muslim girl. Partly because of their obvious size discrepancy (and it was considerable), perhaps a little unusual. What was more unusual, striking even, was the utter lack of ethnic minorities in any of the local populations of the countries we visited. With an odd exception in Italy. Living in London specifically, and the UK generally, this was a genuine culture shock.  

However, this was a fabulous three weeks. And travelling out of season certainly has its advantages – lower prices, a lack of other tourists and little need to book months in advance. There are obvious disadvantages – unpredictable and interesting weather, shorter daylight hours and closed tourist attractions. It was cold though only occasionally bitter (Nin) and there was only one truly miserable day. The closure of some tourist attractions, bars and restaurants was of no concern. Many of the bars and restaurants were tourist traps and I don’t remember one closed tourist site we’d have visited even if open.  

For us the pros outweigh the cons and we’d not hesitate to travel at this time of year again. And remember we chose the Adriatic, not Northern Europe. For a reason.

Trip of a lifetime

Many years ago in a city quite possibly near you…

Sus and I met on an organised London walk – with pubs spaced suspiciously conveniently – back in May 2008. It was FA cup day. In that same September we became a couple.

In 2013 we gave up our jobs, divorced ourselves from London lives and used a flat deposit to fund a year long backpacking adventure.

Sus cleverly kept a journal of these travels, a habit we’ve only recently rediscovered. From these scribbles I wrote and self-published an online book describing these adventures. The following blog posts are a mildly modified serialisation and of that same book.

Many thanks for reading

Tony

INDIA

Arrival, madness, cultural shock

We finally arrived in the sub-continent sometime shortly after midnight Indian time on the 19th January 2013, dazed and confused. I actually remember queuing for Customs, wondering if we would be allowed in. Sometimes I worry too much.

A taxi should have been waiting to take us to a pre-booked hotel as part of the organised trip. They were long gone. We phoned a number we had been given for such an event. And waited.

After a lot of confusion, and I mean a lot of confusion, a taxi took us to our hotel in North Delhi. Or so we thought. On arrival we were informed this wasn’t actually our hotel. So at around two in the morning we had to walk to a second hotel through a very small slice of North Delhi (the distinction between North and South Delhi is important). This ten minute walk took us past piles of rubbish and people sleeping on the street, some presumably out of choice, others not. We arrived at the remarkably similar second hotel and fell asleep.

We surfaced about midday, tired, disorientated and wondering why we had left our comfortable lives in London. The hotel room was basic, the noise from the street outside alien and we were surrounded by a people and country we didn’t understand. We were a bemused, middle aged couple, dressed in travellers’ clothes and with a skin colour akin to A4 copy paper.

We were at the mercy of anyone and everyone, including the voracious local insects.

At least the language was familiar. English is widely spoken.

We decided to head off to Connaught Place because it was relatively close and the guide book told us to. We hailed a tuk-tuk and agreed on a price after the obligatory haggling – an absolute necessity in any dealings with the entrepreneurial tuk-tuk drivers.

My youngest brother had a tricycle when he was a kid. Add a cabin, though not side windows, a small, polluting, two-stroke Vespa engine/gearbox, random personalisations, and you too can have a tuk-tuk. Like all whom we encountered in the course of the next 3 months, the driver was a man, friendly with some spoken English and trying to make as much money from us as humanly possible.

A typical entrepreneurial approach to any tuk-tuk journey takes unsuspecting travellers to a variety of establishments flogging souvenirs probably cheaper in Camden. The driver will extoll the virtues of this particular shop, while getting a kickback (it might be cash or even petrol) from any sale made. Some might even throw in a sob story concerning assorted family members. With photos.

The saving grace of the tuk-tuk is its total lack of pace. The Indians are said to be a fatalistic lot, which seemed to fit with the way they drive. Tuk-tuk drivers embrace the ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ philosophy of driving. However, tuk-tuks are plentiful, cheap and used by all. I’ve probably spent more city miles bouncing along in a tuk-tuk than I have in a car. And without the tuk-tuk, India would grind to a complete halt. I miss them.

Our driver lived up to type. He took us to three esteemed establishments selling ubiquitous souvenirs (we politely declined) and drove as if this were his last day. There appears to be a complete lack of road rules, with horns set to loud, swarming buses and families of four or five exploiting a small motorbike as we would a family hatchback. Chuck in exotic smells, dirt, teeming multitudes and you begin to wonder if this is the same planet you left only a day before. Genuine, genuine culture shock.

Connaught Place, with its rather faded colonial glory and familiar architecture, helped to orientate us. As did the shops that inhabited most of the ground floors. We could have been in Lewisham Shopping Centre.

Sus bought a travel bag from, appropriately enough, American Luggage, which survived the rest of the trip. I already had something similar which had been a freebie from a magazine subscription. We spent a pleasant half hour wandering around a small park opposite Connaught Place and met back up with our tuk-tuk driver as arranged. The driver had yet to take any payment and trusted that we would use him for our return journey. And pay.

This was a very gentle introduction to India. The shops were familiar, the tourists many and the hassle yet to reach the biblical proportions it soon would. We wised up very quickly.