Teacher Tales

The Bull and the Balkans- Part 1- 08-04-22 to 11-04-22

It had only been about six weeks since our last escapade but this was different. This time, we were meeting up with my parents and so it was all the more exciting. Sometimes, when you are away from your homeland, you just need a taste of your past to feel grounded- some essence of who you are.

We were travelling on a mid-afternoon flight and so we weren’t bleary eyed this time and were certainly ready for a trip. I had been into work in the morning whilst Rach finished the packing but we finished at around 11 and I had four pints at the Shashlyk bar before heading home. The taxi to the airport was uneventful although the nodding dog ornament on the dashboard was entertaining and I’m sure the dog itself was drunk.

Our Tashkent airport experience was easy this time. Check in was simple and no one asked to see any vaccinations or pcrs, which was lovely. The bar was still inaccessible but there really is the promise of one opening soon- we still managed a couple of Zomin beers at the café. I slept well on the flight (courtesy of the beers in the Shash). Uzbekistan airways is certainly a class below Turkish, in terms of International flight carriers but we both found the journey a relief. Unlike Turkish, we didn’t receive constant reminders and announcements asking us to keep our belts on or not open the overhead ‘bins’ and worst of all, ‘please wear your masks at all time’. Theoretically, we were supposed to be wearing masks but almost no-one bothered at all: on Uzbekistan airways, rules are at best guidelines and the cabin crew aren’t bothered whether you adhere to them, which in this case was great. The in-flight entertainment was woeful of course and the best film available was ‘The Martian’ which is a slow burner and I had seen it before so sleep was certainly the best option. There was the usual clap on landing (not to everyone’s tastes, but it makes me smile) and the mad rush to get bags from the ‘bins’, but we were delighted to be safely on Turkish soil.

At the airport there were no checks of our locator forms, vaccines or anything else, save the passport and apart from the annoying and pointless drone of ‘Always wear your face mask and keep your social distance’ over the tannoy, there was no covid interest whatsoever. Only one woman mentioned it to us and we ignored her. Most of the staff didn’t have face masks on and even at passport control, apathy.

Istanbul is a busy city and even though it was almost 11.00pm when we arrived in Sultan Ahmet, the place was still heaving with noise from traffic, groups of ‘social animals’ walking together and bustling restaurants and bars in full flow. Thankfully, we found a local rooftop restaurant for some food, wine and a fabulous view over the Bosphorous and the local mosque. We enjoyed a raki and some wonderful service from two friendly and professional waiters, before heading back to the digs for a good sleep in a wonderful bed at just after midnight.

Breakfast was lovely and we ate at a respectable 8.45am. Rach and I discussed the odd nature of human beings in terms of breakfasts- how in some parts of the world it is pastries, others jam and bread, a fry up, curry, sausage or even salad, olives, dried fruit etc. Here there were all of these food stuffs. We pondered on the impact of socialization, culture and upbringing and how things that are odd to one person are perfectly normal to another. Of course, this is the beauty of travel.

After breakfast, we trod familiar ground to the forum (see my previous Istanbul blog for lots of good information on this place). It was busier than last time and the weather was great, around twenty degrees. Almost no-one was wearing a mask but the influence of the virus was still present with certain areas cordoned off and higher levels of police presence. What I found particularly odd however, was how we were forced to enter the forum via a bottleneck that all visitors were directed towards because of the fenced off areas. I tried to reason this out, wondering if I’d missed a key point but I couldn’t think of one. Ordinarily, at the forum you can enter, at many points which dissipates the crowds across the space evenly but this covid set up forced lots of people into one space and thereby ensured ‘social closeness’. The same was true around the square in front of the Hagia Sophia as people were forced to leave under a tent in a gap that was perhaps five metres wide. Really odd and for me more evidence that people who are in charge of these decisions are really quite stupid. If you posed this problem to a group of year 3 students, they would come up with something better than this.

We managed to purchase some tickets for a boat trip down the Bosphorous from a chancer in the forum with good banter and no doubt questionable morals (we were slightly ripped off- not much) but had just enough time to walk through Gulharne Park, just behind Topkapi palace, before we sailed. Last time we were here, the trees were bare and gothic like- as if posing for the cover of a James Herbert novel but this time, they were in full blossom and the place was radiant. There were new and buoyant fountains, lovers walking hand in hand and flowers in full bloom. Near the entrance to the gardens there is a fountain-sculptured into a book, with writing that says, ‘welcome’ to the gardens that have serviced Topkapi palace for ‘centuries’. The water element moves to suggest the turning of a page in a book and we lingered here for a while, wondering at its deft design. We popped to the same bar we had met Mark at last time we were here (ah nostalgia) and enjoyed an Efes before joining the Bosphorous tour.

The boat was overcrowded but I managed to find a decent spot to get a good look, and what a view it was. The weather was great, though a little chilly when the sun dropped behind clouds or was on the other side of the boat. We took some amazing pictures and travelled up and down the Golden Horn for a second time.

We were hungry, once we were back on dry land, so we stopped at a stall for very cheap sweetcorn and surprisingly expensive chestnuts and perched near the Hagia Sophia to scoff our wares. Peace was brief however, as we were approached by two students, learning English and completing English speaking projects. They asked if they could interview us, and we obliged. The questions were great but the one that I remember the most was Lady Gaga or Madonna?

Lady Gaga every day for me.

We headed back to the digs for a break and a sit on the sun terrace at the top of the hotel, stopping to get an ice cream from an incredibly talented ‘ice cream magician’. This guy was so slight of hand that at times he made you think you’d dropped the ice cream, lost it or never even had it. It was very funny although Rach mused that her Dad would hate it.

The room was a sweatfest when we arrived as my socks had been left out on the bed in the heat with no aircon on. Thankfully, we were not staying and after a monumental struggle to push the cork into some wine we’d purchased, we climbed the stairs to the terrace for some sunbathing and relaxation. The view across the water is wonderful from there and we enjoyed the exotic cacophony of the many, many mosques calling worshippers to prayer: echoes travelling on the light breeze from all over the city alongside the direct and immediate power of our next-door-neighbour mosque. Considering they are professing the same tenet: “Allah is most great. I testify that there is no God but Allah. I testify that Muhammad is the prophet of Allah", it is quite wonderful how diverse the muezzin is and as I said in a previous blog, there appears to be plenty of competition between them as to who can be the most musical. The relaxing on the roof proved to be essential as later we would face a catalogue of geographical errors that required all of our stored energy.

We planned to try and find a great restaurant near the Galata Tower where Mark and I had been introduced to the 7 stages of raki and it was with some disappointment that despite a lengthy walk and trips down several side streets by the tower, we couldn’t find the place. I wonder if it is still in business? Maybe covid finished that place off like so many others. Nevertheless, we were in need of food and booze and found a lovely place perched on a hill with steps going down into a cute and well adorned cellar restaurant. The wine was great here and we had to decide between Gewurztraminer and Pinot Grigio, perhaps our two favourite white wines. We plumped for the Pinot Grigio- it was delicious. Our food was also excellent and Rachel’s four cheese ravioli was outstanding. Whilst we there, a chap proposed to his wife and the live music (more on that story later) ceased whilst he, in the dim romantic lights dropped to his knee and presented the ring. Thankfully she said ‘yes’. It would have been terribly embarrassing if she had said ‘No’. The live band returned and Rachel was delighted that the talented guitarist had finally tuned his guitar. This near perfect pitch can be irritating when you’re listening to slightly out of tune numbers.

After some lovely food in what was a delightful ambience we began our not inconsiderable walk home. Sadly, we took several wrong turns which was a bit ‘poor’ considering that it was not at all difficult and after marching about six kilometres and getting increasingly annoyed with ourselves, we paid an extortionate amount for a taxi on the street to take us back to the hotel (we were within half a mile- argh!!!) Despite this tiring end, (Rach no doubt did more steps on her app than ever before and with sandals on!) we had had a great night but there was still time for a raki and a brandy on our favourite restaurant terrace and as we had promised the owner, we returned. There were an American a Brit and a couple of Turks chatting on a table nearby and almost an argument at one point but the simmering cooled and all ended pleasantly enough. I think it was something to do with the British girl standing up one of the Turkish men. We slept very well.

After breakfast, the next day we took the forced march around the forum to enter through the enforced bottleneck and strolled towards the Blue Mosque. Last time we were here, there had been a lot of scaffolding and inside there was almost nothing to see at all, so we hoped that we might get to see a little more this time. In the walk, up to the mosque there were signs about modesty and covering up: Rach was in a beautiful dress but shoulders were very much on show and I was in shorts, as usual. There is a booth next to the mosque where you can borrow covering for free which is convenient to be fair and Rach quite enjoyed wearing the scarf. I took some trousers but at the entrance, several chaps in shorts told me there was no need. I entered and no-one said a word- they probably would have, if I were female. Unfortunately, the interior of the mosque was still largely unimpressive, with scaffolding obscuring the view of a large percentage of the space. Thankfully, the central dome (one of five) was now visible and what a glorious dome it is.

We lingered here a while and watched some people praying before leaving and exiting through the grounds towards the Askar bazaar where we purchased a fridge magnet from a little boy whose demeanour and professionalism was so cute that we had to buy something. This was a quiet and relatively small bazaar space but opened up into a street that was colourful and vibrant. Here, no-one was calling out to us or overly encouraging us to buy their wares which made the experience more relaxing and I ended up spending far too much on Turkish delight for my mother. The chap in this shop spoke of covid almost destroying his business and his store manager was from Samarkand so we spoke for a while about Uzbekistan which was interesting.

Soon afterwards, we walked through an archway that led to the Mosaic Museum in Istanbul. This place was incredible and houses the largest floor mosaic in Europe, apparently. Nevertheless, there was an issue at the entrance. Here, a masked individual explained that we too could not enter without a mask. We didn’t have any with us, which may seem careless in these difficult times but please consider that we had not worn a mask in the airport, the city, the bars, the restaurants, the bazaars, the blue mosque (which was immensely crowded) and yet here, in this tiny little museum, covid masks were essential. I am not mocking the establishment or the guard who was doing his job but this moment really summed up the madness and inconsistency of the covid response. To extemporise further, I will mention that the number of patrons in the building whilst we enjoyed the artefacts were four. Rach, I and two Europeans, who after entering we never came within twenty metres of. There was, of cause the guard, making a grand total of five which was less people than in the Turkish Delight shop I had stood in for fifteen minutes chatting. How did we get in? Well, the far better prepared Europeans gave us a couple of masks they had spare which was very kind. Once I stepped into the museum, I removed my mask and nothing more was said about that.

By the way, I don’t want to portray myself here as some sort of anarchist or knowitall but I do become frustrated with ‘lip service’ and futility and this moment seemed to fall into both of these categories.

That said the museum itself was impressive and plays host to mosaics used to decorate the pavement of a peristyle court, dating possibly to the reign of Byzantine emperor Justinian the first (527–565AD), although more recent analysis hints at a later date, possibly even the reign of Heraclius. We were there longer than I thought we would be and really enjoyed the experience. I didn’t catch Covid either so…

After the mosaic museum we headed to our usual bar and drank far too much for the afternoon although the chat was great and we had fun discussing different places and nationalities with the waiter. After drinks we wandered over to the train station we had visited last time we were here which is the termination point for the Orient Express’ trip across Europe. From here we walked to the side of the Bosphorous. The sun was out and we sat by the river along with great many others who seemingly had the same idea as us. I almost fell asleep in the glare of the sun and fell into a wonderful relaxation, surrounded by the sounds of the lapping river. I was sad to leave this moment but we decided we couldn’t stay there all day and Rachel wanted to buy some earrings on the walk back towards the digs. I was so proud of her as she had done some considerable distance once again and never complained once (considering the back op she had a couple of years ago, that is very impressive indeed). We purchased more wine on the way back and imbibed it on the hotel terrace once more although on this occasion we were invaded by a huge local family party.

No one asked us to leave but we were certainly awkwardly placed between a long dining table and the barbecue. Muslim folk though are exactly the same as westerners, with women setting the table and looking after children and men crowded around the barbecue. After some fun people watching we drank a little more wine in the bedroom and forced ourselves into an early night. We had a taxi booked for 4am and we had to get this flight; a flight that would whisk us on our way to my parents, in Dubrovnik, Croatia.

Part 2- Dubrovnik 11th to the 13th April 2022

Driving away from Istanbul at 4 in the morning gave me a new perspective of the city. Sure, it had been dark when we’d arrived but we’d been tired and not so observant. This time, I was looking at the lights and was drawn by the beauty of the minarets lit up, usually in green, like giant glow sticks or neon Rapunzel towers. We weren’t sad to leave Istanbul this time. We had relaxed as planned and had enjoyed our time together in this fabulous city but the thought of travelling somewhere new gave me the tingles.

The flight, via Turkish airlines, to Dubrovnik was easy and short, about an hour and a half. Theoretically masks are required on the flight but this time they gave them to you on arrival and I think only mentioned it as we boarded. I didn’t wear my mask at all and nobody said a word, which was great. No-one’s heart appeared in it anymore and the exclamations constantly reminding you to keep them on had been removed from the the tannoy announcements. It is as if everyone wants to forget and move on but they’re trying to do it slowly so as not to ‘freak out’ the most sensitive and fearful: more lip service. The most nerve-wracking part of the journey was the landing as it was very windy and the day before, my parents’ plane had been re-routed until it was safe to land. We were allowed to land but it was a nervy moment and quite bumpy.

Passport control was slow but we didn’t need to show our Croatia locator forms and once through with our hand luggage only, we were able to grab a taxi to the hotel where we were meeting mum and dad. It was great to see Dad come down and meet us on the roadside. It had only been a few months but when you live a long way from home, these moments seem far more intense, like being returned to a life you once lived.

Once settled, we came down for coffee and saw mum too: it was all hugs, smiles and kisses and parity in my essence was restored once more.

After coffee, we took the short walk into the old town centre of Dubrovnik. This town is appealing in terms of its aspect and the complete city walls that surround the town lending it an almost fairytale-like quality. It is no surprise that this city has been used in various films and dramas, most famously The Game of Thrones, which you can see plenty of merchandise for, inside the town. Its closeness to the sea and the steep drops down the cliffs on the walk towards the city are also visually stunning and I took a lot of photos before we even reached the 13th century limestone walls.

From above or from the sea you can see the beautiful terracotta roofs and the light brownish-grey walls, which happened to be bright and radiant in the sunshine. However, if you look more closely you can see a variety of colours in the roof tiles. This is, unfortunately, the outcome of a bitter event – the bombardment of the city in the early 1990s, when the Old Town was severely shelled from land and sea by the Yugoslav army. Apparently the old walls stood up well to the attack. The fortification system in its entirety consists of the walls surrounding the Historical Centre itself, together with two free-standing fortresses - Revelin to the east and Lovrijenac to the west. It is still unclear whether the  city was founded by Greeks or Romans some time during the last few centuries BC - a few finds suggest they had recognised the attractiveness of the location - or whether occupation began only when the area passed to Byzantine ('East Roman') control, from the fourth century AD onwards.

We entered the old town under an archway and walked through the wide central street from which there are side streets that take you up to the walls. Staying on the flat, we passed a beautiful stone courtyard where the cathedral of the assumption of the virgin Mary stands proudly, dominating the square, although it was closed when we first arrived but we were able to take a look at it later.

The cathedral was built on the site of several former cathedrals, including 7th, 10th and 11th century buildings, and the current 12th century successor, built in the Romanesque style has a grand basilica which rumour has it, Richard the Lionheart provided funds for on his return from the third crusades in 1192. The portal of the facade is flanked by four Corinthian columns. On top of the central part is a large Baroque window with a triangular gable and a balustrade with statues of saints. The deep niches in the facade contain statues of Saint Blaise who is also depicted on the main gate into Dubrovnik.

We wandered on in the sunshine towards the outer walls and the sea. This part of the city is fabulous and it was delightful to relax, sit and chat as boats sailed in and out of this small harbour. Here we took some great photographs of the bright blue sea, and the sun shimmering and glittering on the ripples of the surface, with the venetian style bell towers towering above the formidable walls of the fortress to our rear. I could have stayed here for a long time, just smiling and absorbing it all. After a little chat about some of the boating trip deals, we decided to book on to a very reasonably priced three island tour for the next day, which included food, free-flowing endless wine (and it really was) and some spectacular scenery.

After booking the trip we wandered up to the cable car, which we contemplated getting on but unlike the boat trip, the price was not at all reasonable and so, sensibly, we declined and took a stroll around the outside of the walls, the highlight of which is a stone bridge that connects the bastion and fortress to the inner-city wall. Here, you can see centuries old cannon balls and heraldic crests.

We needed a rest and so I introduced my parents to the wonders of Bolt taxies and we were back in the hotel in a jiffy. Later we returned in the evening, when the sparkling lights of the city leant the place an ethereal, radiant quality. We enjoyed a lovely meal and chatted all night about travel and trips of the past as well as hopes and dreams for the future before heading back to the room for some pleasant vino; which is always a lot cheaper than in the restaurant. We weren’t late to bed, as Rach and I had had a very long day and it was definitely time for a rest.

After a breakfast, which for me consisted of mainly granola and natural yoghurt, we took a Bolt into the town and arrived in good time for the 3 island tour. The sun was smiling once more and I had a wander around the outside of the walls and gazed out across the waters- something I always love doing, probably because I live where water and certainly the sea is simply not a possibility. Before long we were beckoned on to the boat, with perhaps twenty or so other tourists from many different countries. We sat initially at the front of the boat with a few odd fellows who besides a brief nod of the head were not going to engage in any discussion whatsoever. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the breeze and scenery and before long we were at out first stop, Kolocep (one of 3 islands that make up the Elafiti islands) and the smallest of those we were visiting that day.

Once we disembarked (mum rather gingerly but with a sense of style nevertheless) we walked along the coastline towards a bar where we managed to force a beer down. We contemplated moving to a place like this in retirement and mum walked further than us to the beach. After our discussions and mum’s more extensive reconnoiter, we decided though it was beautiful, peaceful; serene in fact, the chances of becoming bored might be fairly high. Almost on cue, we got chatting to a lady from Germany who did live on the island and her daughter was visiting. I must say, she looked very relaxed and not bored in the slightest.

This island was a sleepy place with sand, sea, fresh fish to eat, and further inland, stunning pine forests. Unfortunately, we only had an hour or so at this place and we didn’t want to miss the boat- the swim might have been a stretch for us.

When we returned to the vessel, the meal was being served and the space at the front of the boat was minimal, as the stony-faced tourists had spread themselves out, leaving no room for us to eat. Rach was annoyed and so was mum. Fortunately, we were invited to a table on the top of the ship, where the sun shone down upon us. This ended up being the best move of the trip as the people here were great, a couple from England, some scots and a few Americans. Most weren’t shy with the never ending supply of wine and the banter was flying along with the juice of the grape. The fish was fabulous too and totally fresh. Perhaps one of the best lunches I have ever had, considering the company and the environment.

Dad had a moment where the subject of New York came up and one of our new friends was from Brooklyn. Dad stated that he ‘hated New York’ not with any malice but there was little to no tact either and even I thought it was a overly blunt and mum was annoyed, as she gets very upset whenever he criticizes their trip to the Big Apple. Lane, the chap from Brooklyn, was hilarious and wore a sort of scarf over his face which we later found out was to protect his pale skin from the sun. Thankfully, he was well humoured about the whole chat and he’d sunk quite a few wines, even taking one with him when we stopped at island two, Sipan.

I have to add here that my dad is so affable a guy and so easily likeable that even when his opening gambit with a new person is ‘I hate where you come from’, he is still loved immediately. Some say that about me but my dad is the master for sure.

We walked between the shops and houses down thin lanes on Sipan and spent some time on the coastline admiring the rocky outcrops and the serenity of this, the largest of the Elafiti islands. Rach had a short sunbathe whilst she could, no doubt missing her spiritual home of Greece. Later Rach joined us for yet more booze and then we headed back to the sea cruiser.

Our final island was Lopud, which though small has a lot of hotels and accommodation on it and some beautifully lush pathways and walks. We strolled around this hilly island which became part of the Ragusa Republic in the 11th century for a while, enjoying the nature and wildlife. Only 200 people live on Lopud and it has a wonderful equilibrium, where everything seems to blend beautifully into a gorgeous whole. I loved it here. It was sad to leave but we arrived back in Dubrovnik having felt like we had had a genuinely relaxing day and the photographs we took bore testament to what a fabulous day it had been. We said goodbye to some lovely people including Mark and Sally who we happily got drunk with and as down to earth types, we found to be excellent company.

When we returned, we popped into the Dahli exhibition in Dubrovnik which, as you would expect had some interesting sketches (more than paintings) with bizarre titles, my favourite being, ‘Advice from a Caterpillar’, which later inspired poems from my mother and I. There were very few actual Dahli exhibits in the museum but it was still interesting and I have begun to appreciate art more as I have aged.

We stopped at a delightful restaurant for an evening meal next to a statue of Marin Drzic which we, with puerile delight, labelled, ‘Old Big Nose’. He nose is huge but it is also of a different colour to the rest of the statue, further highlighting its enormity. I think so many people have rubbed the nose that the exterior colour has altered. In the restaurant, I ate a slightly disappointing octopus ragout. We tried to put to bed the New York argument debate and after a brief tete a tete we headed home for one more wine in the room.

I received a message from my old friend Emily and popped down to the lobby to have a good old catch up chat, which was pleasant and headed back to bed some time after midnight.

I slept very well indeed.

Montengro part 1- 13th April to 15th April

After breakfast the next morning we took a Bolt taxi to the hire car place which was perhaps twenty minutes from our hotel and conveniently near the airport for when we took the return leg back to Istanbul. It’s always a bit nervy when you get in a hire car and start driving away as a few of the employees watch what kind of clutch control you have and whether you can actually propel their vehicle forwards, without hitting objects. This time it was a little worse as the car had one of these new button press handbrakes. It took us a while to even work out how to turn the thing off and even then, it was inconsistent. Furthermore, the parking sensors were overly sensitive too and so, if you came within an elephant’s body length of another object, the car starting beeping and crying out with high-pitched, strident warnings inducing anxiety in the driver (me!) and thereby increasing the chances of a crash by about tenfold.

Before long, we were on the road to Kotur- and what a beautiful road it is- entirely coastal, with the Adriatic sea to the right and Orjen mountains to the left. We passed border control relatively easily and I became used to the car as I swept, reasonably confidently, around the windy corners and through a couple of tunnels (one being very long indeed). It took us a little over an hour, including the border crossing to arrive at out apartment.

After a quick call, we were met by a very tall and strong looking man, who was, it has to be said, very helpful and pleasant. He showed us around the ample apartment and the balcony (which looked out across the bay and the black mountains). Inside the fridge, there was complimentary beer, a bottle of wine and two small, elaborate glass containers of rakija, not to be confused with raki- this drink is equally as strong but is made of plums. Our host suggested it was good for the heart and should be drank at breakfast time. They obviously make them of sterner stuff in Montenegro.

We took a drive to the local supermarket, and were delighted to find a good quality wine for 2 euros a litre called Vranac, which is apparently a black skinned grape that grows in the mountains and produces deeply coloured red wine (and this was true). I won’t waffle too much about the blackcurrant flavours and the hints of mint, vanilla and chocolate, as you’d only get bored and this was, after all, two euros a bottle.

After shopping, we headed across the road to the steep steps and winding gravel path, which was probably no more than 350 metres from the sea but, we knew immediately that this was going to become one of those gruelling holiday climbs that we’d always remember and we were already discussing the return journey, with some mild apprehension. We had an enjoyable stroll along the promenade towards the old town of Kotor stopping for an inevitable beer and some photographs. The water here is distinctly blue and vivid and contrasts harmoniously with the dark brooding earthy daytime greyness of the mountain across the bay. The promenade is aligned with shops, restaurants and a few bars, the closer you get to the old town and there are church spires dotted all over the place, some quite high up the cliffs. It is a picturesque place, for sure and a joy and inspiration for any budding artist.

It was our first day and so after some walking and a brief reconnoiter, we headed back and took on the dreaded steep steps and concrete path back to the apartment. Mum did spectacularly well, as did Rach and I joked at the top, bounding around as if I was Rocky from the end of the montage sequence in the film, just before he fights Apollo Creed: such airs and graces eh?

I cooked a spread of tapas style dishes, all vegetarian and full of flavor, considering our range of herbs and spices were limited, and we drank Vranac, chatted and watched the sun come down behind the mountains. It was soon apparent, as to why the locals refer to them as the black mountains, as they change colour, even in the dusk. As the sun disappeared, the lights slowly come on, a few at a time like the birth of many stars and the place takes on a new beauty. We tried the rakija, which was not smooth but I liked it and so did dad. We didn’t stay up too late. It had been a long day and we were ready for some rest.

As usual, on these trips, a pattern emerges as to when people get up and as the week progresses, the routine becomes established. Dad gets up first, then Rach, then mum and then me. I have no idea why it works like this on holiday but it does. The bed wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was a big improvement to the beds in Uzbekistan. I made myself a breakfast of grapes, strawberries and yoghurt, which was delicious and it set me up for the longish walk to Kotor Old Town. This walk didn’t feel long at all, as the weather was great, warm but not scorching, and the scenery mesmerizing at times, with boats sailing and speeding through the waters of the bay.

Before long we were entering the walled old town of Kotor. What I noticed immediately was how high up the mountain the fortress walls were: snaking away into the distance. I wondered who this had protected as I couldn’t imagine anyone attacking from up there. Later in the week, I was able to climb to the top, alone, and from there, the views were staggering (more on that story later). The streets of Kotor are typically labyrinthine and in some ways the town resembles Dubrovnik, though it is smaller. It is, of course a UNESCO world cultural inheritance site and deserves to be so. The walls themselves were begun in the 9th century and the town is one of the most impressive medieval urban entities in the Mediterranean.

The most impressive of the squares is filled with beautiful restaurants and watched over by the great edifice of Sveti Tryphun or Saint Tryphon, a cathedral constructed in 1166. Its outer walls are made up of a light pink brick which almost glows in the sunlight and gives the building a pastel quality. Mum, Dad and myself paid to go in and have a wander around whilst Rach sat at a bar with a beer. You can climb the stairs of the cathedral which takes you to a small museum of interesting artefacts, including some deftly painted landscapes and lots of strange hats as well as a part of a suit of armour with an arm that looked a little like something out of Terminator 2. From here, you can walk outside and cross the bridge (a balcony I suppose) just above the entrance. Here I was able to wave at Rachel and also watch over an argument between an older man and two younger men, sitting on a table just near to Rachel. I think it was father and two sons and it got quite heated.

The church was built in honour of Saint Tryphon, the patron and protector of the city and it is said that his remains were brought to Kotor from Constantinople, in the nine century and stored in an older cathedral, no longer in existence. I enjoyed my time on the balcony here, people watching and contemplating on many things, including, why there were so many cats in Kotor, real ones, ones adorning art, fridge magnets, murals on walls and even on bags. ‘Kot’ sounds like ‘cat’ I thought, but this seemed a little tenuous to say the least. I later discovered there used to be lots of mice and rats and snakes, and it was necessary to have the cats in the town to protect it. Since those time, cats have become a symbol of good luck for the city and indeed, the whole of Montenegro.

Once back on the ground, we decided a quick pizza was in order and so we shared two between four and supped in the sun for a good couple of hours before strolling back to the apartment, not before witnessing the sheer ostentatious brassiness of the cathedral bells that were some of the loudest I’d ever heard and utterly impossible to ignore. The bell ringers must have been swinging around in their like fat apes and Dad was so impressed that he recorded it and sent the sounds to a bell ringer friend he has in the choir.

Halfway home, and with mum and dad racing ahead- two very experienced walkers- we paused to take it all in and thinking we were following soon, mum and dad walked on. Rach and I watched the gentle lapping of the water and chatted as the sun shone down upon us and then walked a little further before stopping at a little off license (with bottle opener on the counter). Well, obviously, we had to buy some beers and dangle our feet in the water. We sat under a tree and relaxed for half an hour or so, which was lovely. The walk up to the apartment was tough in the heat and Rach always impresses me in moments like this, with her determination.

Dripping with sweat and perhaps an hour after our parents had landed, we entered the flat to understandable questions as to where we had been. I have to confess to being happy with myself, as within five minutes Dad and I were heading out again to the supermarket, which was back down the steep hill and maybe a mile or so down the coast. In truth, we did stop for a cheeky one at the Turkish restaurant Tiha Noc, which became a favourite of ours.

Dad seemed a little distracted and I felt like he was thinking about getting back and getting things done. We headed out, bought the necessary grub, which, when we returned, I transformed into a very decent (if I say so myself) mushroom stroganoff.

We supped wine, enjoyed our wonderful nightly view and finished the night with a few quizzes, courtesy of mum. It had been a simple and delightful day.

The next morning began with strawberries and yoghurt for me which was lovely and the fruit and yoghurt was becoming a pleasant habit which I made a mental note to try and continue when I returned to Uzbekistan. We headed out in the car after brekkie in search of Budva, which purported to have beaches. Budva, not to be confused with the Czech beer, is a town in Montenegro on the Adriatic Sea. Like a lot of towns and cities in the Balkan, it is walled and has influences from the venetians, with narrow streets and medieval churches. There is a seaside citadel and a wonderful church here called the church of Santa Punta which was first built in the ninth century, though obviously there is nothing of this left anymore.

We had a walk to the shingle beach and though it was a little cooler than it had been, perhaps 23 degrees, we still had a good hour or so on the beach. Dad, had his usual wander; he can’t sit in these sorts of places for too long. I find lolling in the sun quite easy to do but the lure of the sea was calling me and, as usual, I was the first to give it a go. A little tip for any traveller: if there is no one in the water, then there is usually a very good reason. Wow, it was chilly! Later, Rach braved it but like me, didn’t stay in for long. Mum and Dad were more sensible.

Despite the apparent coolness of the day, we did pick up some sun burn and we were reminder of how dangerous the sun can be.

After the seaside, we dropped into a nearby bar for a beer and then strolled towards the citadel, passing through a small beach resort called Coco Beach. We laughed at the surprisingly lengthy list of rules here, which included the laughable, ‘Do not play ball games'!

Outside the impressive medieval walls of the citadel is a large (and I mean very, very large) decorative bell which we had to take a photo of, especially as its backdrop was an array of private, expensive speedboats, like something out of Miami Vice. More incongruous than the bell was the highly unrealistic mannequin of Jesus, returning after his crucifixion, with other equally bafflingly poor dolls, presumably startled by Jesus’ resurrection although their expressions were horrifying, ghastly, gormless and demented in four parts equal measure. Rach and I laughed out loud and mum and dad took a moment to rest by the citadel wall, a few metres ahead.

Once Rach and I had finished giggling at the Jesus mannequin, we caught up with mum and dad and wandered through the arch into the old town. Here, many of the stones have a whitish glow, which was slightly ethereal, particularly when we arrived at the central church of the holy trinity. Inside, it was well adorned with the usual Christian paraphernalia but this church, also celebrating Saint Tryphin, (looking a lot like Tyrean from Game of Thrones) through art work, had a rood screen, quite rare in churches, so my dad tells me. We wandered around the interior for a short whole and walked the maze-like streets, noticing the cannons on the outer wall before stopping for a lovely greek salad, near to a very attractive café called the Theatre Café, which had outdoor, albeit temporary, tiered seating outside as if a show might take place at any time.

After visiting the city, we wandered back along the seaside and drove back to Kotor. We relaxed at home for a while before changing and heading down to Tiha Noc, the Turkish restaurant for a meal out. We had a lovely meal, and mum and I (eating vegetarian of course) had plenty of choice. The waiter was a lot of fun and had a catchphrase which must make the restaurant an awful lot of money. To fully appreciate it, please adopt your best turkish accent before saying it. Here we go:

“Of course, why not?”

On the back of this phrase we were encouraged to imbibe copious amounts of red and white wine, which was, to be fair of good quality and exceptional value. Once we struggled up the all too familiar hike up the hill, mum and Rach were tired and it wasn’t long before they were in bed. Dad and I drank some more wine and rakija, whilst sharing travel stories and memories of my dad’s time in the workforce.

I think it was one of the nicest moments of the trip for Dad and I.

Montenegro 2- 15th to the 17th April

After breakfast, Rach and I did a morning shop, searching for curry spices but to limited success. What we did find in the supermarket was jar after jar of a orange like substance, which later found out was peppers and cream, whizzed down with various spices, into a sauce. Later in the week, we tried it and it was delicious.

After our shop, we wandered back to Kotor and booked ourselves on to another boat trip I hadn’t realised how much I had missed the sea). We had to wait thirty minutes or so, which we spent wandering through Kotor initially, until Rach needed the loo but the time flew by and it wasn’t long before we were on board with our humorous captain and his assistant. It was warm at first, whilst we were protected by the mountains and sun shining into the bay but that was to change.

Firstly, we stopped at a small island that is called ‘The Lady of the Rock’, a man-made island with a church in the middle of it. Our captain brought the boat in with some skill, as the wind had picked up a little and we had about thirty minutes to peruse this tiny island and the church, which is its centrepiece. We entered the church, which is free, if you only see the ground floor but you pay extra to climb the steps to the museum, which I did. It is a roman catholic church. The story goes that local seamen had found an icon of the Madonna and child on a nearby rock in 1452. After each successful voyage, from this point onwards, they purportedly laid a rock and over time, the island emerged from the sea. The church was renovated in 1722 and has strictly eight paintings by the famous baroque artist Tripo Kokolija. I climbed the steps to the museum where many of these paintings are amongst lots of other interesting images and artefacts, including a tapestry completed by Jacinta Kunic-Mijovic, who, legend has it, waited for twenty five years for her lover to return from voyages overseas and made the tapestry whilst waiting, even using her own hair.

The church is delightful and the views to Perast, the nearby town and indeed the natural island neighbour make for some superb photographs. It was a contemplative and very pleasant part of the excursion. However, things were going to get colder…much colder.

We sped our way from the Lady of the Rocks (it was a speed boat after all) and enjoyed the many magnolia fronted communities alongside the water, with terracotta roofs and flowers in bloom. As before, I was startled by the number of churches and it was difficult to look in any direction without seeing a sacred place: some of them high up the cliffs, presumably to evade invaders but I certainly wouldn’t want to climb up to these churches to pray.

Before we reached the open sea, the captain took us to some caves, where submarines, during the second world war had hid from attackers. This was a comical moment of the trip, as he played the James Bond theme tune when we entered the tunnel. We all laughed as he said, “there is music for every occasion”. How true.

After the submarine tunnels, the temperature dropped rapidly and the wind increased. The experienced captain wrapped his outdoor coat around him and we simply shivered. The captain’s assistant, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, gave his coat to a young, attractive lady who was woefully underprepared for the journey. Stylish.

Out in the open sea, we passed by Mamula fortress, which was once a prison but is being remade as a hotel for rich folk. From here we headed to the Blue cave, a huge tunnel in the rock, where, in the height of summer, tourists swim. Some of the smaller boats drove into the cave but our captain explained that with a larger vessel, this would be very unwise. He was right. One guy, on another boat did jump out and swim. I thought he was mad.

The journey back was twenty miles although our captain explained that it would feel like two hundred in the cold temperatures and, in truth, it was chilly. My dad was quiet on the journey, as we all were, and confessed later to being absolutely freezing. To be fair, the captain sped up considerably and once we were back deep within the bay, the temperature rose immediately. We enjoyed the trip but were all relieved to get off the craft, particularly mum, who finds getting on and off boats a little challenging.

After a drink, we headed back and I knocked up a palatable curry, with limited resources, but it seemed to go down well. We had a good few drinks before bed, as is traditional and slept well.

The next day was Sunday and as it used to be in the UK, years ago, very little is open and even supermarkets and food shops were closed. We had breakfast and then took a drive to Perast, down the coast (a place we had witnessed from the boat, the day before). The roads were very good although there were some rocks that had fallen from the seaside cliffs and on one occasion, what must have been a good-sized boulder clunked the underside of our car, making a crunching and frightening noise. After parking, we had a good look around the vehicle and there didn’t appear to be any damage. Phew! Parking was free too.

Perast itself was simply a coastal road with bars and restaurants, all of which were closed apart from one place, run by a chap who seemed to be owner, waiter and barman. We had some decent scran here and I drank coffee as I was driving. There was little else to do here but we were all quite relaxed on our way back to the car. Thankfully it was still working and the loud bang to the underside seemed to have caused no damage. We drove on to Risan but there even less there than in Perast and so we drove back to Kotor and wandered back to the Tiha Noc for some wine. It was a lazy afternoon which was very enjoyable indeed.

We returned to the apartment and Rachel made a delightful gnocchi, making great use of the orange cream pepper sauce I mentioned earlier. I think this was my favourite meal of the week, which is slightly annoying as it was the only one I didn’t make!

We had a relatively early night.

The next morning, we headed inland for the first time, to Lake Skadar. The drive was fun and about ninety minutes or so, including the longest tunnel through the mountains that I have ever driven through. Once we reached the lake, we had to cross a train line, in the car before pulling up into what was a village. We were all expecting to park up and have a wander round the waters but within seconds, a friendly (though clearly great businessman) approached our car and asked if we were here to see the lake.

“Yes”, was our answer and in five minutes time, we were parked up, sat having a drink in a bar and paying for tickets for a boat trip on the lake (not cheap ones either). I think some of us felt like we had been ‘ripped off’, which is never a pleasant feeling but to be honest, there was no way of seeing the lake by foot from this village and so, it was a worthwhile trip for sure. Whilst waiting for the boat we enjoyed a beer outside and watched a train come battering down the old line.

Soon, we were following our guide to the boat, which was manned by a captain who had, initially, an air of grumpiness about him. Most of the first few moments were spent hollering at the guide on the bridge and complaining, I think, about something or other. Some of our fellow travellers apparently boarded the wrong boat, although this was right in front of him and he said nothing. Yet a few seconds later, he was berating them and beckoning them on to the adjacent boat.

Soon, we were off, and the first part of the trip was serene; not at all cold and drifting majestically through the reeds felt almost as though we were on a boat in East Asia. Lake Skadar, also called Lake Skutari lies on the border of Albania and Montenegro and we were within a few metres of Albanian land, though I don’t think we can include that on our list of visited countries. It is the largest lake in southern Europe.

From the boat, you could watch nature work her magic and enjoy the castle alongside the lake shoreline but it wasn’t long before the patrons, mainly Canadians began to make their presence felt. Rachel and I were divided on this issue- as the Canadians took seemingly endless selfies, spoke very loudly and generally enjoyed themselves. Rachel felt they were taking over but I felt the captain of the boat was the issue. He seemed to be thinking purely with his penis, to be brutally honest, and was flirting like you wouldn’t believe, allowing the ladies to drive the boat (no problem but for what reason) and generally acting like a lecher. It did start to become irritating, and despite the wondrous beauty of the lake, we were pleased when we were back on solid ground.

We wandered into the village of Virpazar and ate our pre-packed lunch (very organised for us), enjoyed the war memorial and then wandered off down some of the footpaths. It was beautifully warm and we strolled past a honey farm and a small winery before turning and heading back to the car. I do need to mention the incredible Viking ship that was moored up near the bridge- stunning and we had to stop for some essential photos. The drive home was easy enough and the night a quiet one, after all of the travelling. We had a couple of gentle drinks and headed to bed quite early.

Montengro 3 and a stint in Clippi- 17th to 19th April

The next morning was our last in Montenegro and we decided to walk into Kotor and take the glass bottom tour; something I know Rachel wanted to do. This was a lot of fun, principally because of the proud Montenegrin captain, who was funny and who had some fascinating ‘factoids’ for us all. The first part of the trip was spent on the top deck and enjoying the fabulous views. The lovely chap pointed out how part of the mountain looked like a dragon carved into the rock, even though it was purely natural. I was impressed by the natural gate that straddled two cliffs, which he called the fairy gate and looked like something that Frodo and his companions might have run across in The Lord of the Rings.

Once we disembarked, we decided to stop for a couple of gorgeous craft beers at a quaint and decidedly forward-thinking establishment run by two young men. The beers here were the best I tried during the idea holiday, across all three countries. They were relatively expensive but well worth it- an IPA and a red beer (delicious).

We wandered the streets for a while and I was drawn to the pinkish tint of the bricks which gives the town a real fairyland feel. We stopped for lunch and mum and I had beautiful hummus. Rach had mussels and thoroughly enjoyed them and dad had a traditional fish soup. The wine here was very expensive but we had fun. I was contemplating walking at least halfway up the fortress walls but I could see that no-one else would want to or potentially feel able to. In truth, I wasn’t sure if I would manage it. With some encouragement from folk, I decided to try to get to the small church that is halfway up the Cliffside and alongside the fortress wall. Rach headed home and mum and dad walked a short way with me before heading back themselves.

The walls are mixed in with an array of ramparts, gates, churches, forts and bastions too. And despite the onslaught of time, invasions and earthquakes over the years they are still remarkably well-preserved. The path is mainly cobblestone and then steps, varying in height and difficulty. After 100 metres I arrived at the church, from which you can experience spectacular views of the bay and the town. However, once there, I had to go on and the lion inside me roared. There was no way I wasn’t going to climb to the top.

The Church of Our Lady of Remedy, is 100 metres above sea level but there is still 144 metres to climb from that point, although I wasn’t doing the Maths at that time. It was built in the 15th century and supposedly healed people of the plague, although they couldn’t be that ill if they’d managed to walk up to the church, as far as I as concerned. As usual, when you are climbing up a fortress or hill side, such as this, you come across a diverse array of other patrons. This time I kept exchanging the lead with two ladies, probably in their mid-twenties. Each time they rested, I passed by and then, when I rested, they passed me, exchanging encouraging expressions of ‘let’s do this’ mixed with ‘why are we doing this’? There was another family who reminded me of Rach, me and the kids when we were younger, as the father was driving the kids on to achieve the summit, despite their protestations and faux fatigue. Why do young people do that? I remember Kyle complaining about being tired when walking alongside Grandad or me and me thinking that he has no idea whatsoever about struggle yet. It was infinitely harder for us and yet he complained the most. Kids!

The original Fortress of Sveti Ivan (St John) was built by the Illyrians around the 5th century, but the one there now is a comparatively modern medieval replacement where guards would watch over Kotor below. Once you reach the top, up some hair raising steps, you are greeted with the most stunning views of the town and the entire bay of Kotor. I could have stayed here for a long time and I loved the way that others who had climbed it looked at each other and without speaking conveyed the sense of achievement, happiness and humility of having shared the experience of the climb.

Sadly, I had to make the descent, which was much easier on the lungs but, of course, much harder on the knees. The sole of my right shoe was also coming away and I kept imagining myself slipping or tripping myself up and falling down the medieval steps. Luckily, I took enough care to ensure this didn’t happen. It was a long walk home, even when I did reach the bay and I was delighted to see the waves of my parents who were sat on the balcony watching me climb the final hill to the apartment. A beer was very much needed and dad provided me with one almost immediately.

We decided to eat out once more at the Tiha Hoc for one last meal which ended up being not quite the experience we wanted as Rach was not well and the food she was served was disappointingly bad. She left early and my dad was also tired. Mum and I polished off some more wine and some raki (the Turkish type this time). It was fun to wander back up to the digs slightly inebriated with my mum. We managed really well and I’m not sure who was helping the other up the stairs. Suffice it to say that we slept deeply.

We left early the next morning, and dad was up standing by the window like the Terminator from the first film (I think he as anxious to get going). The trip was smooth enough and the border crossing even easier than on our way in. No one checked for the legally required Croatian locator form and we wondered whether the passport information told them we had one or whether they weren’t bothered about it. I hope it was the second one. There has to be some common sense in this covid nonsense.

We dropped mum and Rach at the hotel, less than two miles from the airport and Dad and I took the car back and wandered back up the hair-raising roads, woefully short of pathways. We were staying in a place called Clippi, which we all thought would be quiet but not as quiet as it was. In less than thirty minutes we had seen the whole place- though I have to say that the St Nicholas church in the centre (locked unfortunately- a sign of the times) was an impressive structure and I read that this whole square, which included an impressive war memorial is the place where various festivals and celebrations take place. Sadly, this wasn’t the case whilst we were there.

Fortunately, we found one place open that sold booze and we enjoyed a little whilst contemplating out next step. I discovered a wine tasting place which I rang and booked but was disappointed when the Bolt taxi I ordered became confused and disorientated and, in the maelstrom of chaos, we cancelled and gave the whole thing up as a bad job. Instead we chilled at the hotel and Rach bathed in rays on the sun terrace.

In the evening, we wandered out to the Tata mata- a pizza place with excellent reviews, good wine and clearly the place to hang out in Clippi. From the outside, this pizzeria looks quite substantial but inside there were only five or six tables. However, as the evening wore on (thankfully we arrived early) more and more folk arrived including a lot of teenagers, sitting six to a table set for four. All seemed very hospitable and there was a positive vibe in the air until an east Asian chap entered to order a pizza. Rachel heard it first- and gave me a nudge. The teens were making racist noises, generic clichéd Chinese sounds and one or two chaps were making their eyes more slanted. It turned my stomach and I nearly stood up. Thankfully the Asian guy left before I embarrassed myself.

I think what startled me most about this moment was not the ignorance- we see that everywhere, but the fact that the adults (who were largely passive) did not say utter a word, not even one word of remonstration, allowing these teenagers to embrace their racist and ignorant tendencies unchallenged. Travel really does open up the mind to the world.

The pizza was great and we had two bottles of beautifully rich and sumptuous wine before returning for a couple of whiskies and brandies at the hotel. The hotel bed was wonderfully comfortable. We hugged mum and dad before bed as they were flying home first thing in the morning but, I had every intention of waitng to see them off. They had an early breakfast and then we came out to give them their second hug. It had been wonderful to see them again and we knew it would be over two months until we saw them again.

Rach and I lingered over breakfast which was ok but not particularly inspired (an omelette of sorts). I was impressed that the chap who served us, a deadringer for Uncle Feste, was the same guy who had served us our nightcap spirits. He was certainly putting the hours in. Rachel and I weren’t flying until the early evening and so we packed our stuff and sat on the first floor, reading and relaxing. After a while I rang the chap at the winery again and I thought we might give it another go. This time a Bolt arrived and drove us to a lovely house in the country, perhaps five kilometres or so from the hotel.

It was silent when we arrived and we wandered into the garden unchecked. There was a huge conservatory with a range of electric musical instruments lying around as well as a bar. We were on the verge of knocking on the main door to the house when a chap came up the pathway and called out to us. He was perhaps in is late twenties and was a sociable fellow. He showed us the view from a balcony beyond the conservatory, which was utopian. Afterwards, we tried five delicious wines. Although the tour was overpriced, they were the best wines we had tasted on the trip and this young man, not only made them but he had travelled to several countries learning his trade as a vintner. We had a great chat about politics, history, and wine making; Rachel, in particular, was able to enter into this discourse, with her extensive knowledge and experience of making country wines. We were a little touched by the chap as he clearly had issues with his father and great ideas for the business, which he felt were being quashed or at least restrained by his over bearing father (82). At times, we felt like we were his counsellor, but it wasn’t a chore.

He was a musician too and was writing an album, hence the aforementioned musical instruments. Our time here ended relatively abruptly as a new party of folk arrived and we said our goodbyes to the young man with bags of talent and a heavy heart. He just wanted a girlfriend.

After leaving the winery we tried to order a Bolt but no-one was responding and so we walked back to the hotel. I enjoyed it to be honest and it was all countryside but Rach was not impressed and was relieved when we finally arrived back at the hotel. After a brief sleep on the sofas upstairs, we booked a Bolt more successfully this time and headed back to the airport. The experience was relatively painless and Rach was in good fooling, after her rest, inspired no doubt by the sight of a travelling monk (not something you see every day) in full habit.

The two flights home were just that- two more sky buses that we were becoming all too familiar with. On the second flight Rachel and I were looking at the map of the world on one of the screens in front of us and Rachel noticed that Africa looked like the elephant man’s head. We giggled like school kids. She was right. Once back at home, we were relieved but as usual, it had all gone too quickly and it would be a good nine weeks before we would be travelling again.

Georgian Adventure 19-02-22/21-02-22

We were both excited despite the heavy rain as we left the flat and tiptoed through the huge puddles before clambering into the taxi. Often, flights are early in the morning or late at night so it was pleasant indeed to be flying at just after 9 and so getting to the airport for 7 was no different than a usual work day.

On arrival, we both realised how different Tashkent airport was. The ‘powers that be’ had finally made the decision to drop the external passport and ticket checks which used to cause unnecessary and ludicrous queues before people even managed to enter the airport. There is still the check at the door and you have to put your bags through the scanner but they have definitely taken steps towards becoming a ‘proper’ airport. For that I congratulate them. There is even a bar that is a ‘real’ bar though it was closed off for maintenance and a new café that sells beer. However, on entry to the airport I saw the queues and remembered…

They had not sorted the slow service and so we waited and waited and waited. This did nothing to release the anxiety levels which are extraordinarily high when one travels these days, as you sift through your vaccine status certificates and your pcrs. To visit Georgia, you do not need a pcr but experience had taught us to get them done anyway and so we did and 'lo and behold' that was the first thing they asked for when we finally arrived at the counter. After navigating our way through security and people’s obsession with wearing plastic bags over their feet in case they get dirty, we grabbed a Sarbast Speciale and joined Gemma, Chris, Nick, Wendy, Stacey, and the kids for a bit of pre-trip banter. Rach was in good fooling and was keen to tell me her crazy red eyes story. Don’t ask!

The first flight to Istanbul was fine and despite being so bored with the food on Turkish airlines (we fly far too often obviously) all was well. I slept for much of the journey, as I often do but I did almost see the Revenant- all but the last twenty minutes. A very grueling experience to be honest and I can’t mention the bear mauling to Rach without her making facial expressions of disgust. We had the prospect of an arduous eight and a half hours at the airport before our connecting flight to Tblisi- flying back the way we’d just come. Madness! Yet the ‘pain’ was eased by our mother hen Wendy who had bought a pass to the executive business lounge where we imbibed many a free wine, a couple of beers and endless desserts- the buffet food was largely odd but the puddings certainly went down well. I was a little confused by the message on the pool table which said that due to covid, pool was not allowed- I know they closed the swimming pools at the height of the pandemic but this kind of pool? Do pool tables have a particular proclivity for covid- does the baize suck up the stuff and hold on to it like a nuclear landscape after a holocaust?. What was doubly odd was the large number of people only a few metres from the pool table, all sat next to each other, wondering probably, like me, why they could socialise, hug, cuddle, sit on each other’s knees, share the same beer glass but absolutely NOT play pool. Like many decisions during this pandemic, it left me feeling comically baffled.

The long wait flew by and the short second flight allowed me the chance to finish the Revenant (Tom Hardy is brilliant in this film). We didn’t have to wait for our bags as we were back packing and so were through the airport faster than our friends who were all heading to the mountains to ski. We said goodbye and walked out into Georgia.

We couldn’t find our driver at first and I was slightly concerned as we didn’t have a Georgian sim and it was two in the morning but a top guy who was clearly a taxi driver let me use his phone and we were soon acquainted with our man- a kind and soft-spoken elderly gent with not a jot of English. We tried in Russian and got by. I felt terribly guilty when I spoke a little and he thought we were going to be conversant until my ‘jut jut’ Russian revealed itself in all its hideous glory.

Our first ‘digs’ was an odd place indeed and with its title ‘Boutique Fantasy’, I was wondering whether we might be entering a french style chique boudoir of ill-repute but what greeted us was a block of ugly flats housed in a scruffy looking courtyard. Inside however, fantasy indeed. An actual fantasy world that could have doubled as a set for the film Pan’s Labyrinth. The love that had been poured into this place was incredible with three dimensional walls made to look like gnarly twisted trees and shower rooms that looked like the entrance to an exotic cave where one might find natural springs. The furniture was all wood and slightly twisted or distorted in nature and there was a bright red light at the top of the stairs where our room was, suggesting some evil or dark deeds. I began to wonder if Tim Burton had been this lady’s interior designer.

The water was off and we couldn’t even flush the toilet but the taxi driver who also let us in to the property managed to get enough dregs from the pipes to rustle up a coffee. By about 3.30am we were wrapped up, cosy and slightly too warm in our bed, which was, extremely comfortable.

The water was back on in the morning and we discovered that the whole city had been without water over night- it was as if we were back in Tashkent. Breakfast was served on an oak table that was shaped like an autumn leaf with uncomfortable but stylish looking stools placed around it. We enjoyed an omelette and a strange juniper green dip which I mistakenly thought was chilli, even after eating it. Later, we saw this dip often in Georgia and it is actually made of green plums despite tasting almost savoury and certainly very tart.

After breakfast at around 10.30- early considering how late we had arrived the night before, we headed out into Tblisi in the direction of the river, passing through Freedom square, which was once watched over by a statue of Lenin, torn down in 1991. Now there is a central column in the middle of the roundabout called the Liberty monument, which is one hundred and fifteen feet high and made of granite and gold. The depiction at the summit of the column is of St George bravely fighting a dragon and is made of pure gold. We were initially faced with disappointment when a local told us that the chair lift that we planned to jump on was closed for the winter. We tried a stroll up but followed some germans up the hill who made some unwise choices and as we were following, I guess it was a case of the blind leading the blind and we gave up trying to get the Narikala fortress at the top of the hill where the giant statue of Mother Georgia still watches over the city, sword in hand. Last time I was here was with my good friends Mark and Gareth and we sat for a beer before a cat pissed on Mark’s bag. It had been a hilarious morning and afternoon. I smiled at the memory.

We managed to take some pictures from midway up the hill. The memories came flooding back of the stylish bridge, which lights up beautifully at night and is ethereal and mesmerizing and of the giant silver concert hall- two upturned vases that lie on the landscape. However, what surprised me was the presence now of a rather large spherical object which reminded me of a white version of the death star from Star Wars. Even on this diverse landscape, its incongruence is glaring and we both wondered what it actually was. More on that story later. Rachel was impressed by the seemingly ubiquitous advertising of wine and partly swayed by the promise of free vino, we agreed to take a bus tour of the city.

After a walk to the giant ball, which was even bigger than I thought, we hopped on the bus and listened to the commentary which was in several languages and you could choose. It was a hop on hop off trip and so at lunch the lovely lady in charge suggested a restaurant and we left in search of food. Rachel had a dish of pork and potatoes cooked in a claypot called ojakhuri which was very pleasant and she scoffed it hungrily. We had a lovely bottle of Separavi which is the most common red grape out there and has a rich quality with elements of dark chocolate and deep berry flavours. It was delightful and relatively inexpensive (a big perk of visiting Georgia is the low restaurant prices). We hopped back on the bus after lunch and rejoined the tour which finished at Meidan square, the 18th century main square of Tblisi, but had also driven us passed the sulphur bath district, Mtkvari river, Metekhi wall and Dry bridge flea market where many local folks try to sell a diverse range of trinkets, mostly second hand. We also drove into heroes Square where there is a fifty one metre twisted marble faced tower on which the names of 4000 war victims have been carved.

Both Rachel and I thoroughly enjoyed the drive down Agmashenebeli Avenue which was originally built in the mid nineteenth century but has been renovated beautifully to maintain the original architectural features and design of the street. It is wide and expansive and as the sun shone on us, we were very happy indeed.

The wine didn’t arrive on the tour, unfortunately, as our tour guide forgot to bring her with her but we claimed them when we finished the tour. Guess what? Separavi! Delicious- liquid silk.

After the tour, I really fancied a beer and so, against our nature, we headed to Macalan’s irish bar where I had a beautiful IPA. The bar is far more of an Irish bar than the one we suffer and sadly frequent in Tashers. On the way, back to the ‘digs’ we got lost and for a while I panicked when Rach disappeared, on a mission to find the place. It felt like hours but was probably minutes and quite independently we found the place and were soon resting on the luxurious bed in our fantasy world.

Like Uzbekistan, Georgia tends to lean towards a meat-centric diet but Rach and I were delighted and a little surprised to learn that there was a quaint vegetarian restaurant in Tblisi called Leila’s only five minutes from Freedom square and down a narrow street with bushes hanging from the buildings outside. The restaurant has one small square room but as soon as we entered there was a sense of vibrancy; of fun and an energy that took hold of us. The ceiling is covered in large white circles that look like flowers with petals reaching out to smaller circles. The clientele were diverse and lively and it was clear that Rach and I were amongst the oldest there; befuddled by the lack of a physical menu and rolling our eyes at the QR code taped to the centre of the table. On asking for a paper copy, the waitress looked surprised but she accommodated our antediluvian ways and I have to admit that menu, when it arrived was modern and funky.

Next to us was what seemed to be a first tinder date and a couple of seats down two men who were also clearly into one another made us smile. Georgia, a basically conservative (with a small c) country and essentially old fashioned was nowhere to be seen in Leila’s. This place is New Georgia. The cats were a little bit of a turn off, crawling and purring around the guests, with one attempting to land on the lap of a woman out with girly friends. The presumptuous moggy seemed surprised when the young lady in question balked at the idea of intimacy and repelled its advance with a swipe of her hand and a quick reverse movement. The hostess removed the cat and parity was restored. We sank a bottle of wine and ate delicious veggies and stopped for some cha cha on the way home. This stuff can vary between 45 and 65 percent proof and is not for the faint hearted.

We stumbled home, helping each other but it was Rachel who seemed slightly clearer of mind and I don’t think I’d have got home without her. I slept deeply.

Georgian Adventure Part 2- 21-02-22 to 23-02/22

Breakfast was different. No omelette this time but a cross between a pancake and Khachapuri. I loved it but Rachel didn’t. Outside, the snow was falling lightly and the whole breakfast experience was cosy.

We arranged to leave our bags with the lovely lady who cooked our breakfast so that we could head out to the Metekhi church which was built above the river, on the edge of a rockface somewhere between 1278 and 1289 and in truth seems like an extension of the rock itself. At the entrance Rach and I bumped into a young man named George who was perhaps only 21 or 22 and who immediately earned the nickname Boy George. After quite a chat and a little banter, we braved the rest of the slippy steps- the snow was turning into slush- and entered the building.

There is a slightly claustrophobic feel to the interior of the church brought on in no small part by the formidable stonewalls. The walls themselves are adorned with many religious paintings and other ideological trinkets, which many of the local people regularly kiss, fondle and stroke. Indeed the making a cross sign that is customary with more orthodox Christian religions is prevalent in Georgia. One of our taxi drivers even took his hands off the wheel to cross himself every time he passed a shrine at the side of the road. Presumably he knew his faith would keep him alive.

The snow was still falling when we left the relative warmth of the church in search of a tram car we had seen just across the roundabout. This tram, once worked the streets of Tblisi but some creative mind had converted it beautifully into a café- a café that sells booze of course. There was the promise of ‘glint’ wine or mulled, as we might call it. Unfortunately, they were all out but it was great to sit and drink a couple of glasses of wine before midday in an old converted tram. A new experience indeed.

We wandered back to the digs for one last warming coffee and booked a Yandex taxi to Mstkheta- the ancient capital of Georgia.

On entry to the city, we were a little disappointed as the place seemed quite run down, dilapidated even and we couldn’t really see much of any real interest. After the eclectic excitement of Tblisi, the thought of two days here was not particularly appealing. I had read that Mstkheta was a UNESCO World Heritage site and the birthplace of Christianity in Georgia. Indeed, the Georgian orthodox church declared Mtskheta a Holy City in 2014. So where was it all?

Our thoughts became more positive when we set eyes upon our lovely apartment which was ideal for a couple: a small but pleasant kitchen, lounge, bedroom and bathroom. It was clean, fresh, vibrant and decorated in a modern way which was in stark contrast to the buildings outside.

Steeling ourselves for the exploration, we left into the cold and strolled the streets in search of the old cathedral we had read about. We didn’t have to walk for long as in less than a quarter of a mile we entered a large town square which housed the monumental Svetitskhoveli cathedral. This is a venerated place of worship not least because it is said to be the burial site of Christ’s mantle- a robe or tunic said to have been worn by Jesus just moments before his crucifixion. There has been a cathedral at this site, chosen by St Nino, since the 4th century and though this was of course wooden. The present cathedral is 11th century and has a classic austere exterior, surrounded by formidable walls. We strolled across the square and were accosted by a lady begging who we managed to avoid with some quick strides. At the entrance gate sat yet more begging ladies and feeling compelled, perhaps by the embarrassment gene of the Brit, we gave them some money and entered.

The grounds are fairly Spartan but there is a fabulous view of the mountains beyond the walls and a very interesting sculpture of what seemed to be a tree with two branches falling either side of the trunk. It appears to be hovering above the ground above some magical force sculptured out of gold metal. We had no idea but inside the church there is also a painting of a pillar seemingly cut from a tree and levitating with God and presumably his favourite angels holding it there with divine force. I later read that it was believed that the sister of a soldier who brought Christ’s robe to Georgia, called Sidonia died and from her burial place grew a Cedar tree that St Nino ordered to be cut down to make the seven pillars of the original cathedral. Six columns were made from the tree but the seventh column is said to have risen by itself into the air and only after St Nino prayed did it return to Earth. In Georgian Sveti means pillar Tskhoveli means ‘life giving’, hence the name of cathedral.

Inside the cathedral we saw a crucifix with what looked like a cone on top and wondered if this was religiously symbolic or the product of a drunken night out. As before there were innuemrable folk waving their arms around oddly and stroking effigies and paintings. Frescoes covered the walls but you have to look higher if you want to see them properly as the ones had ground level have been worn away, no doubt by the fondlers who feel the need to touch and caress every religious image in touching distance. On the south side of the cathedral there is a small stone church which is a symbolic copy of the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre Jerusalem. Built between the end of the 13th and the beginning the 14th centuries, it was erected here to mark Svetitskhoveli as the second most sacred place in the world.

I will be honest and say that I wasn’t touched by any divine force personally but the history of the place was fascinating. As we left the grounds of the cathedral, the beggars asked for money again- the same ones we’d given to already. Rach quipped, ‘it beggars belief’. We laughed heartily for a while. I will add here that I was not laughing at the beggars but Rachel’s wit, which has always impressed me.

As for beggars- I do give and I try to judge each situation by what I am confronted with and I accept that the whole ‘giving to beggars’ is a morally and ethically complex act. I will leave that one parked right here.

After the church experience we headed for the river and walked for a mile or so in search of an ancient stone bridge I had read about online. The views were pleasant, of the hills and the river but it was cold and Rachel was clearly getting irritated and grumpy. Her mood was not improved by the discovery that the bridge we had searched for couldn’t be seen from where we were standing and so we simply turned around and walked back to the centre. All was better once we checked in to ‘The Check in’ restaurant with its cellar eating area. Here we had a bottle of wine and chat and some lovely food. In fact, the ‘plonk’ was the cheap local white (very palatable and when paired with khachapuri, was delightful). We liked it here so much that we returned for an evening meal- the same waitress too who wished us luck when we ordered the Cha cha at the end of the meal. The evening atmosphere in Check in was great with decent contemporary music at a reasonable volume and lively chat with a diverse group of clientele. We had a fun night and left gently sozzled. Our first day in Mtskheta had been better than we thought it would be.

We enjoyed a lie in in yet another very comfortable bed and rustled a breakfast of biscuits, fruit juice and some coffee from the local supermarket.

It was almost eleven when we left in search of the city fortress which was a mile or so outside of the city and passed all of the very keen taxi drivers. We were joined on our walk by a canine who affectionately became known as Dog number 3. In Georgia, there are endless strays but they all seem well fed, they’re all chipped, presumably by the government and not at all aggressive. This one was the third dog to attach itself to us and without doubt the most persistent. It walked alongside us as if we had been its owner for years, leading us to the fortress and into its less than impressive grounds and walked us back down afterwards stopping for some outstanding photographs and posing like a good un. We fell for the animal quickly and Rachel was definitely thinking of Hattie. She even broke her cardinal rule of not throwing food to dogs at least twice.

The best part of the fortress is the exterior wall and the view over the river from alongside the said wall. We were pleased to have stretched the legs nonetheless and stopped in the town at a bar for a litre of local cheap white wine: only 6 GEL and very palatable.

After the wine and the stop, we walked alongside the cathedral wall hoping to be accosted by some taxi driver who might take us to Jvari monastery which sits high upon the hill, above the old city. It wasn’t long before we had an offer and only 20 lari each way- very reasonable indeed. We both felt the journey up would take a while- it was steep and seemed a long way but we were parked up in the grounds of the monastery within fifteen minutes. The views from here are stunning and you can really appreciate the confluence of the two rivers, that come together in a perfect capital Y shape. Rachel pointed out that the two rivers Mtkvari Aragvi were of different colours and she was absolutely right; from above you could see how they came together and created another shade. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.

There was a wedding at the monastery whilst we were there but what was surprising was that tourists were still allowed in and many were there for the moment when the vows were completed. I stood respectfully and watched as others clapped and most folk would make the sign of the cross on both entry and exit to the monastery. It is not a large place but there is a mystical quality to it and it is hard not to be impressed by its ancient history. It is said that St Nino, the evangelical harbinger of Christianity in Georgia built a wooden cross on this very site, where there had once been a pagan temple. A wooden church followed in approximately 545 AD but was not large enough to house its dedicated worshippers and so soon afterwards the monastery itself was built. What struck me, as did all of the religious architecture of this era and later in Georgia was he way the stone work and the shapes seemed to harmoniously blend with the surrounding natural rocks. It really works.

After some great ’snaps’ we returned to our patient taxi guy and took the drive back into the centre of Mtskheta. We weren’t ready for home just yet and so we walked past the taxi guys and out towards the river bank of the Aragvi and behind the main cathedral where there is another view of the monastery next to a nunnery called Antioch. The views are spectacular but the building itself, though small is stunning- and perhaps my favorite of all the buildings in Mtskheta. It was built in the 4th century under the order of King Mirian and is one, if not the oldest Christian religious building in Georgia although parts were burnt down in the 8th century and later re-built. The three walls and the gate of the church are built of smooth sandstone blocks, while the late southern wall of the church and the defensive tower are made of rubble, cobblestone and brick from the 4th and fifth century. Several nuns conduct religious services here and prayers are offered every Sunday. There was a beautiful, ethereal reverence about this place which I revelled in for a while as we looked up at the Jvari monastery and the river bed next to us. This was a wonderful moment of the trip.

Rach and I popped into a small café, that looked more like a second hand clothes shop, and finally managed to order a glint wine. It was sweet and spicy and lush- served very hot and for me, better than Gluwein. Soon afterwards, we considered some restaurants but with the season very much out and many shutters up, we ended up checking back into the Check in. We sank more wine, decent food, though heavy on the bread and slightly bloating and decided to head back to the digs a little earlier; around nine. We were able to log on to our Netflix account and managed an episode of Better Call Saul with some more wine that we picked up from the local supermarket. It had been a fabulous day and we had certainly seen some wonderful places.

Georgian Adventure- Part 3- 23-02-22 to 24-02-22

I woke first but we both enjoyed another little lie in which was relaxing. Once we were ready, I contacted our landlady and she popped round to collect the keys. A Yandex to Gori was very reasonably priced and after a very short wait, we were cruising towards Gori, the birthplace of the infamous, Josef Stalin.

The drive was mainly in the low-lying valley with wonderful hills and snow-capped mountains on either side. It was a picturesque journey although the driver was quick on the accelerator- a slick, hip chap who played çool’ music and wore a beanie whilst driving his sporty Toyota with a throaty exhaust. He still wore a mask to protect himself from Covid though. Cool.

The journey was perhaps 40 minutes and we arrived in what seemed to be an innocuous street in Gori. I entered the property we thought we were staying at and there was a chap beating the dust out of some carpets. He couldn’t speak a jot of English so called his son, who was a fine young gentleman, perhaps 12 or 13. He took us to a property next door which was superb and gave us the tour.

Our room was pleasant enough but the lounge area was palatial and the kitchen more than adequate. He told us there was a code to the door which was 459 so I made a note on my phone and after a quick change we walked towards the central park of Gori, where the Stalin museum is. We walked into the park and saw both the robust and austere palazzo that houses the museum, which we initially couldn’t see the entrance to, juxtaposed with Stalin’s first house, which stands in front of the museum and is a simple wooden- framed rustic dwelling and very humble indeed.

We walked up and down the park after a few photographs and decided we’d have a stroll around before going to the museum. Gori was very quiet and I liked it although Rachel was initially underwhelmed. I think she was more concerned that almost all of the bars, and restaurants, including one that claimed to be open 24/7, were closed. We walked around the very pleasant cathedral, which was opposite the hill to the fortress and this area of the city is pretty. The temple itself was built as a Catholic church between 1806 and 1810. In 1920, it was heavily damaged by an earthquake. During Soviet times, Gori’s Music School was situated in the church. The building was handed over to the Georgian Orthodox Church in the 1990s. At the door to the building there was a very scary, ‘shouty’ woman but Rach and I managed to avoid her and sneak in for a look around.

Inside, it was much the same as some of the other cathedrals but the more modern exterior was quite different to the buildings in Tblisi and Jvari monastery and I was drawn to the silver dome at the top which demanded a quick photo snap.

Having failed to find a place to grab a beer, and feeling we might need one before facing the potential horrors of the Stalin museum, we bought some bread based cheesy snacks from a street seller and some beers from a local shop, as well as a very nice creamy dessert. We sat pack in the park and scoffed away, only to be interrupted by yet more dogs and one particular bitch (and she really was) Dog number 5. This animal kept trying to take our food and scared off the other dogs who were circling like vultures over a fresh carcass. I tried to push the animal away and although it never became aggressive, it certainly stood its ground. We managed to eat most of our food nonetheless and the beer was pleasant.

Refreshed and keen to ‘ditch’ Dog number 5 we strolled the two hundred or so metres from our bench to the Stalin museum. I was like a giddy school boy when we passed some trees and reached the entrance, we’d missed the first time, and saw it: the statue of Stalin, a rare thing indeed and I think, the only one still outdoors in the world. It was oddly exhilarating, having read so much about this man, to stare into the eyes of the dictator, even in stone form. Photographs were a must.

Before entering, we rounded a corner and checked out Stalin’s personal green Pullman carriage, which is armour-plated and had once whisked Stalin off to conferences in Yalta and Tehran. It apparently weighs 83 tons. Inside it is simple, soviet and basic and I had an eerie sensation, almost a shiver as I walked along its length and I actually left the place quite quickly. Rach had a good look however.  

Once inside the main entrance we were beset with confusion, thinking the museum entrance was along a moth eaten, red carpet that led to toilets and a set of curious offices that looked as if they were from the 1940s. It was as if time had stood still in this corridor, and I wasn’t sure if this was to maintain the aesthetic of the museum or whether we were in an episode of Doctor Who. We turned when we realised our mistake thanks to the gesturing of an elderly lady and sought where one should buy tickets. It certainly wasn’t obvious- a very small aperture in a side wall next to a tired looking, bisu shop selling Stalin memorabilia.

Once ticketed and legitimate we looked up at the grand staircase which led to the interior of the museum. At the half way point and directly in front of us was another statue of Stalin. This was a remake or copy for certain but fascinating regardless. We made it to the top where there were some interesting examples of soviet art and a side room that we entered where Stalin had once stood. After this room, we were asked for tickets from a brusque, severe looking woman who you certainly would not argue with.

The exhibits are divided into six halls in roughly chronological order, and contain many items actually or allegedly owned by Stalin, including some of his office furniture, his personal effects and gifts made to him over the years. There is also much illustration by way of documentation, photographs, paintings and newspaper articles. The display concludes with one of twelve copies of the death mask of Stalin taken shortly after his death in 1953. I had read that this place was almost a shrine to a secular saint and that it would leave any history student perplexed and a little uncomfortable. I didn’t feel that way, in truth.

To me, it was largely about Stalin’s early years and some of his feats, which socialist or not, you have to say were impressive, particularly for a working boy from a poor place like Gori. There are many old photographs and stories of Stalin’s arrests and struggles but the propaganda aspect that people talk of didn’t strike me. It is certainly a cold place, despite the red carpets and wooden interior. I would criticize the position of the artefacts at times, as you have to crane your neck to see them as they are so high up on the walls, almost as if they wanted them far, far out of reach. It is the ideal museum for any tourist giraffes out there.

Yet, I did feel that there was a lot of factual information here and that people might pick up on the idealism and heroism because of their pre-conceived views of Stalin. It is true that I couldn’t read everything, as it was in Russian so my review is not trustworthy but there were some translations. Yes, I think the city is proud of their ‘small boy’, ‘done good’ story in terms of notoriety, fortune and I guess, ‘infamy’ but I found the place to be more factual and less a place of ‘worship’ than some people had led me to believe.

In the aftermath of the 2008 Ossetia war where the Russians attacked, the Georgian minister of culture announced the Stalin museum would be reorganized into the Museum of Russian Aggression and a banner was placed at the entrance stating: "This museum is a falsification of history. It is a typical example of Soviet propaganda and it attempts to legitimise the bloodiest regime in history." I see their point but that banner in itself was propaganda in my view.

History is so very complex, isn’t it?

In 2017, the banner was removed as the state of Georgia changed their mind. I think that was the right decision.

After the museum, we had much to discuss so we found a hotel with a modern restaurant and reasonably priced wine which we slurped all too easily. After the bottle, we returned to the area around the church and the fortress so that we could visit a sculpture that had grabbed our eye. It is of eight giant metal knights sitting in a circle, almost Arthurian but there is no table. The statues are perhaps five metres high and the knights are sitting in apparent contemplation and reverence and yet when you look closer, each knight, sitting beneath the shadow of the fortress on the hill, is missing something: one is without an arm, another a face and one poor soul, cut down so viciously that only the torso remains. It feels like a hallowed or sacred place somehow and is a startling piece of art, clearly referencing the horrors of war. Both Rach and I were really taken by the place and it is definitely worth a visit if you are ever in Gori.

We made our way home chatting about the sculpture for quite some time and returned to the Hestia (an excellent gueshouse). After a short rest, we changed and were about to leave to try and find a restaurant called Keera that we had read about online, when the lady of the property entered with some of her homemade wine. Well, it would have been rude not to, and so we had a glass. She left a whole decanter full and we made a gentle vow that we would return and sink that after our evening meal.

It had cooled off outside and our plan to walk seemed like a questionable one as we wandered through the quiet evening in search of a bridge across the river. Yet, as we chatted and wandered it wasn’t long before we were exactly where Google maps had told us to go to. And yet, there was absolutely no sign of a restaurant at all- we were in the middle of a rough housing estate and wondered whether the restaurant had closed or whether it was never here and yet the reviews had been fabulous. Some odd nervous curiosity and unwillingness to be wrong led me through the gate of what was a residential abode, pinned by Google as Kera restaurant.

There were no outside lights and no noise and we walked alongside the house fully expecting to be accosted by some wild dog, or worse a man in a balaclava with a weapon, protecting his property and yet there was graffiti on the wall saying Kera restaurant. It is here, I thought.

But where?

We found a side entrance with a porch where there were several pairs of shoes and from beyond a thin curtain I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a family watching TV together, laughing and bantering. I looked at Rach and said if we go through here, we’ll be in the middle of someone’s lounge. We were whispering and felt like the most pathetic intruders in the world. We decided to back off and were on the verge of leaving when a side window opened and a very positive sounding chap called out,

‘Hello’.

“Hi”, I said instinctively. “Restaurant?”

“Yes, yes”, he said and rushed out to join us. He beckoned us round to the back of the house alongside the garden and ushered us into what I can only describe as quite a large shed! Inside, there was a log burner which he immediately lit, explaining that it would be warm in ten minutes. There was one table and a tatty, stained sofa around it. We sat down and he poured us both a glass of his own cha cha: smooth but clearly stronger than any of the other cha cha we had had. He apologized that he was on low supplies at the moment and we could only have a glass. To be honest, that was probably a good thing. He nipped off for a moment and said he’d be back soon, leaving us to take in the retro- décor of the place where he had hung an eclectic mix of old objects: vinyls, retro guitars, and a range of pop band memorabilia alongside sheet music, pages from books, frying pans, and various cooking utensils and a lot of old VHS tapes. On the floor there were old green bottles, which I always thought were supposed to be standing on a wall but there you go. In the corner of the room there was a 1950s style radio which was quite some size and on top of it, sepia photographs, old drinking vessels and two or three gourds. Perhaps the only place I’d been in that was decorated this strangely was the house of my old neighbor John Green- a guy who had made his bathroom into a chique Edwardian boudoir. I’ll say no more about this.

It really was such an original experience to eat here and once the food arrived, it was very clear why every review this restaurant had received online was 10/10. He brought a bottle of homemade wine and some gorgeous aubergine dish with walnut paste. Rach really enjoyed the dish of the house- which was simply titled Kera, forged from a combination of his two children’s names and meaning something like, ‘Be merry’ or ‘Be happy’ but I can’t be sure. The lovely chap, who I never got the name of, sat with us and drank for a while and we talked about the war in 2008 and how a bomb had exploded only a few metres from where we were sitting and how close his family were to perishing. On the wall, he had some of the shrapnel from the exchange and it was terrifyingly large- we often think of shrapnel as small shards of metal but these were large hunks of metal that would take your head off easily. Our host called them ‘Presents from Putin’. Of course, as I write this, Putin has now moved into the Ukraine and this madness of war seems to be forever with us.

He showed us around his garage which he was converting into a bar but was currently a cross between a garage, a bar and a vintners or brewery. He had flashing lights in there and music and there really is a sense that one day he will have customers sitting in his garage on the seats he has made from beer casks. The imagination of this chap seemed to know no bounds. He told us that he will never have the money to travel but that he believed it to be the best education a person could ever receive. So, his idea was that he’d bring the world to him. His guest book made it clear that he had been very successful in this ambition as there were comments in multiple languages and from every continent on the planet. Rach and I left and bought some more wine on the way home which we polished off before sinking the homemade wine of our hostess. It had been quite a session and a great night.

I will never forget the little restaurant of Kera in Gori.

Georgian Adventure Part 4- 24-02-22 to 26-02-22

The next morning, we booked a Bolt taxi back to Tblisi as it was cheaper than Yandex and it arrived with three minutes. The driver was a dear old man and I can only describe his driving as oddly erratic. The journey to Tblisi was steady, calm, and way too slow but we were safe or so I thought but as we touched upon the outskirts of Tblisi, he appeared to switch personalities and put his foot down like his life depended on it, swerving between lanes and slamming his brakes on. I looked behind me briefly as I began to wonder if we were being chased or if we had become extras in a James Bond movie.

Our little old man had gone full F1 and we were relieved when he stopped for a moment to ask for directions. This was also queer however, as the Bolt app told him where to go but he didn’t trust it and asked at least three people where to go. In the end, I pointed at the map and the instructions and said,

"There, just go there".

Our final ‘digs’ was on a steep slope just below the Narikala fortress and our ‘schizo driver’ did get us to within fifty metres or so.

Our first impression when we arrived at Checkpoint hotel was one of confusion. I had messaged ahead as it was 11 and we couldn’t check in until 2. I had asked if I could just leave our bags but unlike the other three guesthouses, I hadn’t received a reply. The confusion however stemmed from the exterior which suggested, through signage and the like, that this was a café and not a hotel and we weren’t sure if we were in the right place. There appeared to be no reception, though I later discovered that was down the stairs, out of sight and not many folk around.

“Hello", I called and walked in to the grounds. I climbed a few stairs, hoping to find someone and alighted upon three chaps having a chat a floor or two up. They looked at me with surprise and, I am afraid, a little disdain (that may have been an accident or my interpretation).

“Hotel?” I tried. A pause which seemed to have a sub text that said, ‘You are a moron”.

“Yes,” a slim chap with a supercilious smile offered. He then asked me to follow him downstairs, deep down stairs to the reception that isn’t advertised to the guest. We filled in details, handed over passports- which we hadn’t had to do in any of the other hotels and paid in advance (the first time we’d had to do that too- it was also expensive).

He allowed us to leave our bags and then explained that the doors outside locked at 9! This wasn’t a problem because there was a buzzer to call staff and a code to let yourself in. Phew!

Rach and I left. Now, I ponder on this still today. There was something about this guy, who it has to be said, was professional enough, that gave me the chills- a leer or a sanctimonious grin-something untrustworthy or devious that indiced the shivers. I later realised that the lurid painting on the main wall of a man in drag smoking a cigarette appeared to be this guy- at least they had the same face. Not that that was relevant but just something I noticed. I love ‘drag’ by the way.

Rach and I let the hotel and wandered down to the river where we had previously caught the bus tour. Here we saw our favourite tour guide again who remembered us and we wandered in to book our pcr test for the next morning. We also couldn’t resist the Kakheti wine tour, which promised to be a hoot and so we signed up.

After confirming our test time, we sat in a modern style Italian place and enjoyed some beer, wine and a pizza. The skiers were back in Tblisi, so I messaged Nick and we slowly but surely arranged to meet up with them to see how they all were. After a walk through the lovely restaurant quarter, we found them in a wine bar. Of course. They were drinking very good but extremely expensive top level Georgian wine. We didn’t stay for long. For one thing, there was a very hot electric fire on one of the seats and if you were anywhere near it, it felt like you were being cooked.

After a wander through the streets and back towards our first ‘digs’, Gemma found an underground place that was easier on the pocket and more, ‘of the locals’. Here we enjoyed several carafes of local wine- the white being considerably more palatable than the red- at 6 Lari for a litre. Very cheap indeed.

I had some banter with Nick and we all laughed heartily at Stacey who ordered a pork dish that is without question the worst food I have ever seen served to a customer anywhere in the world, that I have been so far. It really will take some beating. It was basically boiled bones- with no meat- absolutely none- and covered in raw garlic. I have no idea what you were supposed to do with it. Suck garlic bones? It was disgusting and pointless. I wonder whether the chefs and waiters had had a bet and served us this as a joke to see if it was true that English politeness knows no bounds. Would we complain? Er…no. We’re English by God!

We were soon well-oiled and we headed to what appeared to be a decent restaurant. Here the food varied in quality but we had some lovely beer and more wine. The carbonara that one of the kids ordered and Rach too was appalling (not as bad as the boiled bones) and we sent it back. Basically, some mushy pasta swimming in cream- as if it had been poured straight from the container. There was no flavour. Terrible. The waiter looked bemused but there was no apology, no pretend apology and no offer to cook something else or recompense us. Customer service in Tashkent is often like this also- the concept of the customer and the business sense of keeping people happy and content just isn’t there. It was the same in this restaurant in Georgia.

Rach, probably because she hadn’t eaten, was sozzled and it was my turn to help her back to the hotel, up the hill and into the digs. The room was small, no water was provided and it was 'just about' clean. We slept well enough as at least the bed was comfortable. We had no breakfast in the morning, and there was no-one around as we left, relatively early and grabbed a little food from the supermarket before receiving our pcrs.

I cannot remember how many of these tests I have had done over the last two years but this was the easiest. In fact, she hardly inserted the stick into my nostril and there was no throat insertion this time. This was all about quick money-making and about keeping customers happy which suited us.

Ten minutes after the tests, we joined the wine tour and were introduced to our guide. There were four other people on the tour, all Russian although one lived in New York and spoke excellent English. Our tour guide had a very lazy eye and at first it was hard to know who he was talking to, but he was a ‘top chap’- funny, informative and socially superb. He helped to make our day a memorable one.

As is sensible, we were taken to the wine tasting first- yes, it was early but it would help us all to unwind. The house was up in the hills and the weather was lovely and so it promised to be a good one. The owner met us outside his large house, which is where they brew the wine and he was the very essence of a gentleman: humorous, affable and full of giddy enthusiasm for wine. We started outside with cha cha, of course and he explained how cha cha was made and how the wine happily upon it during fermentation.


We were then taken through a wine shop into a tasting area. The walls inside the house were covered with graffiti and I mean totally covered- graffiti on graffiti. People had written on almost every possible blank space and even the ceiling was covered. Clearly, people had been very creative, presumably getting up on the shoulders of friends to leave their perfectly placed moniker.

We started with whites and moved steadily through to reds, both dry and sweet and then cognac followed by yet more cha cha. In total, we tried twelve wines and one cognac. Our host continued to be informative and great company but as the beverages were imbibed, he did tend toward the sweary. I liked how he said Goergian wines are so different to the wines of the west and that they deliberately avoid trying to make such wines as they have already been mastered this style of wine. Here, he said, you can taste wine you would struggle to find anywhere else.

My verdict- superb! Really delicious wine and as he said, very different. I was hooked and the cognac was to die for. The best cognac I have ever tried.

With the blood warm with the flow of alcohol, and after leaving our own messages on the graffiti wall, we left and jumped back into our small van. “So, you have drunk”, our guide said- he only had one, which I thought was professional.

“Now, we must eat”.

We drove for twenty minutes or so and then pulled up along a country road where there was a delightful bread making shop. This bread was dropped into clay ovens and cooked on the side of the pot with the fire beneath. We were able to huddle into the small establishment and watch these ladies practice their art before being allowed to taste the bread with some cheese. Such a simple dish but fresh homemade bread and thinly sliced cheese, washed down with more wine might be one of the best dishes you could ever eat. We were happy and the bread was an unbelievable 1 lari. Ridiculous.

We left a tip and jumped back in the van for the next part of the tour. It was livelier now and people were interacting loudly, sharing their experience of the food and the wines. Who can ever say alcohol is a bad thing?

Our next stop was Bodbe monastery and this was a wonder like no other I have seen before, enclosed in wonderfully decorated grounds behind lush cypress trees is the monastery on a steep hillside overlooking the Alazani valley commanding specatacular views of the Caucasus mountains. What makes the monastery special is that it looks completely new, and yet is built in the style of the old monasteries of Georgia. There was a monastery built here in the 9th century but this one has been re-modelled and re-made relatively recently which gives it a clean, almost, ‘just built’ look, which was fascinating.

Just before the monastery is the extant church built between the 9th and 11th centuries, but it has been significantly modified since then. Both exterior and interior walls have been plastered and bear the traces of restoration carried out in the 17th and 19th centuries. It consists of a small hall church with an apse built over St. Nino’s grave. Part of the 17th-century wall surrounding the basilica was demolished and the earlier original one restored in 2003. Many locals come here as it is a very important sacred place and the nuns use scissors here to cut the grass!

The main cathedral part of the monastery is huge and although rebuilt in the 17th and 18th century, still follows the conventions of the older architects and is beautiful. In 1837, the monastery was closed, but was opened again in 1889 under the support of Alexander III, but was closed in 1924 under the Soviet Union, when it was used as a hospital. Since 1991, it has been a convent for the nuns who sell jewellery and other items in a small shop nearby.

Rachel and I wandered the garden and circled the enormous building for a while and I feel that we both experienced peace and serenity.

After a short walk to the van, we drove to a restaurant only a few kilometres away that overlooked the stunning town of Sighnaghi. From this restaurant you can look over the mountains and see the town happily nestled in the hills with the sun glinting off the terracotta tiles of the roofs. There is a fortress here and the circular wall of the city is still accessible, at least a lot of it. We took some great photographs, pre-ordered our grub and then drove down into the town itself. Our guide joked that there was a zip line into the town and he wasn’t lying. However, I don’t think any of our boozy colleagues were in the mood for those kind of thrills and spills.

Sighnaghi feels Italian somehow and its cobblestoned floors and winding narrow streets, with steep inclines and declines lends the town a wonderfully attractive aesthetic. There is a fabulous war memorial carved into the wall in the town square just beneath another statue of a drinking boy, identical to the one in Tblisi. We took some steps up to the fortress wall which is four kilometres long and includes twenty eight integrated towers. It was built in the 18th century but it feels older and the views from up there are stunning. After a precarious wander down the steps and ensuring that no one fell, we were whisked back to the restaurant for more food and of course, wine.

By the time we finished our food, we were quite merry and most of us drifted in and out of sleep at some point on the trek back to Tblisi.

That night Rach and I somehow imbibed two more bottles of wine and about 100 ML of cha cha in a delightful bar and we chatted merrily about life the universe and everything. We were saddened that our trip was coming to an end but we cheered ourselves with a video call to mum and dad and were even more relaxed when the pcr tests came back negative. Everything was turning out rather well.

The trip home the next morning was early and we had yet another long wait at Istanbul airport but we arrived back safe and sound and the inconvenience of the two flights and the long wait were irrelevant. It had been another memorable trip and we were both very refreshed and ready to take on the world.

Ferghana and Margilon Part 1 28/29th October 2021

It was another early start for the travellers and we were on our way to the airport before five o’clock. Rach was nervous and struck with anxiety which often happens before she goes on a flight but it passed relatively quickly. There was an odd smell just outside the airport, like someone had been boiling old, sweaty leather trousers for a month or so. Once through the security outside the airport we met up with Steve and his mother Vanessa (delightful company she was too) and entered the main airport proper.

The time in the airport was thankfully event free except for the harsh frisking that I received at internal security. I think he enjoyed himself a little too much! Despite this, the vibe was calm , almost serene and though we were supposed to wear masks on the airplane, very few did, which made a very pleasant change and I was more than happy to go with the flow. I really have had enough of these masks, to be frank.

I slept for the 40 minutes we spent in the air which was restful indeed. Once we arrived at the airport in Ferghana, we left quickly, expecting to see a chap who Steve had arranged to pick us up. He wasn’t there. What was great was that Yandex was available in Ferghana and so we were soon in familiar territory: crammed into a small vehicle, and zooming frighteningly quickly down wide roads, full of zany, apparently immortal drivers.

Our apartment for the night was not easy to find initially as it was away from the main road, next to a dress shop, which Rach was drawn to, because of the vibrant colours. Outiside, the shop window was less pretty and there was certainly no feel of ‘hotel’ or ‘guest room’ about it. In fact, it was a block of flats, in serious need of renovation and reminded me of some of the less appealing accommodation in India. A lady came over to us and asked where we were from and what we wanted and thankfully Shaknoza can speak Uzbek and Steve can speak Russian so it wasn’t long before the chap who owned the place was standing in front of us and then leading us up the stairs to the apartment rooms.

As is often the case, the apartment was far more impressive on the inside than the out, though there was a bizarre picture of the Eiffel tower on the ceiling in the hallway, which was incongruous to say the least. As usual, the tiling in the bathroom was professional up until they nearly reached the door frame and then they simply stopped and left it unfinished. This happens a lot in Uzbekistan. Of course, I only mention this to give a sense of place as it was of no relevance to us whatsoever, particularly as we only needed the place to bed down for the night and the total cost us about a fiver each.

We headed out almost immediately for a place called Tractir, where we had a pleasant breakfast. This restaurant was good and in the evening it became a lively bar. The aesthetic concept was lovely- with plants everywhere, a little like Jumanji in Tashkent. However, once again it was the lack of attention to detail which was a little saddening, leaving you shaking your head with a curious mixture of sympathy and disappointment. Outside the establishment there were hundreds of plant pots full of...well...dead plants! What would have been beautiful green and purple basil were now crusty, dried stalks, who had undergone a slow process of dehydration torture. The crime of plant abuse was only exacerbated by the over staffing. As usual, at least twice as many waiting staff and other folk were bumbling around doing something. One chap was standing next to plants that were not yet dead and we saw him through the window, performing the futile and ubiquitous sweep of the pavement and I’m sure I heard one plant shout out,

‘Feed me Now!’

He didn’t.

The order was lost in translation initially as Rachel asked for pancakes or ‘blini’ but sweet, as those on the menu were stuffed with meat and mushrooms. ‘Not possible’, he said, at first until we explained that if he had a pancake and some sugar- it was very much possible. He actually brought homemade jam, which was delicious and certainly a big selling point for this restaurant. The rest of us enjoyed a pleasant omelette with bizarrely but strangely tasty ‘War ration’ style spam posing as bacon. The music was great and we spent a lot of time chatting and naming the tunes. I struggle once we get passed Take That, which is my standard answer when I don’t know the tune but Rach was excellent at guessing, as usual despite the eclectic journey from Roxette, to Mel C, Neil Diamond, Maroon 5 and others.

After getting a decent feed we grabbed a taxi to Margilon, a large, more reserved city only a few kilometres from Fergana. We stopped next to the Silk museum: a genuine wonder of the city and well worth a visit. On entering the grounds one is immediately struck by the lovely internal gardens and beautiful murals on the walls. I hadn’t expected much other than a shop trying to sell us endless silk based products and I have to admit to being gobsmacked by the whole experience.

A young man who spoke excellent English took us on an informative and fascinating tour of the site, starting with the room where the silk was extracted from the worms themselves. In this relatively dark and dingy space two women sat: one weaving at a loom and the other, pulling silk from boiled silk worm larvae, heated over hot coals. It was traditional and therefore endearing and the ladies clearly had great skill but my overriding feelings were that these women were ‘performing monkeys’ dressed in traditional garb and gawped at by tourists, like us, whilst they worked, presumably very long hours, no doubt developing arthritis and the like at far too young an age. I was about to take a photograph but it felt like I was snapping monkeys at the zoo and so, I asked the lady in my best Russian (she probably would have preferred Uzbek) whether I could take a picture and she nodded and smiled. I felt better but not much. May be it would have been more respectful to not take the picture at all.

From this room, we were taken into a space where they weaved beautiful patterns into the silk and were shown how there were several stages of drawing and resting the material. We were all taken aback at the length of this process and our guide, clearly noticing our astonishment, reminded us that this was the only genuine handmade silk factory in Uzbekistan. I haven’t checked that but it was certainly impressive. Perhaps the room that we lingered in the longest was the ‘loom’ room I guess you might call it. Great wooden machines, some with three pedals and another with eight, I think. These women (they were all women of course) danced their feet in rhythmically whilst their hands moved frantically in a harmonious counter rhythm threading and weaving with the use of a wooden frame. They would have made great drummers, organ players and if they were in London, I’m sure each of them could have made a fortune as a one woman band.

Their skills were incredible but once again I wondered what they must think of us- smiling tourists ogling at them in their workshop, taking a few snaps and then leaving. The nice chap showing us around seemed a lot more relaxed than them for sure and I bet he was paid a lot better too. As we walked outside for a while on our way to the silk shop- where we knew we would buy something after we had witnessed the huge effort these people had made to produce the finished articles- my eyes were drawn to a window where inside another man, was lying on a sofa, playing on his mobile phone. It was a brief moment; he may have been on a break from some other hard labour unknown to me but it was a timely contrast to the exertions of the women in the warehouse and I felt a little sad for a short while. Rach bought some scarves and Steve’s mum also purchased some beautiful garments and we left having really enjoyed the visit.

The theme of how hard women work and how lazy men are continued when we left the museum as we were presented with the picture of three men standing near a pile of cement. These three chaps had been doing little to nothing when we arrived and despite our hour or so in the museum, they were seemingly no closer to doing anything with the pile of cement. One guy held a shovel but was simply leaning on it. He looked a little like a statue, frozen in time and there seemed very little likelihood that he would be moving any time soon. One of his workmates (I suppose) was standing a metre from him looking at the cement and a third chap was sitting on the edge of a wheelbarrow. Again, they could have been on their break but we waited for a while contemplating out next move and other than the slow rotating (not full rotation obviously) of their heads at the sound of our foreign language, I don’t think they moved at all. Perhaps they are still standing there.

We took a short walk down the main road towards Khonakhon mosque- a place I had been before but didn’t realise until I was actually there. I was in my shorts again and was constantly stared at which Rachel noticed more than I did. A couple of times I smiled and waved but they still gawped. When we arrived at the mosque, we were initially surprised as it seemed to be the opening to a building site, with sand piles all over the place and many bricks but we walked through the site, as you usually can in Uzbekistan and walked into the inner courtyard of the mosque. It was built in the 16th century and displays the usual features of azure tiling, a minaret or two and a lovely open air space to sit peacefully. I must be honest and say that the golden plated doors were a very impressive feature of the architecture but we didn’t go in. Steve and I had a conversation about God and praying and about how entering a mosque felt different to entering a cathedral. A mosque is solely a place of prayer but a cathedral feels like it is so much more. This may be absolute rubbish but it is feeling we shared at that time and so we settled for the courtyard. It was quiet and there were very few people there when we arrived.

It seemed, however, that our time to leave coincided with a major prayer time and so as we left, we passed perhaps fifty or sixty men racing to the mosque, perhaps late for their prayers. They were all wonderfully welcoming and smiled with their ‘Salam allaikum’. It dawned on us that everyone who came to the mosque was a man and that Rachel and Vanessa were the only women in the vicinity. We irreverently how it was strange that in a country that is so anti- homosexual, how men seemed to love getting together and whether there was a sort of secret gay club inside. As I said, irreverent, but funny at the time. Just outside the mosque, Rachel found it hard to control her giggles, when a young uzbek man caught sight of my shorts and almost fell of his bike such was his commitment to the gawp. The giggling became a theme of the late afternoon and was only exacerbated when Rach caught site of a man precariously positioned atop a ladder hanging a cardboard fish from a wall. It was a bizarre site, particularly as the shop he was hanging above appeared to have nothing to do with fish, Maybe he just liked them. I’m glad he didn’t like elephants. It was definitely time for a beer and so we headed for Pub Number 1. A little contrived for certain but any pub that calls itself number 1 needs a visit unless it is like the schools here: School 1, school 58, school 521.

Pub Number 1 was decent enough although when we arrived the barman wouldn’t allow us to sit where we wanted to despite their being no other customers at all. The place was gearing up for Halloween celebrations and there was a guy paid to cut pumpkins. He was doing a great job and clearly had a talent for it. We left the pub after a few beers (I think it was three of the usual tasteless fizz) and headed for another pub, which we were relieved to arrive at after being crammed like elephants in a matchbox taxi. There was a piano in this venue so I had to have a quick tickle on the ivories- it was nearly in tune- though this did little to help my piano playing which stretches to the open bars of the Titanic theme, and the first minute of Gymnopedie by Eric Satie. Strnagley ironic and slightly fairytale like, three piano tuners arrived moments after I sat down- may be it was my terrible playing. Three people to do one job again!

We had a cheeseboard in this pub and three bottle of sweet wine which i didn’t enjoy at all, but the ladies did and of course, I drank it anyway. Our last pub was the Scandinavia where we had pizza and Steve and Vanessa had steak, which looked perfectly cooked. The night flew buy in a haze of booze and comedy. The stand out moment was our conversation about Halloween costumes, as we were preparing for our upcoming party and after a variety of nonsensical suggestions like hiding under a pile of leaves outside the house and jumping up at the guests as some sort of underground leaf zombie, Steve suggested I come as an actual bin, with food debris hanging off me- I guess you had to be there and I have no idea how we transitioned into that but we laughed more that night than we had in a long time.

Once back in the room, Vanessa and Rachel were more than settled, but Steve and I were keen for a few more and so we headed out and bought a couple of beers from a local alcohol shop and we sat like two hobos ‘chewing the fat’ and considering some of the trips we had been on over the last few years. It was slightly emotional, as we both realised such trips were unlikely to happen again as Rach and I will almost certainly not be in Uzbekistan next year. It was a touch emotional to be frank and I think Steve definitely feels the potential loss of friendships, as I do.

I slept relatively well but was concerned that Rach had got up in the middle of the night to escape my snores, even lying curled up in the bisu hallway. It didn’t do her any good as Steve was snoring like a trooper and she had the whole experience in stereo. Nevertheless, Steve was up and out walking at 9 whilst the rest of us lay in for an hour or so after what had been a fairly heavy night out on the sauce.

Ferghana and Margilon Part 2 28/29th October Part 2

We headed back to Tractir for brekkie and I had a lovely couple of delicious croissants. I wasn’t wearing the shorts this time so the stares were less frequent as we walked to Central Park. Vanessa has a lot of courage as she clearly struggles to walk with her bad hip and yet she persisted without complaining which is admirable. The Central Park is typical of most parks in Uzbekistan, and there was the usual array of rusty out of date rides, fayre games from another century and a statue or two. We headed to the statue as it felt at least faintly historical. It was quite tall and heroic and was of a famous and apparently brilliant astronomer of his time Abul Abbas Ahmad ibn Mohammed ibn Kazir al-Fergani who lived between 798 and 861 AD. We also walked the half mile or so to a further monument which was not entirely impressive but we were struck by the large, heavy and frankly dangerous green fruit known as ‘brain fruit’ for its distinctive gnarly, brain like appearance. We mused on how a fruit like this falling from a height my easily kill a person and certainly a child and so walked with one eye towards the trees for the rest of the trip. After the park we entered the bazaar which was of considerable size and as busy and chaotic as ever.

I felt we’d all had enough and were keen to get to the airport and so we flagged up a taxi and from within the maelstrom of the car park which, not that surprisingly, had no real system, we managed to spot our vehicle. It was only a matter of minutes before we were back at the airport, ready for the trip home. However, the experiences were certainly not over.

I have probably mentioned before that Uzbeks don’t really do queues and whilst I try hard to remain culturally aware and sensitive, I do have a breaking point and scare myself at times. This was one such occasion. Steve and I were standing in the queue politely, as English culture has taught us, when a chap with tight jeans, a well groomed almost manicured beard, in his early twenties, began to loiter with intent on Steve’s right. Now, Steve is of course vastly experienced in this part of the world and so knew to take a side step and block ‘Beardy Mc Beardy’s’ access. However, this chap’s nerve and temerity appeared to know no bounds and so he took a wide arc of the queue and in a moment of startling arrogance, walked passed the entire queue and drop his hands expectantly on the counter of the check in desk. I do not quite know what came over me but I have these odd moments where my usual relaxed attitude escapes me and I am imbued with some moral crusade and apparent confidence. And so this was one of the moments. I walked past the queue myself and physically barged into the chaos at the desk, thereby pushing in front of him. I turned around with him glaring at me with a bullish almost ferocious expression. I said

“I’m just going to push in here. Is that ok?” He spoke to me in Russian and aggressive Russian it was too. I imagine he was threatening me but I stood my ground. He was in the wrong. Simple. My heart was pumping hard and for a while we spoke in our own mother tongues and glared each other down, far closer to each other than either of us was comfortable with. “Your place is just back there”, I tried and pointed strongly. It felt like an age but it probably wasn’t before his friend pulled him back and told him to calm down, I assume. The moment was over and I took my place just in front of him in the queue. It was a difficult moment but on balance, I was pleased to have made the point.

The flight home was easy enough. It had been another great little trip into something new...