The two horsemen rode through the turret flanked gate and out into the night. The hooves of their mounts echoing loudly on the wooden planks of the drawbridge and then they were gone, swallowed up in the forest of ash trees that grew to the northwest of the castle. They soon found the river and keeping it to their right they moved slowly but steadily north, skirting the hamlet of Pinxton. The three quarter moon reflected brightly in the water as they forded a small stream before climbing steadily to Huthwaite, where they again skirted the village, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Neither man spoke. The only sounds were the snorting of their animals and other nightly noises. They reached the fast flowing Medan River that they forded with some difficulty. The village of Teversale stood before them on a slight rise and on its left slope the grass covered ruins of an old Saxon hall could still be seen. The present Lords of the manor were the Greenhalghe and the leading rider indicated that they should avoid the manor and village. They had been riding for two hours when Eric Stainsby raised his mailed hand to indicate that they should halt. A slight breeze had blown up, though it was not cold and the noise of the swaying Ash trees was soothing. Somewhere, up ahead, the unmistakable sound of a babbling brook came on the wind from out of the darkness.
*In memory of my good friend and brother in law Alan Palfreyman
Day 1
It had been so long since my last travel blog that I found myself tingling with the excitement of creating new memories and the thought of typing up my blog always excites. So where to this time? More central asian adventures or fascinating European cities? Erm no. This time the journey would take us to the rarely visited Codnor, Chesterfield, Doncaster et al. Hardly exotic. The question that seems to jump out, I suppose, is why on Earth would anyone wish to visit these areas north of Derbyshire and south of Yorkshire?
Many years ago, my father and I wrote a book entitled ‘The Weft and the Warp’ which is a historical semi-factual novel using members of our family and based on the family tree and the amazing stories my dad unearthed from the haze of history. In the novel, one of our favourite characters, invented by myself and improved by my dad, is Eric Stainsby, a soldier of fortune from relatively low birth. In one of our chapters, Eric rides from Codnor castle to Doncaster with a message for the King and accompanied by a young man named Alain- a man who twice saved Eric’s life but who sadly dies in this chapter. Sorry- spoilers! I was keen to complete this walk with my dad and as the trip to Tallinn had been cancelled because of covid, we decided to invite my son Kyle and brother in law Alan and make it another boys’ trip.
My dad and I set off early from Loughborough and arrived in pretty good time at Chesterfield Train Station where we had agreed to meet Kyle. The skies were cloudy and matched the ominous weather forecast that suggested four straight days of interminable rain. We arrived earlier than expected but Kyle rang to tell us that, in his own words, ‘an idiot’ was causing a scene on the train and that security would not allow the train to move until said ‘idiot’ removed himself. We decided to get a coffee from inside the station but I realised that I had forgotten my all important mask. Fortunately, I have always been comfortable with exhibitionism and with a little improvisation I managed to create a mask out of two Wilson tennis socks that I had in my rucksack. I looked ridiculous but I found the moment a lot of fun. With a swagger of the shoulders I strolled in and bought us coffee. In truth, I was pleased when I was able to remove the socks- not because of the stench or the embarrassment but simply because they were very tight and constricted my face so that I began to feel like I was the protagonist in the torture scene from Hellraiser. I couldn’t speak either without muffling the voice so that my words were incomprehensible.
Dad and I pondered the map of the walk whilst sitting on a bench and waiting for Kyle. Chesterfield train station is largely unremarkable but it is worth pointing out the dramatic statue of George Stephenson: legs apart like a Shakespearean actor about to deliver a heroic soliloquy and balanced on a wheel. Behind him, his coat tails waft in the wind and in his hand, a model of his famous engine, the Rocket. Now, I have to confess that this statue is wonderfully crafted and beautifully designed but I do wonder if Stephen Hicklin, the designer, ever had a good walk around the statue’s circumference, as from some angles, it simply looks like the father of the modern train is ‘flipping the bird’ at all the would be passengers. It was initially irritating that Kyle was held up but everything seemed to work out well as Alan, messaged me and said he’d be late, as he had to drop a parcel at a post office.
It wasn’t long before Kyle arrived, cursing the ‘tosser on the train’: Interesting that he had moved up the scale from ‘idiot’ to ‘tosser’. Our drive to the Hardwick Inn was uneventful and Alan arrived five minutes after us. We left Dad’s car at the inn and drove up to Codnor, around a mile or so from the castle, where Stainsby officially started his walk. It was interesting that we parked the car opposite a pub called The Poet and Castle. We were trying to think who the poet might be- Lawrence? Byron? They both have connections with the area.
The stroll up to Codnor was pleasant and there was a sense of anticipation running through all of us but particularly in my dad and myself as we came upon the ruins of Codnor castle. In our book, Lord Grey, who lived at the castle was concerned about his own interests during the early stages of the Wars of the Roses and sent Stainsby and Alain to Roche Abbey, initially to let his brother know of the developments. As always, I gazed across the countryside, then closed my eyes and tried to imagine it without modern paraphernalia.
Codnor castle is now a fragile relic of the dramatic 13th century fortification it had once been. During recent times, it has appeared on paranormal investigation programme ‘As Live’ and Time Team once dug up a gold noble from the time of Henry the fifth. It is a wonderful, ghostly and pleasantly sinister location full of mystery and drama and obviously, perfect for our walk. Dad read from our book; we took a selfie and began the 12 mile stroll back to the Hardwick Inn. The weather was cool and there was no sign of rain in the clouds whatsoever. I was a little worried about my knee, which still hadn’t recovered from the badminton injury I picked up whilst trying to stretch for a shuttle I would have reached years ago. Certainly, the stiles across the undulating landscape were difficult for me to traverse but in the spirit of men throughout the centuries, I wasn’t going to let on.
After a mile or so of charming rural walking paths, we strolled happily down a country road just East of the Cromford Canal before arriving at Ironville, which is possibly the best example of a Derbyshire mid-nineteenth century model village, created by the Butterley company to house its iron workers. It was quite some place back then and even the workers’ physical and spiritual welfare had been considered: there had been a park, swimming baths, a library, a school and of course the all important guidance of a church parish. Today, it remains a working class village but is far less industrial and much sleepier. None of this would have affected Eric and Alain as these houses would never have existed and neither would the village.
Whilst we ambled down one of the main streets, we were greeted by a variety of models: some of famous people; others of scary characters or even comical inventions. I think this was part of the Welldressing that happens in these villages during the summer season. The funniest creation had to be the model of Boris Johnson and his wife Carrie in full wedding regalia. We did chuckle and subtly took a few piccies. Alan mused that these lifeless, comical puppets might be more effective in running the country than the real people.
Just outside of Ironville, we passed a pub (clearly labelled on my dad’s maps), but it was too early for beers and so we strolled on and back to the walking towpaths through Pye Bridge and east of the river Erewash towards Pinxton. I lived near Pinxton for about twenty three years and taught many of the students from this ex mining community where affluence is rare. Yet I had never walked to it via the countryside and I was extra excited as Pinxton was mentioned in the novel and dates back to Anglo-saxon times; mentioned in the Domesday book as Esnotrewic and therefore very much around at the time of Eric Stainsby and Alain. It is strange indeed to look upon an old village from a distance and imagine the place through the eyes of a character who never existed but that is exactly what I did.
Eventually we came across the motorway junction and we halted on the bridge to consider how we were going to get down to road level. I remembered a tunnel under the road but later realised that this was about three miles away but after two attempts to walk down an alleyway, we managed to find our way to the chaos of the main road. Kyle had quite a lot of anxiety at this point: it wasn’t because of the potential danger although we didn’t see many others trying to cross but the social anxiety of looking odd, darting across entry points on the roundabout to the safety of the verges. I have to confess that this was not only one of the most unattractive and least unauthentic parts of the walk but also the most risky and unpleasant. Nevertheless, we watched each other’s backs and managed to struggle out way across and thanks to good planning from Dad (maybe he expected this to be stressful) we soon found ourselves in The Castelton pub having out first beer of the trip. The first sip of the first pint...
After the pub we hoped to return to the walking paths but the fields were closed due to the newts! I thought it was a joke when a chap standing by his van explained the situation to us but newts are protected, as it happens and so, we had to walk around the field and up the surprisingly long hill through Huthwaite. Like Pinxton this village was very familiar to me but pleasingly, very much around at the time of our two protagonists. The name Huthwaite is derived from Old English and Norse elements—hoh is from haugr an Old Norse word for a hill and thwaite means clearing. This was one of the most difficult parts of the days walk. We were about six miles in when the sun grinned its beams down upon us. Had we been by a pool sipping cold beers then we would have felt great but as we strode up the hill with determination, it was certainly fatiguing. By the time we reached the top we were ready for more beers and my knee felt like it needed replacing. Once again, I didn’t mention it- well maybe once or twice.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long before we were out of the village and after Kyle had managed to nip into a shop for some sarnies we were soon back in the fields and amongst nature again. Just over a mile later we found ourselves East of Silverhill Country park and to further to our East was Teversal. We strode down the old railway lines and even stopping at the Teversal station which has been there since 1886 but which was closed to passengers in 1964; a ghost of a previous time, it is a little eerie to come across a station on a walking path amongst the trees and bushes. I took a lovely snap here; one of the few posed ones of Alan, Kyle and Dad. Teversal itself is also mentioned in our book and dates back to 1190 and is the site of the fictional Wragby Hall, the home of Lady Chatterley in DH Lawrence’s novel.
Two or so miles later, we managed to find our way into Hardwick park; a place where my own children had frequented during their childhood and where I felt very much at home. The sun was still very hot but under the cover of trees, it was bearable and even quite pleasant. In recent years they have added climbing equipment for children made of wood and very much in keeping with the oak scattered parkland. Dad stopped us for a brief reading from the book which spoke of Stainsby Mill, out of sight but close by and where we had said Stainsby had grown up with his father as the mill owner. We nodded as he read and I pondered again the passion I felt for someone who never existed. On day two we would get closer to this birthplace.
After a brief incline we came out on to the mainroad through the park with the Hall to our right. The hall is an architectural Elizabethan wonder and was built between 1590 and 1597 for Bess of Hardwick. Though we had little time to visit this time, I will add that if you have never been into the hall, it is certainly worth it and historically fascinating. Bess herself was quite a lady and was married four times as well as being lady in waiting to the mother of Lady Jane Grey. Effectively next door to the hall is Old Hardwick Hall, which is actually only a few years older.
She was a proper intelligent bad ass!
The final stroll down to the Hardwick pub was downhill and my knee was groaning for the last half mile, begging me to stop. I had a brief thought that I might not manage the next three days but tried to shake it off and limp my way to the Hardwick for a pint. Alan was also struggling with his ankle and later told me that he was delighted to see the pub in front of him as he’d had enough. We’d walked the best part of thirteen and a half miles but when you’re carrying an injury, it can be difficult. Dad was striding out as if he was happy to do another ten! Damn these seventy year olds.
Frustratingly, when Kyle and I caught up with him and Alan, we were confronted with the chaos of Covid at the pub I used to love: tape cordoning off areas like they were protecting a crime scene, penning people into spaces like cattle; no entry to the pub itself; long queues to meet some zone host and no doubt ordering by QR code only. Despite walking thirteen and a half miles, we simply couldn’t be bothered with it and so jumped in the car and drove back to Codnor. My knee was throbbing despite the knee support I was wearing and by the time we had picked up the car and driven to the Ibis in Chesterfield, I could barely straighten it.
I hobbled into the hotel like I’d been wounded in battle. Once again it was masks everywhere though I didn’t have one so pulled my shirt over my face. I looked ridiculous but it seemed to create a little humour. We enjoyed a few bottled beers at the Ibis, as two of the three draft beers were off and the other was Miller Lite (probably worse than the beer in Uzbekistan). Kyle went for a shower and a rest whilst we just sat in the bar.
Later, we headed out to Frankie and Benny’s, a place that Rach and I used to take the kids to quite often, when we used to live in Chezvegas. My legs were in agony throughout the meal but it was a good night with some red wine, some beers and decent food. Like everywhere at the moment, there was a lack of personality, with contamination screens up around each eating booth and waiters masked up like gangsters. Our waitress was exempt from wearing a mask and it was lovely: you forget very quickly how important a smiling face is.
We finished the night with some of Kyle’s excellent whisky which he’d brought in a hip flask- 46% proof! This finished the night off well and I slept as deeply as I have for some time.
“I was born here.”
Stainsby’s unexpected remark took Alain by surprise and he did not reply. Anyway, it seemed to Alain that the captain was talking to some long forgotten ghost rather than to a living person. Stainsby spurred his mount forward and soon the deep black silhouette of a half-timbered mill could be seen, its elm paddle wheel silent now. How beautiful it looked in the moonlight thought Eric, his eyes grew moist and a tear trickled down his cheek. Eric wept rarely.
“Where is this place Captain?” Asked Alain. Stainsby half turned in the saddle, grateful that the night should hide his tears.
“Stainsby Mill,” he answered, hoping that his companion would not detect the tremor in his voice.
“But that is your name Sir,” Alain said questioningly.
“So it is…so it is.” Eric pulled on the rein of his horse and dug his spurs gently into his flanks. Alain followed, silent at first, but then he drew up to ride beside his captain.
“You have kin here sir?” He asked with interest.
“I do,” came the sad reply. “Leastways I did once, perhaps still so, who knows?” Eric stopped by the millpond and dismounted. “Let the horses take a drink,” he ordered.
The two men sat on the damp earth and made a frugal supper of dark bread and hard cheese. Eric offered a skin of beer that the younger man accepted gratefully.
“My father once owned that mill we passed,” said Eric wistfully. Alain gave the beer back and Eric took a long draft before continuing. “Aye and his father before him and so back to the time of King John. I remember my father and my brother changing the waterwheel the year I went away. I have not seen them since.
“And your mother?”
“Dead, long dead she is.” Eric laughed but it was without humour. “Died bringing me into the world. Buried in a churchyard over there I think,” he added, pointing vaguely to the west. “Church at Ault Hucknall if memory serves.”
There was a rustle in the undergrowth and Eric was on his feet, sword drawn from its scabbard but then the owl swooped and the vole was taken up with a squeak. Stainsby threw his sword onto the ground. “What is our errand sir?” Alain had not wished to question his captain but this obvious display of tension alarmed the younger man.
“We go to warn the King Alain. We go to warn him of treachery and we must not fail.” Eric finished his meagre meal without another word and Alain knew when not to disturb the captain’s thoughts. “Come Alain we needs be about our business,” he said, retrieving his blade.
They led their horses for a mile or so, for the ground was very boggy. At first they continued in silence but then Eric explained their errand, though it mattered little to his companion for Alain cared little for the ways of great lords or kings. He fought for the Lord who paid him but even more importantly, he fought for his Captain. Soon the riders reached a limestone gorge honeycombed with caves that seemed to peer down upon them as they passed. These white stone cliffs had witnessed the activities of man since the dawn of his existence. Fifty thousand years before the two horsemen passed, these same cliffs, then already as old as time, watched as groups of hunters tracked and killed Woolly Rhinos or Bison. They remained majestic and disinterested as later, much later, others settled and farmed, lived their puny lifespan and died to be forgotten just as the falling of a leaf in autumn is forgotten. Some had even made the limestone caves their homes and they left a more lasting record of their existence in the form of paintings so deep inside that it would be over a thousand lifetimes before they were seen again by the eyes of man. The limestone crags, splendidly illuminated by the moon, now gazed dispassionately as the two men passed beneath them.
Day 2
Breakfast was edible and large but the less we say about the mushrooms, the better: tasteless , canned and cold. Dad and Alan were first to dine and Kyle and I were a little more tardy, though I have to say that we did hit our start time deadline of 9.00am. I was staggered by how my legs felt better and I marvelled for a moment at the power of sleep and rest. I put my knee support on as a precaution but I felt great, especially as I had hobbled like a borderline cripple on the way back from the restaurant the night before.
We took what seemed a frighteningly long drive, though probably wasn’t, to our destination end point of Creswell Crags before dropping the car and heading back to the Hardwick Inn, where our walk would begin. This wonderful Inn had always been a summer favourite of Rachel and myself particularly when the kids were young and we could send them to play in the garden or climb the trees whilst we had a pint and pondered adult things like finances or jobs. In truth, I’ve never really taken to the landlord, who I have found surly and a tad arrogant but the pub itself is a wonder and has lots of history. Dating back to the 16th century and built of locally quarried sandstone it is situated on the south gate of Hardwick Park and though old and traditional, it would not have been there when our two protagonists crossed the space where it stands today.
We crossed the cattle grid beyond the inn, stepping into the park itself and turned left, strolling towards the Hardwick ponds. Here there is a steep incline up towards the old Hardwick hall, which we could see to our right above the trees. We stayed along the low lying land initially and it was a very pleasant way to begin the walk. We meandered through open country, fields and woodland enjoying the natural elements that played with the senses: from the earthy dampness of wet wood beneath the protective arms of trees to the open summery freshness of the grass and the fields surrounding Hardwick’s treasures. We took an easterly leg as we skirted Stainsby Mill through Stainsby Park, before arriving in the village of Ault Hucknall and the church where we had Stainsby’s mother buried.
Is it a sign of the times that like so many village churches, this one was locked to the public- no access here to the house of God. St John the Baptist’s church dates back to the 11th century and is a blocky construction with the church tower being only slightly higher than the main body of the building. Opposite the church was a sign indicating commonwealth War Graves and so we pondered for a moment and looked on, trying to spot the familiar white purity of a war grave of recent times. I am always taken back to Tyne Cotte in Ypres at these moments.
We stayed for a short while but was soon walking through Ault Hucknall and up towards Glapwell. By the time we made it to this village, only memorable to me for the Glapwell Gladiators; a team Kyle used to score countless goals against, we were ready for a beer and the snacks that I had put into my back were running a little thin.
Dad had once again planned this walk in such intricate detail that just as beer and fayre was needed, a pub appeared- this time, the Elmtree Inn. It was still warm, though the sun had retreated behind the cover of clouds, and we decided to brave it at a table outdoors. There was a gnome-like structure but in the guise of a small grumpy old man just at the entrance to the pub, wearing a mask around his chin, seemingly in defiance of the covid regulations and Alan wasn’t sure whether to put his mask on or not. He did. More importantly, he organised the beers and some grub. When he returned, Alan told us how no one in the pub was wearing masks and unlike some places in town, you actually had to suffer a disapproving stare from the locals, if you were wearing a mask: a local pub for local people- ‘nothing touches us here’. It was refreshing but not as much as the beer.
A chap came out and asked if we wanted hot meat cobs. I asked if he had cheese and he gurned at me as if I’d asked him if I could bugger his father, before saying ‘No’ but in a very particular way, emphasising the ‘N’ and elongating the ‘o’ with a mixture of exasperation, disbelief and disappointment. It is rare indeed that I eat meat but I drifted with the flow and the unspoken peer pressure and before long we were gorging on our meat cobs. Kyle was much happier for having had some proper grub and though we could have stayed all afternoon, the legs were starting to seize up and we were soon on our way.
It took a while to make my legs work again and the pain from the previous day was returning. The next three miles were taken at a steady pace, passing a variety of extremely expensive properties, I could only imagine having enough money to buy. We took a turn towards Scarcliffe Park, on our ordinance survey map, listed as a public footpath. When we arrived at the entrance we were greeted with a sign stating that this was private land and therefore entry was not allowed. There was no skull or crossbones or anything like that but the imperative didn’t lack clarity- except for the fact that it said no entry into the wood and there was a clear path between the woodland that was on either side. It would have been a long long way around this wood and we weren’t prepared to commit to such an onerous jaunt and so, in the spirit of adventure, we ignored the notice and marched on. About five hundred metres later a chap cutting the grass in his motorised grass cutting gizmo, switched his engine off.
“You do realise this is private land”.
“No”, we lied.
“Well, you’ll have to turn round and walk all the way back I’m afraid”.
Now, my dad’s candid response was one to savour.
“That’s not an option I’m afraid. We’ve come too far”.
He was a strapping fella and seemingly confident but this answer took the ‘wind out of his sails’. There followed a discussion where he explained that he’d had a lot of his possessions stolen and he was certainly not reassured by my casual, though accurate point, that we wouldn’t steal anything. Eventually, he agreed to let us walk on the half a mile or so to the gate as long as we promised never to come through the park again.
We happily agreed.
The fields that followed Scarcliffe became increasingly challenging with stinging nettles, thistles and other spiky plants playing havoc with my naked legs. I still attest that shorts are best for walking but this is one of the downsides. However, the most arduous field to traverse was the strangulating bean field- these stringy blighters wrapped themselves around your legs and each one of us had to raise our legs up to our hips and stamp back down. Dad took point for a while but showed he was human when he finally asked someone else to take their turn- the funniest moment being when Kyle took charge. He ran ahead like a bean smashing lunatic, before instantly falling over and dropping into the spongy safe arms of the beans: this, he repeated twice, causing much hysteria and lightening the mood.
The walk between Whaley and Cresswell Crags was tough on the legs with varied inclines and declines- different crops to go to war with and lots of stiles, which were really tough on my knees. When we finally arrived at the crags I began to wonder why I hadn’t spent more time here in the past. It is a lovely place- a valley with Milward Brook running through it; caves on either side as well as rock faces.
Kyle was knackered and keen to get back but I felt alive here and couldn’t resist taking photographs as I strolled. These spectacular crags are well worth a visit and contain the most northernmost examples of prehistoric cave art in Europe. So many people have lived or occupied these caves throughout history: from nomadic peoples of the Palaeolithic and Mesolithic times to the later bronze age, the Romans and even people from medieval times. I was fascinated but we were certainly tired and ready for a break and so after a few snaps, we worked our way to the car park.
The ‘messing about’ we had to do before getting back to the IBIS passed in a blur. Alan, Dad and myself enjoyed beers in the hotel and Kyle headed back to the room for a shower and chill time once again. Of course, the difference this time was that this night we would all, except my dad, watch England play in a global football competition for the first time. Even my dad had to go back to when he was fifteen to remember such an occasion. I was excited and I genuinely felt we had a great chance of winning. There was no way we were going out and risk missing the footy and so Alan, top technical lad that he was, ordered chips in for us and we ate them outside just before kickoff. As the game approached, I found myself becoming nervous in a way I don’t really understand even now.
So what is it? This phenomenon of football? I enjoy a game and I played as a boy but I am not a huge football supporter and have only a passing interest in professional club football. Like many others, I intellectually know that football is only more important in many people’s eyes as a result of the huge money that has been ploughed into it. In reality it is no more special a game than hockey, volleyball or even curling and yet, we become transfixed- totally drawn in. Even people who despise football are hooked. We needed something to celebrate, particularly after Covid and why football or even how football can become that ‘thing’, I don’t really know but it did and so I wanted them to win so badly. My dad couldn’t quite understand the level of need but as aforementioned, neither can I.
The game itself was a cracker and England scored a great goal early on. Sadly, a scruffy equaliser from a dominant second half Italian performance took us to a penalty shootout and once again, heartbreak beckoned. The worst moment was when Jordan Pickford had to save to keep England in the game and bounced up and down mouthing “No problem” to himself before saving the penalty. The hotel erupted with joy. Then, young Sako stepped up and rolled a weak penalty nervously towards the corner. It was saved easily and the joy turned to despair. I was genuinely gutted. I cannot explain why it mattered but it really did- at least for an hour or so. Kyle and I talked through the disappointment for an hour or so before bed. It had been a ‘hell of a day’.
Before long they reached higher ground. To the east, the ground fell away into a gentle sloping valley and clearly visible against the night sky were the two great towers of a church.
“Where are we Captain?” Asked Alain. Stainsby reined in his horse.
“See there,” he pointed to the inky dark shape of the church. “That is the Priory of St Cuthbert; we make good time,” he continued. “We will keep to the ridge I think. You can’t see it but the town of Wirkesop lies below us and it would be best not to be seen”.
“But sir, none will be abroad at this hour, none save our sorry selves,” he added with humour.
“Indeed I think you are right, but in these unsettled times it makes no sense to chance fortune…we stay with the high ground for now.
“How did you come to be in the service of Lord Dacre captain,” asked Alain unexpectedly?
“It’s a long story my friend…and not a little boring. You would need a quart or two of ale inside you to stomach the tale I’m thinking.”
“But sir…we have little else to occupy our time; you say you were born at that mill we passed, surely that’s a tale to while away the night.”
In his mind’s eye Eric could see his father, dressed in the rich clothes of a prosperous merchant. One day he had taken the young Eric down to the mill which was one of the many business interests that Oswald of Stainsby had throughout Scarsdale.
“I wasn’t born at the mill,” Eric said quietly.
“But I thought yo…….”
“I was born close by. My father had many interests, the mill was but one.”
“So what happened? How is it you came to be a soldier, instead of a rich man,” asked Alain with genuine interest?
“I had, perhaps still have an elder brother. I don’t know. Anyway, it was Richard who had the head for business. When I was eight or nine my father, through the patronage of some local lording, sent me to Fotheringhay where I became a page in the service of the Duke of York.”
“My God”, whispered Alain with a low whistle.
“So you see it has come full circle. The Duke saw fit to throw me out and so I fought for the other side and now the fates have decreed that I carry a message that may save his son”.
It was becoming a routine, but Alan and my dad had finished their brekkie by the time Kyle and I arrived, courtesy in part, to a message from Alan reminding us of the passing of time. I don’t think we would have been late but we were on the edge and I think my dad was definitely keen to get off. We were on the road by just after 9.00am but each morning, the trip to the destination was obviously a little further and so we didn’t really start our walk until after 10.00am.
My knee felt surprisingly good again, despite having been rough the night before. I think walking might actually have been the best cure for it. I was delighted to be wearing my dad’s longer, easy drying trousers- (there will be a technical name but I have no idea what) as for the first time, the weather was not pleasant. The clouds above were dark and portentous and we all had the feeling that we might be in for a ‘grin and bear it’ shift.
I was keen to walk along the crags as this is a lovely stroll but the mud underneath our feet suggested that it might be a royal mess up. Sensibly, we took the road, away from the crags for a while. The weather, despite the suggestion of doom and gloom did brighten up as we stretched our legs and thankfully we managed to get off the road. Road walking is easy, in terms of speed walking and getting your head down but it is hard on the feet too and certainly less appealing aesthetically.
I chatted a lot with Alan on day three and it was delightful. Considering what would happen only two weeks later, I treasure the memory of these conversations. He spoke candidly about his business and his hopes to develop the success he had already started to have. We even spoke of buying a property together in perhaps a couple of years. It is so much more poignant now. The early miles passed by easily enough and thankfully, we weren’t attacked by beans or stinging nettles this time.
Before long, we arrived in the village of Whitwell and I was interested by the Steetley church which dates back to the 12th century, well within the time of our protagonists, though we don’t mention the place in the novel. It was a peaceful churchyard and I popped in for my obligatory walk around its precincts. The chaps paused for a while and then strolled on a little, leaving me with a little time to myself. The church door was locked. Again! Embarrassing as it is to recall it; I was pleased to see the lads walk ahead as I was desperate for a wee and so opened up the flood gates. It was a relief.
Later we walked by a number of large properties of varying degrees of style but all screamed out to me, ” We are considerably richer than you”. We discussed how people afford such abode as and tried to imagine what money you would have to have in advance or what job you might need to be doing. I can’t comprehend it, in the same way as I cannot comprehend the price of housing in the south or even less, how someone who has such as house does not sell the thing, move to the North or even abroad and simply retire. Is it a lack of imagination?
Perhaps the most interesting property had a gated front, like the wood that sits behind a portcullis. The sort of wood that you could hit with a sledgehammer for a week and make no impression. There was a plaque on a stick, about five metres in front of the property (which had high walls like a prison) nailed into a lawn saying ‘Nirvana’. The person who owned this house was either immensely witty and ironic or a moron; I like to believe it is the former. Nirvana is a place of perfect peace and happiness, like heaven. In Hinduism and Buddhism, nirvana is the highest state that someone can attain, a state of enlightenment, meaning a person's individual desires and suffering go away. Now, consider this for a moment and let me describe what we saw (once we had bounced up another times to see over the wall) in this property’s garden: various anti-aircraft missiles and guns and behind it a fighter plane with a range of other dangerous weapons. It is the best defended property I have ever seen and perhaps Nirvana would be all that you could hope for, if you were caught too near this place.
A few miles passed with various undulations and a mix of road and field walking. Then, as if out of nowhere, we reached a bridge which the Chesterfield canal ran underneath. This little oasis of calm and beauty was gorgeous, particularly as the sun was out again and the flowers along the canal and outside the local houses were in full colourful bloom. The canal itself is known locally as Cuckoo Dyke and runs forty six miles from the river Trent to the town of Chesterfield. This moment of equilibrium was very pleasant and I took some excellent photos. Sadly, we still had a way to go and so we headed on, hoping to push on to a pub. The snacks in the backpack were running low and another nice cob and a pint was exactly what we were all craving.
My knee was starting to play up a little and Dad was a good quarter of a mile ahead of us when he arrived at the pub he’d planned, of course. Kyle was slightly ahead and Alan and I at the rear, perhaps more desperate for a pint than we had been for the whole walk. There was something though in my dad’s stance, the way he leaned on the wall of the pub; perhaps the way his hat was ‘cocked’ to the right or maybe it was his rueful smile: a blend of self-deprecating irony and sadistic glee, but I knew. I knew immediately.
“It’s closed”, I said to Alan.
“God, I think you’re right”, he replied.
Alan has spent enough time with my dad to read that particular expression. It was. We were devastated. We, being Alan and I.
After stopping to consume a few of the last nibbles that we had in a child’s village park, and bemoan our misfortune, Kyle and Dad flew ahead again and Alan and I hobbled on. We had both seized up; our limbs were groaning and we moaned about our aches and pains like old men for the rest of the walk to Firbeck. It seemed an age and was perhaps the least memorable part of the walk except for the bonding between Alan and I. We managed to pull each other through. Thanks Al.
As we arrived in Firbeck, we were beyond happy to discover that The Black Sheep was open. There was a brief muted suggestion by some lunatic, that we might drive back and get a pint at the hotel but this was rightly given short shrift and we sat down for a well earned pint served by a lovely bar lady with a great sense of humour. I could easily have had a second and even a third but we had a long drive back and so after a brief moment of peace, contemplation, relief and beer, we headed back to Cresswell to pick up the second vehicle and made our way back to the IBIS.
After our usual hotel beers and Kyle’s shower routine, we changed and Alan, my dad and I headed to Einstein’s for pre dinner drinks. I had booked a table at The Stuffed Olive Turkish restaurant which had great reviews but we needed a sharpener. Jaipur it was I think. Kyle agreed to meet us a little later at the restaurant and so before long we were dining on some lovely Turkish food and drinking plenty of wine- at least Dad and I were. We finished the meal traditionally with raki but thankfully we only reached the second stage of raki (you’ll need to read my Istanbul blog to educate yourself on the 7 stages of raki).
A red glow appeared on the horizon as the two horsemen reached the brow of a hill that overlooked a densely wooded valley.
“Look Alain,” said Stainsby, pointing to the large walled precinct that occupied the ground on both sides of a small stream. “There lad, that is Roche Abbey, a Cisterian house. The Abbot is the brother of Lord Henry. We can find food for the horses and ourselves there.”
“Should we not press on sir,” asked Alain?
“The horses must be fed even if you don’t feel the need. Anyway Lord Grey assures me that the monks brew a good ale here,” Eric said with a good humoured grin. “Best to continue after we are rested. Don’t worry Alain, we shall reach the King soon enough.”
They had to circle the outer wall in order to reach the gatehouse that lay on the north side of the Abbey. Eric rode up to the stout gate that hung from great iron hinges, set into the dressed grey stone and pulled on a length of rope that swayed gently in the breeze. Somewhere inside, the sound of a bell could be heard but there was no other noise.
“They must be observing the office of Lauds,” he said, as he tugged the cord again. He was about to pull a third time when the sound of metal on metal stayed his hand. A small hatch, covered by a grill of round iron rods, opened in the door and an elderly head peered out. “Ah Brother Porter,” exclaimed Stainsby. “We seek an audience with the Lord Abbott.”
The Cistercian monk, with old rheumy eyes, studied the men in turn. “You are very early my son,” he answered. “My lord Abbott will still be at his devotions.” Eric dismounted and pulled out a letter as he approached the hatch.
“This is for the Abbot. It is from his brother, Lord Grey of Codnor, on whose business I seek an audience. The monk took the proffered roll of vellum and examined the wax seal. The hatch closed and moments later the great gate began to open.
Eric and Alain led their mounts through the gate and followed the Cistercian along a wide pathway towards a second Gatehouse with a high pitched roof that seemed to be built into the rock. Here, the monk rapped loudly upon the door. On the other side could be heard a shuffling and the unmistakable sound of a key in a lock. The doors swung inwards and the horsemen found themselves in a rib vaulted hall, large enough to house several carts and animals. From the upper level of the Gatehall came the Obedientiary, a monastic official of some standing, though he was dressed in a black scapular and looked just like the two other monks. The brother that had first opened the gate now spoke softly to the Obedientiary who examined the letter and the seal by the light of one of the flaming torches that illuminated the chamber. Eric noticed that he had a hooked nose and quick alert eyes that gave him the look of a barn owl about to devour its prey. Now, the eyes were fixed on Stainsby.
“I will see the Abbott receives this message,” he said, waving the letter lazily. “You and your companion may break your fast with the lay brothers,” he continued with an air of finality.
“Just a moment brother.” Eric took a pace towards the monk. “That letter was given to my care by Lord Henry Grey himself, and it is I that shall deliver it to the lord Abbot.” Stainsby held out his hand. For a moment the Obedientiary thought to refuse but the old Cistercian could see that here was a man not to be trifled with.
“So be it,” he murmured as he gave over the roll of vellum. “Brother Jerome, see our guests are taken care of,” he added, with ill-concealed irritation.
“And the Abbot,” demanded Stainsby?
“I shall inform his lordship regarding your request for an interview. Meanwhile your worldly needs will be attended to. The lord be with you,” he added grudgingly, then with a speed that Eric would not have believed of him, he turned and was absorbed by the shadows. The monk that had opened the main gate now returned to his duties and the second brother, who had up to now said nothing, touched Eric lightly on the arm.
“Please follow me my son. My name is Brother Jerome.” He spoke with a pleasant accent that Stainsby had not heard before. Brother Jerome led them out from the Gatehall and into the inner court. Up ahead, in the half light of early morning, stood a great Norman church; it’s huge bulk blotting out the rest of the abbey complex. Brother Jerome led them off to the left around the north transept and along a narrow lane. To the right, in the weak morning light, Alain could see small mounds where the earth had been turned, some recently, others obviously the work of long ago.
“It is where we lay our dear brothers who are gathered unto God,” explained Jerome, noticing Alain’s inquisitive glance. After a short while, another imposing structure appeared on the right which Eric correctly assumed to be the Chapter House and then a group of lay brothers came towards them. Brother Jerome took the reins of both horses and gave them to one of the brothers who led the animals off. “They will be well looked after my son. Have no fear. But now you must take food and refresh yourselves if you are to speak with the Abbot.”
The three men came to a stone bridge that crossed a rivulet. Eric marvelled to see that the buildings here were built over the water, on strong arches. Though brother Jerome seemed not to notice, there was a stench here, for the water flowed under the buildings that housed the abbey’s latrines. Thankfully, the breeze was blowing up from the south and so the smell was carried away from the abbey guesthouses that lay on the other side of the rivulet.
“A letter from my brother you say,” John Grey, Abbot of Roche, stroked his ample chin thoughtfully. “What manner of man is this messenger?” “A most surly individual my Lord Abbot,” replied the hooked nosed Obedientiary.
“Indeed…What brings such a man here? What do you suppose my dear brother wants I wonder?” The abbot was a good head shorter than his brother and years of good living had left their mark. Heavy jowls now spoilt a once handsome face. His fondness for fine wine and his insatiable appetite had swollen his girth by several inches, but his eyes betrayed a keen intellect and a deep cunning.
“Shall I summon him my Lord abbot,” asked the monk, ignoring the question? Abbot Grey placed the palms of his hands together as if he was about to begin some prayer.
“We will see this messenger now brother Obedientiary. What is his name?”
“He did not give it my Lord.”
“No matter. Have him brought here…but you brother Robert, you are to return. I wish you to hear all but remain unseen.”
Brother Jerome led the soldier across the courtyard and up a spiral stairway into a large sparsely furnished anti-chamber.
“You must leave your arms here my son,” he said, holding out his hands to receive Eric’s sword. Stainsby briefly hesitated before unclasping his blade and handing it to the waiting Cistercian. “It will be quite safe,” said Brother Jerome reassuringly, as he laid the great sword on a table in the middle of the room. Eric thought of how he had come by the blade and his mind drifted back to a cold evening, a tiny chapel and a dying man who had given it freely. Stainsby was not a religious man yet still he offered up a silent prayer for the soul of John Galsworthy.
“My son…my son.”
Eric returned to the present and saw the monk inviting him to enter through a large doorway ornately carved with scenes of Christ’s passion. The room was large but, like the anti-chamber, it was sparsely furnished. The walls were panelled in timber as was the ceiling and a fire burned brightly behind a huge desk that dominated the room. Eric took all in at a glance and then focused upon the short, rotund man who seemed dwarfed by the proportions of the chamber.
“Welcome my son,” said the abbot genially. “Indeed you are most welcome,” he added, rising from behind his desk.
“My Lord,” Eric bowed low.
“Be seated my son.” Abbot Grey pointed to a stool. “Thank you Brother Jerome,” he added as the monk left the room. “I understand you bring word from my brother sir.” Eric reached into his sleeve and produced a letter that he laid upon the desk. The abbot ignored it for the moment. “And what is your name my son?” he questioned.
“Jack Corbyfield my lord. I have the honour to serve your brother the Lord Grey of Codnor as his captain of arms.”
“Indeed…well Captain Corbyfield you are most welcome. I trust you and your companion have been well looked after? Shall you take some wine while we talk?” The abbot pointed to the fine silver vessel at the edge of the desk. Stainsby rose and filled one of the silver goblets that rested on a beautiful tray of Italian design. “Excuse me my son,” said John Grey, as he reached for the letter. Breaking the seal, he began to read. Stainsby watched nervously, sipping his wine as the cleric read. “You know what is written here?” The abbot asked.
“No sir,” Eric said, without embellishment.
“No matter, it is only the pleasantries that one brother may send to another, but you are mentioned Captain Corbyfield…indeed you are. I suspect there is more to your visit…something that my brother did not want to trust to pen perhaps.” The abbot smiled winningly. Stainsby scrutinised the man who sat opposite but he could read nothing from the abbot’s expression.
“My Lord,” he said at length. “You know of course that the King lodges tonight in Doncaster?” The abbot laid both palms flat upon the desk. “So I am led to believe my son.”
“Would it surprise you sir to learn, that even as we speak, forces are being brought together to hasten his downfall?” Abbot Grey gave another knowing smile.
“I am a humble man of God, but no my son, I would not be surprised; for man’s capacity for duplicity is sadly one of his least attractive attributes.
“My Lord, your brother charges me with acquainting you of these facts which are for your private ear alone. John Neville, the Lord Montague, has marched south with several thousand men. They have given over to Warwick and intend taking the King.”
“These are weighty matters Captain and out of step with the life of a poor churchman.” The Abbot thought quickly, though no trace of this was shown on his calm countenance. So, my brother sends this lone messenger with a verbal warning for Edward, he mused. If this Yorkist King is taken then Henry will deny all knowledge of this man but if Warwick’s coup fails, it will, in no small measure, be due to the loyalty of Henry Grey. Abbott Grey smiled. “Come, how may I aid you, do you go to alert King Edward or is your commission merely to warn me?” He asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“I am to ride on to Doncaster my lord abbot, as soon as our horses are rested and fed. You have already given me what aid I need and I thank you for your hospitality but I must make all speed.” Stainsby rose and bowed. The abbot stood and made the sign of the cross as a blessing.
“Go with God Captain Corbyfield; be assured that our prayers go with you.” The ornately carved door had barely closed behind Eric Stainsby when a wood cladded panel to the side of the Abbot slid open to reveal the owl faced obedientiary who had heard all. “Well now brother Robert, we have a pretty problem.” Abbot Grey was not so ignorant of the shifting political situation as he had implied to Eric Stainsby. “Edward is finished,” he continued. “Warwick put him on the throne and by God he will pull it from under him…but we must not act in haste. We must tread carefully. If the King survives, we must be sure to keep his good will but if he should fall, then Warwick must have nothing to reproach us for. Damn my brother for sending this man here. I swear Henry has done this to vex me and now I must take a side.”
“Must you?” Brother Robert looked even more owl like as he approached his master. “Who knows what this fellow has said in private audience?”
“My brother knows!” Said the abbot with irritation. “If this man reaches Edward and warns him, Warwick may still be victorious; then it may come out that I aided him. Warwick is not a forgiving man. But if I seek to thwart him and the king prevails, perhaps I run an even greater risk.” Abbot Grey rose and paced the room. His black scapular was well tailored and around his neck he wore a heavy silver crucifix that he now kissed several times. From within his robe he produced a small but surprisingly heavy leather bag, drawn together at the top by a leather thong and this he tossed to the waiting monk. “I think it would be well if Captain Corbyfield was delayed on the road.”
As the bell called the monks of Roche to the office of Tierce, the two riders passed through the outer gate, heading north towards the town of Doncaster. There was a fine glow from the afternoon sun and the leaves, still desperately clinging to their branches, were a rich golden colour. The sun was low in the sky but the day would last until they reached the outskirts of Doncaster, thought Eric; best to reach the town at dusk.
For a mile or so, the two men kept their own council, allowing their mounts to walk at an easy pace along a wide path through open country but now the trees began to crowd in on both sides until the path was only a few yards wide. Eric felt uneasy. Travelling could be perilous at the best of times but who knew what dangers lurked these days.
“Stay watchful Alain,” he ordered, as he stared into the darkness of the canopy of trees to the right. Up ahead, the old drove road seemed to swing sharply to the right and as the horsemen reached the bend, a cart covered in canvas and seemingly heavily laden, blocked the road. One man stood by examining the wheel of the cart whilst his companion kicked the iron rim of the wheel in frustration. Eric and Alain reined in their horses some ten yards from the carters. Throughout the remainder of his life, Eric Stainsby would recall and relive the next moments over and over again. Was it a furtive look from one of the burly men by the cart? Or perhaps a sudden movement in the corner of his eye or was it just the keenness of a mind honed by battle and danger? Eric did not know. All he could remember is that something seemed wrong and he was about to warn Alain when a man rushed out from the nearby ash trees with a stout pole.
Alain, unaware of the danger, was unhorsed as the pole struck him just below the ribs. A similar attack had been made on Stainsby’s right flank but Eric’s sense of danger had given him that split second in which to avoid the pole and it passed harmlessly between his body and the pommel of his saddle. Eric could now see four other men leaping from the cart. They had remained concealed by the canvas. All carried either strong wooden cudgels or axes. Eric drew his sword and cut down on his assailant. The man howled as his collarbone caved in under the weight of the blow. The heavy sword cut deep and blood oozed from the dying man’s mouth as he collapsed. Despite the dreadful pain in his side caused by two cracked ribs, Alain gained his feet quickly, just as a heavy set man aimed an ill-timed blow with a broad headed axe. Alain felt the steel edge as it shaved passed his cheek but the cut was not deep and his own dagger, out in an instant, was driven into the man’s back with a dull thud. Alain reached for his sword but, as his hand gripped the hilt, the hunting knife struck him in the side driving between his already fractured ribs into his lung. For a moment, the young man stood staring at his assailant and then he dropped to his knees, gasping for air.
Eric Stainsby slid out of the saddle, his rage, though intense, was controlled; the product of years of training and discipline. Eric’s sword cut through the air and then bit into the crown of Alain’s attacker. The top of the man’s head came off together with a slice of his brain. The man dropped like a stone. Stainsby now stood close to his stricken comrade and faced the five remaining enemy. The plan had gone horribly wrong. It should have been an easy matter to unhorse these two and slit their throats but now two of their number were dead and another, as good as dead, lay twitching upon the ground. And here was this man, armed and obviously dangerous. The leader hesitated. Oh yes, he thought, there are still five of us and we can take him but how many of us will it cost in the taking? Eric sensed the lack of resolve as a wild animal is said to sense fear in its prey. He had little regard now for his mission and even less regard for his own life. He pulled out his dagger and with sword and knife, he advanced on the enemy.
With not a word exchanged, the attackers scattered, none wanting to feel the edge of Stainsby’s wrath or his appalling great sword. Just how long he stood there he could not say but the men did not return. He was aware of his own heartbeat. He seemed to hear the coursing of his own blood, the swaying of the grass and the gentle flap of the canvas on the cart. He fancied he could hear woodcocks prowling through the bracken and brambles, looking for worms and spiders. Over to the right was a small pond where teal fed, dabbling their bills into the water. He could hear it all. At length, the pained gasping of his friend wrenched him back to reality.
Alain lay on his side, bright frothy blood poured from his mouth with every agonized cough. Eric cradled the boy’s head, unable to do anything to help him. He sat, listening to the awful sucking sound that came from Alain’s chest, and waited for the lad to die. Eric kicked the three dead attackers to the side of the road. He took pleasure in the thought that soon these pieces of offal would provide a meal for the forest’s scavengers and carrion. He took out his dagger and savagely ripped open their stomachs, spilling their innards. It was a show of atavism that was rare in the man. The two horses had not bolted but rather they now stood together by the cart, nuzzling the canvas, in the vain hope of finding hay.
Eric took the reins of Alain’s mount and cut the straps of the saddle. With tears welling in his eyes, he led the animal back to where his friend lay and with difficulty, lifted the body onto the beast. Finally, Eric used some rope from the cart to tie Alain’s corpse to the horse. He would not leave the boy’s remains here to be defiled along with these filth. The sun hung low in a burnt, yellow, autumnal sky. It would soon be dark and Eric Stainsby hurried; his mission had regained its importance in his mind.
The town gates would not be closed until sunset. Eric passed through with all the other traffic, anxious to spend the night within the town walls. Stainsby’s companion caused many to stare but none had the temerity to challenge the grim soldier with the fierce countenance.
“You boy,” barked Eric to a dirty faced youth who loitered close to the gate. “Where might I find the House of the White Friars?” The young lad’s gaze seemed fixed on the body of Alain that now began to grow stiff with the first signs of rigour.
“Boy!” Shouted Eric … “Friars Minors, Where is it!?” The boy ran his fingers through his thick hair. His eyes fixed on the blade that hung at Eric’s waist with a strange fascination but he did not dare raise his eyes to meet those of his impatient questioner.
“ I ….I ca..can take you the…there my…. My Lord.” He stammered. This man must be a great lord surely, thought the boy, for the King himself lodges at the Friary. “Lead on boy,” said Eric kindly as he threw his guide a coin. The boy bit the metal by force of habit and then, pocketing his precious gain, he set off towards French Gate where the rivers of the Cheswold and the Don converged to form an island on which stood the Carmelite house of the White Friars. “The friary is just over the bridge my lord,” said the boy, who had somehow conquered his stammer. Eric reached into his purse.
“Thank you boy…What’s your name lad?” he added.
“Thomas, my lord,” replied the youth, with an awkward bow.
“Well then, take this Thomas,” he said, tossing a silver coin into the boy’s hand; then he turned his horse onto the bridge that led to the friary. The boy Thomas just stared into the palm of his grubby hand and whistled.
“A blessing on you my lord!” He shouted as Eric crossed the stone bridge.
I felt a little stiff when I awoke and my knee was playing up again but thankfully, it recovered quickly despite being cramped up in the car for a relatively long drive to Doncaster to drop the car before heading to Firbeck.
The morning was one of irritations: Kyle forgot his brolly and had to go back to the hotel; and then Alan who was leading was confounded by the mischievous sat nav playing silly buggers and so we had a little tour of Doncaster before he stopped and asked where the hell we were; dad had stomach pains and was trying to be strong but it was clear he was struggling.
It was understandably a late start as we headed north with Stubbings Wood and Stone Farm to the west. The mood seemed to improve almost immediately as we came within site of Roche Abbey. This abbey, now a ruin, was founded in 1147 and is a key location in our novel. For Dad and I, there was a strange elation as I know we were both thinking of Alain and Stainsby’s visit and their faux polite exchanges with the Obedientiary and the Abbot. We took some beautiful photographs here and walked on the pathway alongside the ruin.
The abbey was once the home to fifty monks and one hundred lay brothers and is well worth a visit, though much of it is now at ground level and in most cases, only the foundations are visible. Nevertheless, the soaring early Gothic transepts of this Cistercian monastery still survive to their original height and are ranked in importance with the finest early Gothic architecture in Britain. Dad, Alan and Kyle strolled on and were chatting happily but I lingered here a while, thinking of the words in our book and trying to imagine the conversations and the action. I wanted to stay for longer but after a little moment, I turned and tried to catch up with the chaps, passing under the gatehouse entrance of Roche abbey on the way.
We passed under the cover of trees for a short while with The Grove and the frightening sounding Hell Wood to the East. Considering what happened in our novel on this day, this could even be seen as a terrible portent, foreshadowing doom. I joked and reminded Alan, that as his name was almost Alain, he would have to sacrifice himself when we arrived at the location where Alain was killed by bandits. I wish I hadn’t said this now...little did I know...
The outskirts of Maltby have all the hallmarks of a rough, industrial town, with fascinating businesses like Scrimshaw and Son. There is something terribly northern about the word ‘scrim’, something scruffy, dirty and lacking class but also something honest and hard. We laughed and wondered whether a hero had ever been called Scrimshaw.
Many of the houses still seem stained with the smoke of industry and I laughed saying the houses looked like they were covered in the tears of children from the industrial revolution. The houses became smaller and grubbier as we came closer to the centre and Kyle remembered how he had used to play Maltby Miner’s Welfare boys’ football team. He used the word ‘destroyed’ and I suppose 12 or 13 v 0 is quite convincing. We took a cocky photograph of Kyle pointing at the sign of the football team before walking up the slight incline through the village passed the smashed in phone box, the burnt out van and the Miner’s Welfare building itself, which had been partially burnt down. I wondered if this was a metaphor for the loss of hopes and dreams of the mining community that had once thrived here.
Maltby is mentioned in the Domesday book in 1086 as Maltebi meaning homestead and for much of its early life it was a farming community. Coal was discovered in this area in the late nineteenth century and industrialisation became King. A train line was established in 1900 and although this line was closed in 1929, the platforms remain and the track was removed to create a footpath for walkers like us. This village has seen better times and the last coal was mined in 2013, much later than I had thought.
As we began our walk out of Maltby we passed perhaps one of the most pretty buildings in what is otherwise a run-down depressing place, called the Vintage Tea Rooms. We didn’t have time for a brew unfortunately (I would have loved one to be honest) and so we passed on by.
Once out of Maltby, we returned to fields, away from industrial housing. Here the path meandered and dad stopped us where there was a slight bend with some tree covering to our right. It was time for another reading. The exciting part. The part with all of the pathos. The sad death of Alain. Dad read it well enough with a little stutter as the wind caught hold of the paper and he lost his place. Nevertheless, it was meaningful and well written. I could imagine the moment and I remembered reading this part of the book to Kyle when he was just a small boy. I was amazed that he remembered it too.
I walked on around the corner feeling the ghosts of characters we had invented. How odd. We walked along Top Lane track and over a bridge where we were fascinated by the view of the Holme Hall limestone quarries. It is some site to watch men smashing through rock and carving great holes in the landscape.
It was perhaps three miles of walking between the quarry and the river Don and we passed through some beautiful scenery particularly around Edlington Wood. At one point we realised we had entered private property and were walking passed showjumping courses. It was a long way back and we decided to climb over a fence into someone’s garden. The house was stunning, and enormous and the garden too long to go unnoticed. We strode like Olympic walkers, full of embarrassment and were almost at the main entrance gate to the property, when we heard a woman calling out,
“Can I help you?” I turned and said
“Yes”.
I explained that we were lost and were very sorry to have entered her property. In great contrast to the chap we had met a couple of days before in the wood, she was helpful, down to earth and actually very funny. We were all immediately put at ease. I get the impression that she met a lot of walkers this way and there was certainly no obvious way of avoiding the property. With some advice that thankfully agreed with my dad’s maps we said our farewells and walked out of the dramatic gates into the wood and along the road and the gradual decline to the main road. “Watch out for my husband!” she called after us as if she was a character from “The League of Gentleman”. She must have saw us physically start as she soon followed this with, “Oh no, he’s fine”, as if she realised she’d made him sound like a scary man with a shotgun or some cannibalistic lunatic stalking the woods. “He’s just on his way home and he drives like a madman when I’m not in the car’. She laughed naturally; we laughed with relief and mild hysteria: drives like a madman but isn’t actually a madman. Phew!
Dad had planned that we walk along the river Don and though we don’t say this in the novel, it seems like the obvious flat route he would have taken and it was certainly more beautiful and so after crossing the motorway, we found ourselves walking along the river. Kyle was struggling with multiple injuries and was hobbling, and though he hadn’t used the brolly he had raced back for, it now came in handy as a sort of makeshift walking stick. We passed through many fields here and some old railway bridges and there were several photo opportunities. There was a little fear when we arrived at a stile saying ‘Do not enter. Bull in field”. It was a public footpath so seemed an odd thing to say but a bull is a bull!
We entered...of course we did.
We didn’t see much evidence of a bull but there were quite a few cows and some on the main pathway. Kyle was very nervous and we were all aware of the danger- cows kill more humans than any other animal in the United Kingdom by the way! We circumnavigated them, walking closer to the river edge and trying to ignore their sinister stares. This part of the walk, rather like when we had been at the crags was perhaps not as pleasant as it should have been.
At the crags we had been tired and the weather wasn’t great, at least on day two but here, where all seemed fine was where I received a call from Georgia, saying that they had not accepted me as a guarantor for her new house. I was immediately thrown back into my other life, taken from the serenity of the banks of the Don and back to reality. Dad was also talking on the phone to mum and trying to sort a few domestic issues. Whilst all of this was going on, Kyle’s leg was worsening and he was a third of a mile back and so we periodically had to stop and wait for him to catch up. There was a sense that we all wanted and in Kyle’s case needed to reach the end of the walk soon.
As we reached the areas around Friars Minors in the book, we left the river and were within a few minutes of our car with just the site of Doncaster Minster to enjoy. The original church was built in the 12th century but Stainsby (if he had ever lived) would have seen an entirely different building as the Norman church was burnt down in 1853. The new minster, Doncaster’s most important architectural building has grade 1 listed status and is spectacular. We were a bit deflated at the end of the walk and the joy of what we had done and even achieved didn’t really sink in until we were back in dad’s garden drinking Straffe Hendrick (Alan’s favourite behaviour) and eating curry. We had taken Kyle home after picking up the other car from Firbeck and dad was definitely ready for the beers after the longish drive. It was a walk we had talked about for a few years and we had done it; completed it, walked in the shadow of the best character dad and I had ever created. And now, as I finish this blog, I realise that this will be the last trip that the four of us will ever take together and my eyes well up...
The most enduring image of the first evening of this trip is of Rachel crossing the railway line at the station to catch the night train. Everything within me screamed, ‘DO NOT CROSS THE RAIL LINE’- and therein lies the power of education and indoctrination. Don’t get me wrong- I do not think that crossing a rail line is a generally sensible pastime but here at the South Station of Tashkent- it is normal and safe, as there aren’t any other trains. It is quite simply the only way to get to the train. It is bizarre how it makes you feel, when you break the rule of your childhood brainwashing: there were clearly no trains and I am pretty sure that it is unlikely that a train will suddenly appear magically from another dimension, unless you are in the film ‘Back to the Future 3’, and yet, I felt nervous watching Rachel crossing. When I crossed the line myself, it was as if I was stepping on to hot coals or that a game of ‘stepping on larva’, that you play as a child, had begun.
What was reassuring was that no-one had told us we were on the wrong train or had the wrong tickets, as we heaved our three bags up the steps and entered the innards of the giant snake. I began to think of the APA I had in my bag and how I was going to hide it from the guards so that I could have a refreshing snifter before the thirteen hour slither to Khiva. I was relieved to find that not only did we have beds that were on ground level but that there was a small party of chaps at the end of train who were clearly already very merry on vodka and so, this was one of those trains where it was fine. There is no consistency in Uzbekistan: I have been told it is absolutely illegal to drink alcohol on the train; I have been sold alcohol legally and illegally on other trains and I have also been helped by a guard to uncork a bottle of wine before another guard told me I couldn’t drink it. Go figure! However, this was clearly a more relaxed situation and Rach and I consumed our beer blatantly and without any issue whatsoever. It was lovely.
Rachel will tell you all a story- a modern Aesop’s fable, if you will- a tale of the ‘Walrus and the Prince’. There is unfortunately, no apparent moral from this particular tale but a contrast of culture between the ages. The Walrus- middle aged- on ground floor level, stomach hanging loosely over the lip of his makeshift bed- a bed, he certainly made for himself and the Prince: slim, young, possibly attractive (certainly more so than the walrus) refusing to even look at his raised dais until an attendant, a serf, way beneath the Prince’s station in life, had made his bed so that a man of such renown might consider lying upon it. As I said, there is no moral; only a social observation.
I enjoy sleeping on the night train- the rumble of the wheels on the tracks and the occasional jolt is oddly comforting to me and I think Rach enjoys it too. This time was no different, except for the irritating interruptions. Typically, and within minutes I was fast asleep- and I’m sure the APA helped- yet just as I was floating on a cloud of peace and serenity, the giant serpent came to a halt and many new travellers boarded. Did they enter quietly; respectfully aware that other passengers would be fast asleep? Of course they didn’t. Pulling the pillow over my ears, I blocked out the initial interruption and all seemed to settle until stop two. Did they realise – it was gone midnight now- that folk might be happily in ‘Gaga’ land, having counted innumerable sheep? No- of course they didn’t. Why would they? Stop number three- see stops one and two- and just add an ounce of frustration and two ounces of volume.
Eventually, we settled to longer term sleep...and then the madness began: snoring of all dynamics, timbre and style- a cacophony; an avant-garde symphony of moans, groans, rasps and grunts in full surround sound. In the brief gaps between the noise, the ethereal high pitch whimper snores of a young gentleman in the bed above mine- rose angelic above the full tutti onslaught of raw guttural animalism. One chap, in particular, sounded as though he died, at least twice during the night and I was relieved to see him breathing in the morning. Strangely, both Rach and I found the whole situation amusing and Rach, in particular, kept giggling like a small child. Like all great travellers, I merged beautifully with the culture and apparently added my own sounds to the chorus. No doubt Rach did as well, though I can’t vouch for it, as I was wrapped in the embrace of oblivion.
You know, when you pretend to still be asleep and almost convince yourself you are or could be again; a sort of refusal to accept reality or day time? That was me after the night excursion into McCartney’s Frog Chorus. Though weary I was also in dire need of the toilet and after a slow rise to the vertical position, I spent some time discussing with Rachel whether I should visit the little boys’ room. Having awarded the epithet ‘Ironbladder’ to myself, I was hoping to see the whole thirteen hour journey through without a visit and Rachel’s description of the toilet had done nothing to make me want to rush.
Eventually, with nothing but the desert land of the Kyzyl Kum outside the window and certainly no indication of life other than the occasional bird, I wandered up the train to the loo. I strolled past one of the staff and gave him an awkward nod before trying the toilet door; it was locked. Maybe I was doomed to force myself to earn my title after all but about ten minutes later, I tried again- this time the door opened on to an elderly woman half off the toilet seat, trying desperately to redeem some dignity by closing the door. Apparently the lock was broken. I waited further down the train feeling as embarrassed as the poor lady did, no doubt. When I finally made it to the toilet, I saw the problem immediately- the door handle being only reachable from the toilet seat, if you happened to be Mr Tickle. Additionally, the seat itself was somehow covered in urine- possibly from several different individuals, and I can only imagine the woman who proceeded me must have crouched and hung above the seat. I have been in much worse toilets in Uzbekistan- this was mid range but out of laziness and partly because I didn’t want to face a similar problem to the one the previous unfortunate lady had faced, I weed in the sink, whilst holding the door. Now, there will be some who judge this and that is your right but it happened! There! I cleaned it afterwards with soap and in all fairness, the sink was probably even more disease ridden than the toilet, so morally, I feel justified. I think the sink was cleaner when I left it than when I arrived, by the way.
Feeling relieved and empty (though not emotionally) I spent the last hour or so looking out of the window and Rach drifted between sleep and wake for a while, whilst the Prince, who had not tidied his bed, (obviously) stared out of the same window, seemingly hypnotised by something and Rach mused that he might be preparing for a ‘Staring Competition’ and that he was good enough to take on Spasky (you won’t get that unless you are a Big Train fan). Ignoring him, as best as I could, I took in the sights and the sites outside, as we slid through small villages. These places are in a strange state of dereliction and incompletion. It is as if places rot away whilst others are aborted before birth. There are endless houses without roofs or with windows of polythene and yet some houses are complete but with rusting railings, and doors hanging off. The landscape is a mixture of desert, farmland, fed by irrigation channels and piles of bricks and rocks. Hay is stored on top of completed roofs and children run around in small gangs playing games. One image captivated: a boy left his groups of friends as the train rattled noisily through, to wave energetically. I waved back. I don’t think he saw me and the moment was gone.
It was a relief to put feet on the Earth again but the train journey had been another experience to add to the memory bank. It was easy to find Murod, our driver and guide, as he had our name written on a piece of paper that he held high above his head. Murod had a huge smile and took our bags immediately. He was super helpful and we felt reassured that this was going to be an excellent and safe trip.
The drive to our accommodation took longer than you would think as it was only a stone’s throw from the airport. Unfortunately, as we were on the south side, we had to drive around the city to find the entrance to the Khiva Tosh Darvoza, which is situated inside the walls of the historic Ichan Kala and from our room we could see the Islam Khodja minaret. I haven’t written about these wonderful places in a previous blog and so I won’t bore people with the history twice.
The room was small but certainly enough for us and for only 50 dollars for two nights, quite a bargain. Khiva is a living museum, somehow unchanged for five hundred years and it is wonderful to stroll through the historic streets, observing the architecture, the museums and the stalls that sell hats, magnets, mugs and other touristy paraphernalia. The sellers were not as pushy as they are in some parts of the world and Rach and I were able to take photographs of the mosques, the medressahs and the minarets relatively unchecked by any excitable local merchant. We were asked at the ticket office (where you can get a 2 day pass to every museum in the city) whether we wanted a guide but we didn’t. He was startled when we said we would pay by card for the tickets.
“Only local cards here”, he offered as Rach pulled out her Uzcard.
The beauty of living in the country you are visiting.
When strolling around the city you have to become accustomed to extensive and regular staring and people wanting selfies- though there were less selfies this year. I, as a bit of an exhibitionist never help these situations, calling out ‘Hello’ warmly at some of the starers and wearing shorts in what was windy weather, especially for Uzbekistan. Uzbek men only wear shorts for sport and so you are seen as completely ‘doolally’, if you bare your legs in public. On top of that, they seemed a little cold- it wasn’t- the sun was out! One woman called out,
” Are you not cold?”
“Zharka”, I replied.
‘Hot’, for the virgin russian speakers.
“Nyet Zharka”, she said, laughing.
We interrupted our sightseeing with a much needed beer at the Cafe Terazza rooftop restaurant that I had once been to with my mum and dad. They served Qibray, unfortunately, but it was a beer and the sun was still warm enough to sit outside. The cafe was very busy and they told us that there was no way we’d be getting food. Fortunately, we didn’t want any.
We left Cafe Terazza, in search of the Natural History museum which I wrote about a couple of years ago. A quick refresher: the museum where fruit and vegetables were artefacts, alongside criminally poor taxidermy and conjoined twins in a jar. OK. That’s enough for now. Hopefully, you can see why I wanted Rach to see it. You may also begin to understand the terrible disappointment when we arrived and found they had totally changed it from the ‘Best, worst museum’ in the world to an irrelevant one: pictures of bearded Uzbek musicians and four or five random instruments. I was gutted.
We headed back to the digs and rested before I headed out alone for a few more photographs. It was here that I was stared at by about forty women who seemed to have arrived on a coach together. I had mixed feelings when I saw these women- each one looked identical- the same long flowery Uzbek clothing, the head dress and, in truth, almost all with the same portly middle-aged figures. In some ways, I loved the sense of unity and pride and tradition. In other ways, I bemoaned the lack of individuality, and the idea that these women would know nothing else in the world. I am simplifying the whole thing as I know very little about them but they were thoughts that crossed my brain as I watched them and they watched me. I wonder what they thought of me?
In the evening, Rach and I headed out to Cafe Zarafshon. I had been here with my parents before and they do salads that are palatable- ours were mixed in quality this time and they do love garlic- a little too much. I enjoyed the gumma, a traditional dish and the local wine was pleasant enough. The waiters were hilarious- three likely lads- one, the pretty boy, distinctly similar to the Prince, from the train; two, the active one, moving with purposeful pointlessness and three- the nerdy looking guy who has no idea what he is doing or where he is. Wherever pretty boy scurried or bumbled, the other two followed and I thought, at one point; that the Benny Hill music would start. Thankfully, the only music arrived via an Uzbek group who entered the restaurant and played some wonderful music and danced with gusto. At one point, Rach and I were beckoned up to join them and we had a lot of fun dancing together. During the evening, a school party arrived of around thirty students. These youngsters did their teachers proud- superbly well behaved without seeming controlled. Many of them also joined in with the dance too. A great night of frivolities and fun was had before we wandered our way back to the digs.
The next morning didn’t start too well. Rachel wasn’t feeling great and couldn’t manage much breakfast. She had a go and then scurried sensibly off upstairs to rest. I was left to chat with the owner who flicked the TV over to an orchestra playing something probably from the romantic period but I couldn’t tell you the composer. We chatted about how the young generation in the United Kingdom were less likely to like orchestral music but that I did, before we briefly touched upon the frivolities and the music of the previous evening in cafe Zarafshon. He seemed delighted that I liked the local music and then told me how he didn’t like any pop or rock music. He played his favourite music to me, which was mystical and ethereal- the typical Islamic chant that you would hear during the call to prayer. It is always beautiful. He explained that it was the Koran and I asked if the Koran had all been set to music. He said it had and I was surprised, as I can’t imagine the entire bible through song or set to music. Maybe it would be more appealing if it was- though ‘Bible: The Musical’ might raise a few eyebrows.I'm a paragraph.
Murod picked us up at nine and we drove to Urgench- not aesthetically pleasing but more on that story later. Here, we picked up Olimjon. He was a chirpy fellow and had come equipped with plenty of snacks for the journey. Like Murod, he spoke good English and was full of historical and geographical information about the area. The day trip was 240 kilometres through Khorezem and parts of Karakalpakstan. As we drove I could not help but notice that the area had the feel of the wild west and all those films with Clint Eastwood- deserted landscapes of dust and sand with small, hastily constructed houses and villages and tumbleweed blowing across the street (I never saw tumbleweed but you know what I mean). The day was mild but warmer than it had been as the area of Khorezem became less and less populated and tried to live up to the meaning of its name ‘Sunny land’ (so Olimjon informed me).
The first fortress we arrived at was Kizzl Khala or The Red fortress, named such as when the sun sets the bricks take on a shade of red, apparently. This fortress has been slightly restored and you can get an idea of what it once looked like when the mud walls were flat and not at all decayed. That said, there is enough, as you climb the stairs to the top, to give you the wow factor of seeing something very old indeed. The foundations are thought to have been laid in the 4th century BC. It is hard to delineate what everything is at the top but there is evidence of rooms and some underground sections. The views across the Karakalpak desert are impressive and at first, it seems odd that anyone would build a fortress here in the middle of nowhere but Olimjon explained that this area was once thriving as a community and that the river was nearer to the fortress than it is now. It was quite windy on the top and I gave my hoody to Rach so she was ‘double hoodied’ whilst we grabbed a few essential photographs to document the occasion.
After a nervy walk down the precarious stairs to ground level we jumped in the motor and headed out to fortress two, Toprak Kala, meaning ‘Mud Fortress’, though they all have that vibe going on. This is the second largest of the fortresses and was an ancient palace city and the capital of Choriasmia in the 2nd/3rd century AD. This place was less formidable from the outside but once we climbed to the top it was far more impressive with mud covered brick foundations, showing the distinct lines of the rooms of the ancient palace. Like Kizzl Kul, there has been a little restoration to the walls but this time, it was less charming as it wasn’t the outer facades but the foundation walls of the inner rooms. This looks incongruent and some charm was lost. However, I made my way up to the highest point, walking on the walls of the ancient rooms and the drops becoming more and more frightening as we rose. Rachel, rightly hung back, with a wry smile on her face, sensibly protecting herself from any further injuries. Gingerly, I made my way back down and before we knew it, we were back in the car heading for- Ayaz Kala, or ‘Fortress Downwind’.
As you approach this dramatic construction it is hard to not feel like you are on the set of a movie or in ‘Game of Thrones’. There are actually a row of three fortresses although we could only see two from where we were. The main fortress, on the top of the rock looks down upon a smaller fortress that once provided food and nourishment for the upper castle. Ayaz Kala dates back to end of the 4th or beginning of the 3rd century BC. Ayaz Kala was part of a chain of fortresses protecting the agricultural settlements from attacks by nomads. The fortress is situated on the top of a hill, approximately 100 metres high. I was so proud of Rachel as we strolled across the sand to the fortress and undertook the not insignificant climb to the top. I gave her some gentle encouragement and could certainly see the fear in her eyes, but she took a big breath in and with some support from Olimjon (a true gentleman) and myself, she achieved the summit.
This is certainly the most impressive of the fortresses, not just because of its size but you can walk on some of the walls and marvel at one of the original shallow arches. It is also incredible to see how far the outer walls reach out to – far, far into the distance and you can imagine armies training on the dry Earth. However, the view down the hill to the smaller fortress makes you feel like you have been transported back in time and the image is beautifully romantic. The interior of the main fortress made me imagine the surface of Mars: orangey-red, arid sand.
Before heading off to the last two ‘smaller fortresses’ of the excursion, Rachel visited the toilet at a yurt camp that stands across the road at the base of the fortress. There was a golden toothed old lady sitting on a wall taking money for the toilet. She was very funny, laughed an awful lot and chatted happily with Olimjon- she told him a story, which he translated, of when a full tourist coach arrived and they all wanted the toilet. There is only one! So, they all queued up behind each other and took it in turn. It was a comical image. Fortunately for Rachel, it was only her who needed the loo and so we were journeying back in no time. We drove for some time, passing through countryside and many fields full of water like paddy fields. Other fields were clearly dry and bare although Murod explained that in three weeks time this area would be blooming with grass and crops and would look completely different. The two fortresses on the way back were less impressive but pleasant enough but it was quite late and we were keen to get back, so after very brief stops for photographs we ‘smashed’ through the miles and arrived back at our digs in Khiva.
We headed back to Zarafshon for wine. The school party was there again and despite some minor remonstrations from one of their teachers, about some overly excitable antics, they were superbly well behaved. I mused with Rachel about how sensitive some adults can be to groups of children. If you sat twenty adults around a table and asked them to eat together, there would be laughter, jokes, loud voices, farting probably and general frivolity, especially if they worked together and yet if children do this they are somehow seen as dangerous hooligans misbehaving. I guess it is a perk of getting old that you get told off less. That said, these youngsters seemed to have a lovely relationship with their teachers and everyone had a great night out. I ate some lovely pumpkin soup and we bought another bottle of wine to take home with us.
It had been a busy day but we needed to rest in preparation for our 6 o’clock start in the morning and our huge drive to the Aral sea.
We were a little bleary eyed the next morning but excited nonetheless as we took a small bag of fruit from the owner and stood in the cool morning air waiting for Murod to pick us up. He was late! Only fifteen minutes or so but it was cold so we crept back into the hotel and stood inside watching for his car on the CCTV screens. Murod arrives exceptionally apologetic but there was really no need and before long we were on stage 1 of the three parts of our journey to the Aral sea. The first part was a three hour drive to Nukus and the time passed quickly enough as we drifted in and out of sleep, stopping of course to pick Olimjon up in Urgench, once more. We stopped at a petrol station (or gas, as Murod called it) and were able to take a toilet break. As is often the case in Uzbekistan, the toilet was locked and when we asked a local, they pointed in the direction of what I can only describe as a portable loo. However, it was not for the faint hearted. It’s reddish outer exterior suggested the gates to hell and the stench that emanated from it was almost bad enough to make a human being gag. Laughably, the door was not just broken but lying on the floor and so you could use the toilet but everyone would be able to see you do so. Rachel was a trooper once more and she didn’t let this stop her doing what was necessary. I too, held my breath and had a little piddle.
Whilst here, I mused with Rachel about the mess, the plastic bottles and litter that lay everywhere around. This is the case in most low populated areas in the countryside here in Karakalpakstan. Like the UK and other countries in the world, I assume that when areas aren’t pleasant, there is no incentive to maintain or ensure things look good. I always wonder about personal responsibility in these situations; or attitude. There is considerable poverty in these communities and I doubt that the government provides much money to support these folk or maintain what they have. However, I did wonder whether this was an easy excuse. There were approximately three clear businesses here and I imagined a world where these folk communicated together, spent one morning clearing the rubbish and emptying the bins. This wouldn’t cost anything and if this was followed up with some pieces of wood with signs written on it, saying- ‘No Litter’, whether there might be some improvement. I’m not naive. I know people ignore signs but some don’t and ‘slowly slowly catchy monkey’. I guess for change to happen, people need to take care of what they have and hope that expectations change. The toilet door for instance had probably been lying on the floor for weeks (though I cannot confirm that) and I am pretty sure I could have fixed it very quickly indeed with a couple of screws.
The rest of the drive to Nukus was interesting as we were able to enjoy the sights out of the window and a few snacks given to us generously by Olimjon. I am always fascinated in Uzbekistan when I see rows of houses all painted exactly the same colour and all shaped identically perhaps representing the soviet style uniformity of previous times. A couple of mavericks had painted there house a different shade of orange- it might have been yellow. That said, I suppose the terrace rows of the United Kingdom are exactly the same and it might simply be about ease and money. The difference is that these houses were in the countryside where you might expect more individuality to blossom.
Once we arrived in Nukus, we looked for a cash machine as it might be the last place that we could find any cash. Olimjon also said that we would soon be losing the internet so Payme (an app that we use here to exchange money and payment) would be inaccessible. The search for a cash machine was not an easy one and even some of the locals who we asked for help looked baffled. We drove down the high street for many kilometres searching for a bank and then a bank that had a cashpoint. This reminded me of Tashkent three years ago. Eventually, an eagle eyed Olimjon spotted one and we were able to withdraw the cash we needed to pay for the trip.
Part two of the monster long journey began- the trek to Moynaq (once a port on the Aral sea). This took just over three and a half hours and was perhaps the most boring leg of the journey as we travelled through seemingly endless field. The roads themselves were pretty poor and Murod was an incredible driver, pirouetting and dancing around the potholes with great skills. Sometimes, the crunch of metal on road was unavoidable and once or twice I felt that my pelvis might have snapped. I have no idea how Rachel but she seemed to enjoy it and chatted happily with Murod about how he was able to drive with such skill.
“I am used to it”, was his reasoning.
Moynaq itself is a curious place and it is clear that the government have been putting money into restoring the area. In the first part of the city, there is a cleanliness rarely seen here in Uzbekistan- with buildings wearing a fresh gloss of paint and signs communicating their messages with a smile. There was a feeling of Milton Keynes about it- modern but a bit fake. For years Moynaq has been underfunded and left to rot as their trade and businesses faded and collapsed with the withdrawal of the Aral Sea. Fisherman in particular lost everything. Yet now, tourism seems to be the new business and the government clearly recognise this.
That said, as you drive through the main part of the town and reach the outskirts, on the way to what is left of the Aral sea, you see the other side of Moynaq- highly industrial, dirty, dusty and poverty stricken with people living in beaten up old houses that sit on dirt tracks. Before we reached the least appealing areas we stopped at a gated property with enclosed walls at the house of the guy who owned one of the few 4x4s in Moynaq. His property had a small amount of land and Olimjon explained that this was a guesthouse and that the owner’s mother was one of the most respected people in the city, a charitable and wonderfully altruistic woman keen to improve the lot of the people. Inside the house, there was a picture of her on the wall shaking hands with the president. We didn’t meet her at this moment but we had the honour on the return journey.
This welcoming family invited us in for dinner of fried fish, salads, bread and some stuffed peppers. The fish was delicious and moist though a little oily and full of bones. Like the Indians, everyone ate with their hands and we sat on the floor at a table with a cushion each. I was worried about Rachel’s hip and back but she coped well and had a good go at the food too, despite the bones being a problem for her. The oddest food was the sumalak (a traditional thin paste- of yoghurt consistency), made from wheat. We were visited during our lunch by a small boy perhaps two or three who crawled across the carpet towards us like something from a horror film. He was clearly intrigued by us but it was disconcerting to see him holding fork and a spoon out in front of him as if they were weapons. We left during his slow crawl towards us and jumped in the 4x4 ready for the third phase of our journey to the sea.
This part was supposed to take between 3 and 4 hours but actually took 4 and a half, in the end. The first part of the journey saw the houses and the town landscape slowly fade away as we entered the desert proper. Initially, this was disappointing as it was more like a building site or at least working site with lorries and work trucks all over the sand apparently working on re-irrigating certain sections. We had visions of bounding across the dunes but there was a straight, albeit, bobbly road for many miles. Eventually, the number of people, and trucks reduced until there was just us and the very occasional 4x4 that passed us, coming back from the sea. It was this section that was the most challenging as there had been a lot of rain and the ground that had once been the sea bed was sodden and muddy. Our driver was superb, only losing control once or twice but saving it on both occasions, even when the back end swung around. It was amazing if a little scary as we jumped around in the back like a cork bobbling on a stormy sea. Ironic as we were actually driving where the sea had once been.
At times, I wondered if we might get stuck, here where there was no phone signal or internet, but after what seemed like an age, we could see cliffs in the distance, which we were told had once been the shoreline. They reminded me of the famous white cliffs of Dover in the distance. Once we made the ‘shoreline, we headed up the precarious rocky pathway to the top of the cliff. It was very comical as we were still bouncing around a lot and I hit my head on the roof of the car several times. Once at the top, we drove along the old shoreline, looking out across Ustyurt canyon, where we also stopped for a while to take some startling photographs. It made me think of the Grand Canyon with its rocky landscape and deep valleys. This plateau was beautiful and one of the highlights of the journey. Apparently cheetahs used to live here but there was no-one but us on this occasion: a 4x4, the four of us standing in awe, five hundred feet above the bottom of what was once the Aral sea.
The road down to what remains of the Aral sea was a murky yellow colour and twisted and meandered for what seemed like an age. It was like we were suddenly extras in The Wizard of Oz. We had been travelling for a long long time and the last part of the journey as is so often the case, seemed the longest but at least the driving was easier along the headland. Rachel commented that when you looked out of the window it was as if the sea was still there- with the horizon and sky playing tricks with your mind and creating a mirage.
As we approach out yurt for the night, which stood on the beach of the remaining part of the Aral sea, we drove passed a ‘posh yurt camp’ on the edge of the cliff with outstanding views. Murod explained that we were supposed to be staying there but when he called, they said they had forgotten about us and unfortunately had taken a booking for a larger party. He quickly followed this with words of experience and resignation, “They didn’t forget of course,” he said, “ they just cancelled without telling us because they will get more money from the bigger group”.
The yurt we were staying in had not been cleaned since before Covid and there was a feeling of the Mary Celeste about it, with a raised platform in front of the two beds inside, covered in half eaten food. There were clothes, beds sheets, and a variety of other objects and possessions lying all over the place and hanging up from hooks. Olimjon and Murod were embarrassed but we didn’t mind at all. I took a stroll down to the sea whilst they cleaned the inside a little for us and Rach kept warm in the 4x4. I had had enough of the vehicle.
It is hard to walk along the beach: the closer you get to the sea, the deeper you sink into the sand and so I gave up and returned. It was a tadge cold with the wind getting up a little but I was refreshed and took a few moments to look down the beach at the many other yurts owned by the workers and nomads who came here to collect insects that they sold to the Chinese apparently. I cannot recall exactly what this was all about but it was certainly very busy and a little disappointing as I had a vision of this moment feeling quiet and isolated. I had visions of the film Mad Max- as men in apocalyptic post modern fashions sped down along the sands in motorbikes. I have often commented how strange it is that you rarely see a motorbike in Uzbekistan. Now I know why. They are all on the shore of the Aral sea.
The chaps did a great job tidying the yurt and before long we had a made a fire indoors and out. Unfortunately the indoor fire needed to be extinguished before bed time as the vent was working too well and we had stories of carbon monoxide poisoning in our mind. However, the chaps had dug a lovely pit outside the yurt where they made a perfect fire for a barbecue- of course with the typical shashlylk but Rach made a great salad and I showed the chaps how to make chocolate bananas which they found fascinating.
Fire is always a wonder. We sat together, ate, chatted and looked into the burning embers sometimes hypnotised by the burning coals as the night crept slowly in. The chaps made their excuses and left for a friend’s yurt about a quarter of a mile down the beach (I wonder if it was as rough as ours)? They said it was worse. Hmmm.
Rach and I enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine and settled down on to the hard beds for a sleep. I awoke halfway through the night, feeling very cold and so I put on Olimjon’s coat, which he had generously leant to me the night before. Whilst slowly warming up and wrapping the limited covers around my frame, I noticed some movement on the wall of the yurt and turning my head I came face to face with a mouse. I was a little shocked but I didn’t move and contemplated whether I should tell Rachel, who was fast asleep. I decided this was a terrible idea and watched as the mouse walked along the inner wooden beams of the yurt and dropped to the floor to scurry away. I found it difficult to keep my eyes closed for a while, as I endeavoured to eradicate the thought of the mouse crawling on my face, from my cruel brain but it wasn’t long before fatigue seized hold and I slept happily through the night.
We decided we wouldn’t bother with breakfast as we had missed the sunrise I’d hoped to capture on camera and we knew how long the journey back was. After the driver cleaned up the 4x4, we headed off on the four hour journey back. It was slightly easier this time, despite the rain in the night but our talented driver took some ‘great lines’ and drove with real aplomb. I think he enjoyed it.
At one point I was disappointed to see him wind the window down and throw his empty plastic bottle on to the bed of the old Aral sea- somehow it seemed very disrespectful and certainly not good for the environment.
Not long after leaving we visited some small grave sites with ancient rune-like and apparently unknown lettering on them. Olimjon says that there is very little, almost nothing, known about the people that built these sites and the language is unknown- the suggestion is that it was a very old civilisation indeed. The rest of the journey was by its very nature, similar to the trip out, although we did see a herd of wild camels for the first time in our lives.
We were relieved to arrive back in Moynaq, where we finally met the grand lady of the house and what a chatty, friendly and dignified woman she was. Rachel and I really liked her. She plied us with some wonderful green tea, delicious snacks and asked Rachel how she had coped with the bumpy ride- and she didn’t know about Rachel’s dodgy hip and back!
Minutes after leaving, we arrived at the ships’ cemetery. This place was somewhere Rachel had wanted to see for a very long time and so I felt a great sense of satisfaction that we had finally achieved the goal of visiting this eerie place.
As aforementioned, Moynaq was once a thriving port and as the Aral sea provided 13 percent of the Soviet Union’s fish, it was also a veritable goldmine for the hard working fishing businesses. When that same Soviet Union pushed for the most successful cotton industry in the world, it re-routed the rivers to irrigate the desert and these same fisherman watched as the sea disappeared out of view, leaving ships sitting forlornly on the sea bed: great hulks; rusty carcasses from a previous time.
I was slightly upset that they had obviously collected several of them and moved them to stand next to each other, as it felt more romantic to me to leave them where they had ‘died’ but Olimjon explained that we would have had to do a lot more walking if they had! Fair point I suppose. Fortunately, they had left a few ships further out and we were able to walk out to them and see them more naturally. These beasts were obviously well built and despite the rust, they possess a sturdy power that will last many years longer, despite the crushing attack form the varied elements of water, wind, bitter cold and searing heat. I was even more impressed by the hulls of one or two of the wooden ships; I think some of those might out last the metal ones. Despite their laudable determination and resilience, these ships had some signs of damage with huge holes being present in the sides of some of the larger vessels, as if they had been hit in some naval battle but it was actually just a result of ‘wear and tear’.
What troubled Rach and I more was the graffiti that covered many of the ships. It was wrong, as far as I was concerned. If I’m honest, I have never understood the psychology behind graffiti anyway (I don’t mean fine art like Banksy or something). I suppose people want to illustrate their existence; to show the world; to achieve some sort of immortality, even if in some small and pathetic way. To me, it is as desperate as putting every meal you cook on social media- notoriety will never be achieved this way- if that is indeed what these people crave.
I digress...
Rachel and I felt a certain solemnity here and the ‘ships’ graveyard’ is certainly an accurate title for this historical relic. We took some wonderful photographs and even climbed up on to some of the ships- though they didn’t feel too safe. You’d never be able to climb these if they were in England. Maybe that’s disrespectful too; I don’t know, but we came down soon enough, not out of any duty to be correct but because we feared the floor might cave in at any time. Fortunately, other than Rachel slipping on the bottom rung of the ladder and taking another little tumble, we had no accidents and were soon walking safely on the sand, picking shells off the ground as we strolled- strange indeed so many miles from the seashore!
We stopped briefly at the museum which is small and simple and not particularly inspiring but the video they play (despite being too long and very old) is interesting and put the history of the place into appropriate context.
After our visit to the museum we drove on to Nukus which took four hours, though felt like eight. The inside of a car was becoming a pretty tedious place to be. We arrived just outside of Nukus as the sun was going down and the two chaps stopped at the Mizdakhan Necropolis. Rachel was tired (me too) but she was keen to get to our hotel and we were certainly a little hungry, and so I explained that we wanted to ‘push on’ through to Nukus.
Ilomjon looked heartbroken. I think he had a vision of us watching the sun go down over the necropolis so more out of guilt than anything else, I said I’d have a quick look whilst Rach waited in the car. I am so glad I did.
The necropolis is far more vast than I ever thought it would be and when we reached the top of the hill, I fully expected it to be the end and yet this was just the beginning. Mizdakhan is still an active place of worship where people come to pray or bury their dead. Among the newer graves are hundreds of ruins of ancient tombs. Archaeologists would love this place and there is a feel of serenity and peace. It was sad that I had to end this visit early but with my guilt assuaged a little, we returned to the car and drove the last thirty or so minutes to our hotel in Nukus.
This place was excellent: a typical high rise hotel but first class compared to many that you might stay at in Uzbekistan. Our room was palatial and the chaps helped us to almost the top floor with our bags. The bed was the most comfortable bed I have slept on in Uzbekistan and we had a lounge area and a huge bathroom. From the balcony, you could see the river and the lights as the evening drew in. However, I had very little time to take in the view as we were extremely hungry and to be honest, I was ‘hangry’.
There was some sort of room service but we fancied a walk out and so searched for a bar and found a delightful looking place called cafe Neo. My expectations weren’t high but I was pleased that although the standard Uzbek fayre was present, there were a few (albeit simple alternatives such as chicken and chips- I knew Rachel would like that). More exciting than that was that they served Chateau Hamkor wine- exactly the same delicious ‘grape’ juice that we had gulped on our wine sampling trip (see my weekly diary blog). It was delightful and we even took a second bottle home with us at the end of the meal.
Whilst there, we chatted happily and enjoyed the wonderful attention of a very professional and polite waitress. Coincidentally, a group of teachers from the Tashkent International school (or the American school, as we call it) were there. I wandered over for a little chat just before we left, principally because they were members of our major rivals from quiz nights on Wednesday. After a short chinwag we headed back to the hotel and slept.
It was a rougher night than I expected as my snoring kept Rachel awake and when I visited the toilet in the night, I saw her on the floor in the lounge area curled up. It was unacceptable, so after a brief argument, I sent her back to bed and I slept on the floor. It was not pleasant, especially as the bed was so comfortable. I feel a bit sorry for Rach, on reflection, as I was terribly melodramatic about it all.
Breakfast in the hotel was a little odd, but there was an attempt to be more ‘typically’ hotel like. For instance, there was a buffet type spread put out, although it almost entirely consisted of cakes and there were no plates- just saucers. We went with the flow as always- saucers it was! Later, quite a while later; a lady took an order from us of eggs and so a proper plate finally arrived. The coffee was instant but not too bad.
We met the chaps at 10 o’clock and visited the Savitsky Art museum, one of the most celebrated museums in the old soviet union. It contains the second largest collection of Russian avant garde paintings in the world after the museum in St Petersburg. This place was mesmerising. I am not a painter or even an art fan but I was startled by the diversity of work and creativity here. It was truly staggering and I lingered on several paintings for a long time, which is unlike me.
The museum initially celebrates the work of Igor Savitsky who was born in Kiev and was the founder of the museum. Yet this gem of Karakalpakstan is particularly impressive, as amongst the 90,000 items, including artefacts, jewellery, textiles and other antiquities, it allows socialist realist art to hang alongside the avant garde- a style denounced by the Soviet Union. There was a large school group visiting at the same time as us and it was fun to see their shocked expressions, like open mouthed fish every time they heard one of us speak and sometimes they would giggle, but why? Out of embarrassment? How strange we people are.
After a good two hours (the longest I have ever spent in an art museum) we jumped in the car for the three hour drive to Urgench and the final destination of our trip. During this road trip, I discovered that I had actually deleted my notes for this blog but resilient as ever, I quickly re-wrote them from memory. It passed the time well enough.
Urgench is a curious place- and very Russian!
Like most cities in Uzbekistan it has similar harsh architecture, railings with sharp points, blocky, unattractive high rises and dusty tracks. Urgench is what I imagine Tashkent might have looked like ten years ago.
As we approached the bed and breakfast we had booked Olimjon mentioned that the owner was only a few metres away and that he knew him well. We picked him up and said hello in the back of the car as Murod drove us to the property.
The owner was super helpful and kind and the room was clean and well presented with tea and coffee! A rare treat here in Central Asia. We read through the book of rules and for the second time on the trip we read that no alcohol was allowed to be drunk on the premises. This was a rule we were always going to have a little trouble following. What was fun though was the translation with the word ‘It is forbidden’ repeated before a range of activities- the funniest being- ‘It is forbidden to laugh’.
We laughed.
After a little essential social media action, we took a stroll through the city to a place called Leo Piv, which was a typical local beer place full of ‘men’ only. The thirty minute stroll was comical as we were stared at in a way I have not experienced since being in India: prolonged gawping and disbelief, as if I had slimy tentacles, two hearts and four legs. I am used to this and you need to be when travelling but it can get a little wearing. And it did.
I was happy to sup a beer and chill for a while. That said, we were not surprised but still disappointed by the false advertising. Every bar here seems to want to be a Bavarian Beer plaza with large posters of foamy beers, of many varieties, being carried by buxom women with huge smiles and statures that would frighten a bear. Inside, just the usual- two beers. This time: Tuborg or Sarbast lite (the worst of the Sarbasts). There were also pictures of delicious looking pizzas on the walls.
“Pizza yeast’ I asked- meaning ‘There is pizza’
“Nyet,” he said.
I knew what would follow.
“Shashlyk, lagman, somsa...”
We just had the beer. I had misread the map on Google and we had walked a lot further from the restaurant we hoped to visit which was now nearly five kilometres away but gritting our teeth we downed the beer and marched on. The weather was great and the ‘people watching’, as we walked, was also a lot of fun. Ultimately, we were heading for The New York bar, which on one review was described as ‘the real deal’. I am not sure what that actually means but our expectations had been elevated. I was so frustrated when we first arrived. There was no evidence of a bar- no advertising, no actual signs, and no windows to look into and see people in a bar. Just as we were about to give up, I tried a door, which looked like the door to someone’s personal house, shop or even a small factory. It wasn’t. It was The New York bar’!
Not a large place but cute and a lot of thought had been put into the decor with posters from films, and from musicals alongside famous singers. Elvis, The Beatles (not from America but I didn’t mention it) and even Dustin Hoffman in a still from his effort in, ‘The Graduate’. The waiter here was gobsmacked when we came in which I assume was because we were English but might have been because he couldn’t believe we found the place, especially with all of those blacked out windows.
They served good wine here and not one I know but it was a deep red colour and dry which is always a bonus. We had two bottles. Well, you know what we’re like. The bolognaise was a large plateful and not terrible although the inclusion of coriander was bizarre. Whilst we were enjoying the old music videos on the hanging screens and the increasingly enjoyable wine an old chap came in with a guitar. He was very good and sang some classics, completely alone, save for the beating of one young man on a single drum from time to time. His rendition of ‘Imagine’ was better than the original (ooo contentious) but his performance of ‘What a Wonderful World’ was out of this erm...world! He actually took on the voice of Louis Armstrong better than I can which I don’t say lightly: I am very proud of my Louis impression!
At the end of the night I realised that my phone had only a small percentage of charge left and I asked the waiter to book me a taxi and tell the driver where to take us. He managed the first part but when we got in the taxi, the driver had no idea and as I showed him on Google maps, my phone finally died. A helpful guy who had about four English words jumped in to try and help but he couldn’t understand that we were already booked into a hotel and that simply taking us to a good hotel was not going to ‘cut it’. Eventually, the driver managed to find a charger which I used to get my phone up and running and I directed him, whilst holding the lead in the phone. It was a real stress but we managed to get within a few metres of the ‘digs’ and disembarked.
This was not the end of the problem.
In the dark, and through the labyrinth of streets, we could not find the hotel and even the owner, whose number I had, was not answering. Fortunately, the wonderful taxi driver had followed us to make sure we were all right and after knocking on a few doors, he discovered out location. We were mightily relieved and were again thankful for Uzbek kindness. They are wonderful people here.
We slept well and apparently I snored like ‘the’ legendary warthog that Rachel says I am.
At around 9.30am we strolled down the stairs to find where the breakfast would be served but the place was like a ghost town- no other guests and no sign of tables prepared for breakfast. We lingered awkwardly at the door of the owners’ living quarters, wondering whether we should enter, yet we couldn’t quite find the courage to do so. Fortunately, at the decisive moment and with us poised to commit to wandering into their personal living quarters, the owner walked out of the door holding two neat trays, with special compartments for all elements of the breakfast. He looked surprised that we were there.
“I will bring it to you”, he said, with a tone that barely hid his feelings that we might be ‘moronic tourists’. We smiled and headed up the steps to our room whilst he followed with the food. It is the first time that I have been served in my room, in a bed and breakfast establishment. It was good too and quite modern. We marvelled at the genius of the brekkie- there wasn’t a lot of food but it looked great and fed the eye whilst keeping waste down to a minimum. It made perfect economical sense, especially when you compared it to other guesthouses in Uzbekistan where there would be a huge table laid out with all manner of foods-often not making any culinary sense- that most people would not eat.
We ate well and headed out to the Youth Lake which is in the centre of Urgench. This man made water feature is attractive, especially from a distance with pleasant walkways all the way around the lake, roaming sheep- whilst we were there- and a little island in the middle accessible by a bridge. In the centre there are a few rides and activities and a big wheel. At either end of the lake there was a cafe shaped like a boat. Someone, as is often the case in Uzbekistan, had really thought about this place, and the design of the space is exemplary. Unfortunately, as we left the road and ambled happily in the warm sun, the usual problem of lack of maintenance became instantly evident: rubbish tipped and rotting on the grass; benches left to rot and plaster, crumbling on some otherwise lovely pagodas. Some of the boats that you could hire just needed a lick of paint and the wood on the bridge over to the island simply needed a re-varnish.
Now, perhaps this will all be done in time for the hot Uzbek summer but, to me, this place looked like it hadn’t been maintained for many a year.
Once you cross the island, there are some clever miniatures of some of the outstanding historical sites of Uzbekistan such as the Registon, Chor Minor and the Itchan Khala. These plaster based models are exceptionally well done and attractive although maintenance was required in some areas. In the middle of the island there is mock up of the sort of beige rocks you might find in some American canyon somewhere- an entrance to a goldmine possibly. They are made of plastic but look good, despite being wildly incongruent to their surroundings. That said, strange juxtapositions are also very common in Central Asia and my mind was instantly taken back to the wooden giraffe and Noah’s ark on top of Cock Hill in Almaty or even the T Rex on the side of the mountain near to Sharisabz. These are experiences that make this place such a fabulous place to visit. I smiled and hungrily pursued my business of discovering new wonders.
It didn’t take long. A small children’s area was adorned with plaster casts of some favourite Disney characters, smiling widely, despite the maltreatment they had obviously experienced. Baloo the bear was certainly lacking the ‘bear necessities’: paint, not so much flaking off, or peeling but almost flayed off the kind animal, as if it had been whipped, like a slave. The big wheel announced itself like a grumpy monster, creaking and groaning as it turned. It was thirsty and just needed some oil. The owner or ride operator came out of his little hut like a little elf with his eyes beaming hopefully. I looked at Rachel. She simply said,
“No!”
We strolled on and the elf scurried back into his hut. The monster complained but its thirst was not quenched...
After a short stroll of the island we crossed the bridge and found a place to sit in the sun, whilst drinking Sarbast, which we had smuggled in Rachel’s rucksack. At first, we felt like two tramps at the side of road, swigging liquor and waiting for whatever awaits, to take us into a new life. People passed, staring in such a prolonged and obvious way, that we both felt uncomfortable. Nevertheless, we sank the beer, placing it neatly back in the bag after every sip and respectfully, waiting for a moments where there were no people, to have our enjoy our ‘sin’.
In the zone, we nipped in to a shop on our way back to the ‘digs’ and bought some dark german style beers. Our flight was at 5.30pm and so we had to be aware of timings and so a last ‘prohibited’ beer in the hotel was needed. In the courtyard there was a birthday party occurring and the owner dropped some food in for us, which was very tasty indeed. One of the ladies at the party was cackling like a drunken cat and Rach said it reminded her of herself: Rachel is a notorious belly laugher, when she gets going. I tittered inside at the thought of the ‘prohibited laughter’ on the list of hotel rules. Clearly, this did not include birthday parties.
The owner kindly offered to take us to the airport and so we sank our beer and jumped in his car around 3.30pm. The airport itself was crowded and there was yet more deep staring with some genuine ‘Spasky’ rivals- look up Big Train, you will love it! Honestly!
We had no idea what was happening but a chap beckoned us to the front of the queue, presumably because of our foreign looks and after an hour or so of lingering inside the airport, we were stepping on to our first flight in seven months. We landed safely. It had been a real adventure and exactly what our spirits needed. A week of lolling and relaxing followed.
Santorini is probably the most beautiful place I have ever been.
Perhaps what made the whole experience even sweeter though was the fact that with the chaos and constant fluctuations of covid 19, we had begun to think we’d never be able to go. Almost a year before, when I was riding high and felt I had money to burn, I’d casually booked and even paid for the accommodation. The hotel messed up however, and booked us two rooms rather than one but as I we finally sat on the plane, on the runway, we were pleased with the mistake. Now, we could treat my parents and share some quality time with them.
The flight was relatively simple although we had been required to download QR codes and the like as some sort of covid security and we were certainly expecting to be tested on arrival. When it came to it this was easy and the fuss was not at the Greek end but on the runway in Manchester. Whilst we waited for takeoff, a couple managed to get themselves into a ridiculous argument, saying they were not going to wear masks whilst strangely having them wrapped around their chins. There was some talk of a medical issue but no doctor’s note and the crew enforced the rules.
I was shocked that this young couple, perhaps in their mid to late twenties were prepared to throw all of their money away and, of course, their holiday over this issue. Once we were in air, we were all off and on with the masks and we stretched the eating out for hours! Yet, that is exactly what they did. They left the plane with a derisive cheer from the passengers who had been sitting on the runway for half an hour while they faffed about arguing some case I certainly didn’t understand at all.
Rach had 'conveniently' broken her hip prior to travelling and was laden with a crutch. This ended up being fortuitous for us, as we were raced to the front of the considerable queue, and rushed passed the testing station to the baggage area. Here we patiently waited an age for our baggage, which arrived at the same time as my parents, about an hour or so after leaving the plane.
We were met by our host who explained to us that we had been upgraded in terms of our hotel, principally because the hotel we had booked was closed. I have to say, she was right about the upgrade. The hotel itself was only a stone's throw from Kamari beach and was beautiful, stylish and had a wonderful central pool which we enjoyed enormously throughout the week. The owner was very pleasant and welcoming but it was the receptionist who was wonderful: amiable, always smiling and funny. I liked her- perhaps a little too much. Ha ha.
Kamari is a lovely place on the East coast of Santorini away perhaps from the more picturesque west coast which boasts Fira and Oia but we certainly managed to get a good luck at those as the week proceeded. Santorini itself is officially known as Thira and is in the southern Aegean sea about two hundred kilometres from Greece itself. It is the largest island in a small group of islands and is the remnant of a volcanic caldera. We also managed to get a look at the epicentre of the eruption that happened 3600 years ago at the height of the Minoan civilization. More on that story later...
It was after nine by the time we were settled and so we wandered down to the nearest restaurant which happened to be on the sea front. We all had eyes far bigger than our stomachs and ordered far too much but it was great to finally have arrived, to have beaten covid, to have made this happen for us, my parents and for freedom. It was wonderful- and almost no-one was wearing a mask! There was a great view out to sea, even at night aided by the hypnotic glow that emanated from bars and restaurants down the seafront. It was also the first night that we saw two apparent stars centre stage in the sky, which didn’t glitter and which Rach later told me were Mars and Venus (possibly Mercury).
With bellies stuffed we headed home; the bed was wonderfully comfortable and I slept better than I had in ages. In fact, it did cross my mind how uncomfortable beds in Uzbekistan are and how we had been spoilt all summer. Thankfully the thought passed as I certainly didn’t want to think about work (even though the uncertainty about our jobs, getting back and indeed all our stuff in Uzbekistan was lingering a little). We had a lazy morning before heading down to breakfast by the pool. The hotel had a wonderful system in places where they served you from the buffet and although it was a little odd, standing there pointing at things, the staff were superb (there is something about a family run business). There was a good range of lovely food everyday and I loved the fresh figs. The matriarch and owner made the most wonderful fresh jams and I reckon I managed to trough my way through them all before the end of our week in Santorini.
We had decided that our first day (a pleasant 28 degrees and strangely cooler than the searing heat of the UK which was up over thirty degrees) should be a wandering and orientating ourselves day. I was keen to get in the pool which was lovely and I think Rachel appreciated the light relief after struggling along on her broken hip. She certainly knows how to cope with pain and even though I don’t show it enough, I am immensely proud of her.
It wasn’t long before we were enjoying a beer down by the sea and I was very excited, as always to jump in the water. Once again, mum came down and we had to swim fairly strongly, as the current was very lively and a little dangerous. The water was beautifully warm though the beach itself was black with volcanic rocks and it was toasty underfoot. We had lunch on the balcony at our hotel with fresh bread, cheese and olives along with some remarkably cheap retsina (I love retsina; we all do).
There followed a very pleasant lazy afternoon, with a brief moment of concern when Rach found she struggled against the tide and her hip prevented her from kicking with the same gusto that she would normally. I swam out and helped her back with a little arm around her.
We spent some time down at the pool and asked Ekaterina where the best place to eat out was. She mentioned the lovely little local restaurant Panakio and so we headed out there. It was lovely for mum and myself, who weren’t partaking of meat, as there were numerous tapas style dishes (I suppose we should say mezze) and we were able to feast on fava bean puree, cheesy titbits, little vegetable fritters and many more. We sank a fair bit of local wine, which was palatable but we felt fresh afterwards and took a stroll down to the ‘main drag’ by the sea for some after dinner night caps. Dad and I had ouzo (love this too) and I think mum and Rach enjoyed a cocktail or two. This became a theme of the holiday- the late night cocktail night caps. I already miss those evenings so much.
We slept well. Oh, that bed!!!
I had breakfast a little earlier the next day as my parents and I had agreed that we would try and make our way up to old Thira or Ancient Thira, more accurately. It is possible to walk up but it is some hike and though my parents did it years ago from the other side of the mountain, none of us were particularly keen. Rach wished us well and grabbed her book, towel and sun cream for a pool day. It was exactly what she needed.
We walked the gentle elevation north of the town to a place where we were able to get a bus ticket to Ancient Thira. It was pleasant enough and a little hair raising as the roads were bendy and there were considerable drops but the driver clearly knew what he was doing and twenty minutes or so after jumping on, fully masked up of course, we were dropped by the entrance. It is still some considerable distance from the entrance to the remains of the ancient city and so we certainly still managed to get some good exercise. What is perhaps most stunning when you finally reach the plateau of the old city are the views over Perissa on one side and Kamari on the other. The ridge is three hundred and sixty metres high and with the old street stretching out some half a mile, it is quite some sight. From here, you can see islands and rocky outcrops, beautifully expansive blue sea and even flights coming in regularly. The jets were dwarfed by the sheer expanse of the view.
Perhaps the most impressive part of the ruins, other than some of the ancient and very clearly preserved sculptured carvings in the rocks, is the old theatre which was apparently constructed in the 2nd century AD and could seat up to 1500 people. As a onetime amateur thespian, I can only imagine what it must have felt like to perform here, with this incredible backdrop of blue beyond the stage and the hanging rocks that jut out beyond. Other ancient features include the Agora (or main centre) of the city, the temple of Apollo and of course, at the highest point, the garrison commander’s house. If you go there expecting great preservation like at Pompeii or Rome then you will be disappointed but remember that these ruins are considerably older and therefore contain a mystical wonder that always appeals. Well, it does to me.
We took some great photos here and then made our way down for our taxi-come-bus. Whilst we waited, we had a beer at a little outdoor kiosk and shared a chat with a dutch couple who had walked all the way up from the bottom and who looked pretty tired. They’d done well.
Once we reached the bottom we considered trying out the irish bar (there is always one isn’t there.) It was closed. This was probably a good thing as we might have just settled in for the afternoon. Instead we headed to the supermarket and had lunch on mum and dad’s balcony this time. It was great just ripping bread and scoffing tomatoes and cheese before washing it down with the ubiquitous retsina. Rach joined us. She’d had a lovely morning and done a little shopping for some lovely dresses- Rach does know how to rock a dress, it has to be said!
After lunch we returned to the sea and I swam out to the second rocky outcrop which was some distance away. I was keen to jump in, like some of the local scallies. Mum came with me but I didn’t jump on this occasion. It is amazing how nervous and scared of danger you become with advancing years. Listen to me sounding like a pensioner already. Once back on dry land, mum and dad made a good acquaintance with a Bulgarian waitress who explained how she came here for the work in the high season. We had a brief sleep before the evening and then headed out to the oddly titled Fistikey restaurant which was delightful, especially as we washed the whole delicious meal down with more ouzo in town and cocktails for the ladies. There was a full moon and it was wonderfully romantic. It had been a very relaxing evening and a steady day. Everyone went home extremely happy.
When we first arrived in Santorini, we were given a map and a brief explanation of the great sights of the island by the lovely Ekaterina. What stood out to Rachel and I have to say, me too, was the option to cruise around the island and see the sunset out at sea on a stunning catamaran. We booked ourselves on it after a short chat where it became clear that we were all up for it. Day three was the day but we had to hang in there until three. We had a lazy pool morning and grabbed some supermarket grub and at two we were picked up. We were temperature checked before getting in the car with our masks on.
Once at the port we were given some basic rules about how to respect the catamaran and then we settled in for a wonderful day. The sun was shining but it was not silly at maybe twenty nine degrees. There were perhaps six or eight other people on the cruise, so it was quite intimate. Whilst travelling, we enjoyed views of the red beach, the black beach and the white beach all fascinating places that had reacted differently to the huge volcanic eruption of yesteryear. Two other highlights included swimming in the caldera where there were bizarre pockets of extremely hot water naturally warmed by the hot sulphur and a wonderful lunch with all the wine we could sink. We also witnessed the hanging cities of Oia and Fira from the sea. These places are spectacular, as they hang off the edge of the cliffs, seemingly defying nature.
In the open sea, we enjoyed a beautiful romantic moment not unlike the one in Nurata desert. We watched as the sun set with a group of friendly strangers whom we will almost certainly never see again. It was nevertheless, a really great experience and Rach was beaming like the sun itself when we left. Our late night cocktails and ouzo were filled with gasps and sighs about the mesmerising views we had witnessed that day.
The days that followed got better.
When we first embarked on this week of phenomenal beauty we had said we wouldn’t hire a car- the island isn’t big and we were adamant that we would relax. However, after talking with Ekaterina and engaging a little more with the map, we realised that a couple of days with a car might be beneficial.
It had been a while since I hired a car abroad but I took to it very easily. It is always pleasant driving on a greek island as you don’t get the crazy traffic of the UK and the views are stunning. At times, on Santorini, you can see the coastline on both sides and that is always something to behold. We stopped briefly in Fira but it wasn't clear where the best place to park was so we headed on up to Oia with the plan to return to Fira on the way back.
Oia is a wonderful town, one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, primarily because of its dynamic and picture-postcard backdrop of islands, the caldera and undulating cliffs. The place is normally heaving with people who come on to land from the giant cruise ships. Thankfully, coronavirus had saved us from this and we were able to meander slowly and really take in the sights. There are white and blue domed houses everywhere here and the dwellings themselves almost entirely white create a sense of purity, elegance and perfection that it is hard to define. The most impressive houses are those built into the niches in the rocks on the side of the cliff. These beautiful little places must have the best view in the world from a garden. It is like something out of a fantasy fairytale and for a while I was lost in the moment and did not want to leave at all. There are also stunning little streets on the plateau at the top with trinkets and paintings and the like sold alongside book shops, cafes and delightful restaurants looking down the one hundred and fifty metres to the sea. The main street in the town ‘Nikalaou Manikaou’ is cobbled and the main square is dominated by the Panagia church (they love churches in Santorini and some look designed for only one person) which is one of the largest on Santorini and has a six bell tower building up from three on the bottom, to two and then one at the top. The blue central dome is one of the most photographed in Oia.
On the way back from Oia we headed to Fira which was similar to Oia and in its own way, more impressive, certainly in terms of size. It took us a while to find a place to park and we drove around for quite some time with rising frustrations. Fira means ‘Lady’ and what a beautiful lady she is.This place is four hundred metres above sea level and stands on a sheer cliff, with the charismatic dangling properties, as omnipresent as ever lending the capital a real sense of style. We didn’t stay wandering the streets for long here but took some great photographs and then found a lovely rooftop restaurant for a couple of pleasant Red Donkey beers (brewed on the island) and a pleasant meal. The waitress here was delightful. We marvelled at the nea kameni for a while whilst in Fira as the view of it is impressive- this is the volcanic island at the epi centre of the ancient eruption. We had of course swum not far from there the day before, on the cruise.
We drove back having been mesmerised by the stunning beauty of Santorini and Rachel had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She looked stunning in yet another beautiful, elegant dress and her ever present sunglasses and broad smile. It was clear to me from that day that Rachel was super happy in Greece and that one day we must spend more time there. These feelings were confirmed when we spent a month with our good friend Gareth in Crete.
We had a lovely meal out that evening and you guessed it- more cocktails.
We woke up knowing it was the last day with the car and on my dad’s advice and in keeping with his ‘boulder watching’ traditions we headed south of the island to Akrotiri. This ancient village (some estimate 5000 BC) is now maintained under a roof, which was a little disappointing but understandable, considering its heritage. We wandered around the ruins looking down from a constructed walkway that was above the level of the village. There was a strong matronesque woman watching us at times and screaming ‘Maska maska’ every time anyone even dropped a nose out. Nevertheless, there were some amazing parts to these ruins including a three storey house, some ancient pots and a small section where you were allowed to go down to floor level and walk through the houses. I loved this part.
The town itself was buried by the massive Theran eruption in the middle of the second millennium BC and like Pompeii, it is remarkably well preserved with drainage systems evident alongside furniture, pottery and frescoes (many of which have been removed and placed in museums). It was pretty warm when we left Akrotiri and we stopped for a little water before jumping back in the car.
We headed out to the lighthouse of Akrotiri which one chap had told me was the oldest building in Santorini. Erm...1892- I think not, I thought (though was polite enough not to say anything), we’ve just been walking around ruins that are a minimum of three and a half thousand years old. He was obviously not counting the Cycladic bronze age people. They’re long gone after all.
The lighthouse itself is evocative of Greek legend, with its whitewashed walls and outstandingly beautiful aspect- a lonely protector proudly standing on a land of splendour. At night, this ten metre high structure emits a wonderfully bright and luminescent white light but unfortunately, we didn’t get to see this. Nevertheless, we took some great photos here and not for the first time on this trip, I was entranced by the beauty of the place and did not want to leave it. I started to have those weird, nonsensical fantasies, where I was an author or poet, sitting here on a daily basis, contemplating life and its purpose. If only I had the money or the talent eh...
On the way back to Kamari, we drove through Pygos and noticed a sign to a wine gallery and tasting. It seemed rude not to. When we first arrived we were taken to a art gallery which was housed underground where wine obviously used to be made but the lady also took us to where the wine still was made and this was fascinating. Soon after, we were trying a range of samples- some of them exceptionally good but expensive and slowly getting drunk. I realised that as the designated driver I needed to stop but it was a lovely moment during the trip and set us up nicely for our evening meal- my birthday meal! We took pity in Kamari on a chap who owned a restaurant slightly further down the coast away from the main drag. A couple of nights previous, we had almost eaten there but had changed our mind at the last minute. It seemed right to correct that and it was a good decision. I had veggie moussaka and it was decent enough. I reckon I can still make a better one! We had a few more cocktails and Ouzo than normal that night but the car was safely returned earlier and we were feeling happy. The next morning Rach returned to the pool for relaxing and the three intrepid explorers headed out for Zoodos Piggi- a small chapel on the side of the mountain. It claimed to be a mile away and it probably was but a mile on a sheer cliff is quite some distance. My mother is a phenomenally strong woman and as usual set off with the highest of expectations of herself but thankfully, she saw sense and stopped, saying, I’ll wait. She was so correct as the walk up to Zoodos Piggi was extremely tough. Dad and I decided to continue and I set off at quite a quick pace (much to my lasting regret) as the twisting road seemed to go on forever and ever. I was sweating from places I didn’t realise you could sweat from and realised how out of shape I was. I thought Dad was a long way back but he wasn’t and though at times I wondered whether I would make it, it felt great when one, I arrived and collapsed on the floor breathing deeply and two, when I saw dad round the last corner only minutes after I had arrived.
I was so proud of him. Sixty nine and doing what some teenagers would struggle to achieve.
Initially, it was more about the views and the achievement than anything else but I wandered into a small cave at the back end of the chapel and found a genuine spring which was very refreshing. We both drank from the spring and mused on how much of a saviour this place must have felt to travellers of yesteryear. We returned to mum soon afterwards but this was another one of those occasions with my dad that I will never forget, a little like the one, near the top of Cairngorm, when I was only fourteen.
Later that day, we returned to the sea and this time, I did jump off the rocks, maybe inspired by my dad’s efforts on the way up to the pigi. It was another great day and I was even able to almost finish Frankenstein (a book I had been dragging myself through for the whole holiday). We ate that night at the same place we had eaten on the first night though we didn’t order quite as much this time. After dinner cocktails were at Nostos and mum and dad got to say goodbye to the Bulgarian waitress they had met earlier in the week.
The last day of our trip dripped with ambivalence. This amazing island had inspired me with its incredible beauty (unsurpassed by anything I’ve ever seen) and I had spent so much quality time with my parents and Rachel. Yet, as is always case, great times needed to end and there was a melancholy aspect that seized hold of me for most of the day. We had lunch at a place with a cool waiter who kept calling Rachel, ‘my lady’ which she loved and after a final swim we said goodbye to my parents. I actually felt like I was losing a part of myself but it was transient and we were soon in a taxi to the port where we had booked a seacat (oh my, how fast was this beast) to Crete where we would be picked up by our wonderful Gareth for the Crete leg of our journey.
The seacat was late of course, so we drank more wine and we relied on the waiters for timings: they seemed to know more than the officials. The journey across to Crete was spellbinding and Rach and I watched, our faces caught in the spray and the wind and the salt water, marvelling at the sheer speed of this animal and the white water that was thrown up into the air as we passed. We even saw another sunset. We were so happy.
It was a trip we never expected to enjoy- a sort of surprise present at a time when we all needed something. Rachel and I had been incarcerated in quarantine for 2 weeks at Pete’s (I’m not suggesting his house is a prison by the way). We were well looked after.
Last summer, we had planned to go to St Bees on the North West Coast hoping to enjoy a mixture of hills and seaside but sadly, this fell apart with the tentacles of Covid reaching out across the globe and crushing plans with apparent glee. Fortunately, travelling to B and Bs and hotels became a possibility again and I booked a holiday home (that could house 12) and invited River and Georgia and our beloved son, Kyle. River and Georgia made their way across the country and southwards from Cambridge by rail and Kyle raced his way along the track from Sheffield to Loughborough. We then jumped in the mini with Kyle and drove down to Weymouth.
It was a long journey but we listened to some great songs thanks to DJ Kyle who can certainly play the room. He has a great taste in music, it has to be said- especially for a nineteen year old- sorry to be ageist. The trip was only slightly punctuated by humorous photographs of us in masks.
The house we stayed in was well equipped and had three storeys- and six rooms. We had plenty of choice and all of the rooms were very comfortable and the kitchen was open plan so cooking would be a sociable experience. Kyle, Rachel and myself headed out to the station, only minutes from the house, which was convenient and met up with River and Georgia. They looked suitably weighed down with bags and rucksacks, and after the usual hugs and greetings, we dropped the bags at the digs and headed into town. It was five minutes, if that, to the beach and we enjoyed a stroll down the Esplanade and a little bit of orientation before stopping at a pleasant pub with outside seating called The Gloucester. Whenever I see this name, I think of our book (my father and I), ‘The Weft and the Warp’ and of Richard of Gloucester- our direct ancestor, ‘don’t you know’.
We enjoyed a relatively average pint and good company, catching up on all of the news from Georgiekins. We wandered over to the sea and checked out the view. Weymouth has a wonderful expansive beach that gently curves away to reveal a fortress that stands just beyond the historic harbour. There is a stretch of road with water on either side that seems to almost go into the sea itself beyond the fortress and the whole place is extremely attractive. Weymouth was made particularly popular as a location to visit by King George the third, who visited the town often.
We were all keen to get a decent meal so with no plan, menu or list of ingredients River, Georgia and myself headed out to the local convenience store and bought a lot of random foodstuffs that we liked. When back, we made a lovely mezze of wonderful vegan treats; the highlight of which, for me, was the spicy mango salsa! This mezze coupled with a bottle of lovely red made for a sumptuous evening and we all had a mighty good giggle.
After dinner, the three intrepid types, aforementioned walked out into the evening for a stroll and to get to know the place a little more. In keeping with the tradition of all of our family Christmas holidays over the years, we took in the salty sea air, enjoyed the moonlight and chatted about random subjects I don’t even care to remember. We walked along the now deserted beach and sat on some rocks as the sea lapped gently against the stone. The moon cast a beautiful reflection on the water and the romantic poet in me was awakened again. I mean, I’m not very good, but I made a mental note to try and recreate this almost ethereal moment, later. I would fail. I am failing. It was magnificent.
From here, we eventually wandered up to the St John’s evangelical church. This church has a sense of gothic about it and reminds me of the Black church in Brasov with its hard lines and hefty Portland stone construction. Just in front of the church is the Queen Victoria Statue which has stood there since 1902, a year after she died. Both monuments are grade 2 listed buildings but it is the church that wows. We walked around its ghostly confines, convincing ourselves that phantasms were looking at us from the windows. It was quite spooky so we left and made a slow amble back to the house. I had a pleasant glass of red and headed up the wooden hill for a good rest.
The morning was pleasant and Kyle and I enjoyed some cheap croissants after a considerable lie in: very relaxing indeed. We had a lovely stroll to the lake after breakfast and saw quite a lot of wildlife. Here there were some very bawdy swans and one in particular that arched its neck and strolled over to us with the swagger of a Mancunian pop icon from the 90s- sort of Liam Gallagher in swan form (I have history with swans as I once had a fight with one- that’s another story). We backed right off.
We strolled by the river for a while and the bushes and reeds that rose up high, often obscured the view of the water. We also came across a lot of super confident pigeons and one that almost touched my camera as I was taking its photo (sorry, I don’t know its gender- we didn't get that close).
After the walk we headed to the beach for some relaxing and swimming. It was a little cloudy and certainly not hot (low 20s) but though the water was cold, it didn't take long to get used to it. Being in the sea again for the first time in almost a year was great. I love the sea, there is something ineffably sublime about it- almost transcendental.
What was less spiritual but a lot of fun was our game of volleyball, which as usual, became quite competitive and Kyle, River, Georgia and I were leaping around like gazelles- well they were- I was more like a hippopotamus. I really have got fat!
On the subject of animals covered in blubber, we brought back our family tradition of playing ‘Walrus’, a game Rach and I invented many years ago on Canet Plage in southern France.
After our frolics we decided to walk around the coastline, and through the town to the fortress. Beyond the shopping centre, the town really opens up to a stunning harbour with a bascule bridge over the river. The bridge itself is a wonder and was opened in 1930: just like Victoria’s statue it is a grade 2 listed building. From the bridge we looked at both sides of the river with pubs lining one side, full of hustle and bustle and certainly no social distancing and on the other side, a few cafes, restaurants and quaint shops. As with a lot of these seaside places there were lots of pastel colours on show and the whole place was cute, traditional and attractive. We meandered our way through the shops and cafes before coming to some steps that took us above the harbour and around to the fortress. The views from here were picturesque indeed and we took some good snaps. Unfortunately the fortress was closed when we arrived but we would return later in the week and at least we managed to enjoy the harbour.
On the way back to the ‘digs’ we stopped at a Weatherspoons or ‘Spoons’ as Kyle calls it for a beer. Georgia made a lovely Tommie soup in the evening with the help of River and probably Kyle. I loved it. Well done all!
After brekkie the next morning, River and Georgia were shaking and needed coffee- I guess we all have our poison and they don’t really do alcohol so this is theirs and River really is an expert. I decided to accompany them and enjoyed some lovely coffee and an education from River. Thanks Riv! We agreed to meet Kyle and Rach at the bus stop by the beach where we hoped to take a ride to Lulworth Cove. All masked up and raring to go, we jumped on the bus, which was a little late and enjoyed some stunning countryside views which you wouldn’t think were anywhere near the seaside.
It was only half an hour or so before we were dropped in Lulworth Cove. I remember coming here with Rach and my mum and dad years ago and walking from Durdle Door along the headland. This time we would do it the other way round- the hard way! I was aware of Rachel’s back and so proud of her!
Before taking on the challenge we walked around the cove. This is perhaps one of the most beautiful sights in the United Kingdom. It is breathtakingly gorgeous- an almost complete circle broken only by the sea’s path into the cove. I walked away from others, caught up in the beauty but struggling on the shingle. It is a tough walk and you could easily turn an ankle. Though the distance is not significant, you feel quite tired when you finally reach sturdy ground and are able to gasp and stare at the little boats sailing and the wonderful backdrop of cliffs lovingly kissed with greenery.
Kyle and Rach stopped halfway round and sat and enjoyed the view whilst River and Georgia followed me. I climbed the cliffs for a better view and a few photographs but realised my age when River and Georgia joined me and we tried to go higher. I actually had a panic attack or nearly, completely froze and was unable to move because of fear. It was an odd sensation but I had to return to the ground and was very disappointed in myself. I still am but that’s age I guess.
Once back on sturdy ground I made my way across the shingle to Rach and Kyle and walked up from the cove to a lovely pub. It rained a little but we braved it outside and it soon passed by. I had a nice pint of Bibble whilst poor Kyle had to have an appointment with his doctor on the phone.
Then we began.
The walk.
If you have never done it, you really must hike the headland from Lulworth Cove to prehistoric Durdle Door. It is a climb- and we certainly needed rests. Rach and I, as the older folks, brought up the rear but if a lady recovering from back surgery can make it up then you can! There were also a very large couple who were panting their way up and they made it too. In fact we used them as our ‘yardstick’ of success- it seemed a SMART target.
The views are mesmerising here with wide expansive sea, wonderful sheer cliffs, and a view back to the little quaint cottages of Lulworth. Once on the top, you can feel the salty wind on your face and you must pause and take it all in- we were by the sea again and this is a theme of the summer holidays for us. Tashkent has no sea and we felt connected once more. It is strangely ethereal for me.
The walk was longer than we intended as Covid 19 seemed to have a firm grasp on nature too. A one way system had been established, down to Durdle Door and we had to walk an extra mile or so to get down to the famous beach. It really wasn’t an effort at all and even Rachel took it in her stride. The amazing views seemed to take a lot of the pain away and we were soon swimming at Durdle Door where the waves were very strong indeed.
This coastline is famously Jurassic and is again, immensely picturesque with its famous limestone arch where so many singers have filmed their hit records and where poets, painters and novelists have come for inspiration. One chap amazed me as he swam through the arch and the tide was very strong. I take quite a few risks in the sea but I wouldn’t have done that; not on this day anyway.
Once we were fully satiated, we climbed the steep cliff back to the bus stop at Durdle Door. Rachel had been a champion amongst champions! I was so impressed with her courage, resolve and determination and of Kyle who helped her through it. I feel she had a great sense of achievement. This feeling dissipated in moments however when we realised we had a very, very long wait for the bus. Nevertheless, acceptance allowed the minutes to pass relatively quickly and we were soon home and relaxing after a truly great day. Rach completed her outstanding achievements of the day by making a lovely vegan sausage and bean stew which was delightful.
We woke steadily in the morning but after we’d found some sense of consciousness, we decided that we would try and see the water gardens that were only a few miles away. River, Georgia and I drove out only to find that the enchanting looking place was closed. We headed back and discussed a different way forwards.
Rach and Kyle decided they wanted to have a chill in the house for a while but Riv, me and Georgia decided we’d walk round (passed the coffee place) to Nothe Fortress, hoping it would be open this time. It is a simple looking circular construction with three levels- underground, floor level and floor one that looks out over the harbour. It was fascinating to look at the old guns and read some of the history of this construction. It was also lovely to have some laughs and giggles with River and Georgia who are very much in love- a great relief to me! Once we’d done the full rounds of each level and taken some excellent photographs, we left and headed back to the town to meet up with Rach and Kyle at the fish and chip shop.
Chips from a proper chippy are such a delight these days, for we do not get anything even vaguely similar in Uzbekistan. We sat on a wall overlooking the sea and enjoyed every moment although there were, as usual, a couple of extremely courageous seagulls hanging around and stalking us with an ever permanent sense of menace. We survived.
From here we headed to the beach and enjoyed some wonderful sunbathing and swimming as well as more volleyball. Rachel joined us too for a short while and did really well. Eventually, after some lovely smiling sun, the youngsters decided to head back and Rach and I had a cheeky pint at the Gloucester. I felt strangely weak- I wasn’t sure whether it was the sun, the heat, lack of water or something else but I could see Rach was worried and I didn’t really enjoy my pint.
By the time we managed to get home, I felt a little better and it wasn’t long before we were seeing Georgia and River off. This was a little emotional, particularly for Rachel but hugging Georgia always makes me feel grounded. I told her I’d pop down and see her again before I left the country. I came good on that promise.
That night we decided to eat out with the three remaining troops and we returned to the harbour which was still beautiful but hugely overcrowded. We took a trip down the steps to the water side and stopped at a pub there. Since we’d been on the sea front we had been plagued by flying ants and I mean that. Not like a plague of locusts in a sort of Old Testament way but I have never experienced anything like it. All over Weymouth flying ants buzzed around you. We discovered there was no more food being served at the pub and Rachel was a little tired so we decided to give up on the restaurant idea and grab a takeaway back at the house. However, after we crossed the bridge we saw a lovely looking Italian place and so changed our mind and ate there.
As with many restaurants during Covid 19, we had to order via app but Kyle was with us and he is ‘young and hip’ so all was well. Rach was obviously struggling so she headed off early and Kyle and I enjoyed a drink, a very good chat (lovely to spend some quality time with the young un) before taking the slowish stroll home.
The chat made its warm and genial way across the welcome mat and we sat up for quite a few hours putting the world to rights. I miss these moments with Kyle. He is a smart so and so. It was our last night of the trip and the time had flown by all too quickly. It often does doesn’t it?
The next day we decided to take a slow route home via Cerne Abbas to see the giant with the enormous ‘dong’ and then Salisbury where Rach and I used to go so often when we Kyle’s age. The drive began well and we found the giant easily enough before heading to the city where one of, if not the greatest cathedral in England stands- the spire is certainly awe inspiring. We parked in the centre and walked out on to the cobbled stones just outside the cathedral quarter. Rachel, looking ahead, caught a slightly raised stone and fell. The moment seemed to last for ever, like they do in cartoons or in slow motion replays but before we could stop her, she was lying on the floor. As usual, embarrassment kicked in and she jumped up and walked a bit before realising that the damage was far worse than she thought. Nausea and anxiety seized hold and in shock, she needed to sit down. I was rubbish. In truth, I just felt it would go away and sarcastically stated, ‘should I call an ambulance’. The answer was yes and Kyle dealt with the situation with great aplomb (that’s my boy). Rach ended up in Salisbury hospital (with the car keys!) Kyle and I, after of course stopping to see Salisbury cathedral, walked the mile and half to the hospital to get the car keys and when the doctors asked us to collect her, drove down to pick Rach up. We were told it was an impact injury and mainly bruising which was a huge relief (a couple of days later we discovered it was actually a fractured hip).
We struggled home and Rach was understandably uncomfortable. We stopped at my parents and Kyle grabbed the late train home. It was a sad end to the trip but it had been a lovely few days with my favourite people.
Bliss.
Having had so much success with our visit to Shahrisabz, it took only the slightest of nudges to convince Rach and I to agree to go on another trip- this time to the Navoi region and specifically, Nurata and its environs.
The trip started badly, in truth as after a couple of gentle beers at Gareth's, I had a fall out with Steve over a pizza. It is comical in the re-telling and ridiculous with the view of hindsight. However, both he and I dealt with the minor squabble really well and after a bit of a hug on the train we were fine although I was hungry and the chance of eating before the next day was unlikely. It was early evening and we had a long train ride ahead, followed by a taxi. Breakfast was looking like my next hope of food.
Luckily, I had enough layers of blubber to maintain me. Still do!
The fast train we travelled on certainly looks it and is a bit space-age (the sort of shape at the front that you'd have drawn in class when depicting a scene from the future). A less romantic description of the vehicle would be that it looked like Pinnoccio after telling a lie. The front reaching out to a thin streamline nose, almost too long for the body or face. Whilst we raced along the track, you could watch the speed on the TV screen and it rarely dropped below 182 kilometres an hour. It was nevertheless, very smooth and the time flew by, as did the train.
We were picked up at Navoi train station just after nine by a couple of taxis. There were three couples on this trip: Rich and Oleysia- Steve and Shaknoza and Rach and I. We drove through the relatively quiet night and the streets were generally deserted, still perhaps in the aftermath of the isolation rules prescribed due to Coronavirus.
After eighty minutes in a car, with a short stop for fuel, we arrived at the digs. One of the drivers was also the tour guide and this was his hotel. The road it was on was tiny and the back streets reminded me of some quaint portuguese village. Once through the gates we were taken into a lovely courtyard and we met his mother, wife, I assume and his children). The room was basic but pretty with an Uzbek rug on the wall, though there was no air con and it was very very hot!
Rach and I dropped our stuff and came out into the courtyard where a table was lightly canopied. |Above the canopy was a natural covering of high walnut and apricot trees. We didn't notice them much until breakfast as it was dark but we were certainly comfortable and happy to have stopped journeying for a short while. Almost as if he could read our minds, the host (Ruslan) brought out some lovely beers (well, Sarbast- but good enough) and even some local wine. We had a delightful couple of hours chatting and enjoying the warm night air over some gentle beers.
Tiredness eventually took hold and we headed for our rooms around 1.30am. I slept like a log, as I often do when I'm travelling. Rach less so but I think she managed a little rest.
We woke quite early. Rich, Steve and the ladies had agreed to brave a walk in the local gorge before the sun became too vicious. Rach and I contemplated a brief lie in but the sun was already warm and the light coming through our window. We were actually the second people up. Breakfast was it's usual Uzbek mix of odd, pleasant and dire. However, I loved the cakey like bread they served, which looked horrendously dry but was delightful, with a sweet nutty taste that very much appealed to me.
Richard told us that he had been kicked out of his room over night and had slept outside. Oleysia couldn't bear the snoring. Soon after brekkie, the others headed off for the hike and Rach and I had another hour's sleep. Once we had recovered our energy we decided to have a walk out into the centre of Nurata which was only a few metres away and so was easy enough, even in the glare of the increasingly hot sun.
Nurata isn't a large place but its centre is very appealing indeed. A beautiful park lies on one side of the road with many places to sit in the shade in the band stand type structures that adorn the park. From here you can look up the shallow incline of the hill towards the central mosque and the chasma (I'll come to that in a moment). From here, the hill rises more steeply towards the beautiful backdrop to the town: the fortress of Alexander the Great. I say 'the' as the definite article does lend more gravitas. Of course, Alexander had many fortresses so I can't claim it was a specifically famous one. In all honesty, there is nothing much left of it except for the wall which undulates up the hill and snakes off into the distant.
We gawped for a while in the extreme heat (Nurata is in the desert) before crossing the road to try and make our way to the sites. Unfortunately, coronavirus seemed to have struck even this desert town as there was quite a lot of 'no entry tape' suggesting closure. However, the closer we looked, the more we realised that it was not really coronavirus that was the problem: the whole site was alive with workmen who busied themsleves like a colony of ants, all over the historical sites and the foreground landscape. We lingered a while and I was feeling disappointed that we had come all this way but might not be able to see anything. However, as we lurked and suffered the mild embarrassment of the stares from the locals, I realised that no-one was really preventing us from walking on to the site and that actually, the tape was certainly of very little significance. I took a few steps forward to 'test the water', so to speak and Rachel hung back, a little more nervous to progress and expecting us to be remonstrated with at any moment. There was no issue. Men were working some fairly large and dangerous industrial machinery and in the UK, we would not be allowed anywhere near the place, yet here, all seemed fine. In fact, Rachel was finally convinced of our safety when on the hill side a couple of workers, no doubt noticing our tentative steps, beckoned us onwards. We smiled and strolled more happily up towards the mosque and the chasma.
We walked initially to the left side of the mosque towards a more modern building which appeared to still be in construction, though there were some wonderful modern paintings here in what was a sort of cloister, though it was in no way a religious place. Rachel was impressed. I was too.
From here we walked out just below the walls of the fortress. I raced (well I can dream) up the steps to the lower part of the fortress wall to take some photographs of the town whilst Rachel very sensibly remained at the lower level, resting in the shade and watching the odd whims of ant movement.
Once I rejoined her, we wandered down towards the chasma- a place of pilgrimage for believers and one of the most significant religious centres of Islam in the region. Here is an ancient natural spring and when we arrived, there were thirty or so men swimming and jumping in the water. One chap, smiled at me and suggested I join them- I wish I had. Instead, we watched them for a while and then headed to the right of the spring where the Djuma mosque stands. This impressive building was constructed above the spring and has 40 columns. The dome, 16 metres in diameter, is one of the largest in the Central Asia. We were pretty warm by this point and were beginning to wonder whether the others had returned from their hike, so we took a slow stroll back to the 'digs'.
We were the first back but were soon joined by our sweaty companions who had clearly enjoyed the hike but who had certainly worked up a good appetite. For dinner, the lady of the house had cooked plov. This was Rachel's first plov and she wasn't looking forward to it. As plov goes, it was pretty decent, and not too greasy. The service was lovely once again and we even had fresh fruit, picked from the trees in the courtyard. It was very pleasant and the wine, though sweet, was quite pleasant.
After dinner we grabbed a few 'bits and bobs', ready for our drive into the desert and specifically to Aydarkul lake. It was a bouncy and bobbily trip across the sands and the views were superb, particularly when we arrived at the lake. Aydarkul is part of a system which includes 3 brackish water lakes located in the saline depressions of the south-eastern Kyzyl Kum.
For a while, we looked for somewhere where we might pitch our tents and after a few 'misses', we finally arrived at a place where there was good solid land, cover in case of rain (fat chance) and a lovely area of beach to lie on next to the lake. It had been quite a long drive so we were very keen to leap straight in and after dropping our beers in a bag and sitting them in the water, leant up against an old boat, that is exactly what we did. The water was gorgeous- the perfect temperature and there was none of the usual, nervous steps forwards and little squeals as the water laps on your stomach or chest. It was a relief from the heat and we swam, leapt, dived and played volleyball before exiting and resting on the sands with a beer that perhaps should have been a 'wee bit' cooler. Nonetheless, this was a couple of hours I won't forget in a hurry- swimming in a desert lake wasn't on my bucket list as I don't have one, but if I did, it would have been on there.
We snacked on the beach from bags of food we'd nabbed from the supermarket before leaving Nurata. It was a lovely moment and there was plenty of banter as well as some lovely bacon tasting crispy snacks that reminded me of Frazzles. Just as we were running out of energy and sensed the end of the afternoon,Ruslan came down with two of his mates and a large dingy. Rach was like a child at Christmas. She loves boating or rowing or whatever! After Steve and Shaknoza had a quick row (not shouting at each other)- they were the married couple in waiting after all- Rach jumped in with Richard and I think this was one of Rachel's happiest moments since being in Tashkent. I loved watching her and smiled the whole time. She's a bloody good oarsperson too.
Soon after, we headed up to the canopied area where we would camp. Ruslan and the chaps lit a barbecue and cooked Shashlyk for everyone. We tried desperately to push a cork in as we had forgotten the corkscrew, as always. Ruslan noticed and took the bottle from us. He werapped a tea towel around the bottle and put it inside a shoe before hitting it repeatedly against a wall. We watched on with fascinated wonder and also hopeful expectation as gradually, the cork popped out. It was excellent to watch.
Perhaps the most exciting part of the evening was sipping wine with happy bellies and chatting as the full moon (how perfect!) rose proudly in the sky, providing a surprisingly bright light. We watched as its reflection slowly elongated as it rose to its full height. It was one of the most romantic moments of my life.
Ruslan and the chaps had put the tents up for us and eventually we decided that slumber was essential. I slept really well but was surprised when I woke to find Rachel already up and rowing across the lake in the early morning sun. I was pleased for her.
The chaps made breakfast, which consisted mainly of fresh cherries: beautiful, vibrant, almost purple in colour and very juicy indeed. After a quick pack up, we began to leave for the cars but were distracted by the charging of cattle racing towards the lake for seemingly much needed sustenance and refreshment. It was a slight distraction at first but then came more, and more and more. Before long it was like a scene from a David Attenborough programme, where the wilderbeests race to the lake- I sort of expected a crocodile to pop up at any point and snatch one of the poor souls. There must have been several hundred, maybe even a thousand cattle, by the time they had all arrived.
After several cries of shock and delight we finally alighted the vehicles and began our journey back to Nurata.
The idea was to check out the main sites of Nurata which Rach and I had already done but we didn't mind looking again and this time, Ruslan gave us some more details on the place- he was very passionate about his town which was very pleasing. I was keen to climb the fortress of Alexander the Great and this time go out as far as the walls took us and we did!
The remains of his military fortress in the south of the town are still to be seen today and the water supply system that Alexander had installed is still partially used. The walls are mud-packed and resembled those I had seen at Khiva, though they are much older of course. Ruslan explained to us that the construction of a fortress at Nurota had a definite purpose, as the town was set in a strategic place at the border between an agricultural area and the wild steppe. There are even parts of Alexander's water system still in use today. We took some great photos from the walls and eventually headed back to the chasma. There was no-one swimming today but thousands of fish were evident. Ruslan beckoned us to try the water. It was crystal clear and clean though afterwards I began to think of the sweaty folks who had been swimming in it the previous day! I didn't mention it to the others. I'm kind like that!
Once at the bottom, we headed out to Sarmish-say to see the petroglyphs, in the valleys between the rocky cliffs. Sarmish - say is a river gorge on the south slope of the Karatau mountain ridge belonging to the Zarafshan mountain range. It is situated about 30 km northeast of the city of Navoi, which is about 170 km southwest of Samarkand. The petroglyphs (the carved drawings of primitive people) were created during the Bronze Age (ca 6000 - 4000 BC). Exciting as it was to see the carvings and to climb up to the best ones, we did have to suffer quite a long journey to get to them. Quarantine was in full force even here in this remote place and there were several roads blocked and despite Ruslan's lengthy and persistent negotiations, there was no way through.
After a bit of a chat about these ancient people who apparently hunted in this valley but did not settle, (hence the many carvings of men with spears and bows and arrows or super brave ones of men perched on the backs of great beasts), we jumped back in the cars and Ruslan took us back to Navoi in perfect time to grab a pizza from a takeaway joint before jumping on the train.
The trip home was uneventful and it wasn't long before we were home and resting. It had one again been a wonderful trip away and a massive thank you to Steve for organising it.
Sometimes, you need to feel like you have achieved something. I often wonder whether this need is greater in me than some and whether this is actually a strength or a weakness. Either way, that need was fulfilled by our brief but nonetheless entertaining and interesting trip to Shahrisabz.
We had been in lockdown for the best part of three months and though we had enjoyed a lot of socialising during that period, we hadn't seen much more than the compound for a considerable length of time. In fact, when we told others we were travelling, they were shocked. Shahrisabz had been categorised as a green zone and so trains were running to that part of Uzbekistan: we took the chance with open arms.
It is odd but when people have been limited for so long; when they are allowed to move it takes some time for them to adjust or even believe that they can. There are others, who become comfortable in such situations and actually don't seem to want normality to return. We, were not in either camp and despite needing to get up at 6.30am and having had too many beers the previous night, we were still really excited about seeing something new. This was a part of Uzbekistan I had never seen so it was as new to me as to Rachel.
The trip to the train was a blur and the time filled with yawning and the occasional panic as I kept rummaging around for our passports. As I get older, this seems to happen more and more.
Once there, we passed through the entrance easily enough- a quick full body spray to ensure no coronvirus was present and a new mask given to us. This was good, as my previous mask was falling apart. The security chap was a Leicester fan and was excited that I was born there! We had a giggle and entered trouble free before getting on the train that was already there when we arrived. It was the Afrosiyob- the fast train! And wow, it certainly was. Having said that we enjoyed a near decadent style of comfort as our seats were VIP. I have no idea how or why.
The train glided effortlessly along the track at nearly 200 kilometres an hour and we were at Samarkand train station much quicker than I expected- maybe two hours. We were, of course, fully garbed in our masks for the journey but what amazed me was the vision of a member of the train service about three miles outside Samarkand station. He was literally on his own- in a box on the outskirts of the city and yet he was still fully 'masked up'. He would have needed to have been a supersonic, explosive sneezer of proportions never witnessed on this planet to successfully infect anyone. I would have more chances of achieving self-levitation or becoming invisible than he would, of infecting people and yet, true to the ex soviet style, he stood, arms behind his back,chin up and mask pulled down over his nose and mouth.
Rachel seemed to lose her hairbrush on the train and at one point, Steve, one of our usual companions, suggested using an Ox. Here followed a number of bizarre and surreal reenactments that you would have to have been there to fully appreciate. At one, point, I wondered if I was actually still inhibriated or whether I was in my own Monty Python sketch.
After about 3 and half hours we arrived at Qarshi which was named by the Mongols and was part of the old Ottoman empire. We managed to sort a couple of taxis and for about thirty pound per taxi, the drivers drove us the ninety minute journey to Shahrisabz. The journey was quiet and for most if it we saw nothing but workers in the vast open fields. There were no bars and only one mosque but a huge expanse of nothingness framed by the snow capped mountains of the Tajikistan border. Snow in the sunshine is always a romantic sight.
Eventually, we arrived, with the sun baking down at about 36 degrees. The hotel was right in the centre of Shahrisabz and literally seconds from the main sites. The place was called the OK Saroy and it was cheap and cheerful with a really lovely rooftop. Indeed, later that evening we watched the sun go down over the Ak Saroy- once the palace of the great Amir Temur (who was born in Sharisabz) and this memory will stay with me for many years to come. Shahrisabz was once a major city of Central Asia and was an important urban center of Sogdiana, a province of the Achaemenid Empire of Persia. As such, it is one of the oldest parts of Uzbekistan being almost 3000 years old.
After dropping the bags and de-sweating a little, we braved the scorching heat (almost 38 by the time we were out). Not surprisingly, there were very few others out. In fact, as we strolled towards the Ak Saroy, we realised there were no other tourists and only a small group of children and teenagers under the shade of a tree, singing and accompanied by a couple of musicians on guitars. They called 'hello' but must have secretly thought us quite balmy- the temperature certainly was.
The centre of the square here is very pleasant and the main attraction is Timur's Summer Palace or “White Palace” which was planned as the most grandiose of all Timur's constructions. It was started in 1380 by artisans deported by Timur from the recently conquered Khwarezm. There was once a huge arch here which is now incomplete but the walls on either side and the distance between them is enough to startle and amaze- this was some serious structure when first built without a doubt. Originally it had been 65 metres high and the gate towers covered in blue, white and gold mosaics. I was almost over awed by the Bibi Khanoum in Samarkand but this arch or even the thought of it was more impressive. The walls were less well preserved but there is a haunting majesty to this place. Amir Temur certainly meant business.
Above the entry of the Ak-Saray are big letters saying: "If you challenge our power – look at our buildings!" Enough said! It is also important to know that this was just the entrance to the palace! Further towards the centre stands an impressive statue of the despotic leader and infamous hero. It is quite some size and unlike Tashkent's statue, where he sits proudly astride a horse, he is standing, muscular and powerful with his head in the air looking out over his kingdom. This was the moment that Mark (our historian) told us the chap was possibly reponsible for the deaths of around eighteen million people. This made me think about all of the fun in England that we were having where people were defacing statues and pulling some down. I thought to myself, how far do we go back? Should we be pulling Amir Temur down? No- I thought. Definitely not.
The beautiful aspect of this monument is perhaps one of the most photographed parts of Uzbekistan as the great statue is framed by the walls of the great palace behind him. It is a picture of arrogance, power, and fairytale-like wonder. I stared for some time, despite the seering heat.
We strolled a little further but the heat was becoming difficult to deal with and Rachel was struggling as was Gareth. There began a trip away from the main square- which despite being a green zone was certainly not very open- beer looked a near impossibility. Humour began to dissipate as we walked down long streets searching for a beer shop, a restaurant or anything that was open. Quarantine was very much still in full swing here and it was looking very unlikely until eagle eyed Gareth saw a beer shop across the road. Mark, Steve and Shaknoza had walked straight passed it but nothing gets by 'the catcher' and before long we loaded up with beers and some food from the Shashlyk place a few metres down- at least they were doing takeaways.
We managed a lazy stroll back to the hotel, and enjoyed beers on one of the tapchans outside in the garden. Once we had been fed and watered and taken some wonderful photos from the rooftop, of the sun going down, we headed back out into the centre; the sun had retreated and the level of heat was suddenly more bearable.
It was facinating but the place was buzzing at night, with many families, groups of teenagers and romantic couples all out walking, cycling or on scooters. It was beautiful and the people were friendly as ever. After a short walk we headed back and after one more beer grabbed a relatively early night.
The morning brought with it a promise of even greater heat than the previous day so we knew we'd need to get out as early as possible if we wanted to see Amir Temur's tomb, the mausoleum of Jahongir (not the great moghul) and other historical attractions. Breakfast was rice pudding with apricot jam and I loved it; others were less convinced but I was impressed that it wasn't too sweet- it is often served unbearably so in Uzbekistan. Fried eggs followed, strangely served with cucumber!
After a feed, we wandered out towards the far end of the main square. We were in two separate groups and Rach, Gareth and I ignored the museum and strolled to the historical mausoleums and the complex of Dorut Tilovat which was first constructed in the thirteenth century by Shams ud-Din Kulal. This is another triple domed wonder and is very photogenic. At first we thought we could not gain entry as it was all roped off but a lady let us into the courtyard where all of the best views could be had and soon, we were satiated. We left here and walked a few metres to the tomb of Jahongir. It is also known as the 'Seat of Might and Power.' Ulug Bek built it as a mausoleum for his favorite son, who was killed at age 22 in a fall from a horse.
It is quite some size but in a very poor state of repair, it has to be said. Whilst there I nosed around as Rachel shaded under tree with Gareth. Whilst nosing, a chap reminded me that it was 'Karantine!!!' but then beckoned me beyond the mausoleum to some steps down into a crypt. I called Gareth, who came, though Rach was happy staying cool. The lovely chap spoke a little English and I, a little Russian and between us we managed to have a little conversation. He showed us the sarcophagus of Amir Temur, which was down in the crypt, before reminding us that the body had not been there long- it is if course now in the hugely dramatic mausoleum in Samarkand.
We spent but a few seconds in that small crypt but it was eerily peaceful and I felt the history.
On our way back towards the hotel, we stopped at a great Art shop where a chap was not pushing his work upon us- but seemed genuinely interested in showing us his skill and wow- what a skill! He spoke fluent English and had recreated a stunning sculpture out of painted wood (matchsticks in truth) of the Ak Saray and how it would have looked- perfectly to scale- It was a monumental achievement (pun intended). We bought a couple of paintings of men on camels travelling the silk road. He was a phenomenal artist.
Once back at the hotel, we met up with the others and began to discuss how we might make our way to Kitob and the yurt camp we were staying in. This was an odd moment where people wanted different things and there was a brief moment of disagreement but it passed soon enough and the hotel staff ordered us two taxis. On the way they stopped at some shops and we managed to get supplies of food for later and plenty of wine and beer.
The yurt camp was beautiful and stood next to a half built hotel which was no doubt be owned by the same people. The exciting part was entering the yurts for the first time and were we in for a shock? The heat was sauna like, possibly warmer with just a fan pushing the hot air around. We left quickly and sat in an outdoor garden area where we opened the first bottle of wine. One became 2 and 3 and before long we realised we had settled in for the night. The conversation flowed and Gareth impressed by forcing the corks in (hy do we never remember to bring a corkscrew)?
When we returned for the night's rest, the yurt was cool- and we were relieved. There were no blankets and so we lay, naked (don't dwell on this) on the beds which looked a lot less comfy than they were. I had a great night's sleep.
Breakfast was rice pudding again and eggs- not as good as the previous day but pleasant enough- though the coffee was awful- so sweet! We ordered a couple of taxis to Qarshi and took in some wonderful sites- the first of which was in the foothills of the mountains. Here a dinosaur was once discovered and now a concrete T-Rex stands proudly advertising the spot where the bones were found. It is a strange sight indeed- a dinosaur- brightgreen in appearance and with almost cartoon like exterior and expression like a T Rex was wearing the mask from the Jim Carrey film of the same name. We walked the short distance up the hill to see it and observed ladies working in the fields precariously balanced on the edge of the hill. There was some barbed wire preventing our progress but after a holla from a local lady, a chap arrived and ripped the fence down- I'll say it again- 'ripped the fence down'- so that we could see a concrete dinosaur!
The views from the hill were wonderful and the the 'barbed wire fence destroyer' simply wanted a photograph with us.
From here, we were taken into the city and were shown some very pleasing mausoleums and mosques as well as a medressah- I even went up on the roof of one of them. However, I was most impressed by the Nikolayev bridge, which the drivers took us to. This bridge crosses the Kashkadrya river and is 122 metres in length. It was orioginally a 16th century bridge but it fell into disrepair and was reconstructed in 1914.
As we strolled across from one pavilion at one end to the other, we walked over eleven arches. There is also a dam here and it a beautiful place to take photos. The pavilions themselves are impressive and are built within the style of the local architecture with small towers and an arch like the front of so many medressahs in the area.
After some seriously hot sauntering and a bite to eat from a takeaway fast food place (Rach and I went to the supermarket actually) we headed back to catch the train.
The journey back was pleasant and unremarkable. What was great about this trip was the fact that in the heart of the lockdown we had travelled; we had seen new 'stuff'; we were doing what we were here to do. It felt wonderful.
Napoleon Bonaparte once said that ‘if the Earth were a single state then Istanbul would be its capital’. I have no idea what a capital city needs but if it has to be inspiring, culturally diverse, historically fascinating, have the most wonderful aspect and ascetic beauty whilst also maintaining a sense of the now and hope for a creative and positive future, then I would agree with Napoleon.
Both Rach and I were so excited about this trip as it is a place we had both wanted to see for a long time; I had butterflies of excitement a little like those that I felt when we were on the train to Athens and before finally witnessing the spectacle of the Parthenon.
The term at school had felt quite long and we were more than ready for a change of scenery. For Rachel, the promises I had made about how getting on a plane would begin to feel like getting on a bus, were finally coming to fruition and she didn’t seem in the slightest bit frightened or anxious about the prospect about the nearly five-hour flight that we had in store.
Any tiny pang of nerves were quelled very quickly when we met Steve at the airport and managed to sink a couple of large bottles of Leffe blonde between us- a rare treat indeed, in Uzbekistan. The brun was also available (my personal favourite) but I was outvoted- oh the difficulties we have to face in life! We were immensely relaxed when we finally got on the plane and were excited to see that it was an Uzbekistan Dreamliner, the top of the range Uzbek aircraft! This euphoria soon dissipated however when we realised that the TV screens didn’t work- indeed none of the entertainment system worked at all, not even the music- and so we had very few distractions. I slept quite a bit, as usual, and dealt with the non-existent vegetarian options on board.
On arrival in Istanbul, I was once again struck by the vastness of the airport- a city within itself but there was little time to hang about as we were meeting our airport transfer who I had booked through our guesthouse. As it happens, we needn’t have rushed as we couldn’t find him, so went for a beer and a bite to eat. It was good to drink Efes. I am not a lager fan, particularly, but after the Sarbast and Tuborg we have to put up with in Uzbekistan, it was very pleasant to drink something with real flavour.
We managed to contact the chap who was going to give us a lift, or at least, we thought so. In truth, it was just a chap who took us to the taxi. We then waited quite some time before it actually arrived.
The journey from the airport is fifty kilometres but it was a comfortable drive and it wasn’t long before he dropped us next to our hotel. Steve’s was a kilometre or so away so he headed off on foot and we checked in to the Rumours Inn. This was a superb guesthouse. Not expensive at all, but free tea and coffee all day and fresh cakes or biscuits. Our room was quirky and slightly off centre with strange angles; a bit like our house in Chesterfield. The hotel itself has some great photographs on the wall of icons, famous artists, musicians, actors and even politicians. I was struck by the famous picture of Muhammadali and Pele shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. I wonder what they said to each other? I was a little more confused by the photograph of U2. Now, don’t get me wrong- I do not dislike U2 but legends? Icons? I would need some serious convincing of that.
Rach and I were both tired so we lay down on the bed- great to experience a soft bed again- they don’t do soft in Uzbekistan. After a short rest, I wandered up to the roof terrace. We were able to look out over the Bosphorous and it was a stunning view. The weather was lovely for February- not warm but the sun was shining and if you kept out of the shade, it was pleasant. The Bosphorous was busy, with many ships and boats plying their trade- so many that it made me think of what it might have been like to see the Spanish armada approaching. The water in Istanbul is vast. I have seen cities such as Budapest where the river is a dominant and beautifully divisive force, separating cultures but in Istanbul it is like the sea is in the city- not a river. In a sense that is true. The only city that spans Asia and Europe and has a sea in the middle. Some of the ships that float through the city are huge; vessels that you wouldn’t expect to see in the city centre. It is charming and fascinating; sometimes hypnotic.
Rach came up to witness the spectacle from the rooftop and we were both encouraged to get out and experience this phenomenal place.
As is often the case, our hotel was on a small hill and we had to walk up it to get to the central metro where we had agreed to meet Mark and Steve. The place was bustling, crowded but there was still a casual relaxation in the air as if there was very little stress. The people from the outset were in many ways like Uzbeks I have met: kind, friendly and accommodating and yet they retained a sort of Latino flair that reminded me more of the Spanish or Italians. It was a hybrid of character I really liked and we were to enjoy the benefits later that night at our first restaurant. More on that story later.
We walked past the metro as we couldn’t see Mark and found a bar on the East side of the Aya (Hagia) Sofia so we could get some WIFI and wait for Mark. It was a canopied area with an under table heater which was a first for me. We struggled for a while to get in touch with Mark and he was a little grumpy when he arrived. This disappeared instantly, as soon as he had a beer in his hand and the muezzin got going. From where we were sitting we couldn’t see the Aya Sofia as there was a makeshift fence in between us and the mesmerizing building. However, we certainly heard the call to prayer. It was louder than I remember it when I was in Dalyan and Alanya. We were, after all, right next to the building. This muezzin was a competitive soul, experimenting with a range of pitch, tone and arpeggios I thought humanly impossible to achieve and in the breathing spaces, we heard the competition from the Blue Mosque, which I hadn’t seen yet and indeed other mosques within the Sultanahmed district. It could have felt like an echo, or as if we were sitting in a cylindrical glass container but no…the sounds varied and the muezzins played with the notes, each seemingly trying to be more impressive than his counterpart. It was superb to listen to and still very exotic to me.
After the beers we walked past the Aya Sofia- a complex building that was once a Greek orthodox cathedral, later an Ottoman mosque and now a museum. It has several parts but the general feel I had from the side view, we were first faced with, was of a sandy red enormous building with parts that somehow didn’t quite match. It is true that it was not made all at once and it has a feel of diverse cultures. My first opinion changed as the trip continued but what never changed was how the eye is drawn to the central dome, a masterpiece of Byzantine architecture which is simply astonishing and was completed in 537AD, though rebuilt again 563AD, after an earthquake. It is breathtaking, beautiful, and one of the finest piece of architecture I have ever seen.
Unfortunately, we didn’t hang around long as we had plans to go and see it properly the next day. We wandered a few cobbled streets and some windy roads before making our way to the park next to Topkapi Palace. This is a beautiful green area and flowers were just about to make their return. We all walked slowly, taking in the views and marveling at the giant trees that looked like something out of a James Herbert book- scary, bony and bare but reaching upwards and swaying strangely in the non-existent breeze. What was particularly eerie was the large flock of birds in each tree like a scene from the Hitchcock classic. We had planned to walk out towards the water but took a detour as we were thinking about finding somewhere to eat and it had been a long day with all the travel.
Once back on the main street you have to be careful of trams- they come right up to the pavement and it is easy to get distracted and have one foot off the kerb. The city was bustling with life and people going about their business but most people were smiling, which was great. You have to deal, of course, with the constant imploring shouts of restauranteurs, and shopkeepers, desperate to get your business but I’m used to that now. It would have bothered me a lot more twenty years ago. We meandered lazily down a busy street with shops selling Turkish delight, bottles of liqeur, some of the finest looking cakes and pastries I have ever scene and of course, rugs, scarves and other touristy trinkets.
Eventually we reached a restaurant where, as usual, a chap tried to ‘drag us’ in with his persuasive words. We were hungry and they had reasonably priced Efes and so the five of us: Steve, Mark, his wife, Rach and I took up large table inside and ordered mezze. It was great. I have to say that I wish Uzbekistan branched out into this kind of food as it is wonderful and delicious for vegetarians and after a few dishes you are always very full. We drank well, including some wine, which Rach ordered, but we all tried. However, the food was not the highlight. No indeed. The highlight was the service: the oo la la man and the ‘balancing drinks on his head’ man.
Whilst we were eating, a chap came over with a drink full of coloured liquid on his head and he bounced around a bit and then add two more on top of the first one. It was terrifying, as he leaned over me asking me what I thought his record was. I had no idea but I couldn’t imagine any human being balancing more than three full glasses, one on top of the other, on their head. He said his record was eight and laughed. He told me to wait and see later in the evening and we laughed and forgot about him.
Whilst we chatted another strange fellow- a waiter- had taken a shine to Mark. It is usually the ladies but now, men too, it seems. This guy cut a comical figure. He was short and stocky, with a cheeky, smiley face and a bald head and he had the habit of sneaking up behind us and particularly Mark, to call out, ‘Ooo, La La’ and at one point tickled Mark and laughed. This would not happen in Uzbekistan.
Mark visited the toilet on one occasion and the ‘Ooo La La’ man sat in Mark's seat, put on his broken glasses (one arm has fallen off) and tried to do impressions of him, pretending to sip his drink too. He was hilarious and a natural comedian. We presumed the entertainment was over until the glass balancer returned for the next episode of ‘Little Turkish restaurant has talent’. This time he was accompanied by a chap with a set of stepladders and lots of glasses. The challenge was clearly on.
What followed was magnificent.
This guy slowly added glass after glass until, as he had boldly claimed, he supported eight full glasses on his head, on top of one another. It was incredible and he still danced and walked better than I could without any glasses on my head. His assistant was impressive himself, leaning precariously from atop a set of step ladders with a full glass, trying to place it on top of glass number seven, without spillage. What a guy! People stopped, obviously, to watch and we had to go out and get photos: probably the best thing I have ever seen in a restaurant.
As we left, we shook hands with the very professional maître de and acknowledged the fabulous entertainment and service before wandering back through the colourfully lit streets, back to the digs. On the way, we stopped to take some evening shots of the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque, which I hadn't seen yet. They were both mesmerising at night. Getting home was more of a pain than we thought, as my phone ran out of charge and I couldn’t use Googlemaps. In the dark and the labyrinthine nature of the streets, it was difficult to get any bearings. After a little frustration, we finally made our way back, with me conceding to Rachel, who had made a good decision which I hadn’t agreed with but eventually got us home.
It had been a lovely afternoon and evening, full of surprises and we slept, with smiles on our faces, on a comfortable bed.
Breakfast was really pleasant- there was the usual odd salads soaked in vinegar and indistinguishable meaty dishes that I don’t think I’d have liked, even when I ate meat. However, there were dried fruits, yoghurts, eggs, cereal, several freshly baked pastries, cakes and of course toast and jam or cheese. I ate really well, though Rachel was feeling a little odd (as if she was on a ship at sea, she said). I enjoyed quite a feast, by my standards (I don’t usually eat a lot at brekkie) and it wasn’t long before we were heading out to meet Steve, Mandy and Mark. Stephen came to join us and we walked up the hill together but took a left this time so that we could walk through the hippodrome- perhaps the centre of the Sultan Ahmet district. This is a beautiful part of the city: once a place for roman chariot racing but now an extended square with two fascinating obelisks and a twisty metal pole- which I’ll come to in a moment. At the far end of the hippodrome there is a monument that looks a bit like a bandstand but was actually built in honour of Wilhelm the second. This confused me at first as I couldn’t see much obvious affinity between the Turkish capital and the Kaiser of Germany. This was explained later by our resident historian- Mark was, as always, a ‘mine’ of information and facts.
On the right of us was a fence separating the hippodrome from the blue mosque- with its outstanding six minarets, which was unprecedented in the city until recently, when another mosque was built on the Asian side of the Bosphorus with the same dramatic array of towers. The weather was excellent for February and the sun blessed us with a balmy fourteen degrees and so we were very comfortable as we took in the ‘magic’ of this part of the city. The Hippodrome is usually associated with Constantinople's days of glory as an imperial capital but it was actually built way before that time, when the city was called Byzantium, back in AD 203 under the orders of Septimius Severus- no, not the Harry Potter character! Constantine the Great began his influence on the elliptical entertainment zone in AD 324 when he moved the seat of Rome’s government from Rome to Byzantium- initially calling the place, Nova Roma or New Rome- not particularly inspiring I guess and so it wasn’t long before the place became known as Constantinople or, The city of Constantine. The hippodrome was originally four hundred and fifty metres long and could seat as many as 100 000 spectators.
We were faced almost immediately with the first obelisk and I felt I was back in the piazza navona- there are a lot of similarities in terms of the two spaces. We lingered at the obelisk of Thutmose 3rd for a while, as it is quite a sight. You can see the original level of the streets which is a couple of metres below the current level and you can look down to the foundations of the obelisk in a square that has been preserved and has a fence around it. What strikes you most about this ancient obelisk is how new it looks, as if lots of preservation work has been done on it but apparently this isn’t the case. It is quite simply, wearing very well. It was brought to Istanbul from Egypt in AD 390 by Theodosius the Great- though it had already been erected at the temple of Luxor in 1490BC. It is therefore nearly 3500 years old! There are hieroglyphics working their way up the column that look as though they were carved a matter of weeks ago and at the base of this nearly twenty six metre structure, is some wonderfully artistic bas reliefs of chariot racing, musicians playing and Theodosius, of course, vanquishing his enemies. Rach and I took some photos, though Steve had seen it all before. We were planning to meet Mark and Mandy at the end of the hippodrome so we couldn’t wait too long and there were other sites on the way up that were also interesting. We left ‘Cleopatra’s needle’; interestingly nicknamed as such, despite pre-dating her by over 1400 years.
After a few metres we came across another fenced area protecting pedestrians from falling down to the original ground level. Here is a less impressive but nevertheless unusual artefact of the past, known as the serpent column. This is right in the middle of the hippodrome: the spina. It was originally a great work of art known as the tripod of Plataea which had a large serpentine column made of metal. The column is also very old indeed and was made to celebrate the victory of the Greeks over the Persians in 500BC. Originally, the column was adorned with a golden bowl supported by three serpent heads and was built as part of the temple of Apollo at Delphi.
Today, all that exists is a small part of the column and this is set in the ground and celebrated as a great ancient work of art, though, to tell the truth, the romantic story of its past is more exciting than what remains today and it wasn’t long before we were wandering towards the ‘walled obelisk’.
It is strange but this historical artefact was built in the 10th century and is therefore a youngster compared to ‘Cleopatra’s Needle’ and yet it looks an awful lot older. Any newcomer to the site without pre-knowledge would have put this obelisk at least 500 years older than its older brother. It was, of course much more attractive in the past as it was covered in bronze plaques but sadly, after Latin troops sacked it during the fourth crusade, they left only the far more rustic and functional inner core of the structure which certainly lacks in ascetic beauty. We took a couple of photos and headed up towards the end of the circus, where we planned to meet up with Mandy and Mark.
Just before the bus station, at the far end of the hippodrome is the monument to Wilhelm the 2nd, that I mentioned earlier. I didn’t realise it at the time, until Mark explained it later, but this was built to commemorate the second anniversary of Wilhelm’s visit to Istanbul in 1898. It looks like a slightly posh gazebo but actually contains a fountain, though it wasn’t flowing whilst we were there. There is an octagonal dome covering the fountain and eight marble columns holding it up. The interior is perhaps more impressive than the exterior and the roof is covered in golden mosaics. We lingered here for short time before we wandered through the bus station just before the Aya Sofia and met up with our friends as planned. We decided that as the weather was great, we would take a ferry ride up the Bosphorus towards the Black sea. The view from the ship was stunning and the water was quite calm. Though in truth, we had a bit of shock early on as before we left, the ship’s pilot managed to drive us straight into the bank catching a few folk off guard and almost knocking some people over. There was an intake of breath and then a realization that there really was no danger. At least I didn’t have a pint in my hand- they didn’t sell beer! Grrr!
We left from underneath the Galata bridge heading straight down the Golden Horn- with Asia on one side and Europe on the other. There are times on this trip where the water seems vast and the land quite some distance away especially as you are still well and truly in the city. We were given a handy map which pointed out certain sights along the way but after a while I was just caught up in the romance of being on the ferry; feeling the roll and gentle lap of the water.
My initial observations of the city layout is that there are a masjid of mosques- literally minarets and domes allover and though the blue mosque and the Aya Sofia are outstanding pieces of architecture there are many others to marvel over and as you sail down the golden horn, it is quite a fun game to try and count the mosques and the minarets, in particular. I saw one minaret randomly placed in a private river garden, as a sort of folly I suppose.
On route, we passed, Dolmabahce Palace, the city walls and Fatih Mehmet Bridge- a very impressive suspension bridge structure which took me back to my trip to the Humber bridge- though it isn’t as big as that. We also passed the old Constantinople City walls of which there are remains on either side of the Golden Horn as well as Rumeli fortress with its powerful walls, evocative of medieval knights (no dragons of course- this isn’t ‘Game of Thrones’).
As the boat turned, we hugged the Asian side of the coast (you see- it is a sea) and were impressed by the wonderful houses that sat happily together by the waterside. We shared fantasies of one day living in Istanbul and one of these houses would be the perfect location, if we were ever able to do it.
The ferry pulled in on the Asian side and we decided we would get off and take a stroll. It is far more peaceful on this side of the Golden Horn and there is certainly less alcohol. We walked some distance in search of a beer but it was a fruitless search and eventually Steve left us, as he was due to catch an internal flight to continue on with his travels. We took some photographs of the Maiden’s Tower, also known as the Leander’s Tower since the medieval Byzantine period. The tower is situated on small island just two hundred metres from the coast of Uskudar. We doubled backed on ourselves and frequented a very pleasant restaurant with as many layers as a decent wedding cake. It was rather apt that the cakes they sold were beautiful and almost too good looking to eat. We coped of course. After cake, we took a long walk, perhaps a couple of miles to catch a short ferry back across to Europe. It always made me giggle like a small child inside when I said ‘Oh, just popping to Europe’.
The trip across the Bosphoros was short and pleasant and after a short stroll, I noticed part of an old steam train positioned outside a large building. I took a photo of Rachel there to send to her father Peter, who is a big train enthusiast. Oddly, we hadn’t noticed beforehand, or even thought about why this apparently random steam train was here but, soon after taking the photo, we realised this was a train station. Curious to know more, we wandered into the main station- which was actually the Sirkeci Railway Station. There was a real 19th century feel about this place and its fabric and architecture was largely unspoilt. I read later, that this place was built in 1890 by the Oriental Railway company and whilst we were there we realised that this place was the terminus for the Orient Express- which we smiled a lot about, though we didn’t really know why. We were about to turn and head off when we spotted a poster advertising a performance (if that is the correct word) of the whirling dervishes. I knew very little of these mystical men of God but, encouraged by Rachel, we agreed to buy some tickets. What was most exciting, was that the performance would be in the hall at the train station. We also noticed a restaurant next door, which was very appealing. The architecture of the front façade is fascinating with circular stained windows standing above arched doorways and door frames with glass panels in them. It is a beautiful example of late 19th century's European Orientalism. Mark poked his head in and seemed impressed, so we decided we would eat there that evening after watching the dervishes.
On the way back to our ‘digs’, we enjoyed a couple of Efes’ at a pleasant bar looking down over the street. Choosing a place to eat or drink at is sometimes difficult, as you can be bombarded with many excitable restauranteurs, trying to get you into their establishments.
After beers, we headed home (not getting lost this time) and took some down time, to catch up with social media- a must in this day and age! We changed and headed out to meet Mark and Mandy, before walking up to the hall at Sirkeci and taking our seats for the dervishes. When we first arrived, the room had an echo and even our footsteps made polyphonic sounds. There were very few people and we began to think that we were far too early. A lovely middle aged man wander happily across to us and offered us tea and we took our seats on the long wooden benches and sipped quietly. It was strange how this train station hall had been transformed into a type of church, not by décor, or prayer but by something unseen- something in the reverent reaction of the people: a sense of the unknown?
It wasn’t long before others arrived and by the time the performance began there was a good crowd of maybe 60 people. I call it a performance as this was not a concert or dance show- it was a religious ceremony- a conference with God and normal audience, performer rules seemed ambiguous.
We sat, not speaking and sipping our tea a little awkwardly but yet still expectant of something fascinating and memorable. The first performers arrived with a range of instruments I had never or rarely seen- mainly string in nature though there was a drummer and flautist (though not playing any flute I had ever seen). They wore black gowns, like something out of a Harry Potter film, and on their heads they wore a conical cap known as a sikke, made out of felt. They are all slightly different in length and precise shape but I later discovered that this is because they are shaped on a mould first and then individually fitted to the wearer’s head.
The music, when it began was slow in progressing, with repeated simple drum rhythms and then a solo on each instrument with Arabian charm and melodies that meandered expressively without any seemingly clear direction; creating a hypnotic vortex that pulled the audience in. Initially, the whole moment felt strange, as if we were involved in something we didn’t belong to or had no rights to enjoy. Then, as if from deep in the centre of the Earth, rising out into a peaceful calm came a voice- strident, eerie and yet beautiful- not like a human voice in many ways and yet it was one. The pitch of the first note was high and resonated for some time, hanging in the air confidently, as if it owned the room. It was such an unusual sound to our westernised ears, that it naturally provoked the feeling to laugh, out of embarrassment but then when he left the first note and began to explore the accidentals and the harmonic range, he took us on a mystical journey that we became completely enveloped in. The instruments provided close harmony and slowly, we entered into a sort of rag but with far eastern influences. It was outstanding and for a while I forgot that we were there to watch whirling. Then, perhaps thirty minutes into the experience (certainly not a concert) the whirlers arrived; four of them, dressed in long gowns and wearing the essential headwear.
The next part of the spiritual experience was slow and felt like that part of a book or film, where you are waiting for something to happen. There was an awful lot of bowing or nodding, in different sequences and sometimes in synchronisation. And then…the outer robes were thrown to the sides, revealing the long white garments and the white skirt attached to white joggers (closest thing I can say) and the whirling began.
To be continued...
We left the hall like children leaving the cinema and gossiping excitedly about the film we had just watched although this didn’t last too long as we were at the restaurant next door in a minute and sitting down for some lovely food. I have read mixed reviews about the food here but Mark and I had the mezze and it was delicious. We also enjoyed some wine (quite expensive) and marvelled at the pictures inside the restaurant from the films of the past- not just ‘Murder on the Orient Express’. There were many pictures of actors from my parents’ generation and before that. Each of us took a turn to have a wander and a look around whilst we were waiting for our dinner.
At the end of the meal we enjoyed a warming brandy, before heading home, taking some lovely night shots of the blue mosque and Aya Sofiya on the way. It had been a wonderful day full of experiences.
I had already fallen in love with the city.
The morning was like a competition over who could wake us up in the most original way, as from the crack of dawn we were disturbed by fighting dogs, the morning call to prayer from our friendly neighbourhood muezzin; gulls squawking some kind of ‘birdy language’ before one sounded like it had something stuck in its throat and was slowly choking to death. If this wasn’t enough- as my eyes closed one more time and my weary head hit the pillow and my cursing aloud faded we were rudely awakened once more this time by the nauseating sound of ‘Despacita’ which apparently was programmed to play as a car reversed into its space outside the hotel. Puffing my cheeks out and managing to peel my eyes open, I struggled out of bed- Rach was in denial for a while but it wasn’t too long before we were at breakfast.
The fresh homemade cakes were a delight and it was clear that Rachel had her appetite back as she ate very well (quite unusual for her) in the morning.
After our feed we headed back through the circus to meet Mark and Mandy by the bus stop. From there, we headed for the blue mosque. The courtyard is quite interesting as there is a well written write up on placards before you get to the entrance, explaining the principle tenets of Islam. As I read, I realised how little I knew and, if I’m honest, how little I have recalled since the visit (which is a shame). From the grounds you can see the Aya Sofia: from this angle it looks remarkable; a head on view that seems to disguise the disjointed parts I referred to in my last blog. I was exciting about going in as I’d heard great things but I managed to put my anticipation on hold as we entered the great blue mosque. As with all mosques (as far as I am aware) women needed to cover their hair. Now, Mark is a great enabler when it comes to bringing out my cheeky, mischievous side and when he wrapped a coat around his head, I felt compelled to join in. I took off my jogging top off and wrapped it around my head- interestingly, it was blue! I suppose the point we were trying to make is that women shouldn’t need to cover their hair or at least, it should be their choice. I don’t think we made that point at all, to be honest. Most just thought we were weird- except for a small group of around six or seven young ladies who were giggling so much that we smiled and waved. They headed over and wanted selfies with us inside the mosque. I have to state at this point that I am totally respectful of culture and religion but not control. In Islam, it simply states that men and women should dress modestly. It does not say that women have to cover their hair.
Unfortunately, there was a lot of work going on inside the blue mosque so we couldn’t see it in its full glory. Shucks, we’ll have to go back I guess. I wasn’t that impressed with the interior of the blue mosque and though large, it doesn’t stand alongside a great English cathedral, in my opinion. That said, there are more than 20,000 handmade iznik ceramic tiles, in more than fifty different tulip designs in the interior. The upper windows were mostly obscured by the work that was going on but there are more than 200 stained glass windows apparently. The most important element in the interior of the mosque is what is known as the mihrab which is a semi-circular niche in the wall where people can pray privately and of course always faces Mecca. In the blue mosque it is made of finely carved and sculptured marble, with a stalactite niche and a double inscriptive panel above it. It is surrounded by many windows. There are also many lamps that were once covered with gold and gems but these have been removed or pillaged over the years. One distinct difference between this mosque and a cathedral is the existence of great tablets on the walls, inscribed with the names of the caliphs and verses. In the Aya Sofia these were even more impressive.
We wandered for a while in the spiritual interior before exiting, still fully head scarved up. As we left, one of the staff smiled and grinned at us- they were clearly not offended by whatever light-hearted point we were trying to make. It was all very good humoured. When close up to the mosque you cannot see the amazing six minarets but they are quite spectacular, even on their own and I have to say that I found myself staring up at one of them for quite a while (you’d think I’d have been sick of minarets after almost two years in central Asia). The Blue Mosque was built to rival the Aya Sofia and the six minarets was one way of making it stand out- it is one of only two mosques in Istanbul to have so many. Despite my slight disappoint with regard to the interior and to be fair a lot of it is covered up; you have to say that this building is extremely attractive and the exterior is perfectly proportioned and a credit to the architects and builders who constructed it.
It didn’t take too long for us to remove the headwear and we left in a direct walk that is perhaps 150 metres or so to the Aya Sofia. I had been looking forward to going inside for quite some time as many had told me what a glorious interior it possessed and so was delighted to get to the front of the relatively short cue and present my card that allowed us access. Steve had thought ahead and we had paid for a card that gave us access to most sites in Istanbul. Mark and Mandy presented their cards to the computerized ticket reader (bar code I suppose) and entered completely untroubled and I too, in my turn was able to gain speedy access. However, when Rachel presented her card, access was denied and the chap on duty told me it had finished. Given that this was our first use of the card, this seemed a little unlikely. I explained this to the chap who, in all fairness, was listening to me as a foreigner but he just kept repeating that it was finished and he also seemed a little angry. The domino effect began and before long the red mist descended and I told Rach to simply walk through. Suffice it to say that this was not acceptable and we were soon speaking with a manager or at least a supervisor in the presence of a scary looking guard who seemed to think that I was going to attempt some sort of karate kick on the poor lass.
Rachel was excellent at calming me down and we were advised to go in search of the company who gave us the ticket: their office was only a few metres away so it all turned out well enough. They apologized and Mark bought us a lovely coffee to settle the nerves before entering this wonderful building. The entrance is quite stunning and Mark told me to look up as I walked in through the grand doors so that as I walked into the basilica, the wonder of the dome would present itself to me. He was not wrong.
It is phenomenal from outside but inside it stuns, not only with its size but its majesty and decorative wonder. It is strange that the building had such a turbulent first two centuries, with fires and earthquakes destroying the work until the dome which we see today was finished AD562. There are wonderful mosaics, great columns or dome ribs and a beautiful central circle a little the Pantheon but more decorative with stained windows adorning the dome in a perfect circle at its base. The entire interior of the basilica is lit beautifully with ornate chandeliers and the walls are adorned with intricate and artistic frescoes. It is a wonder to walk around it and like the cathedral in Berlin, I was startled, not by its size but by the size of its centre. English cathedrals stun with their size too, often but you rarely see a central section so seemingly unsupported. It is quite eerie and seems to defy science.
Another aspect of the Aya Sofia that really pleases, as a tourist is the way you can climb up to the upper vaults and perambulate around the dome and witness the basilica from a bird’s eye view. You can also look out of the windows and see the Blue Mosque from an entirely new perspective. From above we also enjoyed a more impressive view of the gigantic circular-framed disks or medallions that were hung on the columns during its time as a mosque. These are inscribed with the names of Allah, Muhammad, the first four caliphs Abu Bakr, Umar, Uthman and Ali as well as the two grandchildren of Muhammad. If the Blue Mosque disappointed; the Aya Sofia imprinted something wonderful within me. I am an atheist but when left alone for a few moments in that place, I felt about as spiritual as I ever have. A place that was once Christian, once Islam and yet better than the sum of those parts. I will one day go back to this place. We left slowly, and reverently. It seemed appropriate.
Our plan was to visit the Topkapi Palace next but when we arrived we discovered that we had chosen the only day of the week that it was closed. There was a museum on the way up to the Topkapi palace on a slight elevation and, in truth, I cannot remember its name. However, we were able to get in on our Istanbul ticket and there were no issues or histrionics this time. The museum was full of some ancient relics, that’s for sure, with several tombs, statues and even carcasses from the Egyptian empire going back over four thousand years in some rarer cases. There were also some wonderful Greek and Roman artefacts. Usually, I am not a massive fan of museums and would always much rather see historical monuments in their original place but there were some wonderfully preserved pieces here and a lot of work had gone into restoring some pieces to their former majesty. We spent maybe two hours inside and then sat outside on a bench in the courtyard for a while. It was beautifully sunny and Rach was suddenly very tired so the rest was welcome. I was amused when I nipped to the toilet and found a wonderful original statue of the roman emperor Nero a matter of feet away from the entrance to the gents. I wonder how he would have felt, if he’d known this is where his statue would end up?
On leaving the museum, we were once again startled by the muezzin who were again competing with great musical aplomb. I never ever tire of the sound- these chaps were the best.
We wandered back and had a little sleep at the apartment before heading out for dinner.
We crossed the Galata bridge on foot and I was absolutely amazed by the number of fishermen on the bridge. Teams of them, touching shoulders and standing together like a bunch of drunks in a crowded bar. I assume they were fishing for local restaurants but if they were, then it is clear that there is some seriously good trade in fish in Istanbul.
Once across, we ended up going into a jazz bar. I half expected to see a man sitting there in his striped corduroys smoking a cigar and saying ‘Nice!’ It didn’t happen, much to my disappointment. The jazz bar was quiet but it was early- Mark looked like he’d just eaten a wasp. He is no fan of jazz it has to be said. We sat near the three piece band (pianist, drummer and bass) who it seemed were actually practicing for later. They were very good and the bright scarlet red curtains and drapes leant a slightly naughty atmosphere to the whole place. I liked it. Mark did not. The ladies were undecided. We had a beer and left.
I was keen to check out the Galata tower, which stands, in this part of town, like the tower from the story “Rapunzel’. It is perhaps a little fatter than that particular fairytale structure but it has that lovely pointed conical roof that you’d see in a storybook, though apparently this was built and added to the tower between 1965 and 1967. At night time, it is quite romantic and you get to it via some very narrow medieval cobbled streets. We were all hungry and looking for a bite to eat but once in the area, it was a must to have a look especially as it so beautifully lit in the evening and many of the the youngsters of the town ‘hang around’ this area and drink coffee. It was lovely to people watch for a while.
The tower is surprisingly tall and was once the tallest structure in the city; it does stand out in the area as being far older than everything else but Istanbul is wonderful for the way that old and new sit so charmingly alongside one another. The tower itself is 61 metres high (200 ft) but the walls are apparently 3.75 m (12.3 ft) thick. There is a restaurant and café on its upper floors which have views of Istanbul and the Bosphorus as well as a nightclub which hosts a Turkish show. We were in no mood for those kind of high kicking shenanigans so we wandered back through the narrow streets to seek out a restaurant- we stopped fairly quickly at a quaint place with an owner who had spoken to us in excellent English, on the way up. He was attentive and encouraging without being sycophantic or overbearing. We decided to stop here in this lovely medieval part of town. We enjoyed mezze again but the quality was a little higher.
My memories of the night of our fascinating discussion about transgender folk and of the fantastic waiter who served us wonderful wine and gave us the history of it too. He also explained to us the ‘7 stages of Raki’. Mark and I had 3 I believe. I do not remember all of the stages but one was ‘sleep’ and another ‘crazy’. I think Mark and I avoided both of these, thankfully. Rach and Mandy stuck to the wine. We left a little ‘worse for wear’ but it was a delightful walk home with some shopkeepers still open and selling their wares. We didn’t get lost this time which was a relief and we slept soundly.
We awoke a little sleepy, which wasn’t helped by the now daily sound of the ‘Despacita’ car stridently reaching out from an auditory collage of gull squawks and competing echoes of the muezzin. Nevertheless, our energy was soon restored after a leisurely breakfast and we headed out to join Mark and Mandy, hoping this time, to get into the extensive grounds of Topkapi Palace.
The weather was pleasant and we arrived at the grounds in a matter of minutes. The museum itself is a fascinating place to visit, full of intricate little rooms, beautiful gardens, stunning views over the bisphorous and a real sense of history. It is a museum now, of course, in the East of the Fatih district but in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries it served as the main administrative headquarters of the Ottomon sultans. It was built in 1459 by the order of Mehmed the Conqueror and was originally called the New Palace. There are four main courtyards separating different rooms within the complex and as we walked around I was struck with how beautiful the area was and the aspect for which the palace and its inhabitants muct have enjoyed. However, historian Mark- our very own ‘Simon Schama’did remind me that the Sultan never left the building and I did begin to wonder whether it might have worn just a little thin after a while- despite his harem of women , who were watched over by the eunuchs.
We made our way through a variety of privy chambers and strolled in the flower laden gardens, surprisingly so, considering the time of year. I was a little frightened by the ‘Circumcision room’ and crossed my legs a little when I sat inside it but was gobsmaked by the view from the Terrace Mosque, which was added to the complex in 1858. From here, I was able to take wonderful photographs, looking out over the sea of Marmaris as the boats swam effortlessly in the blue waters. I remained there for a time- enamoured by the moment and a little transfixed- so much so, that I turned around and could see none of our crowd. In truth, it didn’t matter as throughout the duration of our visit we lost and found each other on several occasions.
The last place we visited was the Harem, and you had to pay a little more for this experience, and I am glad we did. There were narrow corridors, opening out into large rooms, bedrooms, bathroom and smaller couryards but perhaps the most stunning room was the The Imperial Hall, a domed room believed to have been built in the sixteenth century. We enter via a small corridor that was clinical and with white walls which contrasted wonderfully with the spectacular decorative aesthetic of the Imperial Hall. The room was designed for the sultan to receive guests and wow, it would certainly have impressed and still does today. The walls and ceiling are adorned with beautiful artistry respendent in royal red and gold. Set against these bold, majestic colours is a softer blue, suggesting a melancholy thoughtfulness. I was mesmerized by the space, as we all were and we stayed a while to take photographs, all of which, we knew, would never recapture the moment as we had witnessed it.
We gathered in the entrance gardens of the place to ensure we hadn’t lost anyone before heading out. Mark was keen to head to the Basilica cistern. My dad had told me it was a must so I was equally excited. Initially, we were rebuffed by the cashier who said we had to enter with a guided tour only. Mark was particularly frustrated and stropped around for a while, in truth, but the wait for a guide was only twenty minutes so we hung in there and wandered down into the cistern depths. I remember my father telling me about Masada and though the basilica is no Masada, it does have something in common- the ingenuity and determination and wonder of the romans. This cistern is like a cathedral underground- four hundred and fifty three metres by sixty five metres and capable of holding 80,000 cubic metrrs of water. Yet, this was not a place to show or for people to glorify- it was a place of simple water storage but is without doubt, the most stunning water container I am ever likely to see. Three hundred and thirty six columns both Ionic and Corinthian alongside a few Doric stand like an enchanted forest especially with the subtle lighting, that has been added, of course. I was amazed, confused and wowed whilst also feeling a little bit of fear. The place was used as a location for the Bond Movie, ‘From Russia with Love’ but it would have been a super horror film location.
We wandered to the far end of the cistern to seek out the famous Medusa heads, one on its side and the other face up that provided the support base for two columns. There are many stories about these heads that were never expected to be seen but it seems that the most likely explanation is that they were just taken from some older roman columns that were dismantled and were brought to this location (like spare parts if you will). Whatever the truth, these heads add yet more mystery and eeriness to this imposing cavern. Unfortunately, Rachel started to get a little claustrophobic but after a while we all headed out into the daylight and re-convened silently at first- all taking in what we had just witnessed.
We needed a beer and a bit of scran and we were pretty close to our local bar so we headed there again. The owner was definitely pleased to see us and we enjoyed some lovely cheese toasties and a couple of pints.
Fully refreshed we decided to take a bit of a walk to the Grand Bazaar. That said, both Mark and I were desperate for a wee and after seeing nowhere obvious to have a quick dribble, at least not without getting arrested, we came across a Costa (something you would not see in Tashkent) and nipped in to rain the erm…worms (I wanted to say snakes but let’s not be overly optimistic).
It wasn’t long before we caught up with the ladies and reached The Grand Bazaar. This place is insane- the largest indoor market I have ever seen and one of the oldest covered markets in the world. There are those who claim it to be the first shopping mall in the world. It is easy to become disorientated in this market, a labyrinth of extended narrow alleys crammed full of shops selling, jewellery, bags, scarves, guns, knives and sweet smelling Turkish delight. However, though there maybe over four thousand shops here, it is surprising how limited the range of produce is and many shops compete with each other, offering almost identical wares. This, along with the constant vying for attention and calls for you to patronise their shop, serves to disorientate you. Mandy was in her element however, and strode around the place seeking out a bag she wanted and Rach, perhaps emboldened by Mandy’s courage went in search of some scarves. Mark and I lingered and lurked in the background like teenage boys following their mothers around town.
Though it was amazing to see such a historic market, all of us were happy to get out into the natural light and air. Here, one of the sights that will stay with me for ever: men puliing carts of twenty or thirty large boxes through the streets, whether to shops or market stalls, I have no idea but their burden looked to me like it would have troubled a horse, let alone a human being. One of our group quipped that the boxes were probably empty- but even if filled with air (which I very much doubt), it was quite some spectacle. We must have stood out like the proverbial ‘sore thumb’ in this district and it wasn’t long before a chap popped over to say hello, hoping to sell us leather from his nearby shop, of course. Nonetheless, he spoke superb English and we found out that he was once an English teacher and that his favourite author was Mark Twain. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and said we didn’t fancy leather but might check it out tomorrow. I assumed that would be the end of it but no, this chap as a genuinely top fella and suggested a wonderful restaurant to us called the Antakayka and he walked us, there chatting as we strolled passed yet more of the lads carrying back breaking loads. Now, I’ve travelled a bit in my time and so, yes, I know the chap probably had some deal with the restaurant but the food at the place was excellent, the service impeccable and Marka and I had four rakis, putting us at the ‘Naughty’ stage of the ‘7 stages of raki’.
We wandered home slowly and grabbed some early evening snuggles and much longed for rest.
We were super lazy after the previous evenings frivolities and I think the raki was still very much present in the system. We slept in for quite a while and had a late brekkie. Rach and I decided to have a stroll back down to the water: we'd be seeing precious little of this once we were back in Tashkent. Isn't it fascinating that need we humans seem to have for being next to water? In its own way, it is the same as our desire to be next to fire.
Rach and I walked out underneath the Galata bridge where there are several restaurants. We stopped for coffee- it was too early for beer, even for us! We rang Mark and the slight illness he had felt the day before had worsened. Nevertheless he and Mandy said they'd meet us in the restaurant later. Similarly, Steve was back in town after his travels and agreed to meet us too. The time passed slowly as we watched hundreds and hundreds of birds outside the restuarant window, hanging in the air, hoping for fish to fall out of the buckets of the fisherman who were hauling them up from the bridge. It was quite an impressive sight and it wasn't long before it was beer 0'clock.
Steve joined us first and shared his stories of watching the balloons fly over his head in Cappadocia. Mark and Mandy weren't far behind and in truth, Mark really didn't look well. He still managed a beer or two!
We felt the early part of the afternoon drift by quite casually and with haste and around 1 ish we realised that if we wanted to see anything that day, we'd better get a move on. We left but booked a table for later- the restaurant served fish straight from the water we were overlooking. It looked superb!
The five of us took a tram and then a bus to the Rumeli fortress. This is a literally a snaking castle wall with a couple of turrets but its aspect overlooking the Bosphorous is wonderful- that water again! The fortress was built between 1451 and 1452 on the orders of Ottoman Sultan Mehmed II. Its older sister structure, Anadoluhisari ("Anatolian Fortress"), sits on the opposite banks of the Bosporus. These fortifications were used to control any traffic coming in and out of the city along the Bosphorous.
It was a wet day and although we'd been lucky with the weather for most of the trip, it seemed we would not be on the last day.The Rumeli fortification has one small tower, three main towers, and thirteen small watchtowers placed on the walls connecting the main towers. We all walked up the precarious steps to the first tower. I have to say, that the steps coming down the second tower were very frighteneing and Rachel decided against the last part of the climb; my heart was knocking against my ribcage a bit as I contemplated falling. I am glad Rach did not risk it. As I get older, I find myself feeling like this more often.
Once again, the whole site was rife with stray cats and confident ones at that! I started to see Rachel softening towards the creatures which is a surprise as she has always been a huge cat-hater. Once on more stabke ground we entered the underground mosque that remains there, though it was very dark and hard to make anything out. The gloomy day seemed to be infecting everything with a mild melancholy and as we were hungry too, we were pleased to leave and find somewhere for a snack and a beer, which we duly did. After a small snack which I cannot remember- hummus perhaps? We headed for the bus and a trip back to the fish restaurant.
It was Mark's turn to pay but it felt pretty awful watching an ill man hand his bank card over- he did so well to make it through the day. An early covid19 sufferer? Who knows? The chap running the restaurant was superb and spoke great English- the food was stunning and fresh and this was, I think the best of many delicious meals we experienced in Istanbul. The wine was good too. We toasted each other and said our goodbyes to Mandy, who was leaving at a different time to us the next day. It had been a calmer but lovely day.
The next morning was perhaps even lazier than the previous day but we didn't want to simply sit and wait for the bus so we met up with Steve, though briefly lost our room keys of course! Steve suggested we visit the whirling dervish lodge which we duly did via the vernacular railway. It has two stations, connecting the quarters of Karaköy and Beyoğlu. Its tunnel goes uphill from close to sea level and is about 573 metres long. Apparently, it is the second oldest subterranean urban railway line and was opened in 1875. The train ride is only seconds long but it was fun.
The lodge was peculiar and made me think of 'the jumping jews of Jersusalem' from Blackadder. The place was full of diverse and peculiar hats along with full length gowns and paintings of long dead dervishes. In the centre of the lodge was a dance floor, I suppose, where the whirling took place.
Outside the lodge was a bizarre graveyard for important dervishes and the gravestones were adorned with stone sculpted hats- presumably the ones they had once worn. There was an odd and poignant moment when a black raven sat upon the top of one of the graves. Once again, cats wander around the site as if they owned it. We lingered there for a while and took a few interesting photos before heading for a bar, quite near the Galata tower- it was a funky young persons place that served excellent Efes. On one wall was a giant mirror making a bijou place look more spacious- clever design and we had a couple of lovely beers here- particularly as we had stumbled upon happy hour!
We needed to be closer to where we were picking up the bus to the airport so we headed back to where we had started: the wonderful outdoor bar with under table heaters. Here we had a final bottle of wine together- local and the best we'd drunk during the whole trip. It rounded everything off beautifully.
As we stepped on the coach to the airpoirt, I felt quite sad. Istanbul is a truly mesmerising city and I found myself wishing I was staying. If the fates agree, I shall certainly return- maybe one day I will work there.
Once I had committed to a few days in Georgia with Gareth and Mark, I knew exactly what to expect- a few days of drinking, eating and meandering but as Gareth constantly reminded me…mainly the drinking.
Georgia has always been a fascinating name to me- my favourite girl’s name (we did call our daughter Georgia after all) and my favourite song. Could it be that it might end up being my favourite place too. To be fair, we were only visiting Tblisi but we were not to be disappointed at all. Our flight (just under 4 hours) landed at 6.35 pm and we were a little tired but running on the adrenaline that creates excitement. The roads were very busy and the shortish drive to our hotel took longer than it should have. This was made much easier by our excellent taxi driver who we were very pleased to have chosen. Initially, we had tried to barter for a cheaper fare and having agreed a price, he was happy and friendly for the whole journey. He spoke wonderful English and told us a lot of the history and geography of the city as we edged our way forwards in the queues. He was highly educated on his country and the area and I began to wonder whether we would have received such detailed information from a taxi driver in the UK. I highly doubt it.
The hotel was further from the centre than we had thought and so it was slightly annoying but this frustration was tamed by the friendly, politeness of the lady in the hotel, whose English was once again, very good. She had a lovely smile and was one of those people you instantly like. Once we were settled we asked her to book us a taxi into the centre.
It was a fifteen-minute journey or so but it was very interesting as new sights flooded our eyes. I was fascinated by the Georgian language, particularly the lettering, which seemed somewhere between Arabic-like and Cyrillic but actually not at all like either of them. Very odd.
In Tblisi, wine is served almost everywhere and it is usually very good. This should not be too surprising as Georgians have been making wine for an awfully long time. In recent times, archaeologists found traces of wine making activity on an 8,000 year old piece of Georgian pottery and it is claimed by most of inhabitants that this tiny former soviet republic is the world’s oldest wine producer.
With this thought, firmly in our minds we strolled through the streets of Tblisi in search of a restaurant to have some food and where we might have a cheeky sample of this much-celebrated wine. We stopped at a diminutive restaurant perched on an incline in the middle of a street. There were a couple of quaint tables outside and we sat at one of them, slightly precariously it has to be said as the incline was steeper than it seemed once we sat. There was a small window next to the table and the smells that emanated from this small opening were wonderful- a waft of sweetness and spices and even the faintest nuance of grape- or perhaps that was my mind’s interpretation and my body’s yearning for wine.
A lovely smiling lady gave us a menu and we picked a few delicacies that were simply divine, along with some red wine. Bagizagan it was not. Gareth explained to me that this was the cheap quaffing wine and I was excited as I really liked it- sort of like an Italian chianti but strangely served cold. This was a shock at first but it matched the cuisine beautifully and particularly the walnut-stuffed aubergines with pomegranate seeds. It was the first time since we’d arrived that I think we all had a chance to take stock, breathe and have a good look around. Over the houses, some of them 4 storeys high but a beautiful mix of wooden beams, balconies, and coloured pastel cladding, we could see the wall of the Narikala fortress that stands astride the summit of the hill overlooking the city. It was dark now and the lights of the city sparkled and glistened, imbuing the city with beauty and energy.
I felt there was something wonderfully magical about the place from the very start. I could have stayed on that little gradient just outside the very centre for a long time but after a couple of glasses I think Mark certainly needed to stretch his long legs so we wandered down past the churches, that pop up all over Tblisi like concrete mushrooms, towards the river Vere and the bridge across it which we strolled over very slowly, whilst taking in the sights.
Surprise surprise it wasn’t long before we were at another bar and- yes, you guessed it, with some more wine. Over the river we could see the statue of St Stephen- a heroic figure sitting proudly astride his horse in the extended courtyard of the Meteki church of the assumption, which was built by the Georgian King, St Demetrius the second, between 1278 and 1284. In the angelic golden hue, cast by the multiple lights from the streets and the bars it was quite ethereal and this was a great setting for yet more wine. We drank thirstily and this wine was different: still cold but slightly drier than the first and more full bodied. There was a slightly oak like tinge to the after taste which made me think of Retsina but it certainly had a character all of its own.
On the way, back to our hotel, we dropped into a supermarket. This place immediately appealed to me as they had Pink Floyd’s ‘Echoes’ playing quite loudly. There were very few people inside but we chose some wines, sung a little, much to the amusement of the staff and left for the hundred or so metre walk back to the hotel. After a few night caps- possibly a ‘night balaclava’, in truth, we found our way to our respective beds and drifted off very quickly. It had been a lovely evening of laughs, chat, great views and lovely quaffable wine.
I was excited to see the place in the day time.
I slept well in what was a smallish bed. It was hard but I’m used to that- comfort isn’t common in Uzbekistan and so too, in Georgia it seems. I was the first to rise, which was a little annoying as there were very few signs of life from Gareth, who I shared a room with, despite my exaggerated bangs and clunks around the apartment. I knocked on Mark’s door opposite but there was even less sign of life there and so I sat and read for a while. It had been quite a heavy night on the ‘sauce’ so it is not surprising that we had a slow start. My early rise would come back to ‘haunt’ me later in the day.
An hour later or so and perhaps moving towards 10.30pm we were up, breakfasted and in a taxi to the centre. In the day, the city felt more peaceful and less energetic but there were still a good amount of people milling their way through the sites. The small old town sits comfortably astride the slopes below the statue of Mother Georgia, with her arms outstretched, with a bowl of wine for her friends and a sword in her other hand to presumably strike down her enemies with. From a distance, she was pretty attractive, considering she was a 20 metre aliminium statue- (in a dominatrix kind of way). We decided we’d need a close inspection and so we headed for the cable car to the top of the gentle hill where the fortress stands.
Mark is scared of heights so was pretty brave, once we were on the move. We took some atmospheric shots of the houses below, coloured in a way not dissimilar to those in Tenby and it is these varied colours that lends the city a charm and sophistication that is delightful. The river meanders between the old and new towns and these are connected by the friendship bridge which curves artistically across the water, and reminded me of a marine animal- maybe the back of a dolphin. There has been some criticism of the nature of this building as it certainly stands out and perhaps fails to merge quietly into the rustic ascetic of the old town and its monuments. However, I loved it and its almost futuristic style architecture- a steel and glass construction with many built in LEDS which illuminate the bridge magically in the evenings.
From the cable car we were also able to have a great view of the Metheckin church as well as see the statue of the city’s founding father Vakhtang Gorgasali and further in the distance, the Baratshavili Bridge and the Presidential office- all places we would become acquainted with as the day progressed. The Friendship bridge is not the only extravagant and modern architecture in the city and for me, not the most dramatic. That accolade must be awarded to the modern Concert hall which was designed by Massimiliano Fuksas- this building stands out dramatically partly due to its size but also its silvery exterior which look like it might blind you on a hot summer’s day. To me, the upturned cylindrical shapes looked like two giant alien legs in a foil-like spacesuit that had been chopped off its body and thrown on the Georgian capitals ground. However, Rach says they look like upturned vases- hmm – I do worry about my state of mind sometimes.
The ride to the Narikala fortress was perhaps less than ten minutes but we were wowed by the city before we reached the top- we were also in love with Mother Georgia, it seemed. Once we alighted, we strolled around the top of the fortress which is essentially just a wall these days. That said, it does provide a wonderful framed historical background for the gorgeous city. There are two walled sections that stand between the Sulphur baths and the botanical gardens which we could see from the top. Although the structure was begun in the fourth century, its walls are largely 16th and 17th century. The mongols had named the fortress Narin Qala or ‘Little Fortress’. This makes it sound weak and a little pathetic but when up close it is a robust stone construction that would certainly have scared me if I’d had to scale it or attack it. Inside the fortress stands St Nicholas church which dates back to the 12th century though it was modernized in the 1990s. The interior of this church is full of wonderful frescoes, perhaps not the Sistine Chapel but nonetheless stunning, vibrant and imaginative paintings. Outside the church we marveled at bits of old masonry that must have been there for centuries, with precise and intricate carving and sculptures upon them. If they’d have been a little more diminutive, I think Mark would have dropped one into his back-the historical kleptomaniac that he is.
We walked along the ridge of the city looking down at its houses and people and passing some rather bizarre sites, something that happens an awful lot when I am away with Mark!
We strolled passed a parrot on someone’s shoulder, a monkey walking along with its traveller-like companion, a paintball shooting gallery called Apocalypse- within the courtyard of which there was a big painted cylindrical container with Bender from ‘Futurama’painted on it saying, ‘Beer is good’. This was definitely a hint. Finally, we reached Mother Georgia- we joked that she was a bit of a looker but up close she was pretty formidable. We made a few dirty jokes that were, in truth, disgustingly puerile. We needed a beer.
As luck would have it, we found a lovely beer establishment with an outside seating area overlooking the city and to add to the moment there was a chap selling rost chestnuts nearby and so I bought some. We perched, munched and looked out whilst we relished how lucky we actually were to be able to live the lives that we did. We enjoyed a couple of beers here in the sunshine and relative peace, until one little kitty cat decided to wee, with brazen temerity on Mark’s ruck sack- which obviously and in the spirit of our juvenile leanings during the trip, was then christened, ‘cat piss bag’.
Accompanied by the unpleasant, pungent smell of ammonia, we left the bar and decided to walk our way back down the hill in search of the church by the river. However, by the time we had reached the river we felt the need for further refreshments and so we stopped for white wine- quite sour in tasty but with a waxy, buttery flavor that coated the mouth and made it strangely moreish. After our beverages we walked across the bridge and into the Metekhi church. Historians seem unsure as to how old this church actually is but it is certainly an old one and it has that ancient scent about its environs, like mildew but somehow still respectable. The church was built to look like a continuation of the cliff and it is its aspect that impresses, as it is visible from many parts of the city. Everything about the church screams sturdy, broad and powerful. There were once murals inside but they haven’t been preserved. Nevertheless, there is a strange mysticism that come with the simplicity of the place and I enjoyed sitting inside for a while.
After visiting the church and the statue that stands outside it, we wandered past the giant grand piano monument that stands in the park by the river as well as getting a closer look at the concert hall and even a statue of Ronald Regan sitting on a bench. I have no idea why but I felt the need to sit with my arm around the statue and feigned kissing him. Perhaps it’s actually me that’s odd and not Mark.
The day flew by quicker than we expected and we found ourselves at a little restaurant as the evening drew in, sitting outside and sipping wine and Cha cha (not a dance but it certainly causes a merry dance in the brain). It was a very ethereal place with coloured fabrics on the wall, hanging paper lanterns, coloured lights and hanging greenery. It was a delightful ambience and the night was capped by a wonderful pianist who played sensitively as we ate.
Now, that cha cha. This is a Georgian spirit which is 45 percent in strength and not for the faint hearted. Gareth ordered it as an aperitif and we ended up with a bottle. Suffice it to say that by the end of the evening we had consumed the bottle as well as two very full-bodied reds that were the best wines we’d drunk so far on the trip. The meal and the company was fantastic though there was an amusing moment where our smiling pianist was competing with a young female guitarist busker singing music that was perhaps less refined but a lot cooler. For a moment, we weren’t sure who to listen to and at times I tried to give both equal attention.
Once back at the ‘digs’, we popped to the supermarket for some more wine, yet didn’t drink much of it, as we were more tired than we thought. We all slept well. Very...
I awoke with a bit of a hangover, which I don’t get much these days. Once again, I awoke first and, after we managed a fairly dry pastry and a very very strong coffee, out of a paper cup, in a scruffy looking establishement, we managed to get ourselves a taxi into the centre for our last day in the city. It wasn’t that easy initially, as we asked the chap on duty to book us one but after it took ages we gave up on it and managed to ‘flag’one down off the street. That would come back to ‘bite us’ later on but I don’t think any of us was completely compis mentis and we were all quiet and reflective in the taxi.
Once in the centre we looked for somewhere to grab a decent, hearty breakfast. I was desperate to get some goodness in me: water, fruit and maybe some oats. We eventually stopped at a place just down the road from the wine selling ‘Dunkin’ Donuts’. It was a little like a ‘Starbucks’ type place, selling cakes, pastries, healthy breakfasts and sandwiches etc. What shocked us was that you could buy wine! Again! As well as bourbon! We laughed about how funny it would be to have a whisky breakfast, though as I giggled, my head throbbed with the pain of the hangover and the humour subsided fairly quickly. We sat out side and I purchased a banana milkshake, for which I received considerable mocking.
As we awaited the coffees we’d also ordered, Mark re-entered the building and returned with three large measures of bourbon, which he set down in front of himself, Gareth and I. I was not impressed. Gareth seemed fine- well, we do call him ‘the catcher’. I struggled through the measure, whilst screwing up my face at the increasing pain in my head. In the end I simply couldn’t finish it, so just before we moved on, Mark downed mine to ‘help me out!’
I had popped around the back of the coffee (that sells alcohol) shop looking for a toilet and, though I was unsuccessful, I was surprised with some of the strange juxtapositions I saw and after we had finished breakfast I wanted to show Gareth and Mark.
The first odd sight was the name of a bar, not yet open called ‘Peaky Blinders’ bar which seemed wholly incongruent in Tblisi. Yet, more was to come, starting with a large mural of Frank Sinatra on a wall with some comment about loving thine enemy ‘alcohol’. How apt, given the previous night and the bourbon breakfast. In the centre of this small square was a statue of what looked like a toddler drinking from a goblet of wine. The whole place was odd.
After some wanderings around this area, we enjoyed some walking through the narrow streets before heading through the park and getting on a boat that took us down the river. I really enjoyed this part of the trip as we were given wine as part of the ticket price and I was recovering well; not as well as Gareth and Mark but I was the least experienced member of the tour. The boat was driven by a child for much of the journey but there was no problem with the level of proficiency. We were able to see the city from a different perspective for a while and there was a lovely gentle serenity to this moment that we all enjoyed. The sun was finally showing its face from behind the insistent clouds of the morning and we all relaxed.
After our trip, it was time for refreshments and we were able to grab some lovely craft beers at a place that sold Belgian beers too. It was very pleasant. Not wishing to mess about by going back to the hotel, we decided to seek out some place to eat and before long we left the craft beer place and ended up back near young Frank Sinatra. Doing it ‘our way’ we found a small street adjacent to the painting of the legendary crooner and strolled down, stopping only to check out some of the finer wines. And fine they were. Gareth was right! The wine at the top end is unsurpassed by any I’ve ever tried.
We sat and drank a couple of bottles and ordered ‘tapas’ style snacks. It was a charming way to enjoy our last evening: the food and service were both excellent. After a delightful feast and lots of laughs and jokes, mainly based around teasing Mark about wine and the various complexities in the taste and the tannins, we managed to flag down a taxi. A
ll was well until we arrived at the hotel desk- an angry chap-the same guy who had booked our taxi earlier- was less than impressed that we had left him with the annoyed driver. I was less than sympathetic, saying we had waited an age for him but Mark paid the guy for the inconvenience and all was sorted. We went to bed almost immediately, ‘well oiled’ and relaxed. It had been a calm but lovely day.
We left for the airport in the morning and flew back to ‘Tashers’. It was not so great to be back- Tblisi had been superb and the company, first class.
My memories of Rome with Rachel are still fairly vivid. It was seventeen years ago and as the old cliché says: ‘where did all the time go?’ We had thrown a coin in the Trevi together and so we were destined to return.
The early morning drive down to Stansted was initially uneventful and we parked our car in the ‘Orange zone’ as the emailed had instructed. There were no people around and it all seemed a bit odd but we rolled with it, left the car and entered the airport. At this point Rachel became anxious- she was quiet and looked very frightened as it dawned on her that we would be shooting off into the sky in the heavy metal machine that is a plane. I don’t think about this too often anymore- I think of them now as sky buses and it makes it much easier. I don’t want to appear unsympathetic though, as to be fair, Rach had not flown for a couple of years and so this was a bigger event for her.
Unfortunately, the onus on decision making fell on me throughout but once we settled and managed to get our way through security- Rach had left all of her liquid make ups products and the like in her bag and not in the see-through plastic bags that are provided these days, we relaxed and laughed about the cock up!
The flight was fine, though Rach struggled to sleep and I must admit, I don’t think I found it as easy as I usually do- not sure why. On landing we were greeted with that wonderful ‘holiday type’ sun that you want to experience when stepping off a plane. It was pleasant for mid-morning and certainly bearable. We managed to grab a coach to the main train station and from there we worked out how to purchase a metro ticket. Before long we were in the right area and we walked the last part to the Bed and Breakfast, which was right next to the Vatican and St Peter’s Basilica. I had never stayed in this area before so was quite excited. Our room was a long way up but thankfully there was a lift. This contraption was perhaps the most interesting sight on the trip so far. It was stylish- a retro wooden lift with an external metal door and two beautiful inner wooden doors- with glass panes. It was like a film set and made me think of the ‘Titanic’ movie for some reason. The interior had red cushioned seats and as it made its rickety way to the top floor, part of me expected us to be transported through time and maybe when the doors opened we might be greeted by a thoroughly English butler speaking in perfect ‘Clipped- English’. Don’t misunderstand me though: this lift was not included for style, it was simply old and had not been updated.
We were still in 2019 when we left the lift and met the owner of the B and B. He was a delightful man and after showing us the wonders of his new coffee machine, he let us into the room which was very pleasant and the bed, in particular was exceptionally comfortable. We both needed rest but I was aware that our time in Rome was limited and I do dislike wasting time in hotel rooms. We lay down for an hour or so and then, forced ourselves up. Rach adorned her charismatic floppy hat and sunglasses- she looked the spitting image of Sophia Loren in her heyday. She is a stunningly attractive woman, my wife (don’t go red in the face if you read this Rach- it’s true).
We headed down the road, initially towards the Sistine Chapel which is housed in the Vatican museum but we had taken a wrong turn- we wanted to go and see the Basilica first. It was much hotter now- perhaps 33 degrees and both of us were adjusting a little. After fending off tour guides wanting to sell us tours and ‘avoid the queue’ passes, we found ourselves in the magnificent piazza that makes up the foreground to the famous cathedral. I don’t wish to be sacrilegious but I have always found this to be more impressive than the cathedral itself and this time was no different. The square itself is named after St Peter, an apostle and possibly the first pope. Rach and I looked on through the glaring sunshine and were drawn to the fountains that adorn the piazza- wonderfully ornate and aesthetically pleasing. At the centre of the square is an ancient Egyptian obelisk erected at the site and standing at a height of eighty four feet with bronze lions supporting its base. Its history is incredible as it once stood in ancient Helipolis and was moved by Emperor Augustus to the Julian Forum Alexandria in AD 37. It was transferred to Rome by Caligula and placed by Nero at the entrance to the Circus of Nero before the final transfer in 1586. A hundred years later, Gian Lorenzo Bernini designed the rest of the square, including the massive doric colonnades, four columns deep. The concept was to embrace all comers into the arms of mother church. It doesn’t do that for me I have to say but my word, it is a powerful spectacle of wealth, power and beauty. Along the tops of the trapezoidal entrance are the statues of saints, popes and the like, all no doubt very tall but looking like tiny men on top of this immense structure. The fountains provided a lovely area to sit but the glaring sun was at full power so Rach headed for the shade, afforded by the obelisk. I strolled around, braving the heat- before noticing the names of the popes engraved into paving stones on the floor, encircling the obelisk.
From this point you can see the size of St Peter’s. My father often says it isn’t the biggest cathedral- it probably isn’t but it is big! Especially as it is in such a large open space where it might get dwarved. It doesn’t, but I still prefer the piazza. We had no intention of going in this year. We had both been in before but we took some lovely photos.
Rach was dizzy and tired and the heat wasn’t helping. She took the brave decision to head back to the hotel and I accompanied her. She needed to catch up on sleep and, in truth, so did I. Nevertheless, I decided to ignore the body and once Rachel was settled I headed out to check out the area, this time walking away from the Basilica but not towards Castle St Angelo. This area felt like real Rome, with no attractions or famous History and I chose a cheap looking, small restaurant with a couple of tables outside (literally 2!) I was the only customer. I ordered a beer and a margarita and read some of Shantaram, occasionally looking up to watch Roman life go by. Last time, Rach and I had been here, she had marvelled at and commented on how beautiful and impeccably presented local women were- usually the height of fashion. I thought about this as I watched and things have definitely changed: less people trying to ‘dress to impress’ and a range of styles that designers would not appreciate were evident. I sank a second beer and scoffed my pizza. It was delicious and I was reminded of the outstanding tomato flavour of Italy. Not a stereotype, honestly.
I headed back to see Rach. She was awake when I returned and bravely tried to get up and about. We headed out for another drink but it was clear she wasn’t feeling well and the thought of extensive walking in the heat was ludicrous so after an hour or so we returned and she rested. I couldn’t handle the idea of a night in the B and B so, on the advice of the owner I set my sights on the Maria Trastevere church and the area surrounding it. He had spoken with real joy of the local musicians, the narrow historic streets, the lights down by the Tiber and pleasant, and relatively inexpensive restaurants and bars. The walk was meandering and gentle as I took in the sights which included two river crossings, the sounds of a wonderful musician playing the harp with immense skill and a quick glance at the aforementioned castle Angelo.
The second bridge across the winding Tiber was thoroughly lovely- and I remained there for a while as sellers packed away their wares and the evening musicians set up and begun to ply their own trade. The lights of the restaurants by the river glowed faintly in the fading light, not yet able to stun but there was a promise of beauty in the air. I walked on passed an eclectic mix of bars, moving in and out of piazzas and even stopping for a short while to watch a guitarist giving an impromptu concert to maybe a hundred evening revellers. After a few wrong turns, each leading happily to new delights, I arrived at St Maria Trastevere church. It is set within a smallish piazza, with homely restaurants encircling it, holding the space in loving arms.
The church itself is one of the oldest in Rome, with a floor plan dating back to 1140. Its façade includes five arches that sits in the foreground to a large house-like structure with a clock tower to its right known as a campanile with a painting of the Madonna and child placed subtly near the top. I was nervous about walking in, as the ethereal singing I heard from outside suggested a service (or perhaps a concert- such was the high standard of the performance). I approached the entrance gingerly, walking underneath one of the arches. There was a welcoming sign explaining that there was a service but that visitors could enter and listen. I did. It was a great decision. The music was quite literally, ‘heavenly’- melodious, beautiful counterpoint and five part harmony in places. It was a masterclass of composition and performance and I stayed for longer than I thought I had, listening intently, smiling and staring in awe at the 17th century mosaics and decorative interior of this beautiful little basilica. I vowed to take Rach here the next night but with hunger growling in my stomach, I finally allowed it to control my urges. Feeling as though I had been cleansed somehow, I shook my shoulders to release the moment and began my search for a restaurant.
I stopped at a what was essentially a small bar, with bar stools and little tables, able to accommodate three people at most. Indeed the entire place could house no more than twenty. The atmosphere was sophisticated and borrowed some of the sounds from a nearby busy and larger restaurant. These sounds were present but unobtrusive and afforded a beautiful place to drink, read and eat which is what I did. I had a plate of gnocchi in a blue cheese sauce which was as good as I expected it to be but it was the beers that impressed me (at least until I saw the bill)- all draft and of varied strength, taste and complexity. I finished with a 7% which packed a punch, as did the aforementioned bill. Whilst in this restaurant, reading Shantaram, I stopped for a moment to realise how much I had changed in the past year, as a human being. I always tell people that I am not good with my own company and that left alone, can become maudlin and morose- this was definitely once the case. I recollect writing a poem once called ‘The Lament of the Gregarious Man’, waffling on (albeit with exaggerated pretension) about being a family man who couldn’t cope without his loved ones for one night. Yet, as I sat without Rachel I was surprisingly at ease. The year of looking after myself had done wonders for my ability to entertain myself.
I left just before an hour before midnight yet the streets were still as lively as ever and the restaurants by the river now shone brightly, catching the light of the moon and gleaming off the lapping water of the Tiber. I smiled as I walked home through the cooling evening and snuggled up to my beautiful wife, who was resting when I returned. She felt better for the lie down and I, despite wanting to have spent the evening with her, was very happy. I smiled as I slept.
I awoke refreshed and ready to explore, so was delighted when Rach seemed much better. We were both very hungry and the breakfast of almond creamed pastries and other delights was very welcome as was the lovely coffee.
After leaving the hotel, we headed for the metro. Like Berlin, the metro system, is efficient and cheap but the trust factor isn’t quite as high. There are barriers in Rome and you do have to prove that you bought a ticket. We decided to try and take in the colosseum in the morning and then work our way back through the beautiful piazzas that we remembered so well from our last visit.
As you come out of the metro opposite the colosseum, there is literally no time to prepare yourself for the sight. As soon as the sun touches your face and you are out in the open air and above ground you are hit with the astounding spectacle, that is the colosseum. I have seen this building several times in my life but if you have never seen it, then go and look. It is undoubtedly one of the most impressive ancient monuments I have ever seen.
It was very warm despite the early hour and the place was already full to the brim with tourists. It soon became apparent that we wouldn’t be going inside which was a slight disappointment to me as I heard good things about the changes they had made to the interior. However, we enjoyed a relatively leisurely walk around the perimeter and took some lovely photos.
It is its sheer size that impresses. Completed in AD 80 and nearly 2000 years old, it was the largest Amphitheatre ever built at the time and could house up to 80, 000 spectators. What also astonishes is the how well it has been preserved and how in parts, you can see its original height of 48 metres or one hundred and fifty-seven feet (sorry I work in old measurements). The walls are incredibly thick and I was surprised to read that the structure itself was actually elliptical and not circular.
We snaked our way through the hustle and bustle and I wondered if this was how it would have been on a big gladiatorial evening, like something out of the film ‘Gladiator’. About a third of the way around the colosseum, we arrived beside the arch of Constantine- a triumphal arch dedicated to ten years of the rules of emperor Constantine and finished approximately 315 AD- it is a stunning piece of architecture. It has the classical roman look you would expect but on closer inspection you can see a level of detail which is quite stunning with friezes of various roman triumphs in battle and throwbacks to the emperors Hadrian and Trajan and various campaigns all over the roman empire. Apparently, there are some scholars who believe the arch is much older and was simply altered or added to but this is very much in debate. Rach and I took a little selfie before continuing our circumnavigation.
I was fascinated to read that there had once been a bronze statue to the emperor Nero, in this piazza, before the colosseum was built called the colossus of Nero and that it was from this statue that the colosseum took its name. Some people believe the statue remained beside the colosseum until as late as the 7th century AD but others say it was razed to the ground during the sack of Rome in 410 AD. Either way, I would love to have seen it and my mind wandered again at what it must have been like to see Rome in its glory, at the height of the empire.
As we slalomed our way through the crowds we were joined by a jamaican young man who was clearly scamming folk and trying to make a quick book, selling bracelets. He made a few smart remarks and I declined to buy the bracelets. Of course, he thrust one upon me and I gave it him back. It was clear that he was not going away and that, in truth I admired his persistence and before long I was wearing one. After a while, I gave the smiling chap it back and walked away. By which time, he had managed to get talking to Rach and despite my dramatic quick stride away, remained on our tail. He asked about our son and gave Rach a bracelet for him saying it was a gift before asking for a donation. With adept skill, he walked away with a bargain. I’d been fleeced, and knowingly, despite my experience but actually, I didn’t care and was quite impressed by the young man as he headed off to find his next victim, to charm.
From the colosseum, we headed off in search of refreshments and so made out way out on to the main road that looks over the roman forum and Palantine Hill, before making its way past Trajan’s column. This part of Rome is phenomenal and although we didn’t enter the sites this time, due to the enormous queues, we were still able to stand and wonder at the history here, which is all consuming. Everywhere you look, you are confronted with ruins of varying ages alongside medieval and renaissance architecture. We stopped for a much needed drink before strolling through the sun and taking it all in.
I was mildly disappointed by the sight of a huge metro station building project, where metal girders and bars were sat astride an ancient monument (I think what was once part of Emperor Augustus’ house) like a giant metal spider. The poles and metal like veins ran deep into the building and beneath the ground, presumably to secure the historic buildings whilst workers busied themselves cutting and blasting through the ground beneath. I caught the back end of a conversation between an Italian tour guide and an Australian visitor where the local was explaining how frustrating and unnecessary it was to put another tube station just metres from the other one. Initially I agreed but then I looked once more at the crowds- only twice have I seen a busier place- once in India and once in Kazakstan. Maybe another metro station is needed, I thought.
Opposite the sites of the forum is Trajan’s column- one of my favourite buildings in the city- partially because of its aspect set in the backdrop of two renaissance basilicas and looking and somehow being a focal point for the divide between ancient and renaissance Rome. This column was completed in 113 AD but it isn’t its age that is the most impressive thing but the spiral bas relief which runs all the way up the column and which represents the wars between the Romans and the Dacians. Many victory columns have copied this design and so it is like a grandfather of such architecture and there is a romance about the building for me. I always look at this structure for a little linger than the others. It is 30 metres in height (98 feet) but sits on a pedestal which raises it to 115 feet. There is a apparently a spiral staircase inside the column which takes you to a viewing platform although I don’t think it is open anymore. As you approach this column and observe the skilled and detailed carvings, which includes fifty nine individual depictions of the emperor Trajan. It really is a marvel.
Lining this road are various statues of important roman emperors including one of Julius Caesar (not strictly an emperor). Eventually we made our way across the via del Fori Imperiali and took in the sight of the incredible, outlandish, and impossible to ignore Altare della Partria or Emmanuel the second’s National monument. I saw this building from a tour bus when I was a young kid and have distinct memories of my father telling us all what an ugly building it is and that many people called it the giant wedding cake. I take his point- it is dramatic and dominant and perhaps distracts from the ancient monuments but I have to confess to loving it. One day, I hope visitors will look upon this building as an ancient monument and wonder at the folk, such as Rach and I, who wander around it during its earlier years.
The building was built in honour of Victor Emmanuel and is designed in neo-classical style, featuring an enormous and flamboyant staircase, Corinthian columns, and a fountain that sits alongside sculptures of goddesses and Victor Emmanuelle himself astride a horse. The sheer size is impressive being 135 metres wide and 81 metres high (230 feet). It is in no way comparable to the government building in Budapest of course but still some serious structure and Rach and I took some lovely photos here- the white marble being particularly striking in the late morning sunshine.
From this part of the city we were able to look out at the ancient history behind us and the more modern history of the city in front of us, which closes into narrow, beautiful little roads that meander in a labyrinthine manner, connecting piazza to piazza like veins connecting organs in the body. Some shade was definitely required, so Rachel and I decided we would try and seek out some of the wonderful piazzas we had enjoyed together all those years ago. Our first aim was the Pantheon. Years ago, we had both managed to get royally sozzled on red wine opposite the structure. That wouldn’t be happening this time, especially as Rachel doesn’t drink anymore but we were here, creating new memories.
I was struggling for data on my phone so we were using an old-fashioned map which was sadly made of very thin paper. It was beginning to look like it had been through a washing machine and eventually we gave up and happily strode on, hoping to find ourselves stumbling upon the pantheon by happy happenstance. Nevertheless, we were surprised to find the narrow streets open out on the piazza Navona- in my opinion the most beautiful piazza in Rome. Years ago, Rachel had her portrait done here and the place was çhock a block’ with artists plying their trade alongside human statues. I was surprised to see that all of that had gone- it was a disappointment and not the first one I experienced over the next couple of hours. Nonetheless, the piazza itself is a wonder. In the centre there is an Egyptian obelisk which seems hugely incongruent and is not from Egypt, despite the hieroglyphics. It was constructed during the reign of Domitian between 81 and 96 AD. It had been buried for many years but was found in the seventeenth century and placed in the piazza in 1649 by Pope Sixtus the 5th. It had previously been pride of place in the circus of Maxentius. The obelisk itself is now the centerpiece of a fountain entitled the ‘fountain of the four rivers’. Piazza Navona has two other ornate fountains with various god-like sculptures including one that depicts a Moor wrestling with a dolphin.
Rach and I walked lazily through the long rectangular piazza and even stopped to look inside one of the churches. It was superbly decorative inside and very royal. No expense had been spared. Yet despite all of the history and architectural wonder present, both Rach and I were drawn perhaps most obviously to the sight of a man blowing the most enormous bubbles and sending them into the air using some sort of strange device that ensured maximum bubble size. It was like he was creating little transparent planets and sending them into orbit. With the absence of the street performers and artists, this was a much-appreciated replacement.
Whilst in the piazza, my belly began to growl a little and I was ready for some food yet Rach was very keen to return to the restaurant near the pantheon. It is a short stroll from one piazza to the other and before long we were in the Piazza della Rotunda: a chubby, squat piazza appropriately adorned with many restaurants and housing my favourite building in Rome- the Pantheon.
This, once roman temple, is now a church and inside it is the most spectacular dome and oculus. For many years, this was the biggest unsupported dome in the world. I loved this building as a child as it is inscribed with M Agrippa- Marcus Agrippa, the friend of Emoperor Augustus and a star, in my eyes, of the excellent 'I Claudius' drama series that I watched repetitively as a child. However, this building does not date back as far as that. Indeed, there was a temple here commissioned by Marcus Agrippa but this burned down and another temple, was built upon its foundations and completed in 126 AD. The inscription survived the fire and was placed on the new temple. It is one of the best preserved buildings in Rome.
Rach and I wanted to eat and drink whilst taking it all in and, romantically, we found the same restaurant we had sunk so many wines in, all those years ago. It was a lovely moment of the trip. After lunch, we entered the pantheon though we had our doubts at first as there was a sign about covering up and having no flesh on show- which was absolutely not the case on each of the other occasions that I had been. It seemed like Christianity was somehow become more reserved and Rach was concerned as she was wearing a strapless dress- very classy mind! Thankfully, I managed to convince her to go for it. The crowds were considerable and the man checking wasn’t able to stop everyone. We simply strode through with confidence and entered this magnificent building. Inside, there are beautiful scupltures, art work and of course that outstanding dome that has a height of 43 metres and an inner circle diameter that is exactly the same. This place is still a working church and there are many people of note buried here including: Raphael (the renaissance painter, not the teenage mutant ninja turtle!) and Corelli- the famous Italian composer.
The shade was nice for a while as the sun was at its hottest but after some respite, we left the Pantheon and made our way to Piazza di Trevi- the site of the phenomenally impressive and largest fountains in Rome. Here we were faced with the largest crowds of the entire trip- thousands of people in one small space all desperate to take that romantic image of themselves with their loved ones besides the fountain of love. We wanted a comparison shot from when we were last here and where I had argued with the guy who had thrust a rose on to our picture, despite my remonstrations. This time, the hardest part would be getting a space near the Trevi to take a picture. We managed to nudge and budge our way down and sat in almost the same place for a little selfie.
Only seconds later, the whistling began. Whistling that started to really annoy me. At first, I couldn’t see where it was coming from but then I noticed them, police stationed all around with whistle permanently in their mouths. It seemed that you could no longer sit on the edge of the fountain and every time someone did- which was often, they whistled! This is supposed to be a place of romance, of beauty and it is a stunning setting but for me it was a place of loud shrieking whistling and inevitable headaches.
The fountain itself is very impressive, standing 26.3 metres high (86 feet) and being 161 feet wide. It is decorative and ornate with countless sculptures and elaborate craftsmanship. It was finished in 1762 and for many years people have come here to celebrate love and, of course, throw a coin in the fountain, thereby ensuring their return to this wonderful city. However, it was less than enjoyable this time with the crowds and the whistles and so we left (though we still through a coin in). I want to come back.
We headed home via the Spanish steps, an area where young fashionable types ‘hang out’ looking sharp and smart. It was busy but less so than the Trevi but the whistling continued here in the piazza de spagna. The monumental stairway is 174 steps, hardly Whitby! However, there is a lovely baroque style church at the top called the Triniti del Monti with two perpendicular bell towers which date back to the 18th century. Definitely worth a snap or two but we were tired and the whistling was driving me crazy. In fact, I was so moved that I approached an officer who was standing at the foot of the stairs, whistle in mouth, simply looking for people who sat down for a moment so that she could whistle and gesticulate frantically with her hand for the said person to get up immediately. I had to find out what was happening.
“Hello- do you speak English”
“A little”
“Why are so many people whistling in Rome”
“ It is to protect the monuments.”
I thought as much. “But, this is the city of love. I have been here many, many times and never this whistling. Why now?""
“Many people are littering”.
I didn’t understand what this had to do with sitting on a step for a moment.
“OK, but it is not nice is it? The city of love and all we hear is whistling loudly."
I covered my ears to emphasise the point. She’d had enough. Fair enough I suppose. I left. It seemed strange to me that they thought that a few seconds sitting on a step would be any more damaging than walking all over them.
We found the metro easily enough and made our weary way back to the digs. It was nice to out our feet up for a bit.
That evening, I took Rach to the Maria Trastevere as I had promised myself that I would. She looked stunning and thoroughly enjoyed the romance, the lights and the intricate iittle streets and bridges across the river. We say at a lovely bar that sold very pleasant craft beers (much desired after, when I had spent so much time in Tashkent, in recent times). Rach had a mojito which she enjoyed a lot and we chatted before dinner.
Afterwards, I showed her the church and where I had recorded the beautiful singing that I heard the night before. There are so many beautiful places to eat in this region and we found a very pleasant one where we could sit down and chat. It was a lovely end to the evening and as we walked our weary way back to the digs via St Peter’s basilica and the people living on the street, I wished we had come for longer.
We slept well.
We woke a little later than the previous day. It had been quite a long one and I think we were more tired than we thought. The plan was to head out to the Baths of Caracalla- one of the lesser known but surprisingly spectacular sites of Rome.
It was warm again, perhaps early 30s which for the mid-morning was quite surprising especially for Rachel, who had been stuck in England’s miserable weather for a couple of years. We were very much used to the metro by now and so bought our tickets and alighted with a confidence born of experience.
It was a short journey which was on the south side of the historic centre. Here, there were less crowds and more trees and as we walked the short distance from the metro we could see the high terracotta shades of the baths that reached above the branches. This part of Rome seems to be ignored by a number of tourists but as this was my sixth trip to Rome, I was beginning to feel like a local. There was a healthy number of tourists at the ticket desk however and I was impressed that they were selling the rental of Virtual Reality goggles which allowed people to see what these incredible baths used to be like. However, the law of the sod had it that ours were broken and only showed one screen.
The baths themselves are huge and if it was a leisure centre today, it would still impress. What amazed me perhaps the most was that this was actually only the second largest public baths in Rome. It was built between 212AD and 217AD and finished under the reign of Caracalla. The romans made use of these baths for three hundred years before disrepair set in. In truth, the ruins are now simply high walls, robust arches and open spaces below where once there were pools but an imaginative person can easily see the bathers jumping into the appealing waters and little business meetings on the side of the pool besides expensive sculptures and great pieces of art. In fact, several famous sculptures were found at this site including the Farnese Bull and the Farnese Hercules. On one wall, you can see graffiti from the time and there was also a liberal amount of mosaic flooring, cordoned off, of course, as a means of preservation.
Rachel and I enjoyed a good hour and bit wandering happily through the different rooms and even stopping on a bench (modern addition of course) to rest from the heat, in the shade of some of the beautiful trees that adorn the site. After a brief rest and last few photos we handed back the broken Virtual Reality goggles and wander towards the metro. We took a trip down towards the Tiber and strolled up passed the piazza Augusto Imperatore where we were able to look through some railing at the mausoleum of Augustus. This tomb was built by the Roman Emperor Augustus in 28 BC on the Campus Martius though, of course, Augustus himself in AD14. I had been in a few years before and it looked like some renovation work was being done and entry was not allowed. Besides we were hungry and so we walked along Via di Repeta looking for somewhere nice to eat.
Eventually we stumbled across a very non-Roman looking place called Bulldog which I believe is a Dutch based food chain. Here, the beer was excellent and the veggie falafel burger was stunning. I think I had three pints of a really strong IPA type beer. In truth, it was irritating at first, as they forgot our order but they responded superbly and gave us free drinks and a massive discount on the food.
We mused and mulled a few things over and left mid-afternoon, as we knew we had only a short time to catch the plane. Next to the Bulldog restaurant there is a massive modern government building that I cannot remember the name of and it made me think of the building in Budapest- it wasn’t quite so impressive but not far off and we took a few photos before circumnavigating the building. We walked the few kilometres back towards the digs to grab our bags and say our goodbyes. Our host had been lovely, helpful and attentive without being annoying.
We had a few butterflies in the stomach when we couldn’t initially find the airplane shuttle bus but we came across a lovely young man who was waiting at a stop in uniform and realised he was waiting for the bus too as he worked for the company. We paid for a ticket and minutes later, jumped on the bus to the airport.
Three cities in three countries, (4 if you include the Vatican) in less than a month. It had been a great summer of travelling.
Keen as I was to ensure that I managed some quality time with all of those who I loved, I headed off to the capital of Germany with my wonderful daughter Georgia. Our flight was in the evening and due to arrive at around 9.30pm German time and so we were particularly grateful for the lift from Rachel down to Manchester. She did a great job.
On arrival, the two of us, with happily minimal baggage (a massive bonus to weekend travelling) stood in the, and I have to apologise for the stereotyping, exceedingly organized queue, for a reasonably priced taxi to our not overly creatively titled, ‘Berlin, Berlin Hotel.’ This place was huge and certainly the largest hotel in Berlin. Georgia and I were tired but after checking we had to walk the slightly sinister quarter of a mile to our room- finishing with a corridor that resembled the corridors in the hotel in Stephen King’s The Shining’, Thankfully, the interior of the room was very pleasant and after dropping our stuff we headed out in search of a bar. It was around ten so I felt we could still get a couple in.
We passed a slightly quiet looking smallish restaurant which we weren’t sure was open before crossing the road and arriving at a bar called Einsteins. Of course! The place was however about three storeys high and there was a gate and a short journey down a little alleyway beside the entrance and the whole feel of the place (despite its appealing name) made us feel it might be a bit posh for us. We decided to try the quiet place and discovered it was open. It was still warm and we chose a place outside. We managed to order some potatoes and some soup and we both had a beer. It was Germany and it seemed wrong not to have a beer. It was a lovely hour or so and we were relieved about being there as well as excited and expectant about the fun we were going to have over the next few days. The waitress was lovely, smiley and very attentive and it is a memory that will definitely stay in my mind.
We headed back to the hotel afterwards and watched some news on the TV whilst teasing and laughing at the frankly ridiculous politicians. I slept well- Georgia less so (probably because of my incessant snoring).
Georgia started the day painfully as her knee problem had flared up again. She was very brave however as we walked from the hotel towards the Tiergarten park, a beautiful panorama of green in the city which is 520 acres in size. We walked on the road by the park towards the Victory Column which you can see from some distance away. Along the way we dodged the bicycles and I became used to the cycle tracks- Georgia being a Cambridge resident was all too used to this and laughed heartily at me whilst also pulling me into the safety zone on more than one occasion.
After a mile or so, we arrived at the Victory column which stands on what is a major roundabout. Strangely, it didn’t feel as busy as a big roundabout in England and certainly a theme began to emerge of better more organized transport throughout the city. There are endless bikes that you can hire online, unlock via your phone and then leave wherever you like when you’ve finished with it. You can also hire go-carts (mini-motorised ones) and electric scooters.
The Victory Column itself is 220 feet high and you can climb it to look over the city although we didn’t (not sensible with Georgia’s painful knee). It was built to commemorate the Franco Prussian war and has a golden statue of Victoria on the top. It is quite a site and we took a few photos before walking west towards the Reichstag (the seat of the German parliament). Georgia’s leg was just about holding up so we agreed to check out a few of the key monuments before resting- she was a proper trooper.
The leafy wide roads of this part of Berlin are a delight and despite its capital city status, it never felt crowded or overwhelming. After fifteen minutes or so, we arrived at the Recihstag- a dramatic stone building with large dramatic windows and perfectly symmetrical structures. The place is formidable and strong in its aspect and as Georgia and I approached it and made our way around the building, we began to realise how tall it was and how large. In truth, it was not a patch on the government building in Budapest but well worth a look.
Not far from the Reichstag was the Brandenburg gate. I was a little underwhelmed by the structure at first as I had imagined it to be bigger than it actually is. However, this gate, built in the 18th century as a gate to peace is quite a tourist spot and as we lingered there a little longer I became more impressed. There was also a cherry picker with two men in it cleaning the brass statue that stands on the top of the gate with a warrior (a little Bouddica like) on a chariot with four horses cast in full gallop. The two men seemed remarkably relaxed as they worked on, shining this impressive sculpture. I would have been terrified.
The doric columns give the structure a real sense of Greek history but the more I travel, the more I realise how much this style is aped by others. We walked through the gate into the main centre which is lovely and there were musicians and tour groups as well as cafes in what was certainly the busiest part of Berlin that we had witnessed so far. We headed into a gallery but became confused and walked through without seeing a thing. I think the gallery was on the floor above. However, by lucky happenstance, we found ourselves opposite the Holocaust memorial. I was still heady on emotion from the Budapest experience but this monument is something truly worth seeing and yet completely original in its design.
The site was opened in 2005 and called the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. It is a large site of 19000 square metres. From a distance it simply looks like many equal grey blocks and if anything, rather boring. Georgia and I crossed the road and as we wandered closer, began to realise what the artist had achieved. The 2711 concrete blocks, like giant unsullied tombs, are all of different sizes as the floor drops away and, as you walk into what is effectively a labyrinth, created by the many grey stones, you begin to feel disorientated and confused- sometimes dizzy, caused in part by the uneven floor. Underneath the memorial is a museum and information centre. We didn’t go in as the queue was very long yet I was ‘blown away’ by the memorial and its simple effectiveness. Georgia was too, I believe. Nearby in a pretty park is another memorial to the homo-sexual people who were murdered by the Nazi regime- it is simply one large grey block- very stark! Uncomfortably, I did notice a little homo-phobic graffiti on the tourist placard next to the monument.
We were gasping for a drink after our jaunt around some of the major Germanic memorials and so we stopped at a pleasant, though expensive café that we found out later was actually part of a hotel. Georgia had some homemade lemonade infused with herbs and the like. It was delightful, I have to say.
Using the essential Google maps, we found out where Madame Tussauds was; it is place I have never been anywhere in the world and Georgia had always wanted to see it, so we decided that this would be our next destination. It was thankfully close by and though we made a few mistakes, we eventually found our way.
It was very hot and the queue for the museum was quite some length- we were in the full sun for what seemed like an age but was probably ten minutes and when we managed to get inside the door of the museum, we felt enormously relieved. It wasn’t cheap to get into Madame Tussauds but wow, it was worth it. Some of the wax works were incredibly realistic and others less so but I have to say that the very best ones were frighteningly real and the closer you got to them, the more real they became. The wax work of Olive Kahn, the legendary German goalkeeper was brilliant; caught in mid roar and pointing- to stand in front of him was to know fear. I nearly cried. Other notable figures included a brilliant Bertolt Brecht, Sigmund Freud and an amazing Donald Trump- Georgia took a great picture with her sticking the middle finger up at him. I think she might lack a little respect for the Twitter King of the ‘Free World’.
We laughed a lot and left happy. Georgia’s knee was still playing up, so we decided to check out the underground metro. It was extremely simple: buy a ticket, stamp it in a machine to verify and jump on the train. I think what startled Georgia and I was the total trust- apparently there are massive fines for people not paying. However, we never saw a single security person or even member of staff checking tickets and when we arrived at our destinations there were no gates to stop us until we’d put our ticket in. We simply strolled out. We found this to be the case throughout our trip and began to wonder how they had created such a fabulous culture. The public transport in general was excellent and remarkably cheap. If only we could have this here in the UK.
We headed out towards the East Side hoping to find more vegan restaurants and accidentally ended up at the East Side Gallery. Here, remnants of the Berlin Wall have been painted upon with a range of skill, and technique that is quite staggering in places and quirky in others. As is always the way with art, there were certain scenes that demanded my attention and others that I skirted over. Georgia raced on ahead, despite the knee and I lingered a little longer over the art work trying to decipher the meaning behind some of them. My favorite being a wall with a small hole in it and a sea of heads or faces pushing their way through the gap- imprinted with expressions of desperation, hope and anguish.
We were hungry and not able to find a decent vegan place we sat down for a beer at a very modern looking place, run by Americans, I believe. We had vegan curryworst here which I really liked though Georgia was less keen. We sat here chatting for quite a while before grabbing a metro to the hotel. After a good old rest we grabbed an Uber cab thanks to Georgia’s app and headed to a Vegan restaurant about five kilometres from the hotel. This was my favourite restaurant of the trip and I had the most amazing, fresh tasting curry with no excess or even any oil I believe. It was just a bowl of deliciousness and Georgia also had a mixed bowl of vibrant colourful goodness. We discussed some way out topics including the impact of porn on teenagers which may seem an odd thing to discuss with your daughter but the conversation flowed with great ease. The owner was a lovely person and perfectly attentive throughout the evening. Eventually, we discussed veganism as we often do but mused on the concept that ‘yes, being a veggie and certainly a vegan does mean less choice’ but oddly, we felt that in many cases (though not all of course) vegans ate more variety than many meat eaters. The range of different vegetables, nuts, fruits, noodles, sauces etc was incredible on these plates and some of the products, many meat eaters might never have even heard of and almost certainly not cooked with.
I enjoyed a couple of beers: both very pleasant and certainly the Weiss bier I found particularly akin to my palate. We headed off home in a taxi and after a little chat and some Shantaram (the book I’m reading) we drifted off to sleep. Georgia had been a Trojan all day and though I’d worried about her, she hadn’t moaned once about her inflamed knee.
We woke earlyish and lazily and prepared for the day ahead. We made a quick assessment of the knee and decided that metros and buses were definitely the order of the day and so we grabbed a bus from across the street and bought a day ticket- 7 euros each! This meant we could use all the trains, trams, buses and metros that we wanted all day. What a deal! We seized it with eager hands and enjoyed the very smooth bus journey towards Berlin Cathedral which was to be our first stop for the day. On arrival, we sat opposite the river for a coffee and marveled at the cathedral for thirty minutes or so. I have to say that this part of Berlin is perhaps the most attractive and the cathedral, finished in 1905, is the highlight. It is one of the most attractive buildings I have ever seen: the centre piece of the building is a giant and I mean giant jade coloured dome and on each side of the building is another smaller dome of the same colour like little twins given birth to by the central dome. The building itself is a major work of historicist architecture and there are flavours of ancient Greece, the baroque period holding hands comfortably with the renaissance.
We paid to go in and looked around the main place of worship which was staggering as it all under the dome and there were no columns inside which made the space seem even bigger on the inside. It was very ornate with shiny golden statues and the usual pictures of saints and important folk from the Christian faith. You can climb to the top and walk around the dome but Georgia’s knee precluded this and in truth I was keen to take some photos outside.
The entrance or exit to the church opens up on to a large lawn with a wonderful fountain in the middle. Around this lawn are other quite impressive looking buildings which were mainly museums, after all, the area is known as Museum Island- you have to cross the river to get to the area. There are five museums here, the most famous of which being the Pergammon. We didn’t go in but I was impressed by the feeling of Neo Classical Greek that they had created in their architecture. If you ever go to Berlin, this is a great place for piccies.
We needed food and found a place for a good salad and we could see the cathedral whilst we ate. There was an awful lot of building work going on and so some of the view was spoilt but I was drawn to some advertising for the metro which was devised around the concept of connecting with people. The picture I was particularly drawn to was of two gay men snogging- as it made me think of Uzbekistan, where homo-sexuality is illegal. I realized how far the western world was ahead in this regard- especially as we had recently stood next to the memorial to those murdered for being homo-sexuals under Hitler’s jurisdiction. This poster would not get any kind of airing in Tashkent, where I spent a lot of my days over the last year.
After eating, we crossed the river but stayed in the district of Mitte as we wanted to get a closer look at the TV tower. There is a huge one in Tashkent so I was hoping to do a little comparison. Georgia and I had had a small disagreement over dinner so this part of the walk was a little awkward but we talked things out as we passed a wonderful looking church (which we also had a nosy of inside) and several beautiful fountains before being stood opposite the tower itself. At 150 metres it is quite formidable, though a long way short of the Tashkent tower at 375 metres- look at me getting all proud over Tashkent like I’ve been there all my life!
We were going to go up but the queues were once again considerable so we went for a beer under its huge height before grabbing a metro back to the digs. Georgia’s knee was slightly better and we grabbed some ice from the barman, which helped a little.
After a rest, we headed out for a Vietnamese vegan meal. It was lovely though really popular and so service was a touch slow and I had to get up and find a waiter on two occasions. I couldn’t help but compare the place to Pho in Cambridge and though the food was great it fell just a little and only little bit short of the Cambridge restaurant (I know it’s a chain). We had a good giggle and were able to sit outside again as it was very warm, which was very pleasant. It had been a day where we had experienced some wonderful architecture but we were tired and slept well once we returned to the hotel.
Our final day began with a bit of ‘don’t miss the plane’ about it. Although our flight was at 9.55pm we were always wary of being there in good time. Nevertheless, we were determined to have a great time and in truth, I think this day ended up being the most emotional and best. We grabbed a metro from about a quarter of a mile away from the hotel and headed out to Checkpoint Charlie.
This place is fascinating, not least because there is almost nothing there now and yet just standing in the space makes you feel something. I guess I have always been a bit of a romantic in terms of history! There is part of the old wall and a sign on the floor commemorating where the wall was first started in 1961. This part of the wall was the most famous of the crossing points from East to West and vice versa. There is still a sign saying, ‘you are leaving the American sector’ which was a must for a photo and some guys dressed up as soldiers to try and recreate what it must have been like. On the wall leading up to the checkpoint is a detailed description of what happened before, during and after the war and the whole political background behind the wall and of course its demise in 1989.
I found this very interesting although Georgia was less impressed as she knew it all! It was her A level History course and she said she felt she was doing revision all over again. My favourite picture was of a meeting with several world leaders and diplomats: I just loved Winston Churchill on this picture as he looked like an unpopular schoolboy pushed to the corner of the table with people leaning in and trying to push him out of the discussions. I know it is a still shot and not necessarily how things were but it made me laugh when I thought about how a few years ago, the british public voted him the greatest Britain of all time.
We wandered through into the ex-East German area where coffee shops shamelessly used the Checkpoint as their selling points with places like ‘Coffeepoint’ and ‘Checkpoint Deals’. After a coffee, we looked on Googlemaps and decided to head out towards the Topography of Terror. This is the area where many of the Nazi leaders met to discuss policies and of course the jewish question. It seemed I was unlikely to get away from thoughts of the holocaust this summer although I had no idea how emotional I would get once inside the Topography of Terror. I found this moment of the trip immensely upsetting and difficult. I was glad Georgia was with me to be frank.
It is located on Nierderkirchnerstrasse on the site of several Nazi headquarters including: the SS Reich Main Security Office, the headquarters of the Sicherheitspolizei, SD, Einsatzgruppen and Gestapo. In terms of modern evil history, this place is the zenith in Berlin. The wall here was never demolished. Indeed, the section adjacent to the Topography of Terror site is the longest remaining segment of the outer wall. We headed past a house that we were later told was occupied by Reynard Heydrich- one of the main master minds behind the holocaust. It sent a bit of an involuntary shiver down my spine. Next to the main exhibition are the remains of underground cells which were used for housing prisoners and for torture. Inside the main building is a detailed account of the history of the Nazi party, from its inception until its ultimate demise. We were there for some time and despite my extensive reading around this subject, I was still drawn in and learnt a lot more. The individual stories and the horror and looking closely at the photographs of people a second or so before being murdered makes one shake their head and puff out their cheeks.
There were many people inside the exhibition but it was very, very quiet, almost silent. I looked at a number of the guests and wondered how they felt and what they were thinking- most were German, though not all. The history is still relatively recent and I wondered what we might think here in the UK if our recent history was shamed with such an event. Would we be so blasé about the nationalistic rhetoric espoused by morons like Boris Johnson. I think not! I hope not!
I admit that I cried in this memorial and when we left, the shadow of the wall, a timely reminder of that other dictatorship looming over us, I began to wonder about humankind in a way I hadn’t done for some time. We needed a beer- well I did and so we found a place across the road and discussed this awful period in history for quite some time.
Although emotional I felt a greater need to see the Jewish museum which was only a quarter of a mile or so away and so we headed there. There was the similar security that we experienced in Budapest but once in, I was impressed. The place is more artistic impression and creativity than museum and several creative artists have put together displays. The tour begins underground with floors that slope in opposite ways to the walls around you and you are deliberately made to feel disorientated, perhaps to reflect the terrible disorientation that Jewish people must have felt when torn from their families. Some of the exhibits didn’t work for me however, including an odd light display which I wasn’t even sure was working properly. The highlight for Georgia and I was a wonderful piece of art which we discovered as we rounded a corner. On the floor were many thousands of faces made in metal (possibly iron), lying on the floor layer upon layer and stretching out for maybe thirty metres until it stopped at a dead end created by a wall with no escape. As you walked across this (which you were encouraged to do so) piece of art, the metal faces clashed with each other and made, scraping, clanging and banging noises. It was impossible to ignore and the dead end helped to create a sort of eerie echo. Once again, the visitors were silent. It was a fabulous exhibition.
We left in search of the gardens which were immensely peaceful and there were free deck chairs which we used and lay in the sun for a while. As usual, I became ‘fed up’ with the deck chair and cast it aside in favour of a full length flop on the floor, face down. This was a lovely hour or so and I drifted off.
We both needed a feed, as we would not be eating on the plane so we sought out Lia’s Kitchen. I was so pleased to find this as I know Georgia wanted to go there. It did not disappoint. The food was amazing- I had a bean burger but not like any other you’ve tried. The sauce was incredible and the flavor magnificent. I honestly believe that meat eaters would have preferred this burger. It was that good. I downed a beer or two and Georgia enjoyed her food also. The restaurant is tiny and popular and we fantasised for a while about owning such a place and how River (Georgia’s boyfriend) and Georgia could one day run their own vegan cafe- the overheads couldn’t be that much and the menu was wonderfully small (Gordan Ramsey would be nodding his head in approval).
Once fed we bought a few nibbles from a vegan supermarket and headed back to the digs. It was still warm, so we had a pint of water with ice and sat in a shady outdoor space owned by the hotel. It was pleasant. It was a little early to head out to the airport but we decided it would be safer to be there and so we grabbed a cab (happy Uber) and headed off.
It had been an emotional and tiring day but a fabulous one. I read a little more of my book before we boarded and Georgia did likewise. The flight home was uneventful (thankfully) and Rach- our shining angel was there to meet us at the airport for the journey back. It had all worked out well.
I had no preconceptions, no plans, no influences. I just wanted to spend time with my son and of course my father and brother in law- I’d heard Budapest was fun and that really was all I knew.
It was magnificent.
It was fantastic to go travelling with family and this trip was excellent: full of intelligent conversation; crazy ideas; wonderful sightseeing- nature- fabulous architecture and good beer! I still appreciate good beer more than I ever did.
We were up early as our flight was just after eight and we had a fair journey up to Manchester. Having not slept a great deal the night before and being up at three it was no surprise that my dad and I slept quite a bit in the car. I think Kyle was listening to music and thankfully Alan managed to stay awake. He was the driver!
The drive up was painless enough and we arrived in excellent time before parking up and heading for the airport. It still amazes me how relaxed I am around planes these days and when others are a little nervous- which was the case with Kyle- it reminds me how I used to have a little knot before stepping over the threshold of the plane doorway and realizing that I was putting my life firmly in the hands of another. It wasn’t long before we were happily in the air and Kyle relaxed, chatted to his grandad and listened to music. I slept for almost the complete two-and-a-half-hour journey and was awoken by the gentle landing and the deafening sound of the Ryan air plane jets (louder than most).
We grabbed a bus into town and found our digs easily enough. They were simple though not primitive- some irish fellas who had been in the room before us, had smashed the wine glasses and the bed Kyle and I shared, was actually a board of wood with a sheet on it. It reminded me of my nights in India and most mornings I awoke with stiff muscles and a back that felt like a large animal had been using it as a trampoline overnight. Nevertheless, the room had WIFI, albeit intermittently and a hob along with a fridge and so we were all kitted out.
After a brief wander around our new abode, we strolled into the streets of Budapest. The city itself is split into two districts- Buda and Pest and they are separated by a wide stretch of the river Danube. We were staying in the more cosmopolitan and modern quarter of Pest, just a few hundred metres from the highly impressive and formidable St Stephen’s Basilica. However, we were all pretty wiped out (despite some sleeping on the plane) and in need of a beer. Kyle chose coke sensibly but the three older guys were soon sinking pints of Euelle only a matter of yards away from the digs. We grabbed some pleasant food- I had gnocchi, which was served in a very pleasant mushroom sauce.
We strolled down to the river after beers and were presented with our first view of the incredible Buda ;the majestic Danube in the foreground. If I was a painter, I could spent my life painting this scene. Despite Buda’s majesty and obvious architectural splendor, I have to confess that the finest building in the city is in fact on the Pest side and was one of the first buildings we saw- the Hungarian parliament building. It is huge- the third biggest parliamentary building in the world but heaven knows how big the other two are. Kyle commented that he felt he had been walking alongside it for fifteen minutes and we hadn’t reached the end of it. This was an exaggeration but it is true that this beautiful piece of architecture is initially impressive purely for its size (the largest building in Hungary) and its glaring white colour and dark red roof. However, perhaps more impressive is the artistic aesthetics of the place, built seven years after Budapest unified as a city: there is a large dome in the middle built in a renaissance revivalist style. On either side of the dome there is perfect symmetry and all the spandrels, columns and turrets are glamourous with wonderful artistic sculpting as if it was painted by a highly skilled artist.
We took a lot of photographs and walked slowly along the banks of the Danube towards the chain bridge (built in the 1890s) which gives access to trams, cars, cyclists and people, allowing them to find their way to Buda. We were still a little tired and after fruitlessly searching for a statue of Imre Nagy (a people’s champion who dared to argue with the soviet) which had been recently moved, we decided to head back to the digs and rest before eating out. Imre Nagy would pop up later in the week!
Our evening meal was at a little Bistro where we could sit outside. Despite some brief cooling rain in the afternoon, it was still a warm evening. We broke all the rules of restaurant hunting in choosing this place with mixed results. The place was empty; there was one waitress and she initially looked very bored. Now, as most travelers will tell you- never sit down at a local empty restaurant. However, I was delighted with the menu and the waitress, when she realized she had company, was very pleasant. I ordered beetroot burgers with mashed potatoes (the best I have ever tried). Kyle had some fried cheese- Saganaki- though not halloumi. It was very pleasant indeed but very flavoursome and he could only manage one of the chunks he’d been given. I greedily gobbled that up as a second dinner. Alan and my dad were less complimentary- my dad had tried the stuffed cabbage leaves which he found very uninspiring and Alan ordered a plate of tapas Hungarian cuisine and this was fascinating to behold. It was like a sort of savoury, cultural bag of revels where you didn’t know what you were going to get. Alan’s opinion of the dishes was varied and the flavours seemed to go from the ‘sublime to the ridiculous’. We enjoyed some great beers whilst we were here including a bottle of ‘Liquid Cocaine!’
It had been a good day but after not having a bed the previous night we were more than ready for a proper night’s sleep. My wooden slab awaited.
The next morning was a relatively lazy one and we enjoyed a breakfast of pastries and coffee thanks to the local Aldi (not cheap at all by the way). The plan for the day was to cross the bridge to Buda and find ‘the church in the cave’. It was already warm when we left just before ten so it was clear it’d be a sweaty one. As before, I didn’t really feel the heat as much as others thanks to my prolonged stay in the heat of Uzbekistan. It was quite a walk to the cave but the views were incredible and included more statues than I think I have ever seen in one place in all my life. Anyone scared of the weeping angels should not come here. The most comical observation for me was the bench that was next to the tramlines. This was quite simply, the longest bench I had ever seen and snaked away into the distance. Several hundred people could have sat at this bench and there’d still be room for a small one! The irony was that no-one was sitting on it- that was until Kyle dropped himself full length upon it perhaps hoping for some respite from the walking (we’d only done a mile or so).
We eventually turned away from the stunning Danube and passed the Gelert Hotel at the bottom of the Gelert Hill which rises to a large monument at the top. The cave is situated near the bottom but we had traversed halfway up the hill before realizing we were wrong. After some poor geographical decisions, we sort of stumbled upon the place. The views from near the entrance to the church are wonderful but after a couple of sunny photos we headed into the relative darkness of the cave church, also referred to as St Ivan’s cave after a hermit from a previous generation. The place is now controlled by the Pauline monks.
In years past, the religious folk here had fallen out of favour with the communist government and they were either killed or sent to labour camps before the church was sealed up. In 1989 it was unblocked after the fall of communism in Hungary. The place is fascinating and a lot bigger inside than you would expect. There is a real ethereal feel about this place and I felt very peaceful walking around it and looking at the religious artefacts and relics. The most interesting of which was the black Madonna of Czestochowa- a replica. Black madonnas are said to hold mysterious powers- paintings of the virgin Mary that had supposedly turned black. Eerie.
There are several different places to sit and worship and I was impressed by the stained-glass window with light coming from some aperture in the rocks above. We stayed there for about twenty minutes before braving the walk up Gelert Hill. It wasn’t so bad, in truth, but we were without water and the sun was certainly happy. It was with some relief that we arrived at the liberty statue at the top and even more so to find that they had several beers on sale, including a very pleasant IPA. We sat in the heat of the sun (there was no shade) and enjoyed a couple of pints. Kyle was still on the coke.
The liberty statue is an impressive monument to the soldiers who sacrificed their lives for the liberty and freedom of Hungary. It was built in 1947, not long after World War two and now stands proudly overlooking the whole city. The statue is fourteen metres high and stands atop a twenty six metre pedestal and so it quite formidable. Around the statue is a circular concrete structure and at the front on either side of the main feature are smaller statues. The one on the right as you look at it, looks very Greek, like something out of ‘Jason and the Argonauts’. A man is depicted raising his fist above his head as he is about to beat the creature he holds in his hand. It looked like a crocodile to me- maybe a dragon- maybe my memories all muddled with beer and fine food but there you go. Check it out for yourselves. There is no question that the main statue is of a person (not sure if it is a man or a woman) holding a giant palm leaf above their head- except of course the urban myth that it is meant to be a helicopter rotor blade. I think not!
We walked past the monument after beers and enjoyed some chimney cake- by the side of the citadella that stands behind the monument. This cake is served by several street vendors and is very pleasant though mine was a bit sickly by the end. Kyle loved his. It is a sort of doughnut mixture wrapped around a rolling pin but baked not fried. Chocolate is wiped around the entrance to the chimney and cream squirted in, if chosen. We had bounty chocolate bar pieces on ours also. It certainly filled a gap.
We had walked quite a way by now, as we lazily strolled on towards the centre of Old Buda, slowly making our way downwards. That was of course until we saw Buda castle on our left and felt the need to climb the steps and stand on the castle walls. Kyle was happy to look from a distance; no doubt his mind was filled with previous family holidays where we had made him climb endless steps such as in Naplion, Whitby, Vesuvius or even the castle at Silves. The view from the castle was amazing but we were in need of refreshements so didn’t stay for long. The walk from the castle took us to a courtyard where we sat and rested for a while. I lay in the sun and drifted off, only to be rudely awakened by an insect biting me. It was an ant! A bloody big one at that! I think even the insects were telling us to get out of the sun and get a beer. At least that is what I tell myself.
We walked down some wide streets towards the Fisherman’s Bastion, passing countless statues again and a concert hall proudly announcing with an ornate placard that Beethoven himself had played there. We approached the Fisherman’s bastion from behind and so were first confronted by the church that sits behind its walls, St Matthias (a catholic church) . It is an oddly beautiful building with a high steeple. It was apparently originally built in 1015 but most of what is left is nineteenth century with some old fourteenth century parts. It is built in the late gothic style but is unusual in that and I quote Alan, it ‘seems incomplete’. Parts of it are all bright white but there are other parts that are multi-coloured like Joseph had dropped his dreamcoat on random sections of the building. I have to say, the colourful parts are stunning and well worth a look. We took some essential photos and then found a bar for a beer.
We waffled on as lads do together, putting the world to rights over beer- I think Kyle had Iced tea but I might be mistaken. After refrshements we headed past the church to the Fisherman’s Bastion. The place looks like the set of a Harry Potter movie with turrets that start wide but taper like upturned icecream cones. This was the site of original castle walls but these nineteenth century replacements are stunningly beautiful and serve more as decorative places to take panoramic photographs of the city. The seven turrets represent the seven tribes of Hungary who founded the present day country in 895 AD. We were amazed but didn’t stay for long before making our way down the hill. We were hot and tired- despite Kyle’s complaints, he had shot up the hills, the stairs and the castle walls like a mountain goat on his way to a hot date.
In truth, this is often the way of youth- they are infinitely more capable and fit and yet still moan more than anyone else. My dad is on the wrong side of 65 and didn’t complain once and yet he must have found it harder than Kyle. I did. We made our way back to the digs and like modern 21st century men sat on our phones and social media keeping in touch with the wider world in the way of everyone in today’s generation.
That night we ate hungrily and enjoyed some local wine. I slept like a log on a log.
I awoke with pains all over my body once more but Kyle seemed fine (wish I was young again). Alan was sprightly enough too, having slept in the, albeit only slightly, more comfortable bed. So he headed out to the local supermarket and bought some eggs and some bread. After regaining some movement in my aching limbs and on Alan’s return, I cooked everyone an omelette and we supped some coffee.
We left the apartment at about 9.30am feeling pretty well. The sun was shining brightly already and there was a promise of another warm day. I do find these days that heat has less impact on me than when I was young. It seems to me to be a psychological issue. If you simply accept that it is hot and that you will sweat, it all becomes remarkably easy. I think a lot of people feel the heat, notice the change and respond almost with a default position of sighs, constant fanning and grumbling. I used to be like this myself, but I remember on one holiday in Greece I simply told myself that it is ‘hot’ and that was why my body felt differently but that it was ok. It’s a bit like swimming- the water makes us feel different, but we accept this difference and then we’re ok. Anyway, I digress.
After a short walk on the Pest side of the Danube, we arrived at the Budapest Synagogue- the second biggest in the world. It is a fair size: about the size of an average cathedral but can seat up to 3000 people. The queue was smallish, so we decided to pay our way and have a look. I am never keen to pay to enter religious buildings but I have limited experience of synagogues, so it seemed worth it.
To enter we had to go through a similar level of security as you would to get on a plane- clearly there is a sense that jewish people are still in some sort of danger or that they must continue to protect themselves. We survived the suspicion and on entry, we were given a paper kippah to cover our heads and, in my case, my rapidly growing bald spot. Kyle had accidentally gone the wrong way and was amongst the graves in the central courtyard (a rare thing in a synagogue) but he realised eventually and joined us in the main area of worship. The building itself is impressive, not as elaborate or decorative as the catholic basilica but beautiful in its minimalism. In the pews there were guides speaking in many, many languages, explaining the details of the room we were in. We took the decision to make our own thoughts and research. The building was built between 1854 and 1859 and is built in a moorish revival architectural style- influenced by the Spanish Alhambra. Above the main worship area is a museum commemorating Judaism and explaining much of its history and traditions. This was fascinating and I learned an awful lot about the religion that I had previously been ignorant of. It also celebrated the fact that this synagogue had survived two world wars and the terrifying cruelty of the Nazi regime. The finale of the museum centres upon the holocaust but with specific reference to the jews of Hungary and Budapest. There were several writings, personal accounts and even films documenting the terrible struggles of men, women and children of the jewish community and of the malign, inhumane attitude of the Nazi regime and their allies. Though I had read a lot about this period I confess to weeping gently whist reading some of the stories of great courage, resilience and personal struggle which often ended, despite all this, in tragedy. I hadn’t realised that around two thirds of the victims of Auswitz had been Hungarian jews and that 90 % of those jews had been murdered in Auswitz or Birkenhau gas chambers.
And so once again, it is clear how travel is the greatest of educators.
After the museum we walked through the courtyard of graves lovingly tended do and through to the he garden of remembrance where the Weeping Willow monument stands, a metal tree designed by a creative artist as a symbol to the tears shed for the victims of the holocaust. On the leaves, the names of people who died are carved. These names are still being added to. I was also drawn to the grave (although not, in truth, the real resting place) of Emil Weismeyer, a man who used his printing company to print thousands of fake passports and identification cards for jewish people to help them escape. Around a headstone laid on the floor are many stones, as in jewish custom and just beyond this, a memorial to many of the fallen, with photographs of those lost and slots in the wall where people have laid many, many stones.
We left the synagogue with a range of thoughts going through our minds and I was certainly touched by the experience and temporarily lingered in a moment of personal reflection. We decided to stroll up the road and head for the Heroes Square which my mother and my sister had visited recently and had recommended to us. They had taken the metro as it is a fair walk but in truth, we enjoyed the stroll and were able to relinquish our minds for a while, of the horrors laid out in the Holocaust memorial museum. The road was straight and before long we saw the square in front of us.
It is very Greek in style, with one very tall central white marble like column with a statue of Arch Angel Gabriel on the top. At the base of the colonnade, built in 1896 to celebrate the thousand year old history of the Magyars, seven chieftains are carved in metal who frankly resembled images I had seen in Central Asia of the hordes of Genghis Khan. On either side of the colonnade, are two semi circular monuments with six marble columns each and seven statues of various important religious and royal Hungarian folk. In 1989 a crowd of 250,000 gathered at the square for the reburial of Imre Nagy (the guy we still couldn’t find the memorial of), former Prime Minister of Hungary, who was executed in 1958.
After some essential photographs and having been on an emotional rollercoaster as well as some serious walking, we were ready for a beer and fortunately, just beyond the largest square in Budapest we found a park with a pleasant bar housed within the walls of a structure that resembled a Georgian castle. We enjoyed two or possibly three beers and the attentions of a very lovely waitress (Alan you know what I mean) before heading back, this time via the metro. We headed back to the ‘digs’ for a little break and an essential social media catch up, of course.
That night we enjoyed another lovely meal and several beers but the highlight was the trip to the riverbank before we ate. We had wanted to see the famous ‘Shoe monument’ since we had arrived but the day’s trip to the holocaust had increased our need to see it. It is quite a startling sight- part Art, part History and hugely emotional: sixty pairs of shoes of different shapes and sizes, laced and unlaced, made cast in iron and some with candles placed inside them ready to illuminate the night time with the memories of lost souls. The monument was constructed on the site where every night during the war the organisation known as Arrow Cross- a post German occupation, fascist, anti-semitic Hungarian ruling party, walked a random group of jews to the bank, ordered them to remove their shoes and then shot some of them at random as those who survived watched their friends and family fall dead into the Danube. This act of evil was repeated many times and each time, those forced to endure this malignant act would stand and wonder when their death would come. I sat contemplating this insanity shaking my head involuntarily to myself as I watched Kyle, away from the rest of us walk slowly down the line of shoes. I had never seen him look so thoughtful and I loved him as a son, more than ever in that moment. We didn’t stay long but the moment is forever tattooed on my brain.
I slept well.
In the morning, I ached less than on the previous days and though we had no breakfast, we headed out in good spirits and full of energy. The plan was to walk across the bridge to the Margarat Island on the Danube between Bude and Pest. I expected it to be a small island that we would circumnavigate for a short while before heading perhaps into Old Buda but the place was beautiful and seemed to go on for miles and miles- like a world heritage sight of preserved beauty. The place was initially a very impressive, city park but after a while we passed swimming baths, a water park, talking fountains, a zoo and intricate flower gardens- as well as medieval ruins- which we enjoyed exploring for a while. In the distance beyond where we walked to, there is even an open-air theatre. The place was full of baskers in the sun, on the lawns as well as countless joggers running along a purpose built running lane- like an olympic track, that seems to run the length of the island. It is a place of outstanding beauty, with tourist land trains carrying people to the various gardens and where both locals and newbies alike enjoyed some clean air and nature.
Later in the afternoon , we headed back to Bude where we enjoyed a couple of very pleasant Belgian beers at a Belgian Bar (we saw several in Budapest) and then headed back towards the digs.
That evening I had a fabulous Goat’s cheese burger and we were able to reflect on a fabulous trip whilst planning another one for next year- Tallinn here we come boys!
Cup Final in Shimkent 31st May- June 2nd
We left work relatively early and grabbed a couple of pints at The Shashlyk Bar (our local) before Richard, Steve and I hailed a cab and began the twenty kilometre drive to the border. My last experience of the border had not been good but this time we were on foot and weren’t attempting to negotiate Cameron's slightly old, beaten up van into the country.
The Kazakstan border is very secure, like everything here and we had to show our passports seven times in around 250 yards as well as scan our bags twice. Nevertheless, we raced through pretty quickly and despite one or two typical lingering and hugely fascinated gawps at our British passports, we were soon standing on Kazakstan soil. Here the taxi drivers resemble those of India: super keen, fully in your personal space, smiling, shoving and imploring; one chap calling out, "Audi Audi...I have an Audi". We managed to clamber our way through, snaking from to side to side like a downhill slalom race but we stayed on our feet. Steve negotiated a cab in some slightly more open space and this guy dutifully and patiently waited whilst we changed our soum for Tengi (Kazakstan's currency).
90 minutes later, we found ourselves in Shimkent and the taxi dropped us close to where we hoped the hostel would be. There was a threat of a storm in the air so we set off at quite a pace with our spiritual leader Steve striding forwards like a boy scout leader; thin papery map in hand. It was a little further than we thought but we made our way into the back streets. The houses here were robust to say the least...strong detached fortresses with huge gated fronts where you’d need a battering ram to gain entry. The air was wild with the growling of dogs and as we walked aIong in search of our digs we felt enormously grateful for the security offered by these dwellings as at least the wild animals could be kept from us. It was odd as there seemed to be a dog protecting every abode and yet we never saw any being walked or out on the streets. I had visions of Cerberus standing with vicious, multiple sharp toothed heads and so we scurried along.
Only minutes before finding our street we were checked by what appeared to be fireworks shooting out of one of the house windows. On closer inspection we realised the sparks and mini explosions were generated by the colliding of electric phone wires that bounced around in the increasing wind. We gave the space as wide a berth as we could and prayed the rain wouldn't come- visions of electricity and water causing some greater hazard were firmly in my mind.
The hostel was simple, cheap and pleasant and guess what? They had a dog- though this was no Cerberus. This was a bounding, skipping, bundle of joy- a puppy, I believe. It was very well trained and lifted a paw to meet each of us as if it wanted to shake our hand. We fussed it a little, met the lovely owner and headed out for beers and food.
We ate at a massive restaurant around the corner which was desolate inside but the food was pleasant enough and the waitress was rather lovely. We were a little further away from the centre than we thought but soon after our meal we found a colourful- gawdy yellow establishment with cartoon pictures of giant German style steins and frothy foam bubbling out of every glass. We entered hoping to find somewhere to sit down but there were just beer taps and an apathetic looking young lady who it seemed had not been rushed off her feet. We purchased some Shimkent beer and asked if we could take it outside. She filled a plastic litre bottle of this light looking beer and we took it outside with three glasses and sat on the floor against a wall, like three hobos having a thoroughly excellent day. Steve and Rich scoffed some beer snacks (dried fish) and I settled for crisps. The sun had long since gone to bed and I have to say I really enjoyed this part of the trip, sore bottoms and all. However, my fellow travellers and particularly Richard (hereby dubbed Lord Richard) was less enamoured by the place and so we had one more litre and then strode off in search of more comfortable surroundings.
We eventually found a lovely garden bar with stunning trees with lights hanging off them lending an almost magical quality of shimmering colours. It was very pleasant and we enjoyed a lovely meal including a superb tiramisu- very alcoholic!
We drank a few more beers but fatigue began to set in and we headed back to the digs for some rest. There is an unwritten rule, it seems, which happens naturally: when you are the oldest male in a group of bucks and there is one room that is single and perhaps more comfortable than the other, that older male will be offered it. And so it was that I had the double bed and the single room- it was pleasant: I realised once again that time's boa-constricting clutches have a firm hold on us all. We keep resisting the squeeze but the coil forever tightens. It's funny how such a seemingly irrelevant moment can bring this 'absolute' into sharp relief.
I slept well enough and the coffee and fairly dry bread with cheap strawberry jam was not the breakfast of Princes but I scoffed it nonetheless and quite easily it has to be said. We headed out towards Independence Park- it was quite a stroll and by the time we arrived I was ready for a beer. We resisted!
To enter the park we had to walk up some scarily steep stairs that led to a bridge across the road. Before long we were looking up at the giant flag of Kazakstan that was perhaps sixty or so metres high and waved defiantly in the breeze. We headed up to the mast but were halted for a moment by an eerie sound like high pitched, murmurings of ghosts long since departed and yet ever present. It was quite disconcerting until we realised it was the sound of the wind around the flag and the monument that juxtaposes it. This monument begins with six concrete stalacmites but each identical and ordered, standing a few metres apart and forming a protective line for the flag. Beyond the guardian of the flag and more reminiscent of the architecture in Astana, stood a goblet or chalice for giants- made of rails of steel that start with a small circumference that widens as you look upwards and opens to a gold tinted flourish at the top.
We made our way through the park itself which is beautifully looked after with roses in full bloom and plaques situated several metres apart, starting in 1991- the year of independence from the Soviet Union and continuing until 2019. They might start to run out of room, we thought, although the place already feels venerable. We exited via the pastel-yellow memorial gate which has two exits and is adorned with simple but skillfully patterned art work.
It was beer O'clock.
Unlike Andijon, we had no problem finding a beer drinking establishment and I was able to deal with the endless disappointment of eating tomatoes and bread with a side order of chips. Two beers later and we were tempted to sit in the the pleasant 28 degree heat and drink the day away but we had more to see and so with iron-willed discipline we set off on another decent length hike to Victory Park.
This place is one of the most beautiful places I have seen since being in Central Asia. it is a memorial to the soldiers of the Shimkent area who died in the Second World War, fighting bravely for the Soviet Union. The drama of the place begins with the 'Eternal flame' which burns in most cities. Yet in this case the flame is the least impressive part. It sits beneath two metal structure that soar up into the sky and cross at the top as if they have fallen into each other and are holding each other up. Symbolically and artistically, I really liked it. My friends were less impressed. We took some photos and then headed down the straight avenue towards the monument at the other end, which is a russian fighter plane- I think a Mig- held up on a concrete block which is tilted to create the illusion of the plane taking off into the sky. Between these monuments on the sides of the walkway are black marble plaques, tiled together all along both sides of the avenue with the names of those men who died during the war. It is immensely moving. We calculated that each step represented two hundred and fifty men dead. We took a lot of steps. Between the two book ends that characterise the monument is a smaller structure made of black marble but put together like disjointed jigsaw pieces with a terracotta five pointed star (the symbol of Communism) in the middle, as if there had been an explosion in the middle- like a POW-SMASH-CRASH situation in an old Batman cartoon.
Just passed the russian fighter is a walk towards another monument which we didn't get too but before it are several very well conceived and emotive photographs of older men who had fought for their country donned in their uniforms with medals or talking to sons, grandsons, wives and daughters. One or two nearly made me weep but then I do cry easily.
This was the last major place of interest we saw that day and after another stroll we headed for some food and beer. We stopped and sat outside at a place adjacent to a German bar (more on that place later) and I tried to force down a plate of potatoes and mushrooms. The plate was quite literally swimming in oil and after trying to pour it away and mop it up with serviettes, I had lost my appetite. We agreed to head back to the hotel and get some rest- it was nearly seven thirty and we were planning to stay up and watch the Champions League Final (which started at 1.00am). It was a sensible idea to get some shut eye.
We managed to get a taxi back to the digs and after an hour and half or so we headed out to find a place to watch the game. We found a restaurant around the corner from a billiard hall and after booking ourselves a place by the bar we agreed to have a few games and come back in time for kick off. The billiard hall was interesting as you could only play russian billiards and we didn't know the rules very well but we had a great time and Steve managed to win overall. It is an incredibly difficult game with fifteen whites and a red. The pockets are tiny and the balls big and so every single pot is harder than you would imagine. We spent most of the evening drinking vodka and cherry juice and laughing at each other as we missed and missed and missed. Somehow we managed to play three frames- but I have no idea how.
The Champions League final was a huge disappointment and I felt Spurs were the better side but Liverpool deserve the success after this season and at least the bar lady who served us was delightfully pretty. Steve and I struggled through to the end of the game whilst Richard's narcolepsy returned. We made him a paper hat at one point and placed it on his head; much to the amusement of the bar lady. It was perhaps the strangest flirting I had ever partaken in. We stumbled home and slept well.
Sunday was a slow paced day and we enjoyed a walk around a park with a small lake and pedalos though we weren't really in the mood to go on one. After a brief look at an abandoned train line we hailed a taxi from the street and decided to finish our stay at the German bar I mentioned earlier. The beer here was lovely- a white or blonde type of wheat beer which was a welcome relief after all of the tasteless beers on offer in Tashkent. However, less could be said of the food. Steve's fajitas came without the promised sauce in the menu and my pasta which we had confirmed irrefutably before ordering, would not have meat, actually did! It was horrible too- a burnt, bitter taste of total unpleasantness like a year old shashlik.
We complained but the waiter just ignored us. We asked for the bill. We explained to a second waiter that the food was awful but he just smiled and walked away. We left money for the beer and walked away. Seconds later a young waiter came running down the street with the bill. We told him we weren't paying and I explained I was offended by their ignorance and we kept walking. He then decided to stand in front of me to block my path. I was angry. "Get away from me!"I snarled and in truth I was close to hitting him. The message landed, although I had to say it twice. He ran off, no doubt to tell his manager.
We meandered our way nervously through a housing estate, hoping not to be chased by anyone bigger before grabbing a taxi to take us to the bus station. From here we were able to get a car to take us back to the border. The three of us slept all the way back and the border was not as busy as it can be sometimes. Before long, we were back in Tashkent.
The incident in the german bar had soured the experience a little but sweetness returned and we agreed that it had been another excellent weekend away.
Andijan- April 20-21st 2019
The plan was to head out to watch Andijan play footy and the trains were all booked. Sadly, as is often the way here in Uzbekistan, we discovered that the game time and date had been moved and so we had booked tickets for no apparent reason. It was frustrating but we decided to go anyway. It was a great decision.
Andijan is the fourth biggest citiy in Uzbekistan and one of the furthest east. Mark, Steve and I filled our backs up with snacks and headed to the South train station in Tashkent- the security here was tight as always but the station felt more informal and less intrusive than Urgench. Either that, or I was starting to get used to it. We had a coffee- terrible and so full of sugar that I felt like it might evolve into a cake at any moment. Steve enjoyed a meaty lagman (meat and noodles) and Mark and I had some dodgy sweet pastry of some description. It wasn’t nice.
The train journey to Andijan is a long one- around 6 hours but the journey was comfortable enough and I was able to mix it up between reading and sleeping. We arrived in the late hours and after a short stroll and an almost Everest-like climb up many stairs, we were finally at out hotel reception. This became an extremely irritating experience: scanning the passports seemed to take an age and there had been a mix up with the rooms. We were hot, tired and in need of a beer and this slow process did little to improve our mood. They also passed over us and dealt with several other guests without so much as attempting to communicate the problem. After a few exasperated sighs and my irritated, ‘Do we have a room then or…?’we were finally given our digs. I asked for a corkscrew to open a bottle of wine we had brought and the chap at reception laughed at me whilst saying ‘No’. The thought of us drinking wine was clearly preposterous to him- a theme that continued throughout the trip.
It was close to midnight but we hoped to find a late bar somewhere, as it was Friday night. Nyet! As we walked through the streets, at times it felt like one of those disaster movies where almost everyone is dead and the few survivors wander aimlessly contemplating their unknown futures. We must have walked half a mile without seeing a soul and there was no sign of a restaurant or bar never mind an open one. Eventually, we found a street that seemed more populated and there were a few lights that we hoped might signify ‘beer’s presence- it was a forlorn hope, as on arrival they were simply shops.
The three of us looked completely out of place as we stood on the corner sensing a quiet álcohol’ free night in the hotel when a taxi driver wandered over and asked us what we were looking for. ‘Piva’ Mark said and the driver and a few of his mates shook their heads in unison. It was as though we wanted heroin! Our taxi friend paused and thought for a moment and then stepped closer to us before explaining quietly that he could take us to 'piva'- we now felt were in some gangster film or part of a drug’s cartel but we went with it (a good tip if you come to Uzbekistan) and jumped in his car. It was a few kilometres but it didn’t feel long before we stopped and the driver got out, before explaining that we were there. No bar; no restaurant; not even a proper shop to speak of but a window!
We approached a smiling gentleman was sitting in front of a range of diverse retail items (no beer as far as we could see). Steve asked for beer and beer arrived as if from some magic hat! We ordered ten cans) To be fair it was after 12 so we thought that might be enough. We weren’t alone with the evil buying of alcoholic substances as whilst there, another chap turned up, strangely wearing an England football top. Steve shared a joke or two and then we were back in the car and heading for the hotel. We stayed up drinking until about 3 and then enjoyed a pretty deep sleep.
In the morning, we saw Andijan in a different light. This is a proper Uzbek city: plain, block-like soviet structures, wide roads and parts of the city in dire need of repair. There wasn’t the glamour or historical beauty of Bukhara or Khiva but in its own way I found it as, if not more, interesting. There were the usual women sweeping the streets with Harry Potter style brooms, plenty of honking car drivers and dilapidated businesses. We walked aimlessly for a while but it wasn’t long before we came across our first fascinating sight of the day- part of the Uzbek army marching as part of some ceremony next to the statue of Babur- he who founded the Moghul empire in India.
The statue was impressive but we were distracted by the army! Mark- an ex-miltary man- was shocked and borderline offended by their shabbiness and lack of discipline. The marching was average at best and when they stopped they slouched like bored teenagers. ‘They’d be shot!’ Mark commented, ‘If they were in the British army’. I could have watched this parade or should I say charade for hours but we were all hungry so we strolled on in search of coffee and breakfast. Eventually we found what we thought was a café or restaurant but, on closer inspection, it was a cake shop with an after thought of a restaurant tagged on it. Here we had some salad and some tolerably decent sweet treats whilst we watched ladies making gloriously ornate packaging for equally decorative cakes. One lass was amazing to watch and a little exhausting as she ran from job to job as if her life and the lives of many others were depending upon her work. Such commitment is always a joy to behold.
Once we were fed and watered we headed out to see the few, though I have to admit impressive historical elements of Andijan. Of course, this meant initially going through one of the city’s parks, where we were excited to see a giant plastic Golden eagle which stretched its wings out over what seemed to be a very pleasant bar. Mark asked if they had ‘piva’. Nyet- came the all too predictable response. The conservative nature of this Uzbek city was becoming all too apparent. We wandered down to a beautifully historic and attractive minaret and took a few photographs before heading down to the mosque, which in truth, is just an outer façade at the moment as they are rebuilding the interior. It was however, a beautifully ornate exterior and well worth seeing. It was getting quite hot and we definitely needed a beer. So began the quest for beer.
We walked from restaurant to restaurant, and even hotels only to find that beer was an extremely rare commodity. One lady looked at us as though we were cockroaches that needed stamping on at the mere mention of the fermented barley and hops. However, the persistence, dedication and fortitude of the sweaty british beer drinker knows no bounds and so we headed to what appeared to be a fairly upmarket hotel which had a rooftop restaurant. Unfortunately, although not at all surprisingly, it was closed. However, one of the managers told us to follow him and so became a welcome guest on our quest. Initially he failed but then he pointed down a long road into the horizon, telling us that 100 yards or so up the road, there was a drinking establishment. There wasn’t. However, we continued as maybe his judgement regarding distances was questionable. About a quarter of a mile later and on the verge of giving in, and embracing failure, we came across a shop selling alcoholic beverages: I was concerned that it was a mirage but everything was solid, tangible and there was a sense of great relief as we saw beers refrigerated and ready for much needed consumption. Unfortunately there was nowhere to sit so I decided to sit outside on the street- not the done thing in Uzbekistan. The owner-I assume- then beckoned us a few metres down the road into what was a sort of abandoned shop.
Inside there were boxes, litter, old cans, torn clothes plastic bottles and other clutter. The place had once been a shop I guess but was now just a hole for dumping stuff- there was an unused, dirty and crooked kitchen (at least I hope it was unused for you would need a concrete stomach to eating anything prepared therein). We sat on sofas that reminded me of my scruffy student days and drank beer together, in secret- like an opium den. The owner drank with us and we tried to communicate- he couldn’t speak russian so even Steve couldn’t help and so we used sign language and very poor Uzbek along with laughs and pats on the back. After a couple of beers we decided we needed to head on and began to talk about Babur Park- a few kilometres out of the centre and a place we really wanted to see- as there was a great museum dedicated to Babur there. Our new friend clocked on to our conversation and arranged for his brother to take us to the park. After a few texts and short conversations we were in the taxi heading for Babur Park.
Babur park is an absolute must if you are anywhere near Andijan. The place is a beautiful, traditional, dilapidated, complex which is both bizarre and unique. The park is on a hill- though after the beers it looked more like a mountain and so we were delighted to jump on a chair lift. These vividly coloured rusty structures were of a previous time and a lot of fun- the scenery was spectacular though the strange and unique sight of what appeared to be a rather large boat or a small ship on the side of a mountain was difficult to comprehend. We walked the final ascent, maybe a few hundred metres and looked out across the outlying districts of Andijan.
On the top of the hill was a fairground style Big Wheel- creaking and groaning as it turned. Heaven only knows when this beast was constructed but in one mad moment we all agreed to take a ride. It was less than pleasant and I spent most of the time staring at the floor of our very thin metal compartment. Mark, who is scared of heights, grabbed hold of the hand rail in the centre as though he was killing a man slowly. We took a photograph which can only be described as, ‘3 levels of fear’- I was level 2.
The walk back down the hill was hilarious and we off roaded quite a lot, stopping for what we hoped would be a drink at the ship- which had a sign ‘Restaurant’ above it. It was this and the cardboard cutouts of Kiera Knightley that drew us to it. However, when we asked, they said the restaurant wasn’t complete. Once again, I shook my head at the Uzbek inverted logic- putting a restaurant sign up to encourage customers before the restaurant is open. We continued our journey down with a view to checking out the Babur museum that stood behind the statue of the legendary Moghul.
Halfway down the hill- it wasn’t a mountain really- we saw what we presumed was a café hidden slightly by the bushes and trees. Through the dappled sunlight we saw vodka, which meant alcohol; which also meant…seize the day! We asked a chap whether they had piva and he said yes. We almost cheered and looked around for somewhere to ‘park our booties.’ The gentleman who had answered with the affirmative was in fact, not a waiter but just a bloke with his mates getting plastered and eating ‘shit loads of food’. He beckoned us, near insisted that we sit amongst them. How could we say no? Within minutes beer was served along with Uzbek cognac and the lethal power of the Uzbek vodka.
Steve was intelligent on this occasion as he realized after perhaps two or three vodkas that his glass along with all of our glasses was in fact bottomless as every time you looked away, it was refilled with smiling enthusiasm from the local lads. Therefore, he somehow, although I don’t know how, managed to remove or get rid of his glass. Though in truth, he still probably drank four pints of beer. Mark and I had more vodkas than I care to remember. The food was excellent although when I, the vegetarian was faced with a plate of horse flesh, it was a challenge! These people had invited us to their celebration; plied us gently with alcohol and given several toasts to friendship and comraderie and so to explain that I couldn’t eat their food was going to be a challenge. I managed to ignore the horse and focus on the bread- hoping to soak up the ridiculous amounts of vodka.
It was the afternoon and these boys were only just getting started. Then came the shashlik! I remember little else of the occasion except Mark toasting the wonderful Uzbeks and particularly the great toast to the shashlik marinater (which I don’t think is a word) and a guy insisting that his son take us to the train station for free. This happened! None of them would accept money from us so we forced the young man in the taxi to accept a tip and begrudgingly (he got out of the taxi and gave it us back) he was left with a little cash from us. It was peanuts compared to what we had consumed and drink. These guys were fantastic and amongst some of the best people I have met since being here.
We managed to a find a bar that Steve remembered, probably one of only a handful in Andijan and we drank more beer. I didn’t need it! Neither did Mark! The last few hours involved watching West Ham, drifting between sleep and consciousness and an occasional lapse into emotional blubbering. Steve was fine. He had hidden his vodka glass.
We left late, but managed to get the train. It was a relief. We still had the bottle of wine- which our hotel fella had thought was insane. We tried to push the cork in but the bottle tapered and so even with herculean force, it was unlikely that we would manage it. And so it proved. Undaunted, Mark, a million miles away from sober, marched off- drunk but still british with his proud chin thrust forwards. He returned a few minutes later with the cork inside the bottle, allowing the ruby red, extremely sour wine to pour forth. One of the train security staff had succeeded where we had failed. Moments later, a guard arrived saying we couldn’t drink it and Steve, explained, with a dubious frown that this guy's colleague had pushed the cork in for us. This was befuddling for the fine gentlemen, so he left and we laughed. Then it was the turn of the police (there were about four of them in a carriage a few doors down) who brought an Uzbek rule book- we pushed out our bottom lips, and shook our heads. We had no idea what he was talking about. The police office gave up and left. We drank a little wine- completely unnecessarily and slept.
We arrived in Tashkent, still slightly sleepy. It was 5.30am and pissin’ down with rain. Mark was in no mood for hanging about and strode off, almost assaulting a taxi driver in order to get a cab that was willingly offered. Steve and I stood in the rain for a while but survived. Before long I was home- it had been one of the most memorable days of my life.
Termez-Dicing with Death? 06-04-19- to 07-04-19
Afghanistan is a beast of a proper noun. A word that conjures up images of soldiers darting through the hot desert in search of men concealed in caves and small holes in possession of AK47s (the soldiers, not the holes). The country strikes terror and dread into the thoughts of most and yet when I was asked if I fancied going to Termez...on the Afghan border I jumped at the chance.
Now then, do not assume I am some courageous warrior. We were pretty certain that we wouldn’t be able to set foot on Afghan soil. I am no warrior...just someone who tends to think, ‘it’ll be fine’. And guess what? It was.
This trip involved six of us: Emily, Mark, Katie, Jess, Daniel and myself. We were an interesting mix of characters and personalities and so the conversation was diverse and never boring.
We headed out on Saturday in the afternoon, catching the three o’clock flight. It was fine. To be honest, I have begun to see planes as buses in the sky and where once I used to feel a pang of dread as I sat on the runway awaiting take off, I now feel nothing. Even landing is relaxing these days though being asleep when you hit the ground can cause a pretty rude awakening, which is exactly what happened on this occasion.
After landing, we meandered around the airport like lost souls, not sure whether to get a bus or a couple of taxis. A number of dignitaries had also landed when we did and there was a lot of security as well as black limousines with tinted windows and no doubt bullet proof into the bargain. We bumbled our way through the crowds, passing a TV company who were interviewing someone who was clearly very important. Mark and I resisted the urge to photo bomb the poor fellow and we headed onwards.
After a touch more indecisiveness, which is the disease of the larger group, we made our way up to the main road. It wasn’t long before a white mini bus and I mean Lilliput small (well nearly) pulled over. The driver asked a couple of locals to get out as there wasn’t enough space for us. Despite our protestations (it was a woman with her child) the locals smiled and walked up the long road. The driver just said we were guests and this is how it is: a sign of respect.
We had a lot of fun looking for our accommodation but after a few meanderings we finally discovered it. As expected, it was basic but adequate though one of the rooms; with the bed that Mark and I would be sharing was adorned with a full Versace bed spread. There followed a wonderful photo opportunity which we of course seized.
After a quick change, we headed out into the 30 plus degree afternoon sun. This part of Termez was basic and bare with nothing more than a dusty road, some threadbare shops and a few beeping cars drifting by (usually ladas). We walked and talked our way throughout the afternoon with no obvious aim except perhaps finding the festival that we had read about. We ended up walking seemingly countless miles but found nowhere to have a beer and when we finally reached the festival, we were told it was VIPS only until the next day.
As the dark came in we walked around the back of the festival and found a gap in a fence which we walked through only to be stopped by security- surprise surprise- who to be fair were pleasant. Emily chatted in Russian with him and he said he’d try and get us into the festival. We stood outside an entrance heavily guarded as if a huge assault on the festival was expected. We discovered that the president was on the premises and all became clear. After much posturing, and several ‘five more minutes’ promises, we gave up although we stayed around long enough to see several men dressed as mongol hordes leave on horseback, a police officer racing up the main pathway on a Segway- a first for me! And of course, fireworks that lit up the night sky beyond the secure fencing we had no hope of overcoming.
So it was that we wandered back and found a bar next to our digs. We enjoyed a few beers and some snacks and Mark and I stayed on for a few more after the others left. We asked the bar man where Afghanistan was. He pointed into the distance and said ‘very dangerous’ and to ensure we fully understood he simply repeated, ‘very dangerous’ with slightly demented eyes. That’s where we’ll go tomorrow we said.
We left the pub nicely drunk and Mark and I shared the Versace bed spread. It was slightly surreal. I slept soundly enough although I apparently flung my arms about at one point in a frantic fashion and Mark thought I was having ‘night terrors’. Maybe I was.
There was no breakfast in the morning but we enjoyed some palatable coffee and then headed out into the beaming hot sunshine. Once again, we flagged a mini bus down and this time the driver kicked out a pregnant woman and her small child. We were quite vociferous in our admonishment of the driver but the lady kept on walking and the driver insisted this was how things were done.
Once in the bus, he took down his bus number sign, no doubt realising that a bunch of western tourists might prove profitable: more on that story later. We initially headed for the so-called Friendship Bridge which separates Afghanistan from Uzbekistan. The driver stopped a few hundred yards from the border and we wandered down with friendly smiles. At the bridge there was a gate and several soldiers holding machine guns. Their expressions were stone: hard, grey and cold. Emily asked if we could go over the bridge. One soldier simply shook his head, his features- ice! One of our party took out their phone to get some photos but a soldier beckoned her over and made sure all was deleted. Security was hugely important here so we look around for a while at the gates and the inaccessible bridge before heading back to the mini bus.
We raced off down the main road away from the friendship bridge but hugging the riverbank that was the natural border between the two countries. We headed off in search of Fayaz Tempa, a buddist temple which was originally built in the 1st or 2nd century. On the way however we pulled over at an apricot orchard for a peaceful walk around. Mark was keen to find a place to photograph a picture he had of a young man in his friend’s family who had lost his life fighting in Afghanistan and so it was that we found poppies growing in the orchard and the scene was set for the perfect photo. It felt very emotional actually though the driver said we couldn’t leave the picture there so we jumped back in the bus and headed out to the temple.
The temple itself was haunting to me with its sandy walls and the ruins that you could walk around with great freedom. There are several parts to the temple but one part where steps lead up to a dome which you can enter and walk around- The entrance itself is not big and you have to squeeze yourself through the gap. Inside it is ethereal: not much is present but the acoustics are wonderful. We sang some harmonies and longer notes and even we sounded really good.
After a walk around the old kitchen and the prayer room we took a short trip over to the next part of the ruins which was perhaps four hundred metres further along. Mark strode across. At the next part of the site you could walk up the old mud walls and look out across the Afghan border, which is heavily fenced. The guide at the site was keen to move us on and even taking your phone out was clamped down upon as he insisted it was in our pockets.
At this site it was also possible to go inside little caves or holes in the walls where monks must have once frequented or stored goods- we disturbed a nest of bats at one point- it felt like we were on the set of Indiana Jones film, in truth. On the ground around the site were many bullet cannisters lying around which was a little disconcerting though at least Mark found a great place to leave the photograph- only a few hundred metres from Afghanistan.
We asked the driver to take us to Kirk Kiz fortress the place where the warrior princess was supposed to have lived with her forty warriors- which was also the subject of the wonderful Uzbek musical piece I went to see at Alisher Navoiyy theatre a couple of weeks ago. The legend itself is unclear and the site a place where you can let your imagination run wild. The mists of time have shrouded the legend in ever growing mystery; some citing 40 daughters others 40 virgins or 40 girls in a harem. The most popular of the legends connects it with the well-known national legend in which the princess Gulaim and her forty girls bravely struggled against raiding nomads with surprising and impressive success.
On the way to the fortress we stopped at a place that celebrated nature with an open reservoir with stunningly pure looking water. We were a shirt pull off away from jumping in when the driver told us we couldn’t swim and the famous ‘Nyet’ had stopped our fun once more.
The Kirk Kiz fortress or ‘town of the Samanids’ as locals call it is a large square construction with fifty-four metre sides of standard brick construction and the customary mud covering. The place is a maze of corridors, arches, apertures and hallways. The locals seemed a little surprised by our approach as we headed off on to the walls and walked as far as we could around the square with a sheer drop, at times, on either side. I must admit that I regretted the decision at one point and the driver certainly didn’t want us up there as he kept gesticulating for us to get down. Eventually he gave up and to his credit, joined us.
From the fortress, you get a good view of the surrounding plains and you could actually imagine yourself living there in some yesteryear and seeing Mongol hordes come charging across- it sent a bit of a shiver down my spine to be honest.
After the fortress we headed out to a beautiful garden which housed a small but well looked after museum and another police officer on a Segway- odd Uzbekistan strikes when you least expect it.
After a lot of fun and hot sightseeing, we asked the driver to drop us somewhere we could get a beer, which he dutifully did. The moment was soured slightly as we offered him 50000 soum each, which we felt was generous- he wanted a lot more but we refused and he was a little peeved.
The beers went down well, though I had to make do with the usual bread and tomato salad- the plight of the Uzbekistan vegetarian! After refreshments, most of the group headed to the festival we had failed to get into the previous day. Mark and I had seen enough so we had a couple more beers and chewed the metaphoric ‘fat’. With only a short plane flight to endure, we concluded that it had been an outstanding weekend away and just what we needed.
Security is everything here. Rules are followed blindly and without question with a mind-numbing tedium and so I was not at all surprised by the almost prison-like security that faced us when we arrived at Urgench train station. The taxi drive was quick, cheap and pleasant and before long we were fumbling about for our passports and train tickets so that we could enter the station.
Outside there was a police booth but then these are omnipresent in Uzbekistan so I felt completely at home. My parents were more shocked- ‘a passport to get into a train station?’ At the booth, we saw eight police officers, three of whom were on their phones! After the standard passport check which involved the typical nodding dog between passport and person until, perhaps after the 5th or 6th look they let us through. We walked with some relaxation up to the building where we had to put our hand luggage through the airport type scanner and…show our passport! To be fair, it had been perhaps thirty seconds since we last showed them.
We walked through the body scanner, suffered the standard groping and picked up our baggage. Phew I thought! We’re in. “Passport!” very surly looking monster of a security guard. I almost laughed with disbelief but he looked a little like Ivan Drago from Rocky 4 so I resisted. Thankfully he didn’t ‘break’ any of us and we stumbled on three or four more steps hoping to find a screen with train times on it but as our eyes scanned the room two very serious looking ladies, sitting at a table asked for our passports! We showed them…again.
Finally, we were able to relax- though the coffee shop was closed and the screens with train times were vague to say the least. After a little bit of hunting around and some disastrous attempts at Russian speaking I finally worked out there was only one train so it was pretty easy. Now- this train was the longest train I have ever seen- a giant metal python, sitting in its cage, taking in water before its journey across the desert to Bukhara. We grabbed some terrible biscuits, drier than the desert itself and before long we were heading out to find our carriage (about half a mile away).
Once again, the staffing was incredible with at least two and sometimes three staff at every single carriage. One final but still lingering nodding dog passport check later and we were on. I felt like I needed a holiday.
I entered the train expecting a normal set up of seats but realized this was the sleeper train. It was a long journey but we would arrive in Bukhara at 10.30 so didn’t really need a bed but we were comfortable enough. I felt a little sorry for the elderly gentlemen who was heading all the way to Samarkand and realized he was sharing a room with an English family (though he probably didn’t know we were English). We communicated in nods and smiles which was good and after a 6 hour journey and little sleep, we found ourselves having made our way over the step and into the heart of Bukhara.
The taxi drive to the hotel was painless enough and the hotel easy to find, despite being down a little side street. What I found most interesting was the way the gutter or drainage was right in the middle of the pavement which meant you had to either walk awkwardly on one thin strip of pavement or straddle the gutter. It was a bizarre idea and one I still don’t quite understand.
The rooms were nice enough and I had my own bedroom which meant mum and dad could actually have some personal space. It was late, so we had a pot of tea and then grabbed some essential sleep.
The next day was Navruz, a big religious festival here and so we were expecting lots of exciting cultural treats in Bukhara but as we headed out in the morning it was surprisingly quiet. Bukhara is hugely different to Khiva. Its historical offerings are impressive and genuinely beautiful with the typical medressah style being the most common offering but with some stunning minarets and one very old one, the Kalyan minaret built in 1127 by Mohammad Arslan Khan. However, the city, despite its history feels more European than Khiva and less like you are on the set of a new biblical movie. The attractions are still closely located to one another in the main but in the centre, a stone’s throw from our hotel, there is a beautiful pond with a fountain in the middle, that is genuinely spectacular when it comes alive. Around the pond is what appears to be several bars and restaurants but over the two days we realized that it was all one place and that they had reached out their splendid tentacles around the entire pond. The back drop to this almost Italian style piazza are two wonderful and well preserved or well-maintained medressahs. We took the opportunity to grab some photos before heading on our way towards more discoveries.
It was warming up nicely once more as we strolled down towards the Toqi Zargaron. It is a fascinating sandy coloured structure like something out of one of the Star Wars films. Inside people sell carpets, trinkets, fridge magnets and other items. The building is effectively a gate to other parts of the old town and it took us a while to take it all in before choosing an exit point and heading out into the history, past the Blacksmith’s museum and the exotic baths.
Bukhara has some beautiful Italian style piazzas where there are what must once have been fountains but whilst we were there they were empty and this saddened me a little. It felt once again, that there was so much potential- wonderful historical buildings and a source for a fountain but now just litter filled holes. I had mixed feelings- I don’t want loads of corporate organisations, cafes and the like but there was a sense of decay about the place so some loving, tasteful investment could turn these historical squares into wonderful places.
One of the most interesting was Chor Bakr (not Chewbacca)- this was a great place with another empty water pit but with the cutest minaret, quite broad but short, almost like a miniature of what Rapunzel’s tower might look like.
As the afternoon progressed into evening we had seen little evidence of Navruz here except for a stage with a middle aged karaoke singer with lego hair singing whilst enthusiastic children of all ages (mainly girls- though there were some brave lads) bounded around with varied skill on the stage in front of him. In truth, it wasn’t the cultural experience I was hoping for. Some of the elder ladies tried to get my mum to dance with them which was lovely though I don’t think mum was in the mood for dancing.
We headed instead in search of Chor Minor- once the gatehouse of a now disappeared religious school. I have no idea how it disappeared. The building itself is oddly in the middle of a residential area outside of the main attractions but it is beautiful- built in 1807 it isn’t one of the older buildings but with its four turrets (almost minarets) one on each corner of the square and its architecture, in keeping with older buildings, I feel sure that this is a building that will be visited for many, many years. We paid a small amount of soum and headed up to the roof. There was little to see from the top but we discovered that one of the turrets had once fallen off and had been repaired so Dad and I spent some time trying to work out which one it was. I reckon we nailed it in the end.
We strolled casually around the whole inner town, stopping for a beer or two of course and eventually choosing to eat back by the main square in the centre. It was very pleasant. We slept well that night and after having some coffee at the German café- built inside a dingy, historical building; though we sat outside- we headed off towards the outer parts of the walls. Unlike Khiva, they do not stretch around the town but there is still a good section of it visible and it is surprisingly large- very imposing! This is called the Zindan and the light orange coloured wall tapers away from you as it rises majestically.
We strolled around this area for a while before heading up to some of the historical building further out from the city. The most impressive, for me, being the Samanid Mausoleum. This beautiful monument stands in the centre of a park, a good stretch from the historical centre and it is stunning. It is not huge, perhaps sixty feet high but the carvings and the intricacies of stone masonry are quite incredible. The building is said to be 9th century and is probably the oldest building in Bukhara. It had once been buried under mud but had been found and excavated so that others could discover its beauty. We sat in the space for a while, after photos, as the day had become very hot and some down time was much required. I lay back on the grass and enjoyed the sun’s rays. As usual, I received some shocked and bemused facial expressions from passersby. It is unusual to see people relax here in Uzbekistan and when you do, you become something of a curious spectacle. Mum and dad sat on the bench and after half an hour or so we headed back through the town, looking at back streets with yet more wonderful architecture before finding our way to the main square where we enjoyed more beer. We stopped only to enjoy the Blacksmith museum which was considerably more impressive but less humorous than The Natural History Museum in Khiva.
It had been a lovely day- Bukhara was historical but the food and drink more easily accessible. The people had been delightful and I would definitely go again. Next stop Samarkand!
The mud clad walls of the ancient city of Khiva send the onlooker shooting back through time and space to a simpler period where horses pulled carts and artisans worked alongside skilled craftsmen and where scholars trudged to one of the medressahs seeking knowledge and the wise teachings of their gurus. It is truly staggering and looks, I am sure, almost as it did four to five hundred years ago. Yet, despite my romantic opening to this blog I have to confess that neither myself or my parents were thinking about this city’s living history when we arrived outside the sand coloured walls. We had been dropped at the wrong hotel and were trying to work out where the hell we were. Thanks to my trusty phone, the wonders of Google Maps and the help of a young Uzbek lady, we managed to find the Islam Khodja. It lay in the centre of the old town, down some muddy street. We were relieved to arrive and it was only later that we were truly able to take in the beauty of this phenomenal town.
The room at the hotel was a good size and the manager was a delightful smiley chap who spoke English pretty well. We all liked him instantly and were very pleased when he offered to serve us breakfast. We were very hungry! The lovely lady of the house came out with a fried egg for each of us and this was followed with cake, suzma and a range of beautiful preserves that we later found out were homemade. We knew we’d be pretty happy here.
After eating we headed into the town. It is externally magnicent with the ubiquitous azure domes and beautiful medressahs, (most of which have been turned into museums) alongside impressively high and decorative minarets. The first of which, Islam Khodja, shared its name with our hotel. We meandered down to the North Gate and bought tickets which gained us 2 days of access to every museum in Khiva. It was a good deal at just 150 000 soum each (though of course locals were charged a third of the price). I understand the ecomonical difference between our nations, of course I do but it still seems wrong. After all, we are spending lots of money here anyway. It is a legalised form of racism in my opinon.
So, I will step down from my medressah-sized soap box.
We went into a variety of museums which were of varying quality: somewhere between pretty shoddy to diabolical.In truth, I loved every minute but there is so much they could do here to improve the experience. The glass fronted cabinets that artefacts are stored in are often dark dingy holes and the light bulbs in many have given up the ghost; maintenance being something of an unknown concept in Uzbekistan. In most museums there is a courtyard, usually the yard of the old educational establishments that house most of the museums. They are generally bare, lonely looking places: grey and occasionally tiled with omnipresent blue. Now, those artefacts! What can I say? Tired, usually worn, shabby pieces of history sit crouching with sullen expressions; apologising for their existence. The ladies of the museum (and they are all ladies) are usually pleasant and smily with a few exceptions and they signed our cards in each museum ensuring we wouldn’t go in twice.
The morning flew by and it wasn’t long before we needed a beer. Fortunately we found a restaurant bar advertsing itself as the first rooftop terraced restaurant in Khiva. As far as I could see it was the only one. My heart sank when I saw Qibray was the only beer occupying the fridge: a whole army of bottles taunting me. I can’t stand the insipid stuff, probably due to too many nights drinking it in the local Shashlyk. Yet some beer is better than none and we all know ‘beggars can’t be choosers’.
We elected to sit out on the balcony at the mid section of the restaurant which surprised our waiter. It had and I emphasise ‘had’ been raining and was therefore cold. “We’re English”, we said and he smiled. It was fun to chat and enjoy a couple of beers and we enjoyed the place so much that we agreed it would be a nice place to eat that evening.
Having got up at 4 we were tired after boozing so we headed back to the hotel. We all caught up on some Zs and refreshed ourselves before heading back for the meal. Mum ate gumma which was a deep fried spinach and cheese parcel, almost like stuffed filo. It was ok but as before, there was so much potential. I couldn’t help but think that if there was a feta or decent mature cheddar in the middle and perhaps a sweet chilli dip to go with it then it would truly be an excellent dish. Dad had tolerably decent lamb shaslyk and I had a traditional dish whose name escapes me. It was basically ravioli stuffed with scrambled eggs. Not great and would have been so much better with a creamy mushroom filling or a carbonara sauce.
After more beers and a very decent Uzbek vodka we headed home. I slept like a baby.
Day 2 started much hotter, perhaps 24 degrees. Breakfast was very good and we even had pancakes...though over sweetened. Our intention was to try and get round as many of the remaining museums as we could but first stop was the museum of natural History. Experience had taught me to not have high hopes as to the quality of the artefacts within. However, nothing and I stress absolutely nothing could prepare a guest for the debacle; the charade that lay within. I had visions of The Natural History museum in London and whilst I wasn’t expecting this, surely there would be information and artefacts about different animals. Surely...erm, I think...nyet.
The first room within the courtyard was simply entitled ‘Fruits’. Strange I thought, but in a non-judgemental way I entered thinking perhaps there would be rare african fruits or some information about the surprising nutritional value of certain fruits hitherto unknown to the general public. But...what did I get. An apple. Actually an apple and I kid you not, sitting proudly behind a dirty pane of glass. Next to the artefact, a sign saying ‘Apple’. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing. As I looked to the right the next card read ‘peach’ and next to the card...another apple! This time my internal snigger went nuclear and exploded into a belly laugh I couldn’t actually control. I didn’t want others to think of me as an arrogant westerner mocking people that I might somehow think of as lesser than me. This is 100% not the case. Yet come on...a museum that celebrates apples. Don’t get me wrong I love cider, strudel, even humble raw apples but I wouldn’t put it in a museum. I glanced to the right. Grapes! I was uncontrollably laughing.. I had to get out.
I steeled myself for the next room and perhaps the ‘The Fruit’ room was simply a preamble, a dried poppadom before a wonderful curry. Taking a few steps to room two I looked on in disbelief. No laughing now. I was too tired. ‘Vegetables’, it said. You can probably guess the rest. Oh and by the way, you’re right.
We continued through the natural history museum, each room bringing new and startling wonders including the silk worm room with no evidence of any silk worms and the herb room which, if it had been as honestly titled as the first two rooms, would have called ‘The Dry Twig’ room- of which there were definitely two (rooms not twigs). There were some animals, though the taxidermist had done them little justice. I thought death was pretty much the end for the poor creatures but these restless souls and particularly the hedgehog whose face was set in a state of diobolical and infinite suffering, suggested otherwise. These animals were dying over and over again. The room was like an advert for the catholic church of yesteryear: Hell and damnation was here. I had to escape.
It took us several minutes to recover from our experience of The Natural History museum and we giggled our way through the narrow streets searching for other museums. None of them competed, in terms of pure entertainment. In that regard, we had reached the zenith.
The sun was at its height and so, we headed for the city walls. We struggled our way up the broken steps and elevated sections without steps which were frightening but mum and dad did well and we were soon on the wall. Not for the first time, we were stopped by local youngsters, this time some girls probably 14 or 15, for selfies. Mum got into it. She is super cool in these situations.
The question remained: why on Earth did they want selfies with a retired couple and a podgy middle aged man with a receding hairline?
The wall itself is spectacular and probably looks the same now as when it was built in the seventeenth century. The inner brick work is compacted with mud and an almost biblical aspect is created as the wall snakes around the town. There is only one way up and down, which is a shame but we were able to take in the the panorama very well from up there.
We worked up a thirst and enjoyed a few beers and tolerably good lunch at our seemingly regular rooftop restaurant. Here we met a teacher who is currently working in Astana (bloody cold out there) and her friend who runs HR in Almaty. We shared tales of travel and my passion for what I’m doing was invigorated once more.
After some rest we headed out for our evening meal at a different restaurant that the manager of the hotel had recommended. It was ok though as is often the case there was less than half of the menu items available for consumption. We got chatting to two frenchmen, Laurent and Thierry who apologised for their poor rugby team but who were keen to point out our Brexit mistake: ‘I think you make a mistake and must change your mind’ Thierry pointed out. We nodded in sombre agreement. Maybe out of sympathy for our country’s plight, Lauren bought us all a vodka and we were able to drown our sorrows.
That night I slept well and after breakfast we headed out of the walls into the real Khiva. It was fascinating to see how dirt ridden it was with litter thrown seemingly without thought or care.
After visiting a small cemetery, we strolled to some farmland and took a small path leading us past a couple who were working in the field. They looked at us as if we were actually purple but they smiled and we exchanged nods and hellos. We were warm so after more beers we headed back to the hotel as our taxi was picking us up from there.
Khiva was stunning, the people wonderfully warm, helpful and welcoming. As always in Uzbekistan, I was left with the thought that if the government, the people amd appropriate organisations were able to work together, they could turn this experience into something truly awe-inspiring which would match its external majesty.
However, then there would not have been The Natural History Museum and I wouldn’t have missed that for the world!
Wearily we made our way down to breakfast at around 6. It was a quiet and bleary-eyed experience but necessary. Little did I know what was to await me on that day!
The taxi arrived at 7 and pootled, it has to be said towards Ala Archa- an icy wonderland of mountains, trees, valleys and frozen waterfalls. It really was one of the most amazing visual feasts that I had ever experienced. By way of putting off the moment we headed for a coffee in the hotel at the bottom of the mountain, where we prepared ourselves practically and mentally for the challenge ahead (I had no idea). Now, anyone who has hiked, climbed or experienced outdoor pursuits with me, will tell you that I am not always fully prepared for the challenge ahead and this was very much the case as I looked on in awe at my friend Cameron, who boasted expensive equipment and attire that you might find Bear Grylls wearing in an adventure programme. I looked, quite simply, like a twat. Sorry for the course language but it is the best word: an old, ripped coat, a pair of jeans (perfect for the wet snow!) and when Emily gave me a bag for my feet, I put it on the outside of my, soon to be discovered, woefully inadequate, hiking boots. My fellow explorers cried in laughter at my ridiculous stupidity. At this moment, I realized that the plastic bags were to be worn on the outside of my socks and inside my shoes.
Once finally sorted we headed off, crunching the snow with our boots in what was initially a gentle climb, though surprisingly tiring: the depth of snow made each step twice the effort. It was then that the strange mix of danger and hilarity began. The ascent became surprisingly steep and the snow, now ice, made for some hilarious falls and was the cause of many bruises. Now- those hiking boots! In truth, they were cheap Wyndsors’ boots that I purchased over the Xmas hols but little did I realise how bad they were. Each step became a living nightmare and even on the flat I felt that I might slip over at any time. What made it worse was that both Emily and Cameron managed to walk up with relatively little problem. There was a brief respite as I watched Emily cross the frozen waterfall, that was a wonder to behold, on all fours. Though I did little better.
On many occasions my climbing friends had to wait for me and watch from, what seemed to me, some impossible to reach place, as I blundered up like a hippo doing ice skating. I must have fallen a dozen times and was reminded of the song, ‘you get knocked down and you get up again’.
At first, it was comical, but as the challenges increased and the mountain became steeper, my humour began to evaporate. At one moment, my head had completely gone after I tried to climb about twenty metres for what felt like about half an hour, only to fall and slip about forty metres back down the mountain. It was horrible. Cameron tried to give me advice and encouraged me not to give in but my mind was foggy with frustration and I had lost all sense of reason. I was freezing; I was failing and I suddenly felt very, very old. Yet somehow, I found something from within and kept going.
We stopped at various points along the way and chatted with expert climbers who plodded past, wearing crampons and the like. We, and particularly me, must have looked ridiculous- ‘a teacher twat on a mountain’. However, the views from up high were absolutely incredible and oddly, well worth the struggle. Yet after eating we realized that we had to face the highly dangerous and bizarre prospect of coming back down. It would be less tiring, of course, the steep slope of ice and snow was now a toboggan run and any fall might lead to rapid and uncontrolled descent.
I realized very quickly that walking would not happen so I dropped on to my backside and committed to the slide- though we were down to one pair of gloves between us as mine were soaked. This meant agony followed by gloves- recovery and then agony followed by gloves- recovery (repeat!) I used whatever I could to stop myself, be it the walking stick Cameron had leant me, the trees, bushes and even rocks.
Some moments were hair-raising and Cameron almost slipped off a hundred foot drop at one point as he rounded a corner on his arse; somehow hair-pinning his way around the cliff side. We made rapid progress and the last few hundred metres were fun and hugely comical as we slipped down the mountain together on our soaked backsides falling to the ground like kids out the end of a slide at a water park.
At the bottom, we bumped into an Englishman who had married a local lady and had moved to Kyrgyzstan. We had a beer together in the hotel and made arrangements to meet the next day before grabbing a taxi and heading off home.
After dinner, we slept like logs. Emily and I had a lie, in whilst Cameron went out walking. Bear Grylls is never tired.
A late breakfast was definitely required and then Emily and I strolled through the city enjoying the centre, yet failing to get into the national museum which was being refurbished. We met up with Cameron later and then with our new friends and enjoyed a quality night out at a local craft beer establishment. There was a pool table downstairs and a great range of wonderful beers, each made on the premises. I did some research and found that the place was established by two ladies who had travelled the world sampling and researching beer making. These were the best beers I had tried in central Asia. Quite simply beautiful.
Our final day was a calm one and Cameron once again went walking whilst Emily and myself went to the local banya (Russian style baths). The outside looked like a small space craft from one of the Star Wars films but inside, it was very pleasant. We had agreed to meet up with our cyclist friend Teemu who fancied some pampering too and after wishing each other well, the genders separated off. Through the curtain I went, only to be confronted by perhaps forty or fifty naked men! I didn’t realise how shy I was until this moment and it took me some time to become comfortable with the nudity.
A banya starts with a sauna and then a steam room and a plunge pool (absolutely freezing) and this, we repeated about three time. In the sauna, men beat themselves with giant leaves or even parts of trees. One wrinkly chap encouraged me by showing me how and I had a go! It was all very bizarre. Self- flagellation…tick!
The plunge pool was a terrifying experience and it took a massive act of bravery to throw myself in and swim for the other side. God alone knows what those poor folks who fell into the water when the Titanic was sinking must have felt but 10 seconds in this water was enough to take all the air from me. It was like being smashed in the stomach by a giant, angry fist.
This was to be our final experience of Bishkek, except of course meeting up where we had started in Harats Irish pub for a few final beers. It had been a great few days; full of new experiences; a proper break and the company had been amazing.
“I don’t bother to take photos these days”, my friend Cameron said as I snapped away at the mural of a young girl painted on the side of a building. It made me think. You see, I am still fascinated by everything here; everything is new, exciting and I feel the need to record it. “When will you ever look at that” my friend Emily added. The truth is that they are both better travelled than myself and I guess I am a little ‘click happy’ whilst my friends are more discerning but I began to wonder, when if ever, my need to record memories might fade. Perhaps when that happens I need to move on.
So only a matter of weeks after my trip to Astana, myself, Cameron and Emily visited Bishkek, capital city of Kyrgyzstan. The flight there was less than an hour and painless enough although the service at the airport was once again snail like. We avoided taxis and after changing some dollars we jumped on a mini bus and paid the equivalent of 50 pence for a 35 minute trip into the centre.
Bishkek is similar to Tashkent in many ways yet the streets are thinner, the buildings dirtier and in dire need of reparation and the police officers wear fluffy , enormous hats and grey uniforms. There are more street vendors and in truth, a greater assault on the senses. I was happy immediately. Somehow this was more what I expected from central Asia. We were hungry so before heading for the hotel we wandered lazily into a sort of ‘greasyJoe’s’ type place where you grabbed a tray and picked stuff up as you slid along. As usual, the majority of the fare was full of meaty goodness but Emily and I grabbed a couple of salads and then heaven! Pancakes. The man serving us at the til said “4?” Emily said “5, I’ve just eaten one”. The man laughed and we instantly felt at home. Cameron ate three plates of food as if his life depended on it. He was enormously happy.
In need of a beer we grabbed a taxi and after a lot of faffing, and confusion we managed to get the driver to take us to Harat’s Irish bar. When we arrived it was dead. Absolutely no one there but this place, though still quite gimmicky was far better than the irish pub in Tashkent. They served a range of lovely beers but best of all...Guinness. You would think this an absolute necessity but in Tashkent the thought would be preposterous. After a couple of pints we walked to the hotel Astor.
After a fairly basic and slightly weedy coffee, we headed down in search of the hotel pool. It was pretty cold and watching Emily toe-dip was hilarious as if there might be a shark in the waters. She was brave enough in the end. The sauna was very relaxing and it’s the first time I’d been in one in ages. Living in a double landlocked country also helps you appreciate water and after adapting to the temperature it was very nice indeed. We washed the experience down with some Kyrgyzstani brandy.
That evening we had agreed to meet an Uzbek friend of Emily’s in a Georgian restaurant called Pura Pura. It was a thoroughly wonderful night- the restaurant was traditional in décor but not dowdy and the food was simply delicious. We were also able to order a couple of bottles of excellent wine at normal prices which was a delight in itself. After some more wine, in another bar, we headed home shattered and ready for a good night’s sleep.
Monday was all about monuments and the full spectrum of coffee. We saw the mighty Lenin, towering above a square in front of a museum; the smaller but cute statue of Marx and Engels, sitting in discussion like two men, the world over. I felt I needed to put a pint glass in each of their hands to complete the image. By the giant flag in the centre, we witnessed three soldiers marching in a way reminiscent of Monty Python’s silly walks but the timing was unbelievable. As they passed us, one of them said “Zstrasvjoodje” (hello) as if the whole situation was perfectly normal. It was a great moment on the trip.
Now- the spectrum of coffee! We went in a bar which was dedicated in all fairness to beer and football- and there were the obligatory premiership football team scarves and posters but the sun wasn’t quite passed the yardarm and we opted for coffee. Big mistake. I have never seen worse cappuccino in my life- insipid-beige fluid with a bitter burnt coffee taste and froth that looked more like frog spawn. I was reminded of the great Blackadder sketch where Captain Darling is made a cappuccino by Baldrick (youngsters- time to get on Youtube). I’m not sure it could be any worse. Like true brits we stood it with a grin and headed off in search of Kuramanjan datka- the heroine of the city. We did eventually do the historical research later, in the hotel, finding out that she was a brave leader who when she saw her husband to be, simply said no and ran away before later marrying a Datka- a leader in China. After his death, she was given this title and she went on to become extremely powerful and successful. An early feminist? However, whilst we were there, the name itself (said with a rolling r) became the highlight of the day as Cameron and I tried to learn how to pronounce it. It was highly amusing but I guess you had to be there.
In the evening we met up with Emily’s friend once more and enjoyed an Indian meal at Papa Roti’s (no- not Pavarotti’s). It was a strange place where the service was odd (not unusual for this part of the world) such as the rice coming after we had eaten half the curry. The menu was also bizarre with pizza, pasta, steaks, Chinese and all sorts available. Gordon Ramsey would have had a field day. Initially, we didn’t see much indian food but when we asked, a new menu came out and wow- this food was mesmerizing. Wonderful, flavoursome curry as good as anything I’d eaten in the UK. The highlight was a spinach and paneer dish that was out of this world. Why it wasn’t advertised in the proper menu is anyone’s guess.
We had an early night as we had arranged a taxi at 7 so that we could hike up Ala Archa- a beautiful national park in the Tian Shan mountain range. It was to be an exciting, highly comical and terrifying day.
One of the great advantages of this experience is being able to visit places you would never have even thought of visiting. And so it was, that Richard, Steve and myself headed out to Astana, capital city of neighbouring Kazakstan- wrapped up warm and with a bag full of jumpers, thermal socks, hats, gloves and the like. We’d read that it was at least -21, could drop to -31 and might have a real feel (wind factor included) of -41. The figures were mind-blowing to me. Up until this impending trip into the chiller, I don’t think I had experienced much below -10 and certainly not for any real length of time.
The night before, we had a big fill up at a back street Korean restaurant where the food was just incredible. Blends of spices and herbs that I hadn’t really experienced since my visit to Pho in Cambridge with my amazing daughter. Great vegetable dishes and lettuce leaves which were used as tortilla type wraps. We washed it down with talk about Astana and of course a couple of bottles of Hoegarden (which we had bought in a local shop). A real treat in Tashkent.
We didn’t have a hotel booked for our first night and when we arrived in Astana it was just before 3 am so we bedded down on the floor of the airport for a couple of hours until I was kicked, albeit gently, by an airport staff member who, after much confusion, told us we couldn’t lie there. It was hard to understand why as there was no-one else there at all and we were pretty much out of sight but like a lot of Central Asia, in my limited experience, No, means no and very often, they don’t even understand why! Dutifully, we headed on towards a café, that was open and after cobbling a few Tengi (local currency) together, we managed to buy a coffee and then fell asleep leaning on the tables. It was not a comfortable night’s sleep, and was further interrupted by a ‘pissed up’ bloke who decided to get lary and start throwing insults. Steve, who speaks Russian, though didn’t let on, said the best insult was, ‘You ugly white pigs, the Chinese are more beautiful than you’. We ignored him and eventually, he was removed by a couple of police officers.
After a night in the airport we headed out into Astana. Leaving the relative warmth for the first time was a shock! I had mentally geared myself up for this moment, but the wall of cold genuinely hits you like a punch. It felt like I had no trousers on as the biting frost cut straight through my jeans as if they weren’t there. The only thing to do was to get moving and we were relieved when we got on the bus and the temperature rose slightly. After a 40 minute journey, we jumped off and walked to our 4 star hotel (2 star in the UK) which was nice enough and certainly good enough for our needs.
Thanks to Steve and his handy bus app we were able to grab all the correct buses and before long, after some tasty breakfast at a place called Awesome bar, we were in the centre of this astonishing city. We marvelled at the architecture that stood proudly like a work of bizarre surrealist art reaching out from its snowy roots. Gold skyscrapers framed the president’s more traditional house whilst on the journey we passed leaning skyscrapers that looked ready to fall at any moment and others that were deliberately crooked and colourful. These odd structures stood alongside a couple of pyramids (one of which was a shopping centre) and even a museum shaped like a slim upside-down watermelon. It really was fascinating. Some artist or designers were definitely trying to make a statement here though I have to confess to not quite understanding what that statement was meant to be. It was nonetheless, impressive. The highlight of the day was our trip up the Baiterek tower, a symbol of Kazakstan’s post 1997 independence. As with the rest of the city, it is an odd structure, like a squashed version of the world cup. There are white metal girders that rise up to 105 metres (344 feet) in the air, fanning out to hold a giant 22 metre diameter gold, mirror ball. We were transported to the top via a lift and then walked around inside the golden dome which, like the Tardis, seemed bigger on the inside. The views from the top were impressive, a landscape of modern art holding a couple of mosques and more traditional buildings in its considerable hands. Beyond the city, a wasteland like something out of a Sci-film- a place no-one should go! It looked like wetlands where creatures with enormous power and voracious appetites might dwell.
Once we were back on terra nova, we continued our slide across the city, as now the glare of the sun was turning the compacted ice into a rink and my shoes were certainly not good enough for the terrain. We took bets on who would fall first, inevitable as it was but somehow we managed to slip slide our way into a bar for a couple of pints of very nice wheat beer. We devoured 3 very pleasant pizzas and then grabbed a bus to head up to the ice hockey stadium.
The game was a delight- and the opening was as melodramatic as one could ever hope for with flashing lights, of every colour and hue, accompanied by the soundtrack from Gladiator at an incredibly loud volume. The combatants raced around to cheers from a sizeable crowd who didn’t seem at all confused by the giant inflatable bear that stood proudly at one of the entrances to the rink. Anthems were played, hands were shook and it was game on. Astana vs Helsinki. I have to confess the first two periods of the game were a little bit of a blur as I drifted in and out of sleep but the final third was great fun. The game stood at 3-2 to Astana and a grandstand finale seemed likely. Yet despite Helsinki’s attacking dominance, the Astana team broke away time and time again, scoring five goals in about 15 minutes; their finishing was outstanding and the game concluded with 5 minutes of smashing and bashing by angry Finnish players who were clearly not going to win the game but might at least restore some pride by hurting some of the opposition. The final score of 8-2 flattered Astana but was a credit to their lethal goalscoring. I enjoyed the experience and it was far more dramatic than my Sheffield Steeler days. It would have been great if Kyle could have been there with me. I miss my son at moment’s like this.
We concluded the day with a couple of stein’s of very nice beer, made on the premises in a place called Pivaroff. It had been a wonderful day and we slid drunkenly home, without a single fall. The bet was still on!
After a wonderful and extremely deep sleep, we woke up for a decent, though not inspiring hotel breakfast where I mainly ate fruit. No fresh coffee was annoying but the granules were good quality and a couple of cups definitely woke me up.
Our plan for the day was to check out the historical, religious elements of Astana, so we headed out to the Russian orthodox church. Although hardly historical, (it is a relatively new build) there is no doubt that this outstanding building will be a feast for sightseers for many years. The stunning blue domes sit astride a formidable white body of beautifully crafted stone. It doesn’t sweep its arms out like an English cathedral but rather sits as one sturdy block, and it looks both majestic and powerful. If it were animal it would be a rhinocerous. Steve, Richard and I entered the cathedral expecting a little look around but we ended up walking straight into the middle of a service: no pews, no awkwardness, just beautiful singing from both ladies and men, interspersed with chant and prayer. It was actually quite beautiful and yet I had no idea what they were saying. There was an awful lot of nodding, though I suppose bowing is the appropriate verb. Standing a little too close, to the elaborately decorated alter and distracted by the murals and flamboyant nature of the cathedral’s innards, we were suddenly hit with a considerable amount of water. It was a blessing of course but this was no dab on the head; this was a supersoaker effort right in the face as the excitable priest (I think) cast water to the congregation as if he was trying to put out a ferocious fire. After our dousing, we stayed to see all the onlookers kiss the cross and receive a pat and a smile from the priest. To me, as an atheist, it seemed like a more grown up version of Santa’s Grotto only less presents. Yet however, sacrilegious that sounds, I was not laughing at them in some superior way. Indeed, I was delighted with how happy they all looked. My friend Steve said, ‘How can anyone believe such s**t”. I agree but there seemed an awful lot of joy in the believing. Maybe we’re the ones missing out.
It was too early for beer so we plumped for a direct contrast and headed for the mosque. I say, THE MOSQUE. There are actually two and both are dramatic, to say the least. We visited the Hazret Sultan. The building was opened to worshippers in 2012 and was named after the Turkish poet and Suffi mystic. The place is more of a small town than a mosque and we walked through a variety of labyrinthine corridors before we finally arrived at the entrance to where people worshipped. Before entering, we of course, as is customary, removed our shoes though this place was so modern and vast (capable of holding 10 000 worshippers) that they had a huge preparation area, 100s of foot baths and what can only be described as a leisure centre changing room vibe. We entered, smelly feet and all! Inside it was less glamorous than the Russian orthodox but the central dome was nonetheless impressive. We sat down on the floor and many families, couples and individuals did the same, just taking in the atmosphere of peace and contemplation. It was a lovely calm moment of the trip. However, it wasn’t long before the thought of beer and food returned and so we left, taking a few snaps of the dramatic and considerable exterior of the building. We found a place where we could eat and once again enjoyed some beautiful beers including two pints of Leffe.
After grabbing our bags from the hotel, we took the bus and headed for the airport via the Triumphal Arch ordered built by the president of Kazakstan. Our stop was a brief one as we were cutting it fine for our flight and so it was a couple of piccies before taking our first taxi of the weekend. It felt like a small failure. We arrived back in Tashkent feeling a sense of relief and the flight back was thankfully uneventful.
Oh- I lost the bet. Slipped over on the Sunday- embarrassing!
Ever since arriving in Uzbekistan, one place has occupied my thoughts more than any other and that is Samarkand. This wondrous place is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in central asia and is imbued with history. It is perhaps, first and foremost, famous for being one of the principle cities on the ancient silk road and although I am yet to see the others, I am certain it will be hard to find one so steeped in history as this.
The weekend looked like it would never happen originally, as I was told by HR that I would not receive my passport back in time: you cannot legally travel anywhere in Uzbekistan without a passport. However, as with most of these laws, the reality is often very different and thanks to my mate Stephen (who has been here for 4 years so knows his stuff) I was fine. “Don’t worry about your passport”, he said, “ You’ll be fine, just take a photocopy”. So I did. He was right…thankfully. A night on the streets of Samarkand, next to the old jewish quarter might have been hair-raising.
We were picked up for the trip on Saturday morning from the Grand Mir Hotel and despite the journey being 3 and half hours, I was not bored for a second. It was hard to not be fascinated and terrified in equal measure by the journey. Swerving in and out of impossible gaps is normal here as is taking a herd of cows across a motorway and street cleaners inhabiting the fast lane to wipe away some leaves! We were asked to get out of the taxi at one point and I had no idea why until it was explained to me that passengers are not allowed to sit in a car whilst it refuels. I’m not sure why!
Once in Samarkand, you are instantly drawn to the three impressive medressas, all beautiful, architecturally impressive and culturally rich in every way. I pondered for a minute the concept of the Taj Mahal which I have unfortunately never seen (yet!) and wondered if it could be anymore beautiful than these buildings; perfect in their construction, lines and aspect. They really are a wonder to behold. My first thought was, ‘let’s get in there’ but Steve reminded us that we had the whole of the next day and that beer might be required. We enjoyed a beer (another uzbek lager) or two and I had some Lackma (a type of soup) and bread- which was not entirely inspiring it has to be said but then Uzbekistan doesn’t really embrace vegetarianism- to them we are nothing short of borderline mental health patients.
After some dinner we trudged, with surprising confidence through the jewish quarter. Here , we saw the real world of Samarkand, walled off from the tourist attractions so as to hide the reality. This is a shame, a dreadful shame. It upset me to think that they were desperate to hide their own people. Inside the walls (not exactly the Mumbai slums) was a world where great delights such as old mosques and strangely placed minarets rubbed shoulders with broken paving, holes in the ground, dusty tracks and many other signs of poverty. The people however, were friendly as ever and we didn’t receive any odd looks. The locals were proud of their homes and we were just, well…other people! Just before 3 we exited the walls and grabbed a taxi (you stick a hand out here) before heading for the wine museum where we had booked in a wine tasting.
This was an experience that we’ll probably never have again. After a brief glance at the artefacts in the small museum we were ushered into a room with a large dining table like something out of Chatsworth House and in front of us were placed 10 wines pre-poured on two wooden slats. Uzbekistan is not famous for its wine so I was keen to see if it was better than one might expect. The first two, a light white and a sort of chianti style red were palatable, though nothing to write home about. The next 5 were all dessert wines, each having enormous quantities of sugar in them and each getting stronger as the wine tasting continued. They were sickly and not nice to be fair. We then enjoyed two Uzbek brandies which were average but at least they didn’t rip your throat out. The final drink 45% spirit was the oddest drink I have ever drank. I would imagine the only drink to ever taste as bizarre as this is George’s Marvellous Medicine. It is also the only drink I have felt indifferent about, loved, hated and been confused about in the same mouthful: it had, so I was told, 25 herbs in it.
After leaving the taste session we staggered to a backstreet Shashlik place where we were joined by a few other expat friends for a couple of beers and we watched the footy. Afterwards, we enjoyed the beauty of Samarkand at night- an amazing experience. The mosque glowed like it was nuclear and the whole city centre sparkled and glistened. After a little more beer on the high rooftop terrace of the hotel we got some sleep.
I awoke feeling starving and was delighted initially to see the massive breakfast that had been laid out for us. However, that delight was ephemeral to say the least. It was almost as strange as the 45% spirit: a collection of nutritious, or otherwise, foodstuffs that simply never belonged together. There was a hard boiled egg ( very basic and fine, though grey) a muffin next to it (far too sweet), some stale bread, hard cheese, a bowl of milk with rice in it (not rice pudding) a pumpkin samza (like a samosa) a chocolate wafer, some lukewarm astringent coffee and some salami and no juice! Most of the ingredients were crammed on to one tiny side dish as if it was some sort of game of jenga on a plate. I nibbled at a few bits and we left in search of the sites- I had survived without the passport!
We enjoyed the more modern mosque on the top of the hill and took in a couple of Muslim blessings before visiting the new tomb of the last president. It was beautiful: new but wonderfully constructed and in keeping with the rest of the city. We strolled through the 30 ish degree heat to the hill of graves, which was quite literally that- graves thrown across a massive hill in no particular order- it was daunting and somehow peaceful at the same time but it was fascinating to see the pictures of the dead on the gravestones, often painted on. After a while we arrived at the hill of mausoleums. We managed to sneak in without paying though I cannot really understand how. The grave of Kusam ibn Abbas attracts to Samarkand many adherents of religious or spiritual tourism, because even in the Middle Ages, a pilgrimage to the grave of "The Living King" was equated to Mecca hajj. According to a legend, the water source at the grave possess healing power. There were eleven mausoleums here as we walked down the hill each built in the 14th and 15th centuries. Each of them is a square building with a dome, the entrance to which is highlighted by a portico. Some were stunningly decorated within but others oddly bare which was weirdly contrasting. The last construction is the main entrance to the crypt Shakhi Zinda, which completes the whole ensemble. The inscription on the main entrance reads: "This magnificent building was created by Abdulazizhanom-son Ulugbek-Guragana, son of Shah Rukh, son of Amir Timur-Guragana in 838 year (1434/35 AD). After rising to 36 steps we found ourselves in an open gallery. Here the left and right are crypts - the mausoleum of Tamerlane's relatives. The gallery ends with a round courtyard with a vaulted arch. Under it, on the right there is an ancient carved door, which leads to the main shrine of ensemble Shakhi Zinda - Mausoleum of Kusam ibn Abbas, a cousin of the Prophet Muhammad. There is a legend about him as the Shakhi Zinda, the Living King. Though completely different I’m sure (as I have never been) I thought of Petra.
After leaving here we walked towards the Bibi Khanum mosque- an incredible construction and extremely beautiful and ornate. This building was constructed centuries before Shah Jahan built the famous Taj Mahal in Agra in honor of his beloved. Samarkand’s Bibi-Khanum mosque was ordered to be built by Amir Timur for his treasured wife. The Bibi-Khanym mosque was built on a large scale; its size and specific architecture cannot but catch the imagination. Its dome was apparently compared with the vault of heaven, while the portal arch - with the Milky Way. The entrance is huge, an enormous and spectacular doorway with an arch that would dwarf most cathedrals in England. Inside, there was a sense of peace though there was the usual restoration work taking place- skilfully done it has to be said.
The final part of our historical journey took us to the main square known as the Registan, where the three incredible medressas stand proudly. The first , Ulugbek medressa was built in 1420 and over two hundred years later Sher Dor (Lion) medressa was built and then finally in 1660 Tilla Kari (Gold covered) medressa was completed. The tiled fronts are a wonder with their glimmering azure tints and deft art work, with one of the medressas even depicting a lion (which looks more like a tiger) , going against the muslim culture of not presenting animals in architecture. We perused each of the buildings at leisure before scaling the heights of one of the minarets; which was hair raising to say the least. Each step of the spiral staircase was perhaps 2 feet height and there was very little wriggle room in there. When we arrived at the top, there was only enough room for one person at a time to stick their head out and have a gander. This meant that we had to wait below on the steps, in turn, before squeezing past one another. It was an interesting experience rather than a pleasurable one.
After leaving the medressas we headed for our back street Shashlick bar but this time tried the one next door. This place gave me the creeps; the room was filled with hundreds of birds in cages, making a huge racket. This prompted a conversation over yet more beer as to the morality of caging birds. After a couple of drinks and some salad of cucumber, tomato and onion (I craved olives) we headed for the footy match, Samakand live at home against higher placed Andujan. The game was dire but hilarious.
The two most memorable moments were certainly off the ball action. The first being the ticket purchase. We looked around for a desk, a kiosk or some such ‘normal’ place but we could see nothing until 5 minutes before the game when a white car (they’re almost all white here) pulled up and a window opened. Within seconds the scene resembled a zombie apocalypse as fans swarmed the car. No-one queues here anyway, but in this situation, it really was ‘dog eat dog’. After a struggle we came away with our tickets and entered the ground. It was bare to say the least with almost no fans in it which seemed to somehow belie the scratching and biting around the ‘ticket car.’ The standard of football was not impressive and there were no goals whatsoever. However, the second big memorable moment was the sending off. After a standard foul, one of the away team decided to stroll casually over to one of the opposition and head butt him straight on the bridge of the nose. It was madness!
We were picked up after the game by our taxi driver and slept for the 3 and half journey home. It had been a great weekend away full of intrigue, surprises, history, culture and much more. Samarkand- I will return.
This was a weekend positively unrivalled by any other. Hilarious banter, great company, England 'kicking ass' in the world cup and a huge dollop of positive nostalgia.
It is rare that one gets to spend time with so many people that one respects. Ultimately it was an excuse for a massive 'piss up' and it wasn't the first time. A year ago we came to Clun to say goodbye and wish 'all the best to 2 fab people: Martin Lloyd and Terry Phillips. These two men have been nothing short of inspirational to me and many others who were there. This year however, it was easy to look around and see the gathering as a sort of who's who of Tibshelf Community School past.
The weekend started with the customary drinking and as before, we had the weather. Sunshine beaming down upon us bringing out the smiles, the laughs and of course 'the sweat'- Godber! After a late night of drinking and chatting (and even wrestling! Don't ask!) we eventually made it to our respective beds. Moses was perhaps the funniest sight of the lot, lying down with a bag of crisps in one hand and his other poised mid air as if to pluck another crisp from the bag. Despite our best attempts to annoy him, he remained unmoved and slept the night holding on to his crisps like a little child he had to protect from the horrors of the world around him. In truth, with the sound of snoring and the smells of constant farting wreaking havoc, there was a lot of protection required. The morning brought with it the customary gentle boys' mockery though Moses (possiby suffering from a dreadful headache) took it one step too far; allowing his alter-ego Murray the Mad to take over him. This led to myself having water poured upon me, a pint glass thrown at me and the remaining crisps from the night before. Undaunted, I chose to crawl under the duvet (despite the incessant heat) only for Mad Murray to throw a wardrobe at me, blocking me into my lower bunk. It crossed my mind for a moment; 'What would the students we taught think if they could see such antics?' Are we really teaching the next generation? Mind boggled, I rolled over and tried to sleep some more only for the lads to cram every duvet in the room into my bottom bunk. I must have resembled baby moth larva inside the biggest chrysalis ever discovered.
Saturday morning brought much joy as Laura and I made breakfast (all right it was more Laura than me). She did a good job though she should have dropped the salt in from a height! I decided to take a bottle of bud and a can of lager with me on the walk as I remembered it as being quite a tough one. Strangely, we flew through it this year and arrived at Clunton, (destination of the big England quarter final) about 2 hours before the game. James Godber (our token 'big friendly giant) was fitter this year and there was little waiting for him, even in the hills where last year he was puffing and panting like a dog in an acid bath. This year he was tremendous- no Mo Farah of course but he strode on with confidence.
The landlady looked surprised when we arrived, even though we had rung ahead. It was clearly a quiet place and the sight of 20 ish folks wandering in threw them for a moment. I had a pint of water as the pint and half I had consumed on the walk was already getting to my head but it wasn't long before the lads settled down in front of the big screen and the drinking began in earnest. I say lads as most, if not all of the girls decided they wanted to go on a walk, erm...after the walk! Who will ever understand the fairer sex?
The game, in truth, was very dull. England were poor for the whole first half and there were almost no chances whatsoever. Thankfully Swedan were even worse. The second half livened up a little and we were all delighted when England finally won- 2v0. The first time we had qualified for a world cup semi-final since 1990. I remember feeling relieved more than anything else as the mood of the evening was destined to be ruined if we had lost. As it was, we had sun, booze and and England win to celebrate.
As the darkness eventually descended upon the evening, I had a few moments to reflect on my time at Tibshelf. The final weeks were approaching and it hadn't quite sank in that I was never going to work at the school again but as I looked around, whilst sipping on a nice glass of red I realised what a great group of people I had shared not only the weekend with but a number of years; some too many to mention...'know what I mean, ten bears?' I also realised that right here was 'Old Tibby' a place of real people, who cared for students as people not numbers but who also wanted to have a good time along the way. That time has passed and a new time is upon the school but no matter where any of us might be in the world, I just sense that most of them will always come back for Clun (even if it isn't in Clun) for the friendships we have created will last a lifetime.
Roll on next summer. Miss you guys and thanks for an ABSOLUTELY amazing weekend!!!