Transitory Traveller

North to Alaska!

2012-02-09T13:48:00.000+11:00

It's been estimated that about 50% of those who travel to Alaska will either arrive or depart on a cruise along the Inside Passage, the famous coastal route which weaves between islands off the Pacific north coast between Vancouver and Anchorage.

Sailing at season's end means avoiding the height of summer horror, by which I mean those days when a remote port of call such as little Skagway sees several large cruise ships in a day. Such chronic cruise overload would destroy any chance of enjoying your brief time in this jolly Alaskan coastal town tucked away at the far end of the Chilkoot Inlet.

Given the coastal roll out of densely forested islands, the visits to remote communities such as Skagway and Ketchikan and the awesome passage into Glacier Bay, I would rank my Inside Passage cruise among the most satisfying and interesting itineraries I've sailed. Just spare me the thought of several ships docked anywhere at the same time, which happens at the height of the season. One cruise ship alone carries enough passengers to double Skagway's resident summer population. On the busiest days this tiny community has to cope with several thousand visitors.

Skagway was spawned as a result of the great Yukon goldrush of the late 19th century. It was from here that fortune seekers made their arduous way over Chilkoot Pass into the Klondike. I followed this trail the easy way by taking the White Pass & Yukon Route, a precipitous adventure along an amazingly engineered narrow gauge rail track that winds up the mountains to the Canadian border.

At one point in the past this track ran all the way to Whitehorse and, by riding the rails, I got a real sense of the inspired endeavour and sheer grit that lay behind gold-rush fever. I also kept alert to any wildlife in the surrounding forest and deep ravines. My vigilance was rewarded by the sighting of a young bear in Dead Horse Gulch.

Broadway is Skagway's main street and its kept polished and trim for tourists with the trinket, souvenir and clothing shops doing brisk trade between May and September. The local museum has plenty of information on the settlement's history with accompanying images of those early days. The flavour of pioneer times exists in the Red Onion Saloon, once a brothel and nowadays where musicians from the cruise ship often exchange riffs with local players at afternoon jazz sessions. Such gigs are perhaps best appreciated with a halibut burger clutched in one hand and an Alaskan amber beer in the other.

China by air

2012-01-31T09:23:00.003+11:00

Tired of routine travel experiences? Here's one way of obtaining a whole new perspective on China.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's the Red Bull flyers!

Chinese Scenes from BASE-Book - Matt Gerdes on Vimeo.

(thanks to Socs for the link to this amazing video)

Travel info: Helen Wong's China

Stepping out on the high seas

2012-01-23T15:25:00.001+11:00

I'm no cruise junkie by any stretch of the imagination but I have sailed several and, always depending on the itinerary, can recommend taking to the high seas as a relaxing travel option.

Cruising is hardly demanding. You don't have to do much at all. Days at sea involve plenty of slobbing about in deckchairs gorging oneself on sunshine, books and long cool drinks, devouring copious amounts of food at mealtimes and, in between, choosing which of the ship's various entertainments are worth the bother.

A downside of cruising is the all-too-brief time spent at any one destination, usually limited to a few hours. Consider a cruise as travel window shopping. You get a quick look at various places and this, in turn, might prompt a desire for a return visit on land.

Recently, I took a short but sweet voyage with my daughter. It was the first time we'd been away, just the two of us, since she started university. She's now a qualified vet (just so you know how long and arduous her studies have been) yet managed a week off work to join me aboard Pacific Jewel when we sailed from Sydney bound for Noumea and Vanuatu.

Her company on board ship meant this cruise was a whole new experience for me. Within 24 hours of setting sail I found myself on the dance floor learning to waltz. Sacha's a natural dancer and always keen to get her old man in step, so to speak.

In this respect, the afternoon dance classes were too good an opportunity to miss and they were surprisingly popular among the Jewel's 1800 passengers; not sold out like the four-class course in martini making but one has to realise no free drinks were on offer when learning to rumba.

A day later saw me taking my first tentative steps in the foxtrot. In due course, along came the cha cha cha and then the salsa. I missed the mambo class but only because I'd dozed off in a deckchair.

The Gippsland Glee Club swing into action

While I was delighted to dance with my daughter, I was nowhere near as passionate about doing the two-step as the "Gippsland Glee Club", a nickname I gave a group of dedicated funsters from Victoria. They were prancing about the Lido Deck before we'd even left Sydney Harbour, the gals wearing fuzzy pink haloes and the lads sporting red devil horns. They wore this party headgear for the entire 10-day voyage and were seen in action whenever the ship's band or DJ struck up a tune. That is pure dedication to desire.

Spanish medieval magic

2012-01-17T13:46:00.000+11:00

I'm driving the Silver Route between Salamanca and Seville, a route once used to transport riches plundered from the New World by Spanish conquistadors. The only riches I'll plunder en route are of a transitory sort, including memories of excellent tapas bars, flavoursome Spanish reds and vivacious senoritas.

My journey carves through the western region of Extremadura, a name derived from the word extremo meaning "extreme". Historically, this comparatively wild part of the country has produced many famous conquistadors including Hernán Cortés, Francisco Pizarro, Pedro de Alvarado and Núñez de Balboa. I expect plenty of frontier flavours and I'm not disappointed.

Passing through a range of ridges and valleys called Las Hurdes which straddle the province's northern reaches, the road to the south drops into Extremadura proper on its way to the towns of Plasencia, Cáceres, Merida and Zafra.

Olive groves and orchards are enclosed within ancient dry-stone walls. Pigs snuffle in the grasses. Holm oaks cast deep shadows on fertile pastures that, in late Spring, are carpeted in a lush purple bloom. The countryside is noted for mixed farming and local artisan talent and roadside stalls offer a bounty in gourmet grazing: hams, sausages, pimentos, preserves, olive oils and cheeses.

At regular intervals the immense silhouette of a black bull rises on the horizon. These iconic metal sculptures celebrate the thriving local business of breeding huge and suitably testy creatures destined for "a glorious and noble death" in Spain's bullrings.

Old Cáceres seen from Plaza Mayor

I arrive at the walled medieval town of Cáceres, an architectural wonder and listed World Heritage Site. Broad steps leading from the modern Plaza Mayor into the Cuidad Monumental pass beneath the Arco de la Estrella (Arch of the Star), an 18th Century construction replacing the original city gate.

Set within impeccably preserved ramparts, overlooked by watch towers and squeezed between high stone walls, a maze of narrow lanes, steep steps and dark alleys forms a matrix linking the Old Town's numerous tiny plazas. Each small square is dominated either by a church or palatial medieval home, a monastery or convent. A 14th Century palace within these ancient walls is my hotel for the night. The Parador Cáceres is part of a network of historic accommodation that spreads throughout Spain.

Having checked into the parador, I next pay a visit to Casa de Carvajal, an old house that's now the provincial tourism office, where I study a large, detailed model of the walled city in order to get my bearings. A small Renaissance-style garden within the house boasts a gnarled old fig tree that I'm told is 1000 years old!

Across the street, in a side chapel of the Church of Santa Maria, is the Cristo Negro, a daunting religious effigy with the macabre reputation of killing those who dare look directly at it or touch it. Rather than risk my life I ramble through the remarkable, narrow streets of the Old Town as the soft radiance of a late afternoon sun warms the flagstones, casts a luminous glow on high stone walls and triggers silver sparks of reflected sunlight in mullioned windows. I can't imagine a better light in which to enjoy these unique surroundings.

# The Spain Tourism Board estimates 56,320* Australians visited Spain in 2011, an increase of 13.4% on 2010 (*based on IATA and Amadeus figures)

On shaky ground

2012-01-08T17:57:00.000+11:00

Operating with skeleton staff over the holiday period generally means newspaper pages get filled with whatever copy is available. This may explain why my daily rag devotes five pages of its sports section to a single cricket match and why its entertainment section largely consists of repeat information about the same city festival events.

New Year is also that time when "list-journalism" dominates. Drumming up lists of 10 things to do, see or sample during the next 12 months is an easy way to fill out the travel pages. These annual lists are inevitably highly subjective and should be viewed as such. Nevertheless, these lists of what's hot or not can and do raise hackles and prompt minor controversy.

A US blog on places to avoid in 2012 has irked Christchurch tourism officials. They're reportedly piqued that their earthquake-rattled city should feature alongside mention of Libya, Haiti and Egypt. But after reading the so-called "offending" blog and having myself recently been in Christchurch I can't see what the local tourism people are upset about.

Christchurch - down but not out

Christchurch & Canterbury Tourism board chairman Paul Bingham is quoted saying the blogger "clearly hasn't been to Christchurch lately" and "the reality isn't what is being portrayed." Why so defensive? No-one is saying don't go.

The blog's advice is: "Go, but only to pass through Christchurch on your way to other parts of New Zealand." Well, that's pretty much what Christchurch expects. It's a given that any prospective visitor is likely to be apprehensive about staying in a city that's lost half of its hotel accommodation and is still being shaken by tectonic movement. When there, I was told the city was "open for business and visitors" but also that it is struggling to fill the 8500 hotel rooms that are still available.

Quite understandably it's a terrific idea to instead emphasize Canterbury's many other splendid attractions. Maintaining tourism to the region is surely the prime objective, even if Christchurch at the moment is seen as a gateway and not an attraction in itself.

See how the city is tackling the reality: Christchurch thinks outside the square

The bright side of life

2011-12-05T15:30:00.001+11:00

During the last 12 months so much world news has been plain awful and acutely depressing; natural disasters, financial meltdowns, the climate crisis, general greed and horrible hardship. But as we approach another Christmas I feel the festive season's a fine time to remind myself (ourselves) that it ain't all bad. In keeping with the season's spirit here are some personal highlights from my past year.

My daughter Sacha’s graduation as a vet in December: this made me the proudest dad in the world!
New Year's Eve on a nut farm at Eundai, NSW: the finest rosé Champagne, top food and great friends in a beautiful setting; even the dog went a bit crazy!
My birthday present in February: a season ticket at the Belvoir. My favourite play of the season was Neighbourhood Watch, with the recent Shakespeare romp As You Like It a close second.
An April Saturday spent roaming the fabulous Borough Markets on London's South Bank: lubbly jubbly and a whole lot more ...
Five nights in Barcelona at Hotel Bagués on Las Ramblas: a splendid room with views over the heart of the action .... and great gin also
A night of sensational tapas and home-brew cava at the tiny Xampanyet bar in Barcelona’s mysterious Barrio Gòtic
Getting off the beaten track in rural Thailand: the province of Petchaburi is near Bangkok but far from the madding crowd
Up close with elephants galore at Ivory Lodge in Hwange, Zimbabwe: an excellent safari camp poised for tourism to once again flourish
Dinner at the revamped Bulawayo Club: despite Mugabe’s 30 years of misrule my old hometown can still put on the charm.
Four days spent at Nectar Cottage in Nature’s Valley in South Africa: A wonderful holiday house for rent in a most magical setting on the famous Garden Route.
Seeing several old friends from university days while staying with the "squire of Salem" in his historic inn.
A banquet for Alison in September at Ms Gs in Sydney's Potts Point: sharing an intriguing menu with family and friends in celebration of my wife's birthday.
Sensing the wonderful social spirit borne of adversity while visiting earthquake-shattered Christchurch in October.
And to round out my year of wonders ..... a Pacific cruise in November with my daughter: the first time just the two of us have gone on holiday since she began university.

So finally, let's not forget the advice given by these crazy, wonderful guys back in 1979 .....

In the iCloud no one can hear you scream ...

2011-11-29T18:42:00.001+11:00

Some years ago I fled Microsoft Windows to seek Apple sanctuary from serial screen freeze, hard disk crashes, perpetual updates and general virus mania. It was a smart move at the time, resulting in pretty much hassle-free computing since. Until now!

Sadly, the passing of Steve Jobs seems to herald the demise of Apple Inc as trusted provider of a steadfast and trouble-free computing environment. Trying to get the iCloud to function properly is proving almost as difficult and frustrating as it used to be getting Windows to provide a whole working day without meltdown. Does this signal the death of painless, user-friendly Mac computing?

I thought sync would be a cinch. How wrong I was. With iCloud activated on both desktop and mobile phone I ticked all the right boxes as instructed and sat back. The result? I now have multiple repeat calendar entries for each day. Like Groundhog Day, everything is repeated … and repeated.

But that’s not all. Unexpectedly, I now also get daily weather forecasts in my calendar. Two appear for each day. Both show different temperatures and neither bear any relation to the forecasts on either of the two weather apps on my phone. So where in the glorious, unchartered iCloud do they come from?

I’ve consulted endless web forums on this particular perplexing multiple calendar issue (and also become aware of other strange iCloud behaviour). None of the forums supply an answer although some do include suggested possible workarounds that frankly seem ridiculous. So I'm off to the nearest Genius Bar in a desperate bid to sort out the daily chaos that now reigns in my iLife.

#Update: Solution (simple, of course, but nowhere to be found on iCloud help or iCloud support web pages): On iPhone/Calendars go to All Calendars. Untick everything under "All from My Mac". Scroll down. Under "iCloud" tick "All iCloud". Then, on your iMac/MacPro/iPad go to iCal, click on Calendars (top left corner) and do the same, ensuring only iCloud calendars are ticked (and any subscription calendars you might have, ie birthdays etc). On your browser, log into iCloud and check that the calendars you want are ticked, along with any Reminders and subscription calendars.

Smoking hot in NZ

2011-11-17T16:17:00.001+11:00

The Akaroa Cooking School conjures up some of the top tastes on the Banks Peninsula. It's where Lou and Ant Bentley teach the fine art of making sure that prime local produce hits the dinner plate in the finest possible fashion.

During my South Island visit I had the pleasure of picking up some terrific cooking tips watching Lou's sharp-knife magic at work in her demo kitchen. But I really want to share what happens out in the backyard of their Beach Road foodie haven - because that's where Ant gave me some vital tips on how to become a hot-smoking success, which is something we should all aspire to this coming festive season.

Mr Smoko

We set about smoking fillets of famed Akaroa salmon. The fish are bred in such pristine waters I'm told they can lay claim to being the only commercially farmed salmon totally free of antibiotics.

Hot smokers are shiny and silver when new but soon go black on the inside through use. Ant says this acts as seasoning, enhancing the smoky flavours, so it's a case of no worries mate about cleaning.

Step 1: Remove rack and sprinkle a large handful of wood chips evenly on the base of the smoker. A variety of different woodchips are available so experiment to find your preferences. Ant uses manuka and oak for smoking salmon and apple chips for pork sausages.

Step 2: Put rack back in smoker. Fish fillets and vegetables are best laid on rack in tin foil with the edges of the foil rolled up as the flesh gets quite soft during the smoking. Sausages or chicken can go straight onto the rack, however foil also stops any oils dripping onto the base. Burnt oil will result in acrid smoke. Another tip: Sprinkle brown sugar and salt on top of salmon.

Step 3: Make sure the smoker is sitting on a solid, non flammable surface such as concrete (not grass or wood). A good place is on top of the BBQ grill with the lid down to retain all heat and smoke.

Well and truly smoked!

Step 4: Pour approx 150ml* of methylated spirits into the fuel container and light. Place smoker on top of the flame with lid firmly shut. Put something heavy on the lid (a brick or two). Smokers are usually made of sheet metal, which may sometimes buckle when heated. A weight on top will help avoid woodchips being "pinged" onto your food. *150ml will burn approx 20 minutes, enough to smoke a dozen chipolata sausages or a whole fillet of salmon.

Step 5: Leave food in smoker until meths has burnt out. Rest for 5 minutes then remove and enjoy.

PS: In Akaroa, hot-smoking is best done while sipping a classy chilled NZ sauvignon blanc. But any favourite tipple will imbue feelings of great culinary satisfaction.

Hot-smoked salmon with asparagus and lemon risotto

Lou Bentley's recipe:
(serves 4 as main or 8 as entree)

1 large onion finely chopped
3 Tbsp olive oil
50g butter
240 g canaroli or arborio rice
½ cup white wine
1.2 litres of hot chicken or fish stock
6 – 8 asparagus spears chopped into 1 cm slices
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 Tbsp fresh thyme leaves
Freshly grated parmesan cheese
Salt & freshly ground black pepper

Heat stock and leave on a low heat to keep warm.

In another pan heat the olive oil & 30g of the butter to melt. Add chopped onions and sweat until translucent and soft. Don’t rush this process - the longer the onions cook down the sweeter they will be.

Add rice and coat in the oil and butter for about 1 minute. Turn up the heat and add the wine. It should sizzle away and when the wine is almost evaporated turn down the heat to medium add a ladle of stock at a time. Stir well and when the stock is almost evaporated add more stock. Continue this process until rice is al dente – about 25-30 minutes. When rice is almost cooked, add asparagus and cook for a further couple of minutes then remove from heat. Stir in lemon zest and juice, thyme, parmesan and the remaining butter. Put a lid on the pot and rest for 5 minutes.

Stir well and season to taste. Serve in bowls topped with a fillet of hot-smoked salmon and drizzle with mandarin and lemon infused olive oil. Add a few bits of lemon zest and serve.

Visit the Akaroa Cooking School website

Akaroa's tourist tsunami

2011-11-04T08:00:00.001+11:00

Akoroa Harbour

It's getting really busy in normally tranquil Akaroa. This charming seaside hamlet, the jewel of the Banks Peninsula on New Zealand’s South Island, finds itself redefined as a major international cruise destination.

Earthquake damage to Christchurch and the port of Lyttelton has necessarily forced the focus of tourism onto other alternative destinations within the Canterbury region. Akaroa is only 75 clicks down the east coast and it's now bracing itself to cope with a tsunami of visitors.

Between now and next April this tiny settlement - primarily made up of charming holiday cottages - will welcome a fleet of 81 cruise ships. That’s a combined total of 131,792 passengers, most of which will surely be wanting to hop off their ship to sample local delights - of which there are many - and take shore tours.

On some truly swashbuckling days, when two cruise liners are simultaneously anchored in Akaroa Harbour, up to 4000 passengers are likely to disembark and pour into town!

The village green

The resident population is about 570. Most of the locals I met last week were either rubbing their hands with glee at this tremendous boost to business or were wringing their hands in concern about the impact of tourist crunch on their tranquil lifestyle.

Many cruise passengers will undoubtedly have signed up for shore tours of the peninsula and up to Christchurch, so little Akaroa will, for the cruise season anyway, simply have to put up with the prospect of tour-coach traffic jams.

Most visitors will surely be delighted to discover Akaroa's flavours and accents are unique in New Zealand. It's where a French whaler, Captain Langlois, made land in the early 19th Century and where a French colony was to be founded. That never happened yet, to this day, Akaroa wears its French heritage with pride.

The most obvious Frenchification is seen in the street names, which include Rue Jolie, Rue Lavaud, Rue Balguerie and Rue Viard. There’s an excellent bistro right on the main street as well as several other local restaurants that proudly sport French names.

At the weekend the tricolore was seen everywhere flapping in the breeze during Akaroa’s French Fest. This annual bash is sponsored by a prestigious Champagne house and culminates in a period costume ball held in the village theatre.

Lavender bliss

Akaroa is small and easy to explore on foot but be prepared for steep inclines once you leave the main street. A part of the local museum is the Langlois-Eteveneaux cottage from the 1840s and almost everywhere else that I roamed I saw enchanting colonial cottages, many with splendid gardens.

Everything was so totally peaceful that afternoon that even the police station or gendarmerie looked like it had closed shop for the day.

I went out on the harbour. Despite a chilly 9˚C sea I happily hopped overboard (in a wet suit of course) to swim with rare Hector’s dolphins. These cute, playful, curious creatures are among the smallest dolphins and are endemic to the South Island. They circled me then darted away, only to return for another look.

By the time I returned to shore I'd built up a roaring appetite so I was more than ready to visit the Akaroa Cooking School. More about that later ...

Hire car creep

2011-10-24T08:00:00.206+11:00

Needing wheels to spin up in Queensland I conduct due diligence on several car hire websites to compare against the $410 quote using my Avis Preferred card. After plenty of digging I unearth a Europcar deal via Rental Car Group.com for $239.24 which looks to be the best available web price, hands down. So I book it, ignoring the maxim that if it seems too good to be true ....

Wish you could hire cars like this!

At Brisbane airport I present my confirmation. The guy at the counter appears unsure how to proceed - perhaps new to the job - but eventually finds my booking in the system. Then begins a descent into farce. Or perhaps, more accurately, an ascent into excess?

First up is the optional extra charge of $33 a day for zero excess. Faced with being slugged as much as $3000 should I ding the car I readily accept. But I'm not expecting the extra charge for renting from the airport and, on top of that, another one for drop off elsewhere - in my case Maroochydore airport.

I protest. I’d booked a one-way hire so surely this, along with any airport charges, is already reflected in the confirmed price? My tetchiness sends a ripple of consternation around the office but doesn't dissuade the office guy from breaking further news of an additional $100 deposit before drive away. My confirmed booking price has now swollen to $523.44!

It’s time to take a firm stand. More accurately, I take a hike across the car park to Avis to ask if they can give me a quote on the spot. No problem. It's $311, way below my "preferred customer" web quote. (How does this make sense?) There's no drop-off charge, no airport fee and no drive away deposit. “What for? We have your credit card details anyway,” I'm told.

You know the rest. What's more, I get boosted from Group B to a Group D car. Way to go!

Bulawayo business snapshot

2011-10-15T08:00:00.000+11:00

I’m sitting in the shade, taking a break from the heat. It's Saturday morning and I'm watching the world go by on the dusty Bulawayo pavements. The streets are as busy as they're ever likely to be but there's not much commerce happening anywhere other than the food market. Shop doors are flung wide open but customers are scarce. Times are tough and Saturday morning in town is more a social event.

I watch him approach, sauntering along the street carrying a small blue sports bag. He's wearing a tattered jacket over a frayed shirt with threadbare trousers and battered shoes. That’s practically uniform for most men in this town.

The big difference is the gleaming SLR camera with zoom lens that’s draped around his neck, its silver metal body sparkling in the sun. I’m surprised to see it and note it's a film camera, thinking it can’t be easy getting 35mm film processed in Zimbabwe, also that boldly showing off the camera seems ostentatious. He stops near me, puts his sports bag down gently and stands waiting outside the Jairos Jiri shop, gazing up, down and across the street.

I can't resist. I have to ask. We make our greetings and I pop my question about camera and film. Enoch laughs out loud and claps his hands. “Ha! That’s just to attract attention ... and it works!” He dives a hand into his jacket pocket and, with a flourish, produces a compact digital point and shoot. "I'm a one-stop instant photo shop!"

His flashy PR stunt soon pays off. The shiny, expensive-looking camera around his neck catches the eye of two jaunty young dudes dressed for town in their Saturday best. They stop and greet us both, shaking hands in the rhythmic African way. Enoch soon has them posing, photos are taken.

Diving into his sports bag he pulls out a compact photo printer, no bigger than a paperback and attached by two slender wires to a battery in the bag. He slots in the photo card, buttons are pressed and the printer begins to whirr. All four of us stand transfixed as the machine does its magic, the paper popping in and out three times, each time changing colour. Other people gather round.

Finally we have a pretty slick colour photo of the two guys looking cool in their pork pie hats, beaming smiles, thumbs up. People peer curiously over our shoulders. Much laughter. Money is exchanged. Another customer prepares to pose. Enoch's portable photo booth is an instant hit! Informality and ingenuity are the big winners.

A welcome sense of style

2011-10-08T07:00:00.000+11:00

Flying into Bulawayo we land at Joshua Nkomo International Airport. But instead of entering the imposing blue and white airport terminal we board a bus and are whisked away down the airfield to a dilapidated old tin shed.

This is Bulawayo's "temporary terminal", in use for the last decade and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future - until such time as the "new" airport terminal is finally completed. Welcome to Zimbabwe, the land that time forgot.

The country's west and south west, a.k.a Matabeleland, has forever been the poor cousin to the east and the capital Harare, colloquially dubbed Bambazonke (grab the lot). Bulawayo is Funazonke (want everything).

It's a tribal thing. Octogenarian president Robert Mugabe is a Shona whereas most inhabitants of Bulawayo are of Ndebele stock. There's no love lost between the tribal groups. Prizing funds from Harare's coffers to complete Bulawayo's airport - or any other infrastructure improvements - is a mighty struggle.

I haven't seen Bulawayo in nine years, yet almost nothing seems to have changed. There's been no investment in the country and thus no development, no new buildings, no improvements, not even signs of any basic maintenance. What has altered is appearance. The city looks shabby. Roads are crumbling, potholes increasing. Bulawayo desperately needs a new lick of fresh paint.

Atrium of The Bulawayo Club

Curiously, the possibility of a brighter future for the country is captured best in the anachronism that is The Bulawayo Club. A city institution since 1895, this staunch bastion of long-gone colonial days was recently revamped and has reopened as a boutique hotel.

Think Raffles ... but with a quirky African twist. The Long Bar on the ground floor remains off-limits to women - can you believe! But the rest of this handsome 1935 building is now open to all.

Old leather armchairs, ornate clocks and wooden cabinets stuffed with old silverware retain a yesteryear ambience of exclusivity. Footsteps echo off polished mahogany floors. The Bulawayo Chronicle is filed in a reading rack in the lobby. Walls are decorated with formal black and white photographs of past Governors General of Rhodesia, a display now augmented by the untitled portraits of recent and current Zanu-PF luminaries.

The Governor's Restaurant

The former ladies lounge on the first floor, formerly accessed via stairs leading up from a discreet side street entrance, has become the Lobengula Cocktail Lounge. It's the perfect place to down a good old gin and tonic prior to dinner.

The Governor's Restaurant is the essence of colonial elegance with its distinctive double pillars and chandeliers, monogrammed napery, heavy silverware and white-jacketed waiters. It serves up the best fish and chips in town!

The revamped club's 15 top floor rooms, including two suites, are possibly the finest accommodation in a beleaguered city otherwise bereft of grand style. Cecil John Rhodes would most certainly have been quite at ease here.

Cut down to size in Tonga

2011-10-01T08:00:00.000+10:00

Funny things happen under a tropical sun. Girth discrimination is one. In Tonga, I'm left in no doubt about my physical presence, which is definitely miniscule in the overall local scheme of things.

Ravenous after a day of round-island sightseeing, without even a sandwich for sustenance, I seek food along Vuna Road on the Nuku’alofa seafront. The pizza joint looks appealing, so I take a seat at a table in the courtyard and a jovial lass breezes over to take my order.

I'll have a pizza, please.

The waitress considers me thoughtfully, then with a sweet smile she says, "Sorry, but you cannot have".

What's this? A pizza joint with no pizza? Surely not? Not even in Nuku'alofa.

So what else is there?
There is pizza and there is spaghetti, she says.

But you just said no pizza!

She giggles, squirming with embarrassment.
There is pizza, she says, but you can’t have.

Why on earth not?

Hiding her smirk behind one hand she mutters what sounds like, You too small. Cue more smothered giggling.

Too small? I'm amused by this unexpected ripost but also puzzled.
What do you mean by that? More embarrassment and then: You too small. You can’t eat!

By now, three hefty Tongans hunched over a nearby table within earshot are also chuckling. With growing indignation I protest. Surely anyone can eat here?

Yes, yes, she says, but you just you, no one else, which doesn't make any sense but before I can think of a reply ...

Enter stage left: one waiter carrying metal tray the size of car wheel which he plonks onto the table with the three men. Revealed in all its glory, it truly is a gigantic pizza, a huge steaming mass of pastry and gooey melted cheese. Immediately the hungry trio get stuck in.

Hah, look! exclaims my waitress in triumph. You, only you. You cannot eat!

This one, she says, pointing at the nearby pizza, this one for two, for three, like these (indicating the three Tongans). But you, you too small!

The pooch passeggiata of Trieste

2011-09-24T08:00:00.000+10:00

'Twas a strange day in Trieste.

Everywhere I looked I saw a pooch promenade underway.

It seemed that Canis lupus familiaris had become the must-have fashion accessory in this delightfully laid-back Adriatic port city.

And like most stylish accoutrements, particularly in Italy - think handbags, sunglasses and shoes - the dogs came in all shapes and sizes - much like their owners.

James Joyce once lived in Trieste. It was here that he finished the final chapters of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

Not only that. It was here that he wrote the play Exiles while living with Nora Barnacle, conceived his most famous book Ulysses and penned the prose poem Giacomo Joyce, the only Joycean work actually set in Trieste. The city even has a statue to his memory. But did he ever write anything memorable about dogs?

The bronze Joyce stands on the porto rosso, a bridge spanning the Canal Grande, a narrow, excavated channel that was once the main harbour for merchant sailing ships of the late 19th Century. Today the quaint canal and adjacent piazza, flanked by restaurants, bars and cafes, make a lively focus for the ritual Italian summer evening stroll called the passeggiata. Pooches obbligatorio!

The End!

Olé, Seville!

2011-09-17T08:00:00.000+10:00

I couldn't have timed it better, arriving in town during the week of the Feria de Abril de Sevilla, a vivacious celebration of country traditions, equine style and fiery flamenco. Once a simple cattle market, Seville’s April Fair has grown into one of Spain's most joyful and vibrant festivals.

Each afternoon of the fair sees the most important bullfights of the year occur in the country's oldest bullring, the Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza de Caballería de Sevilla, after which thousands of spectators cross the Guadalquivir River for an evening of fun, food and dance. Naturally I go with the flow.

Everyone in this historic Andaluz town seems to be wearing traditional glad rags as we sashay over to the fairground in the barrio of Los Remedios where, from dusk until dawn, guitars will strum, heels drum and dancers swirl.

Women dress with full flamenco flair; traditional costumes, gleaming bracelets, brooches and earrings, hair fixed in a bun with ornamental comb and flower, an embroidered shawl (manton) draped around their shoulders. Swirling across the bridge they create an intoxicating kaleidoscope of polka dots, ruffles and frills.

On their way to the fair pic: Marc Osborn

Entry to the fairground is via a splendid arch of fairy lights that opens onto wide avenues of richly decorated party tents (casetas ) lit by garlands of orange lanterns. As darkness falls the fairground transforms into a lamp-lit tented city echoing with song and laughter.

Each caseta hosts a private celebration of guitar, song and dance fuelled by glasses of manzanilla. For an invitation you need the right connections. Along with most of the crowd I simply wander, observe, listen and enjoy. And when dancing spills onto the avenues, a frequent occurrence, I shrug off any inhibitions and join in.

Most of all I'm fascinated by the ceaseless procession of horse-drawn carriages that patrol the avenues. Seville's April Fair is said to be the largest annual gathering of horses and carriages in Spain. The carriage occupants, and scores on horseback, often two riders per horse, are dressed in their finest and simply want to be seen. It's a wonderful pageant.

To make the most of the Fair you need be able to celebrate all night and then, by lunchtime, be ready to begin over again. Surviving seven days of non-stop festivities requires staunch stamina and essential siestas - both fundamental to true Spanish style.

# Seville's April Fair is normally held two weeks after Semana Santa (Holy Week). Provisional 2012 dates are 24-29th April.

Free rides

2011-09-10T08:00:00.000+10:00

"Hitchhikers hit end of road in Britain. Poll shows percentage of motorists who ignore people thumbing a lift has leapt from 75% to 91% ..."

Sad news. I can remember when hitch hiking was the only way to go. Sometimes I got nowhere, but even those times had rich pickings.

I’m grateful for every single hour I spent playing that lottery of luck, waiting for a ride. In those days I had my bum in the dirt and my eyes on the horizon. As a hitch hiker I learnt patience, resilience and forgiveness.

I gave the big thumbs up to the approach of every car - yet was fatalistic as they swept past. And during those hours spent beside the road alone I also began to learn to be with myself.

Those roadside days also mark a time in my life when the journey really was far more important than arriving. And hitch hiking was a win both ways when travel was a different creature and trust was a negotiable currency.

I had hundreds of free rides hitch hiking around many countries, almost always with kindly, engaging folk who stopped to pick me up out of generosity but also to satisfy their curiosity. The feeling was mutual. A few hundred miles down the road we would often be chatting like old friends.

And if language was ever a barrier we used signs, expression, repetition and laughter to convey a little bit of ourselves. Another lesson hitch hiking taught me was to revel in the random diversity of shared moments with strangers.

I propose a toast to each and every driver who saw me and stopped:

Thumbs up! You gave me the ride of my life.

Hot stuff in the snow

2011-09-03T06:00:00.001+10:00

Termas de Chillan

Immediately below my window I can see swirls of steam dancing across the surface of the Gran Hotel's outdoor pool. Wallowing in the spa's hot springs is a mandatory apres-ski activity at Termas de Chillan snow resort, 500 kilometres south of Chile's capital Santiago.

Another singular attraction at Chillan is fangotherapy. Simply put, this involves having your entire torso smothered in thick, warm volcanic mud, then lying back relaxed in a tub while being lightly broiled.

Termas de Chillan squats on the slopes of an active volcano and - at the risk of spraining a cliché - is a true hot spot for winter sports. It's known both for its skiable acreage and, in the right conditions, an abundance of pristine powder snow. Plus there's the hot mud stuff option at any time.

Chillan's great white wonder

From my room in the Gran Hotel, a ski-in, ski-out family resort, I can see early morning powder hounds making their way to the chairlifts. A few of them will be plucky enough to ride the El Fresco lift up into the wild, white yonder and then face testing options for a return to base.

The winter action is spread across 7,600 hectares of widely-varied mountainside terrain, with a vertical drop of 2,300 metres. Don Otto is the name of the longest double chair lift in South America, a 2.5km ride ascending 700m from base. Chillan's longest run is eight kilometres.

Being such a totally duff skier I limit my time spent falling about like a clown in the snow. Instead, I indulge in some serious personal panel-beating in Chillan's volcanic mud body shop with a couple of hours of relaxing fangotherapy.

I figure that pigs, hippo and buffalo all wallow and love it, why shouldn't I? Rather recklessly I also opt for a full facial afterwards.

This lengthy procedure is undertaken by a woman wearing white surgical attire who peers intensely at my mug through a massive magnifying glass. Decades of accumulated grime is painstakingly excised from my aging pores.

When I finally leave the clinic my face is buffed and gleaming. It's so damn shiny that when I join friends at the hotel bar they instantly don their ski googles.

Hiking in the Himalayas

2011-08-27T08:00:00.043+10:00

The closest I've got to tackling Mount Everest is hiking in the foothills of the Himalayas. And this proves gruelling enough!  

I walk between remote villages, tramping up and down the sides of steep valleys that wouldn't alter a mountaineer's pulse but has me running out of puff - unlike these stalwart villagers (right) who do it carrying rocks! Summit bashing obviously should have been attempted when I was young, fit and foolish enough to assume I could do anything.

Tired as I am at the end of each day, I treasure each moment of my mini-trek in Kumaon, a region of fertile valleys, steep mist-shrouded ridges and remote villages in the east of Uttaranchal, the north Indian state bordering China and Nepal.   

Dawn in Almora reveals a breathtaking snow-capped panorama of the snow-tipped twin peaks of Nanda Devi, India's highest mountain. My hiking trail takes me through forests of grey oak, pine, cedar and rhododendron, across fertile valley floors and up and down taxing slopes. Village children on their way to school yell greetings, followed by squeals of laughter as I pause to catch my breath. Each day I take a leisurely lunch break with stupendous views.

Kumaon valley

A solitary tiny temple among an emerald-green patchwork of rice paddies provides one particularly treasured moment. I believe it's been there since the 8th Century.

Squeezing through the tiny door I squat before a 1000-year-old statue of Vishnu the Preserver, my hair brushing a ceiling blackened by centuries of joss-stick smoke. Vishnu’s gaze is eternally impassive. Once my eyes adjust to the interior gloom I see fine detail on the ancient carvings propped against the walls.

In each village tiny children peek pensively from behind their mother's skirts. Wiry old men squat contentedly, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, gazing at the surrounding peaks with a faraway look in their eyes. The villagers are genial and don't mind my curiosity. Before long their children lose their shyness and are willing to smile for the camera.

My Kumaon hike is definitely a "soft" adventure. I spend five to six hours a day walking and spend each night in a village house, sleeping on a charpoy (string bed) with mattress and cotton sheets. Torches and mosquito coils are provided and hot water brought in buckets to a washroom.

On my third day I reach my highest point - 2300m - and then descend through deserted woods to the village of Jwalabanj. After sharing an evening meal of spinach pakoras, rice, chicken and lentils I stay up late listening to my wizened host Umed Singh entertain us all with lengthy anecdotes. The laughter is so infectious that I almost believe I understand his jokes.

# My Kumaon village walk with Shakti Himalaya was arranged through Banyan Tours & Travel in Sydney, phone +61 2 9999 5270

Sightless in Seattle

2011-08-20T08:00:00.000+10:00

With only two days in Seattle and being there for the first time I thought it a bright idea to hop aboard a city orientation bus tour. The pamphlet assured me I would “experience the local point-of-view on this fast-paced tour of Seattle's fun, unique neighborhoods”.

The pamphlet was accurate about the pace. However, the “local point of view” is evidently a blurred vision. The coach lunged around the city centre and through various inner city suburbs at a hectic rate, powering up and down Seattle’s steeply inclined streets offering nary a chance to view any landmark long enough to register exactly what it was or where it was located.

It zoomed up Pike Street to Capitol Hill, whizzed around the neighbourhood and then back down Pine Street to the waterfront. There was a fleeting view of a long, low-slung building with a burst of garish neon above one entrance. This was Pike Place market revealed our tour guide, assuring his passengers that "it's the the soul of the city”.

As we sped across a bridge, with Lake Union beneath us rendered as a shimmer of blue, our guide informed us that “Seattle’s famous glass artist Dale Chihouly has his studio on the shores of the lake below, but you can’t actually see it from here.”

Not seeing anything was the recurring theme of our whistle-stop orientation. The on-board commentary included priceless statements such as, “Down there, just beyond the bend but hidden by that building on the right, is the floating house made famous in the film Sleepless in Seattle. You can’t actually see it”.

Then, a few moments later: “Bill Gates has his amazing high tech house on the shores of Lake Washington, but we won’t go there.” In compensation there was a fleeting glimpse of that lake, but in the distance.

After 90 minutes I was back where I started with only the vaguest idea of Seattle’s general layout. I was left with mixed feelings of resentment and bewilderment. I looked again at the tour pamphlet and noticed the disclaimer: ‘‘Tours are non-refundable”.

See Seattle from a ferry - not a tour bus!

A whale of time in the San Juans

2011-08-13T09:00:00.006+10:00

You might expect Orcas Island was named after its biggest tourist attraction - the presence of three resident pods of killer whales. Not so. Way back in 1791 it was named by a passing Spanish seafaring explorer in honour of the Viceroy of New Spain (Mexico), a grandee with the suitably magnificent moniker of Don Juan Vicente de Güemes Pacheco de Padilla y Horcasitas.

Orcas is the largest and most mountainous of the San Juan Islands, part of a Pacific Northwest archipelago of more than 700 islands and reefs sprinkled across the lower end of Georgia Strait immediately south of the US-Canadian border. The San Juan's four main islands are Lopez, Orcas, San Juan and Shaw.

To get to Orcas Island I took an exhilarating scenic flight north-west from Seattle in a Cessna 180 which, after about an hour in the air, dipped suddenly toward the ocean, skimmed across the choppy surface of Cascade Bay and touched down in front of Rosario, once a family mansion and now a resort hotel.

Rosario on Cascade Bay

Rosario was built in the early 1900s by Robert Moran, a wealthy Seattle shipbuilder who, aged 48, was given only a year to live. Moran gave up the stress of the shipyards and moved to Orcas Island to build his dream home. He lived until the ripe old age of 86 and the "Moran maxim" of a peaceful, stress-free existence still holds sway on the island.

Its core attractions are unspoilt nature, relaxation and the local wildlife. Shuttle buses, taxis and hire cars are available but there are no traffic lights and most definitely never a rush hour. Bicycles are a popular means of getting around. Pedalling to the summit of Mount Constitution - at 734 metres the highest point in the islands - requires true grit and fitness.

Orcas Island is shaped like a horseshoe around a huge fjord called East Sound. The main village, also called Eastsound, has a Saturday Farmers Market between May and September. It's the best place to mingle and chat with the locals and find out what's cooking ... and growing.

Eastsound has an airport but floatplanes often drop off passengers wherever they are going, be it beside a boat, at the jetty of a waterside home or, in my case, right in front of my hotel. Alternatively, there's a ferry from Anacortes on the mainland that calls at Orcas Landing on its way to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island.

The British arrived in these islands a year after the Spanish. Names on the Orcas map such as Skull Island and Massacre Bay may invoke images of bloody battles and fearsome pirates but local history is, disappointingly almost, largely benign. By the time Robert Moran built Rosario the island was probably best known for its apple, plum and pear orchards.

Photo: Digicla via Flickr

Orcas (think Free Willy) are the largest members of the porpoise family. The three resident pods, known as J, K and L, together number about 80 and there are also transient orca visiting these island waters regularly. So the chances of close encounters are good. Orca sighting is between May and September. I went out with Deer Harbor Charters.

While on a whale-watching cruise it's possible to also see minke whale, Dall porpoise, harbour seals and, up above, bald eagles and great blue herons. The island is home to myriad other birds and a staging post for migratory species. A prime spot for some serious twitching is around the lakes in beautiful Moran State Park, which is also where you may just be lucky enough to spot a reclusive black tail deer.

Simple island pastimes carry the promise of tasty treats. They include “jigging” for crabs, “dipping” for shrimp, digging up clams at low tide and collecting mussels and oysters. Anglers can try their luck for chinook, chum, coho, pink and sockeye salmon, trout and bass.

Also on the Orcas holiday menu is sea kayaking, sunset cruises and horse riding while hikers can take the Cascade Lake Trail which begins on the Rosario property and encircles the lake. There's also a track leading to the summit of Mount Constitution and, in Moran State Park, up to 60 kilometres of trails for walking and mountain biking.

Market forces rule!

2011-08-07T07:00:00.004+10:00

Wherever I may roam I always aim to spend time at local food markets. Beside being wonderfully enticing and attractive, filled with action and colour, a market provides me, as a visitor, with instant insight into local tastes and flavours, the chance to sample food I might not have encountered before and some indication of the state of the local economy.

Fresh food markets also allow me to stock up on vituals at the going price and thereby help stretch my limited travel cash. But who needs more words! The photos tell the story.

Panzano

Venice, near the Rialto

Nougat market, Fes

Le Var, Provence

Naschmarkt, Vienna

Dried fruits, Marrakech

Plump leeks, Montreal

Juicy fruit, Papeete

Pickles, Great Market Hall, Budapest

Salami vendor, Budapest

Salamanca market, Hobart

Borough Market, London

Street market, Hanoi

Jean Talon market, Montreal

Love the hat! Borough Market, London

The elephant in the room

2011-08-02T11:08:00.002+10:00

Last week I was in Thailand, a country where the elephant has been venerated for centuries. It is the country's symbol, and the Order of the White Elephant is one of the highest honours that can be bestowed by the King.

Getting up close and personal

Images of elephants are seen everywhere. They have been - and still are - an intrinsic part of the life of certain hill tribes. These giant, gentle creatures have historically been used in warfare and were also extensively used as beasts of burden in the logging industry, a practice that ended only relatively recently. This in turn led to out-of-work mahouts traipsing around the country with their elephants seeking any way to earn money.

While in Thailand I saw two sides of the same jumbo coin. First, in Petchaburi province, I visited an animal refuge run by the Wildlife Friends Foundation Thailand which does terrific work rescuing all sorts of wildlife from conditions of dreadful captivity, including rescuing elephants from the clamorous streets of Bangkok.

The refuge relies on the support of volunteer workers and fund raising. It currently cares for 450 animals. The whole place resounds with the haunting calls of gibbons rescued from cages in private backyards. I saw Malayan sun bears and Asian black bears that had been plucked from conditions of depravity. There was even an emaciated tiger, once a photo prop at some godless tourist venue. The WFFT's principal aim is a return to the wild. Sadly, many rescued creatures are so damaged they never make it back to their natural habitat.

Lucy Clark brings relief

Australian veterinary nurse Lucy Clark was busy swabbing an enormous abscess on an dejected looking elephant, a daily ritual to facilitate healing but one Lucy admits will never totally restore her patient to full health. The centre's Tom Taylor, a passionate Brit, railed against the animal cruelty he's seen. He says no wild creature should be anywhere near humans and was particularly critical about Thailand's notorious "tiger temple" at Kanchanburi. Tom also said elephants seen doing tricks were mercilessly tortured to learn how to perform them. It was frightening to hear.

A few days later I was north of Chiang Rai at the Anantara Golden Triangle, where one activity offered guests is mahout training at the resort's elephant camp. The resident elephants have also been rescued from the cities. However, the Anantara program adopts both elephant and mahout as well as the mahout's family because, as Anantara's elephant director John Roberts explains, "if we just buy the elephants the mahouts will simply go out and capture another one."

These elephants bore no resemblance to the hapless creatures seen at Petchaburi. And they don't have to do much to earn their keep - other than endure the inept, ungainly attempts of guests trying to mount them after which they amble along with guests perched on them yelling out the commands they've just been taught. (All of which the elephants ignore unless shouted by their mahout.)

Happy mahouts at Anantara

The jumbos take a refreshing dip in the river, with rider aboard, before ambling back to camp, all the while stripping juicy bamboo shoots and other assorted delicacies from the surrounding bush. Surely this beats pounding the pavement in a noisy, fume-ridden Bangkok or Chiang Mai? The Anantara elephant program has built-in obsolence. It will shut down once there's no need to rescue any more elephants.

I've made a mere sketch of what is a truly complex issue simply to show both sides of an ongoing argument that I'm still scratching my head about. Do you adopt the absolutist, idealistic stance that no wildlife should ever be in contact with human beings? Or support the practical approach that certain programs are needed to address a very real problem?

Both of the places I visited do great work but sadly the proverbial elephant in the room is that one caring program seems to be so totally opposed to the other.

Rewinding the African clock

2011-07-23T07:00:00.002+10:00

Lucky Khumalo wakes me at 5am with roiboos tea and rusks. Half an hour later, as the first pale flush of first light tints the sky, we hit the road in search of wildlife. We drive up hills then down into valleys with the dawn chill fanning our faces. Our headlights pick out a dozen impala performing their morning ablutions. The sky above the Eastern Cape slowly brightens as Africa awakes.

Elephant encounter. Photo: Shamwari

In the soft early dawn light we find elephant, 14 of them, mature females with several young. They're placidly grazing within a large cluster of acacia thorn. The tiniest jumbo lifts a wriggling trunk to sniff in our direction. Lucky stops the vehicle and kills the engine. The adult elephants eye us, seemingly unconcerned, as they continue to strip branches with persistent, irresistible force.

Lucky points out that an elephant's trunk is an uncontrollable muscle at birth. Baby elephants breast-feed for months while learning how to dig out roots with a hefty kick and train their trunk to tug leaves off trees. Pushing over and uprooting entire trees in order to get at tasty young shoots on higher branches is a skill they'll use later when much bigger and stronger.

Add caption

We stay at the elephant breakfast for a while, sitting quietly in the Land Rover, totally absorbed, enjoying the quietude of the African bush at first light. Then the radio crackles. It’s time for us to move on so other Shamwari guests may also enjoy such wonderful moments undisturbed.

Lucky joined Shamari Game Reserve in the early 1990s when entrepreneur Adrian Gardiner first began buying up farms to return to native bush. The Shamwari mission statement is “conserving a vanishing way of life”. The 20,000 hectare reserve - near Port Elizabeth - opened to guests after many expensive years of preparation.

This included restocking the land with the wildlife that originally roamed free throughout the Eastern Cape before the advent of commercial farming - when fences went up and the shooting began. The extensive research behind Shamwari's restocking included reference to local wildlife sightings recorded by 18th Century white settler explorers.

I’m billeted in Lobengula Lodge, an old farmhouse transformed into luxury rooms around a pool and restaurant. I'd spent my first night at Shamwari in Long Lee Manor, a county house setting that wouldn’t look out of place in NSW’s Southern Highlands.

There are seven lodges on the malaria-free reserve. Bushman’s River is a restored Victorian homestead and Riverdene a colonial house. Eagles Crag is “for the most discerning of travellers” and Bayethe is the most African with its thatch and canvas. Sarili Lodge is for families or small groups.

Over breakfast the following day another ranger, David, gets our attention with his tale of being bitten by a puff adder. And then, lo and behold, we see three serpents in quick succession. The first is a small grey puff adder wriggling across the path as we walk to our vehicle. Soon after driving out of the lodge we see a much larger greenish-brown puff adder on the road ahead and then, within minutes, we glimpse a slender green mamba slithering rapidly for cover.

Later in the day we come across a pair of rhino. They are scratching themselves intimately against sturdy hardwood fence poles, relics of those earlier farming days. The itching pair create a fitting image for the Shamwari story.

Find out more about Shamwari Game Reserve

If music be the food of love .....

2011-07-16T07:00:00.016+10:00

A man of music

Siegfried Wendel holds up a thin metal disc. "Here's the first computer program," he chuckles, pointing out perforations in the metal disc which form a simple binary code of instructions.

He inserts it into a slot in a large upright box and gets it spinning. The resonant notes of a piano sonata fill the room.

Siegfried picks up a black wooden chair and reveals a Swiss-made musical box hidden inside the seat. The music is activated by downward pressure. So what we have here is the tuneful 19th Century forerunner of the whoopee cushion! Like so many of the amazing mechanical instruments in Herr Wendel's wonderful museum this musical chair was found by chance, abandoned and broken in an old junk shop.

In his black hat and long black coat the bewhiskered curator could have been plucked from the pages of Lord of the Rings. A few happy hairy-footed hobbits would hardly be a surprise addition to the remarkable house in Rudesheim on the Rhine that is home to Siegfried's Mechanisches Musikkabinett.

This rambling house is called the Bromserhof and Siegfried says bits of it date back to 1310. It stands within earshot of the rowdy Drosselgasse, a narrow lane of wine bars and souvenir shops that is Rudesheim's top visitor attraction. Take my word on it, you'll enjoy a much more rewarding time visiting Siegfried.

A house of pure entertainment

The Bromserhof is a teasing architectural treat with pointy shingle-covered turrets, white plaster walls and heavy wooden beams, its stone cellars and its many rooms linked by creaking wooden staircases. Inside the house you'll find every imaginable type of mechanical instrument, large and small, most of them rescued from almost certain oblivion.

These delightful and animated machines were the stuff of home fun eons before the flat screen and Sony Playstation. They came in all sizes from palm-sized musical boxes to a huge, ornate 1888 "doll automatorgan" complete with chorus line of dancing dolls in traditional costume. Now that's entertainment!

I'm entranced by the many wondrous sounds produced by the collection. The oldest piece is a 1780 mechanical flute organ that, suitably, is kept in the oldest room of the Bromershof where visitors need stoop to avoid bumping into low-slung beams. Siegfried also has an exact copy of the first Edison "tinphonia" phonograph from 1877.

The PhonoLiszt-Violina

A Ronisch PhonoLiszt-Violina, built by Hupfeld early in the 20th Century, is typical of instruments that were once fixtures in restaurants and cafes. The size of a wardrobe it has a keyboard and a dozen violins mounted six-a-side in circular frames.

Each half dozen violins are orbited by a horsehair bow. A rotating paper roll gives the musical instructions. It issues a glorious sound that totally captures a bygone age of coffee and cakes. I believe that this fabulous instrument has since been sold to an American collector.

Rudesheim sits on the most beautiful section of the Rhine, that stretch between Koblenz and Mainz where the river passes through a gorge and where magnificent castles occupy the high ground. The town is tucked into an elbow of the river and surrounded by steep vineyards.

In summer months Rudesheim overflows with day trippers and passengers pouring off the flotilla of river cruise ships. Siegfried's delightful musical escape is a welcome antidote to the town's otherwise tuneless streets.

Siegfried's Mechanical Music Cabinet, Im Brömserhof, Oberstraße 29, 65385 Rüdesheim Phone: +49 67 22 4 92 17, fax: +49 67 22 45 87. e-mail: info@siegfrieds-musikkabinett.de

An elegant taste of the Med

2011-07-09T07:00:00.130+10:00

Le Ponant. Photo: CIP

The good yacht Le Ponant slips effortlessly from the harbour at Gaeta, bound for Capri, Corsica and beyond. Above our heads a vast expanse of white sail, suspended on three slender masts, moves silently under precise electronic control.

As the harbour lights fade from view she leans further to starboard, filling her sails with the cool breeze blowing off the Italian coast.

This 88-metre yacht boasts all the high tech accoutrements expected of modern luxury sailing. The yacht's interior is comfortable and practical rather than conspicuously glamorous. And most passengers spend their time at sea lying beneath those billowing sails working on their holiday tans rather than lounge about below decks.

Lavish buffet lunches generally outshine dinners on board with the exception of the most romantic meal of our five-night cruise - a candle-lit affair on deck while moored off Amalfi with the town's twinkling lights reflected on a jet-black sea.

We call at Salerno to explore the Amalfi coast. An ancient and winding donkey track, made into a road by Charles Bourbon, King of Naples, is today ranked one of the world's great drives, despite regularly being choked by massive tourist buses.

Nevertheless, it is a breathtaking route. To one side of the road are precipitous cliffs plunging into bays of the deepest blue while, on the other side, rise terraced hillsides planted with lemon and orange trees. Watchtowers dating from the 12th Century now earn their keep as expensive restaurants. Exclusive homes with fabulous views are carved into the rock or cling to the cliffs.

In the town of Ravello our group helps swell the throng of tourists already gathered in the town's small piazza. I squeeze into a tiny shop to buy a souvenir bottle of San Marco wine. The town of Amalfi is similarly crowded, particularly its photogenic church with cupolas of yellow glazed tiles. We also visit the Villa Rufolo, once the home of composer Richard Wagner, and stroll through the gardens listening to classical music drifting from the house.

An afternoon is spent clambering among the ruins then resting in the shade of oleander trees at Paestum, one of Italy's most notable Greek archaeological sites, founded about 600BC and best known for its temples of Hera and Ceres.

During the night Le Ponant sails for the fabled Isle of Capri in the Bay of Naples. After breakfast on board I choose to flee from the frenzy of activity along the foreshore and, instead, catch the bus to the lofty village of Anacapri. Rather than providing any respite I find it similarly awash with pizza and postcard madness. But what else did I expect? Capri is the core of Mediterranean tourism.

Bonafacio - Fotolia

Another day under sail brings us below the magnificent fortress town of Bonifacio, straddling a cliff top at the southern tip of the island of Corsica. With the stirring refrain of the Vangelis soundtrack from the film 1492 ringing out over the loudspeakers our captain steers Le Ponant hard under the cliff, riding a blustery swell close to pink rock soaring 90 metres above the sea. Sadly, the capricious Mediterranean weather prevents safe passage through the narrow harbour entrance. But we pass close enough to the cliffs to see steps cut into the rock by German soldiers during World War 2 and peer into caves once used as gun positions.

During the night we slip into the heart of the French riviera and I awake with dawn breaking over Nice. I spend the morning browsing the town's wonderful markets and in the afternoon partake in an excursion to glitzy Monte Carlo. Our final night at sea is spent cruising the French coast towards our morning disembarkation in Marseille.

Footnote: In April 2008, Le Ponant was seized by Somali pirates in the Gulf of Aden while sailing from the Seychelles to the Med. It had no passengers at the time but all 30 crew members were taken hostage. They were released without harm eight days later.

Le Ponant has 32 cabins. She cruises the Med in summer and, in winter, heads across the Atlantic for the Caribbean sunshine. More information