The Never Ending Tour

A Right Royal Day Out

2012-02-22T20:23:00.000+00:00

It’s not every day you get to meet royalty in their own home.

It’s not every day you get a personal tour of their country lead by the Head of State.

It’s not every day the aforementioned Head of State offers to put his robes of state on to pose with you for a photo.

It’s not every day you see the first lady in her dressing gown and hair curlers.

But then it’s not every day you visit the Principality of Hutt River, formerly known as the Hutt River Province, an independent sovereign state in Western Australia.

It’s a pleasant hour or so drive from our hostel in Geraldton on the coast, through Northampton (Australia’s place names can leave an Englishman very geographically confused at times) and inland past dusty farming land before nearing Hutt River.

A quick right hand turn and what is essentially just a gate giving access to a long driveway welcomes you to a new country. It may be a small country, but in world terms it is larger than San Marino, Bermuda and Macau to name just a few and only marginally smaller than Guernsey.

It is mostly wheat farm land, with wheat farming quotas being the reason for the split from Australia back in the 70s, and has an official permanent population of a whopping 30, although it’s somehow warming to see that it has several thousand overseas citizens.

After a brief stop for the obvious border crossing photo opportunity, we trundle along the road and park up next to the post office. An old man is feeding his dogs nearby, and a similarly aged woman pokes dressed in a pike dressing gown and hair curlers wanders out of her house to see what’s going on.

The man wanders over to say hello, and introduces himself as Prince Leonard I of Hutt. The lady is his wife, the first lady. Royalty is a fairly casual thing in these parts. My mind briefly goes off on wanderings of its own and pictures arriving in the driveway of Balmoral or Buckingham Palace and being greeted in a similar way.

Prince Leonard, nearing 80 years of age at the time of my visit, but sprightly and full of life, was delighted to have more visitors to show around – a fairly regular occurrence for him and Hutt River it should be noted; the majority of backpackers I’d met in this part of Western Australia had all visited Hutt River too.

He took us around the principal sites of the country, namely the post office and bank, the passport scanner and stamp, and the State Room. In the latter he offered to put on his robes of state and pose with each of us beneath the blue and white Hutt River flag. I ask you, who could resist such a photo opportunity with a reigning Head of State and Prince?

Photos done, and back at the post office/bank Prince Leonard showed us some official Hutt River Dollars, rather conveniently tied 1:1 with the Australian Dollar, and unsurprisingly for sale at face value. Such are the ways that small countries get their hard currency! Another irresistible opportunity for me however.

Passport stamps were the next port of call, as Leonard took great delight in waving his UV scanner over each of our passports to demonstrate the hidden images on the pages of some countries passports that are there to flummox the forgers.

He gave each of us an entry and exit stamp to his country. Again another first for me. I’d wager not many people have had their visas issued and passports stamped by a Head of State. The exit visa was given on trust of course, but these highlights exhausted there wasn’t a whole lot more to see, unless you were into wheat farming, which I’m not.

A brief pause for some drinks sat at a shaded picnic table (quite possibly the only picnic table in the entire country!) and then it was time to leave Hutt River. As novelty day trips go it was a hell of a memorable one.

We wave Prince Leonard I of Hutt a fond farewell as we trundle back along the dusty road that leads back to Australia.

Feeling Hot Hot Hot over Montserrat

2012-02-22T20:18:00.003+00:00

“Hot Hot Hot” is a famous Soca song that some may know better as a Pizza Hut advert, but few know that is was written and performed by a Montserratian, and by all accounts has become a de facto national song for the islanders.

Few people know too much about the volcanic island at all other than the fact that it suffered a catastrophic eruption in the 90s. The only other thing I knew about Montserrat prior to going there was that they had the worst national football team in the world, even the “The Other Final” to the almost as hopeless Bhutan a few years ago.

I wasn’t going to set foot on Montserrat sadly, but instead I took a helicopter ride from nearby Antigua which was my first time in a helicopter and was a total thrill.

I clambered aboard into what I like to call the co-pilots seat, but what the pilot probably referred to as the front passenger seat. Strapped in, headphones on, microphone tested. Next thing I know the rotors are turning with a greater ferocity, and the helicopter shudders as gravity fights to keep us down. Soon though we are airborne and soaring high over the stunning Antiguan coastline.

We sped along over St John’s harbour and then out over the beautifully coral blue sea, which was sufficiently shallow for some distance from the shore to allow the pale blue colour to dominate, punctuated by small areas of dark seaweed. The image neatly agreed with all preconceived ideas of Caribbean coastlines.

Montserrat began as a hazy rock in the distance, but one which grew steadily as we hurtled along quite low over the sea. As we flew the ten minute journey across the sea the pilot, a perma-tanned Englishman living in Antigua and all-round jammy git (jealous? much?), chatted with myself and the two other passengers telling us about Montserrat, its people, and of course its volcano.

He told us the details of the big eruption in 1997 which followed on from another bad one a couple of years earlier. The volcano, Soufriere Hills, rumbled into life having lain dormant for centuries, causing the islanders to request some specialist help from Britain.

This help duly arrived in the form of a group of volcanic scientists who took very little time in concluding that Soufriere Hills was going to erupt in the very near future and that Montserrat should be completely evacuated. This was duly done with Montserratians mainly going to Britain apparently, with the remainder evacuating to Antigua.

I say the remainder went to Antigua, but I should say that it was the remainder less 19. That number opted to stay on Montserrat and take their chances; my guess being that they were elderly and wanted to stay in their homes in a similar way to the elderly living in ghost villages near Chernobyl. But like I say that was just my guess.

“So what happened to those nineteen people?” fizzes the question over the headphones from the seat behind me. “Well, they died” comes the straightforward answer from the pilot.

Rather than being a lava eruption, Soufriere Hills spewed out tonnes of ash as pyroclastic flow, burying islands capital, Plymouth, along with the airport, docks, and countless homes. The southern half of the island is still uninhabited and cut off as an exclusion zone such is the ever present danger of the ash and various gases spewing out. Settlements have developed again at the north end of the island, but many islanders chose not to return which slashed the population from around 13,000 to closer to 9,000.

As we approach the coastline the pilot deals with the formalities of speaking to Montserrat’s presumably under occupied air traffic controller, while we tourists stare in wonder at the coastline we’re now crossing. The north end of the island to our right is green and lush, overgrown at points, and looks every bit the tropical island. But we’re crossing over the south end of the island which is grey and dusty, with a long slope of ash debris descending into the sea.

Our ever informative pilot mentions how the coastline expanded with all the ash, which can easily be seen on section we fly over on arriving at Montserrat. The main flow of ash is clearly defined, and offers a sharp contrast to the seemingly undamaged sections that border it. At one point a road winds its way along the coast and then simply disappears into the ash.

We are told that at some points the ash is 20ft deep, and that just 30cm below the surface the temperature is a frankly scary 200 degrees. Whether that was Celsius of Fahrenheit I never quite established, but either way that makes it extremely hot, or hotter.

We climb barely above the surface ascending the rocky volcano itself where narrow valleys mark the slopes in lines, some grey and dusty, and other green and verdant. The contrast is startling, as is the glimpse of what it will have looked like previously when all was green and lush.

Steam and gas rises out of numerous vents in the side of the volcano, all surrounded by the ever present clues to its recent past; large boulders looking suspiciously out of place, lunar looking rocks strewn all over, sulphur stained ricks and slopes along another side of the volcano.

The peak itself it partially hidden behind clouds of steam but every now and then we steal a clear view of the epicentre of all this activity, smoking and brooding away, as we hover a very short distance away. As we fly around the higher section the helicopter is buffeted strongly by the hot air pushing its way out, as the pilot had warned it would, and the pungent sulphuric scent of rotten eggs surrounds us.

Escaping the buffeting of both the helicopter and our sense of smell, we fly over the remains of Plymouth, lying as it did in the shadow of Soufriere Hills. It is an apocalyptic scene, as the shells of buildings remain but with windows, roofs, floors and more all obliterated.

The pilot points out one building which belonged to a colleague of his. Only one storey is visible above the ash, but apparently that is the third floor of that particular building, such is the quantity of ash deposited.

As we come back across the island we fly very low, dodging the huge rocks that are strewn all over, and speed up to what the pilot says is around the speed of the pyroclastic flow, which let me tell you, is very fast. Let’s just say that if such a flow was heading your way, there is no way you’re getting out of the way before it hits you.

Soon enough it’s time to head back across the water to Antigua, bringing some amazing memories and pictures with us. Approaching Antigua the azure blue sea provides more delights in the form of several turtles swimming along happily beneath us. A final thrill on a truly spectacular ride.

First Steps

2012-02-22T20:17:00.000+00:00

The key turns in the ignition. Fzzt. Cough. Splutter. “Oh, God” comes Mum’s comment from the passenger seat.

“Bloody hell” murmurs Dad under his breath in a suitably contrasting spiritual response.

Try again. Fzzt. Cough. Splutter.

“Why aren’t we going?” I pipe up helpfully from the backseat, having looked up from my crayons and colouring in book to see what the fuss is.

“Yeah, why aren’t we going?” adds my sister, ensuring the tension ratchets up another level.

The fuss, it turns out is that we are stuck. Stuck on a ferry right at the moment that you really don’t want to be stuck, namely when a whole line of cars packed bumper to bumper are trying to drive off the ferry.

We’ve travelled overnight from Zeebrugge to Hull having spent the previous two weeks having a whale of a time touring the campsites and youth hostels of Germany, Holland and Belgium, our small car struggling around the continent like an overburdened mule wheezing its way along the road.

Up until now Mum’s insistence that something always goes wrong whenever she travels hasn’t come to pass, but sadly the expected mere formality of a ferry ride and drive home gives her reason to believe again.

“Why can’t we just go to Tenerife like everyone else?” comes my next valuable contribution.

A tow truck is hastily summoned to get us off the ferry, ending the worries of those stuck behind but our troubles don’t end there. The customs officer clearly thinks this is all an elaborate ruse to import contraband and avoid suspicion by having to be towed.

Our car is given a fine tooth comb going over before we manage to complete our journey home. Even my younger sister’s doll is taken from her for some prodding inspection, which I could have coped with had my own toy not been taken next by the nasty official, much to my dismay. I make sure both customs officer and parents are well aware of my dismay at this turn of events.

My memories of these events are hazy at best, but it gets mentioned sufficiently often for me to feel as though I remember it well.

I’m reminded again of it years later as a backpacker in Australia. Not that something always goes wrong, but that when it does it leads to a memory and a story as much as something going right can do.

It was at some point shortly before I sliced my foot open on a rock pouring blood everywhere next to the “Danger Crocodiles” sign.

And it was at some point shortly before our bus driver got sick and drove off the road repeatedly and had to spend the next day in bed in nowheresville Northern Territory.

It was at some point shortly before all of that that I told my fellow backpackers that “It’s much more interesting when things go wrong”.

Naturally, I felt slightly responsible for the ensuing incidents.

Sittin' on the Dock of a Bay

2011-12-18T12:48:00.000+00:00

Sittin’ on the dock of a bay, wasting time...as the song goes.

To me the time wasn’t wasted at all, but a sheer delight as I dangled my bare feet in the warm waters of English Harbour in Antigua, sat on a wooden stump on a rickety jetty in Nelson’s Dockyard.

Antigua is an island of a great many beautiful sights, from calm pristine white sand beaches, to rocky green covered cliffs with the Atlantic Ocean pounding against them.

English Harbour on the south coast of the island, is one of the more scenic spots; a haven of beauty and calm well away from any of the resort complexes.

Before my dock of a bay feet dangling moment, our friendly and highly informative taxi driver taking us there from our own rather delightful resort complex, takes on the role of tour guide for the duration of our little jaunt, as is the way with taxi drivers in the Caribbean.

For a fixed standard fare he would not only take us to Nelson’s Dockyard and back (all that we had originally asked for), but also offered to take us up to the Shirley Heights look out first. Shirley Heights, as the name suggests, is high up (in Antiguan terms) and stares down the barrel of a cannon towards Guadeloupe and the French to the south.

Its job in days gone by was to protect the adjacent harbour where the British Navy had their Caribbean base to carry out running repairs. Nowadays it provides a terrific view, not so much of a hazy Guadeloupe hiding on the horizon, but of English Harbour a delightfully picturesque natural harbour below. It also provides a great view of Eric Clapton’s house funnily enough, and on a Sunday it provides copious amounts of rum punch and Soca music, but that’s another story altogether.

Our taxi driving tour guide regales us with all sorts of historical highlights as we stop off for a wander around the most scenic spots. Then after a rapid descent to sea level we reach Nelson’s Dockyard, named after you know who of course, and the most obvious colonial relic remaining in Antigua.

In the heat of early afternoon it makes for a quiet and calm location for a wander through the restored dockyard buildings along the harbour, with numerous large wooden wheels for some poor souls to push round and round to raise a ship’s hull from the water in days gone by.

Wandering through a few small but interesting museums and on around the bay we reach the aforementioned wooden jetty with my wooden stump seat and soon enough I am sittin’ on the dock of a bay. Rather than watching the ships roll in, and roll away again, I dangle my feet and watch the large beaked birds dive bombing the harbour water for a fishy feast, soak up some sun, and commit the moment to memory.

On the Bonnie Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond

2011-01-30T17:25:00.001+00:00

In some parts of the world the seasons are shown in all their glory. Think Japan in the spring and the wave of cherry blossom sweeping from south to north, or the Alps in the wintertime. When it comes to autumn, there are many places which can show off this season to its best, and one of those for me is Loch Lomond.

It may not be far north of the hustle and bustle of Glasgow, but it is worlds away such is the tranquillity and natural beauty on offer. Add to that the fact that the autumnal colours, as leaves either cling on to their branches or line the roads and pathways, are in full prominence and it is an extremely photogenic scene, and one that lends itself to a few relaxing days.

Ok so you might well have to put up with a bit of rain, which was certainly the case for us, but that’s par for the course in western Scotland. Staying in the tiny village of Balmaha on the Loch’s quieter eastern shore at the Oak Tree Inn, a quick recce of the facilities pinpointed what looked like a very well stocked bar, complete with several beers and many whiskies. We’ll get back to that later…

In the mean time, before the afternoon sunlight gave way to early evening rain and murkiness, we headed up the adjacent Conic Hill for a bit of a walk and climb. The footpath begins at the back of a car park, but once on the path you’re soon surrounded by tall moss surrounded trees and countless fallen orange leaves.

The path wound its way through the forest climbing steadily and before long we were high enough to have a grand view over the Loch below – well, it was there through the mist somewhere anyway. Atop the hill the landscape changed from forest to barren scrub, complete with a small cascading stream trickling over the rocks, and a few lone, twisted, leafless trees standing defiant against the wind on top of the hill.

The expected rain started to fall with increasing steadiness, as the daylight started to fade quickly. Time to get off this hill and in to that lovely bar I think. The tramp back down, in our wet jeans, saw us overtaken by hardier souls who’d presumably done the full loop walk in far more appropriate clothing. I cursed my miscalculated risk to leave my waterproof trousers in my bag.

Since we were wet anyway, a short detour around the harbour adjacent to the Inn took us through what started off as puddles but soon showed themselves to be overflow from the Loch itself. Many boats are moored here, including some that you can apparently just ask the driver to take you to the nearby island, and collect you again later – it didn’t look overly appealing in the rain however.

Back at the Inn, dry clothes on, we retired to the bar with its log fire and its beers and whiskies. A hearty dinner was duly ordered and the drinks started to flow. Interestingly the bar also had a trivial pursuit game which added to our entertainment. Despite the size (or rather lack of) of the village, the bar was a rather lively place that night, and I finished up with a local Glengoyne whisky in a delightful round bottomed tumbler, which entertained me far more than it really should have done.

After a long sleep, more hearty food followed at breakfast before we set out for a long walk northwards along the lakeshore. The weather that morning was clear and crisp, perfect autumn weather for a pleasant walk. Having stocked up on a few supplies at the very friendly local store we headed off along part of the West Highland Way which leads through Balmaha.

The path soon leads away from the road and onto the very edge of the Loch, at times clinging to the edge of the rocky shore, or through more autumnal trees or past small beaches scattered with pebbles just asking to be skimmed across the water. One point also took us past a field of very hairy red cattle, clearly unfazed by the sight of tourists and cameras pointing at them.

We wandered for a few hours along the Loch shore and back again and most pleasant it was. By the time we’d got back though, the heavens were opening once more and so any plans to take a boat trip were abandoned in favour of getting to the Glengoyne Distillery for a tour and a sample of their wares.

The distillery is nestled below several steep hills and its old looking chimneys make for a quaint setting. We manage to get on the tour about to begin and settle down with our sample whisky and our ever-friendly guide.

The tour is much like any other, but no less pleasing for it. We even manage to resist the temptations in the shop before heading back for more feasts and beverages back at the Oak Tree Inn to complete a delightful stay.

Of course the next day on the way home the sun shines brightly, but it takes more than a spot of rain to spoil a trip to Scotland.

Prague - Bars, Beers and Getting Lost

2010-11-13T15:16:00.002+00:00

Prague is a delight of ornate buildings and endless picturesque photo opportunities. The drive in from the airport was scenic enough for starters, but having gone through my brief arrival ritual (dump bags, quick shower, grab camera and go) I’m off on foot getting deliberately lost in the meandering side streets.

Ok so I started on Wenceslas Square which is neither meandering nor a side street, but before long I was into the smaller streets surrounding the Old Town Square and the delightful old Town Hall.

The square itself, like the main square in many other major European cities, is ringed with cafes and bars which while undoubtedly pleasant, will leave a major dent in your budget if you stop for a drink or two.

Prague does have plenty of hidden, and some not so hidden, gems when it comes to sampling the local beverages. Close to the Old Square down a narrow alleyway I stumbled upon one particular bar which advertised its particularly cheap glasses of Pilsner.

Inside it was basic in a way that Eastern European places can be, but it more than fulfilled its purpose with spicy sausages and giant pretzels to accompany the frothing beers served up by a scary looking man with a huge moustache wearing a big leather apron.

He was the only one who could serve the beers it seemed and he produced a steady flow and slammed them down on the bench for one of the waiters to bring to you. Marvellous stuff.

Further exploration took me off to Karlovy Most, possibly the most ornately decorated bridge I’ve seen, which takes you across from the old town to the more spacious side of the river which leads to the castle.

This side of the river takes you through parks and expensive looking streets, with the odd bizarre sight such as a pissing fountain (yes, really), in the lead up to the castle area.

I was lucky enough (or clued up enough) to turn up when the changing of the guard was about to happen in the bright midday sunshine. Wandering through the hustle and bustle I came to a wide avenue with some tiny pathways off to the side between buildings which were essentially just staircases heading down the hill. In one such stairway I stopped for lunch at a delightful small café perched on the hillside with a great view over the river and city below.

Suitably refreshed for more wandering, it was back through the castle area and back through the streets until I passed a beer garden complete with the odd tree sprouting through the tables and nice good music playing. Unable to resist, I was soon installed as a table soaking up the sun, and soaking up the Pilsner, whilst chomping on giant pretzels.

Such are the delights of wandering more or less aimlessly in a new city – I like to try and get “deliberately” lost at times, whilst keeping a rough idea of where I am, and this often leads to some good discoveries (except when it leads to a street full of nothing of course!).

Wandering through some of the small side streets I would occasionally surprise myself by suddenly turning a corner and finding myself in the Old Square without having realised how close I’d been to it. Prague is an ideal city for such exploration.

In front of the old Town Hall there are numerous tour guides offering guided walks on one theme or another, and can be thoroughly recommended. I chose to do a walk themed on the Communist era, visiting various significant parts of the city centre with an extremely knowledgeable guide and hearing about her experiences under communism.

And after all that history what next? Ah yes, back to my little pub with the big apron and moustache wearing barman. Lovely stuff.

Force of Nature - High Force, County Durham, England

2010-10-25T19:32:00.001+01:00

It may not exactly be Victoria Falls, Niagara or Angel Falls, but High Force is one of England's highest waterfalls. Situated in North East England near the village of Middleton-in-Teesdale in the River Tees valley the falls are approached by a lovely walk across fields, rocks and bouncy bridges, through bracken fields covering the surrounding rolling hills and past the spectacular rock formations.

The ideal approach takes you from the more spread out Low Force falls - as the name suggests it's not exactly high, but at this point the river tumbles over the rocks in what looks more like a strong series of rapids than an actual waterfall.

This is also the site for the Wynch Bridge, a one person at a time bouncy suspension bridge which just adds to the delightful scenery.

From there it is a couple of miles upstream to reach High Force, along the riverside path. All along there are plenty of spots to step down to the river with its extremely clear water which contrasts between peaceful calm and raging torrent - at some points resembling either a powerful jacuzzi or a bubbling geyser.

As we get closer to High Force itself, the path is keeping us hidden away in the overgrown greenery but the noise or cascading water gives away what is coming up soon. The noise continues to build, and at a fork in the pathway we take the choice which leads straight to the cliff edge, now that we're up higher than the river.

Emerging out onto the rocks suddenly High Force is raging away to our left and we're in perfect photo territory. Moving off along the path again a few small openings on the cliff edge allow a few closer glimpses of the falls almost directly in front of us with the water raging almost in front of my face.

Further still the view changes again as we're now at the top of the falls looking down as the water disappears over the edge. A few other walkers, who must have had a harder time than us reaching this point, are cooking up some lunch on a gas stove while perching on the rocks at the edge of the falls. We make do with a Mars Bar each as our reward!

Marrakech - Salesmen Extraordinaire

2010-10-17T10:41:00.006+01:00

Djamaa El Fna in Marrakech is where it’s at. This vast square is the hub of all activity; eating and drinking, shopping and browsing, watching and being watched, chilling and baking. It all happens in the heart of Marrakech.

Food stalls with steam and smoke wafting up and over the adjacent Koutoubia Mosque. Huge stalls of spices with a small space for the stall holder to pop his head up in the middles. Fresh orange juice stands, strong cinnamon tea, snake charmers, dancers, drummers. All before even thinking about the countless souks and the numerous burkha-veiled women offering to paint henna patterns all over your feet, ankles, wrists.

But like many other places it’s the people who make it what it is, and in Marrakech that means the swarm of stallholders and hawkers all competing for your business. They are a talented bunch, always ready with a good line to reel you in with.

Firstly though, they spot your nationality from a good thirty or forty metres away and they’ve got you in their sights. Presumably these talented hawkers have got so good at spotting the idiosyncrasies of differing national styles of dress and manner that they instantly know what language they need to use.

In all the time I was there it was rare that someone tried the wrong language first off, and even when they did, it was generally a mere momentary lapse before they switch effortlessly to English for me.

The ability to hawk in several languages is clearly a prerequisite; Arabic, French, English, Spanish, Catalan, Italian, German – it’s all easy to the sellers of Marrakech. I saw one long monologue given in Spanish to a group on Real Madrid fan’s camera of a presumably scathing (and no doubt utterly filthy) assessment of Barcelona ’s chances this year which produced raucous laughter from those behind the camera – truly impressive.

But the lines they come up with are just as impressive. Plenty of “Lovely Jubbly” and similar Del Boy pronunciations in a very good cockney accent always got a giggle, then as you walk on by the response of “Am I bovvered?” was particularly humerous of one food stall cheerleader.

They could be more specific in the targeting of you too. Thanks to my lack of hair I stood out in the crowd somewhat and needless to say this was used to attract my attention too. Numerous calls of Bruce Willis were a bit predictable, but more impressive was the “Hey, Heston! Heston Blumenthal, you come try my cooking! Hey Heston!”
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A rebuttal was generally followed by more frenzied attempts to get your approval, but after a few days when you’ve refused the same people more than once – particularly since they always seemed to remember me – got a bit trickier.

Having not eaten at the “Heston Blumenthal” food stall for a few days running my formerly enthusiastic friends there seemed to have accepted their fate and as I walked nearby I got “Ah Heston, it’s always ‘computer says no’”.

Into the souqs, with the dazzling array of bags, scarfs, jewellery, dishes and spices, the marketeers are equally skilled. The thing to avoid if you don't want to end up in negotiations is eye contact with the seller as you walk past - once you've looked they are onto you like a limpet! Similarly, the frequently offered handshakes are a bit of a poisoned chalice. Yes you want to be friendly with the locals, but once they have your hand they aren't going to let go easily with all the shocked "offence" if you try to extricate yourself too quickly. It's a minefield I tell you.

Of course they have their one-liners too. A good one? How about "Not like Primark here my friend, this is Marks & Spencer quality".

The other technique is the old lost tourist routine. Looking slightly lost in the maze of souqs there is never a shortage of people offering advice, but be careful - the promised attraction just around the corner may actually be half an hour away as your new found friend leads you onwards. On the other hand, some bits of advice are just that. How are you supposed to tell the difference? You can't, but it's a fun experience no matter what. Keep it all in a light-hearted spirit and enjoy the ride.

Superiority at Machu Picchu

2010-10-09T09:45:00.001+01:00

It’s a three day hike from the Inca Trail’s starting point to Machu Picchu. Three days of tramping along narrow trails in amongst the lush green Andean vegetation alongside the raging brown Urubamba River. Of Steep climbs at high altitude passing numerous historical sites perched high on the mountainside. Of waterfalls, spectacular valley views, equally spectacular craggy green mountain vistas, and endlessly energetic porters.

But come the afternoon of the third day, after a rope swing evacuation of a sick colleague across the rampaging river, after days of the taste of coca leaves to ward off altitude sickness, and after one more climb up steep stone steps cut into the pathway, we reached Intu PunKu, the Gate of the Sun. That in itself would be worthy of celebration, but turning to your left suddenly there it is in all its glory; Machu Picchu.

Thankfully the Sun Gate’s ruins are positioned in such a way as to provide some excellent seats to sit and take it all in. The ruined city laid out below you perched between two peaks in amongst the seemingly endless view of steep pointed green mountains. It’s not a peaceful spot however, since the day-trippers, fresh from their train or bus from Cuzco can tramp their way to the Sun Gate too.

I must confess to a sense of superiority over them however. A feeling that I’d got there the hard way which made the place feel more special to me. I’d earned it. My first view of Machu Picchu was from the Sun Gate after three days of walking, rather than from the ticket office next to the ruins.

That evening only allowed time for a brief exploration before walking down the steep slopes to the town of Aguas Caliente in the valley below, and our campsite for the night, and the chance to wash away the dirt and sweat of the previous 3 days. Come sunrise we were all up and about and made our way back up the mountain to spend the morning exploring the ruins and surroundings. It was a hauntingly misty morning, and as we sat quietly amongst the ruins of Machu Picchu surrounded by the high green peaks waiting for the mist to clear, Rodrigo our guide played beautiful melodies on his wooden recorder.

As he played the mists gradually lifted to reveal all in front of us, a tantalising glimpse at a time, until it lifted completely, which merely enhanced the magical aura and energy felt in such a special place. Another steep and slightly scary climb up the adjacent peak of Wayna Picchu is more than rewarded with another breathtaking view. I could so easily have sat there all day, but sadly reality interjected and I had to climb down from the heights of the city in the clouds and head for the train back to Cuzco, but still on a natural high of my own.

Temple Addiction

2010-10-01T21:41:00.002+01:00

It doesn’t take long in Bangkok to realise it’s a city of temples, and I mean lots of them. These range from the small and hidden away to the large, grand and frankly spectacular.

Wandering the streets of the Thai capital you stumble across countless little local temples, oases of calm in amongst the frenetic city life.

On arrival in Thailand, each discovery of a new hidden gem is an exciting find, however this doesn’t last. Like an addict who gets used to the hit, you find that more is needed to thrill you. So you move on to something bigger and better, and in Bangkok that means Wat Pho and the Royal Palace.

Not only is the scale of the buildings increased, but also the intricacy, and decoration. The Royal Palace, a complex of many gilded buildings, glistens brilliantly with gold.

Now this is a sufficient step up in temple quality to keep me sated for a while, but soon enough another thrill is needed. Having more or less reached the peak of Bangkok’s temple offering that meant heading north. Ayuthaya is only a short train ride sat on uncomfortable wooden benches designed for the smaller Thais.

It’s a former capital city, although that seems a distant memory as I cross the narrow muddy river from the train station to the town. A tuk-tuk driver, having despatched me to my hostel then got extra business from me by taking me on a tour of the local sights.

The temple viewing goes up a notch or two in the form of a giant reclining Buddha resplendent in his orange gown in one of many sites just out of town. As night falls I climb the steps of Wat Phu Kao Thong for a magnificent view, enhanced by a street party going past complete with several elephants.

By now, it takes quite a lot to thrill me temple wise, as those earlier impressive small temples register no more than a brief nod from me as I wander past. Next stop Chiang Mai, an overnight train ride northwards.

Chiang Mai’s magnificent temple offering is Doi Suthep, atop a hillside adjacent to the city. The lead up to the temple is through a tree and shop lined road winding up the hillside, then up a staircase with giant golden snakes for banisters. The temple complex with many elaborate golden structures sparkles brightly in the sunshine, and its setting high on the hills over the town make it superior to anything I’ve yet seen.

It will take quite something to thrill me yet further, but if the first temples I saw in Bangkok were the equivalent of a few tokes on a spliff, then visiting Angkor Wat in Cambodia about a week later was the injected straight into your veins pure heroin of temples. The complex is magnificent with an other worldly feel, and the main temple stands proud, drawing your attention constantly.

How can I top that? The search will go on.

Coastal Journeying in Croatia and Montenegro

2010-09-25T13:59:00.005+01:00

Having touched down at the small airport in Split after a nice flight with magnificent views over the rocky Adriatic coastline with its numerous wooded islands dotting the blue sea, and being herded onto a bus for mere 50m journey from the plane to the terminal, we found ourselves queuing for one of the two immigration desks along with at least two other flight loads of people. Chaotic scenes ensued as British and Norwegian tourists were swamped by a plane load of Russians with apparently no understanding of the concept of queuing.

Having negotiated the passport control, and splashing out on an expensive taxi ride in to Split due to the fact that it was evening and we were starving, we were dropped off at the edge of a maze of pedestrian streets and marched off into them thankfully finding our hostel almost straight away. We were met by the hostel’s ultra friendly host, given a map of the city with various highlighted recommendations, and so the bags were dumped and off we headed.

The Riva (or promenade) was a short walk away, and in the evening twilight it was just about coming alive with bars, cafes, and people busy people watching. Numerous stalls lined the street too, corn on the cob, helium balloons and popcorn being the most prevalent, all backed up by the harbour with many boats both large and small. Behind the Riva is the Diocletian Palace, the old city of Split. Soon enough we were installed in a bar eating a suitably meaty Croatian meal and supping the first of many beers. In amongst the usual sightseeing we also managed to get charged around £10 for 4 bread rolls (she rang in 47 of the little things instead of a mere 4, which took me a while to cotton on to), get told off by a drunken passer by for climbing up a wall late at night, and I managed to get stuck in a toilet unable to open it from the inside, which was slightly less funny at the time I can assure you.

Split’s harbour is a hive of activity with boats heading here, there and everywhere. Specifically from our point of view there is a regular speedy catamaran to Hvar, a small town on the island of the same name not far off the coast. The catamaran crew proceeded to make everyone dump their bags up at the front of the boat which seemed a reasonable plan at first, until it came to collecting the bags again on arrival in Hvar which turned the front of the boat into a severe bottleneck, all the while with the crew helpfully suggesting that we should exit the boat at the back as quickly as possible! Not without my bag mate…

Installed in our apartment overlooking the picturesque Hvar town, the view was lovely across the small port which had settled back down a little after the intense activity of the boat’s arrival and departure. Many market stalls line the streets selling one of two things – lavender or jewellery. The smell of lavender is so prevalent that we wonder how the stall holders manage to stay awake all day – it does explain the general laid back feeling though. The town has a small square lined with bars and cafés, more of which line the coastline in both directions from the town. We do our bit to support the local community by sampling as many of these as possible, not to mention also regularly sampling the magnificent ice cream shops with their huge displays of all sorts of exotic flavours. A nice touch in many of the restaurants was being given a free shot of local brandy as an aperitif whilst perusing the menu.

Hvar was a centre of relaxation for us; numerous rocky beaches and hot weather don’t result in too much activity, although we did also manage a little boat trip to another nearby island and on one astonishing day we managed a swim, a cycle and a run – a Hvar triathlon of sorts! Hvar was host to holiday makers from all sorts of places; Italy, Russia, UK, America, Australia, France, and many more accents I was unable to place. This gave it the feel of a busy holiday resort, despite its small size, but it never felt so crowded as to feel claustrophobic. It was always easy to find a more secluded area of beach or place to sit down, the exception being in the evening when many of the restaurants were full for the majority of the evening. Some restaurants even had queues of people waiting which may be a sign of their quality, but it did make those places look as though they’d be rather less relaxing to dine at with crowds of people hovering over you willing you to finish off that last piece of sea bass. There were numerous other options however.

The Croatian people were extremely friendly and welcoming, which was a slight contrast to what we found when heading further south to

Montenegro

. On the way we had to travel through Split (waiting for a bus with several Italians in full on noisy tantrum mode), a brief pause in Bosnia, and then on to Dubrovnik, of which more later. The bus from Dubrovnik to Budva in Montenegro was staffed by Montenegrins, and the contrast from the ultra-friendly Croatians was rather stark to say the least. Two grumpy bus drivers with cigarettes hanging from their mouths throw our bags on the bus and proceed to scare everyone on board with their driving along the sheer mountain roads to Montenegro. The border is quite a strict one which emphasises the differences between the constituent parts of the former Yugoslavia rather well. Passports are scrutinised and a few bags searched before we are on our way, but soon we’re hurtling along the narrow and winding roads around the frankly spectacular Montenegro coastline. Steep green mountains rise up from the clear blue and extremely inviting sea leaving only a small area for the small towns to cram themselves into.

Budva itself is a bit of a resort for Russians and Serbs it seems, with only a smattering of westerners, and the racial difference from the Croats is most evident in the general grumpiness, not just of the hosts but of the Russian and Serb tourists also. I’m not suggesting that the people are deliberately rude, but it can come across that way to someone of western sensibilities. For example, some staff at the numerous gyros and pizza slice stalls laughing directly at you while telling all their mates whatever it is about the funny Englishman in front of them which is so amusing – strange to say the least. However, the area is extremely pretty, nearby Kotor being the best example with its old town built up into the mountain overlooking an inlet of the sea. Budva at night turns into the Slavic Ibiza with loud bars complete with table top dancing totty and DJ’s flown in from Moscow. We kept to some more scenic and quieter places, which was probably just as well since our overpowering perfume of mosquito repellent wouldn’t have fitted in too well with the general dolled up night-on-the-town look. Despite all the mozzie spray. I still did my bit for the local wildlife by providing a veritable feast of my blood for the local insects who took a particular liking to me.

Back in Dubrovnik, the standard of old towns goes up a notch again, Dubrovnik’s being particularly impressive. If Split was popcorn and corn on the cob, Hvar was lavender and jewellery, and Budva was pizza slices and loud Russian bars, then Dubrovnik was home to sailor hats, stripy nautical t-shirts, and pizza restaurants. We manage to dine in a little Croatian place, delicious cevapcici spicy sausages and beer (and the free shot of brandy of course), surrounded by pizza restaurants and endless people coming up to the proprietor of our place and saying “Pizza? Pizza?”. But the funniest dining experience remains during a torrential thunder storm one evening, where we sheltered under the canopy of our restaurant munching away while the waiters brought food out balanced on one arm, with an umbrella protecting the food more than themselves in the other – sheer comedy.

While Croatia is certainly more westerner friendly and very geared up for tourism, and its people also add to the welcome, Montenegro felt like a step into an older world with a feeling of a place that hadn’t moved on too much from the communist days. The old furniture in our hostel contrasted to the modern facilities in Croatia, and the bus station was far more hard work with staff members whose approach to customer service was of the shout and point variety which made you feel like an idiot for trying to ask a question, or horror of horrors, even asking to buy a ticket! But it was an experience that’s for sure.

Croatia

’s bus stations were well run in contrast, but also notable for the countless apartment touts repeatedly hassling you to ask if you’d like to stay in their house. I swear one woman asked us at least 10 times within the space of about 30 minutes. Surely she realised she was asking the same people again and again?

Croatia and

Montenegro

both have stunning coastlines, although noticeably different from each other, as are the people and their mannerisms. The towns we visited also all had delightful old towns with narrow streets and hidden restaurants, but no two places were too similar always providing plenty of new experiences along the way.

Bruges - Temple of Beer

2010-09-22T21:14:00.002+01:00

Mention that you’re going to Bruges and different people will think of different things. The romantics may think of the canals of the “Venice of the North”. Some may think of the architecture and the main square. Some may well think of delicious chocolates and waffles. Other will think of mussels and chips with mayonnaise.

But me? I thought of the beers.

If Belgian beer was an art form (which it practically is) then Bruges is its Louvre, Guggenheim and Tate Modern all rolled into one.

Moving on past the main square’s cafes and heading down a narrow side street we chanced upon 't Brugs Beertje, having spotted its beer sign from a distance. In we went to be greeted by possibly the best bar in the world. The bar itself was surrounded by beer glasses of a fantastic variety, and the bar stocked with a ridiculous number of beers.

On the cosy little wooden table, which was set to become our base for the foreseeable future, sat what looked like a thick book or magazine but turned out to be the beer menu. And what a delight it was, page after page of hundreds of beers of all sorts of colours and flavours. Dark, blonde, red, golden, wheat, fruit, Trappist, Franciscan; whatever your desire the Belgian beer menu has something (or more likely many) for you.

The problem soon became apparent though; how do you choose from a menu so large filled with beers you’ve never tried before? The answer arrived in the shape of the ever helpful barman who came up with a few recommendations to get us started. Something tells me it wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that – a fact confirmed only moments later when the next bumbling tourists stumbled in and stared at the menu in wide-eyed amazement before asking for help.

Our beers duly arrived and were poured at our table. Naturally each beer had its own specially shaped glass, designed to bring the best out of that particular beer which just added to the fun. Especially when I later ordered a Kwak beer, which is served in what can only be described as a large bell-shaped test-tube held up on a wooden rack.

I committed the cardinal sin of removing the test-tube glass to drink my Kwak, neglecting the handle on the wooden rack which I should have been using to bring the entire contraption up to my lips. A friendly local old lady took great delight in laughing at my faux pas, before coming over to point out the error of my ways.

The beer selections gradually became more random and obscure as we worked out way through the menu; the beers were all around 9 or 10% it should be said. But no matter what we ordered it duly arrived moments later with its own special glass. Soon enough I was well beyond my limit, and attention could turn to one of Bruges’ other delight – chips and mayonnaise!