Sailing in Ireland on Loch Derg

 

Last year we sailed the length of Loch Ness in Scotland. This year we were in Ireland on Loch Derg three hours west of Dublin. The team was the same; Richard my friend since the age of nine, Mike former CEO and now in the fish business and Dave the pilot who flies celebs around Europe in a fast, chic but impossibly small jet plane – appropriately called Cessna Citation Mustang.

 

We hired the only boat with sail on the Shannon estuary, a dirty, forlorn looking 27 foot Hunter 265. Had she been sailed in the last eighteen months? Richard and I arriving before the boys scrubbed her, jet-washed her and I bleached the galley and heads. We named her the Shabbess. Two days later we had her old sails nicely trimmed and she bucked across twenty miles of open water without a murmur.

 

The day before, Saturday, Richard’s Landrover took us up the M6 North West along the M5 through the midlands and north Wales to Holyhead where we caught the ferry to Dublin. Mike and Dave arrived by Ryan Air on Sunday afternoon into Shannon and then the bus to Nenagh in Tipperaryfive miles east of Loch Derg.

 

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday poor weather, good winds but wet, so very wet; Wednesday and Thursday sun and the winds were still kind. The waters of the loch were steel grey in rain and peaty brown and clear subjected to my presence as I dived in every morning for a swim (lasting no more than to minutes in the icy waters).

 

Living on board; I cooked and prepared all meals. Breakfast - sausages, smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, bacon, food to get the crew moving with large amounts of tea. Lunch was more salmon (Irish of course), salami, salad and fruit for our general well being.

 

The routine for most evenings was an hour or so in a bar closest to where we were moored that evening. Bars with good beer, a grand welcome, a warmth that is uniquely Irish; Larkins in Garrykennedy was our favourite. The delightful owner Maura provided wonderful homemade bread for the next day’s breakfast and lunch. http://www.larkinspub.com/

 

 

Prior to the pub Richard and I had often prepared the evening meal together so cooking it on one and a half dysfunctional gas rings would not be too difficult after two pints of Smythwicks. Across the week we enjoyed several pastas, homemade burgers from the butcher in Portumna and lovely steaks from the Tesco in Nenagh. Each meal was bolstered by several bottles of robust red wine.

 

Five days with good winds to move a boat we often cut the motor and made excellent speed to small harbours each blessed with interest, great bars and a warm welcome. Loch Derg 35 miles in length feed by the River Shannon and 15 miles at its widest point. We crossed it, back and forth seeing only two other boats under sail. May is not a busy time with few other craft about; several were hired and we saw large flags of the Munich Rotary Club or obscure German football teams tied to their safety rails.

 

The sun would light up the water up like a vast mirror by 6am; it was still light by 10pm most evenings. We retired to our sleeping bags each night after taking part in a pop-quiz hosted by Dave with his iPod, our brains addled by wine, good food. We climbed into our bunks, the boat barely moving on her mooring. We were soon asleep perhaps dreaming of our next sailing adventure.

 

BACK ON THE TUBE

The face of commuting

 

Having avoided regular London Underground travel for twenty years I have returned to the Tube.

 

 I make a twenty minute journey most days, travelling along the Central Line; the red line artery on the London Underground system – every day.

 

Sometimes standing sometimes sitting, always looking at fellow commuters: Out comes my Moleskine and I am drawing, covertly, book up high, pen strokes disguised to look like handwriting.

 

Oh covert operative drawing-boy.

 

“Fellow Travelers” an odd phrase:

Apart from twenty-something’s exchanging office gossip there is little to suggest fellowship.

 

However every creed, colour and race is represented in the carriage. From South Ruislip to Northholt we jostle, from Greenford, minding the gap we shove and gently push and bump through North Acton, East Acton East (opened in 1938) close to the HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs.

 

Finally we hear over the train’s intercom

“The next station is White City” and I alight and walk purposefully towards the BBC.

 

Last year we went to Suffolk, the year before North Norfolk, last month Richard and I went on a small tour of Somerset churches. We took my copy of Simon Jenkins’ book England's Thousand Best Churches as our guide on this and every occasion.

The Somerset Levels is a thinly populated wetland area of south of Bristol, between the Quantock and Mendip hills. Two thirds of the area is grassland and the waterways that criss cross the area enabled boats to bring stone and wood to build churches in the 15^th and 16^th centuries.

This green flat area, rich in agriculture, where sheep do graze, is blessed with some wonderful churches. Their tall towers soar above the surrounding fields and villages; all are richly decorated and full of surprises.

We visited eight churches across the two days; while Ricardo explored with his Leica camera, I discovered lines and shadows within hallowed interiors and attempted to commit these in drawings in my journal. Most churches we entered were, by and large unmolested by well-meaning Victorian restorers

We began with Kingsbury Episcopi, which with its tall tower must have been a beacon in times of flood. We peddled on to St Peter and St Paul in the ‘island’ of Muchelney with a ceiling that is painted with blue panels each containing its own angel full faced and some even bear breasted! There was contrast throughout the tour;  St Catherine in Swell is little more than a chapel from the 1300’s no tower or aisles contrasted with Holy Trinity in Long Sutton,  just south of Somerton, with its tower of tawny gold and interior of restored woodwork, pulpit and screen in bright gothic colours.

Saturday’s weather was grey and the wind appeared to change direction so we constantly cycled against it. Tired after the long ride we retired to our B&B with rain beating against the skylight of our room whilst we tucked into a good bottle of red wine and fine Tesco ready-made meals.

On Sunday morning with more uncertain weather we visited the two remaining churches with our bikes loaded onto the car. Our final Somerset church was St Mary Isle Abbotts with its soaring tour muted to a damp ochre-gold contrasted by the tarmac road close by turned to silver in the morning sun.  St Mary the Virgin is rightly described by Simon Jenkins as ‘the monarch of the Somerset Levels’.

We are cast off from Gate S10.

Below us, quite small now, two figures, one in yellow the other in orange. Mr Yellow mouths good bye through his head set. He unplugs himself from this giant she bird. He waves up to the pilot again, smiles, turns and walks away.

This bird is ready to fly; A mare ready to gallop.

Free, we push back, swing round, move, stop, shudder; impatient, this aircraft has a mind of her own impatient to leave.

The early August evening is so hot.  At one of our several holding places other ground crews lounge on their open trucks enjoying the sun.  You can almost hear their good natured idle chat.

We taxi again, down to the end of the airfield and turn into the sun.

Now there is just gold and orange now through my cabin window.

Everyone is ready, now Flight 48 is now shaking with impatience.

There is a sort of pop (a starting gun?) a whinny and the plane feels like she is rearing up.

Go.

Distant mountains rush by.

Smoothly we leave the ground, quite free now.

Above the suburbs, Seattle’s outlying districts, every roof top is silver in the sun.

Puget Sound is gold, then silver, then deepest ultramarine. 

The sun is chasing our plane turning each waterfront into a bar of gold, to entice us to stay.

Tonight all the water round Seattle becomes bullion.

We turn; the sun across the cabin now.

Mount Rainier is our beacon, our signpost for the final twirl through the compass points.

Flight 48 turns north east, I nestle down into seat 03A, we are heading home.

In spite of the brutal pace at work and self-inflicted hardship of missing lunch, there are days when I get out side, wander around locally on the bike.

 

Recently I have discovered to lovely churches local to the monsterous glass office. 

 

The first is St Stephen with St John elegant and well proportioned one of the most attractive churches in the Westminster area, with a wide range of architectural and religious artifacts. SSSJ is situated just to the south of Victoria Street and I need to spend much more time there. On the day of discovery it was raining hard and with a funeral taking place outside the pavement was littered with chauffers covertly drawing on their cigarettes waiting for the mourners to come out from the service.

 

St James the Less, Vauxhall Bridge Road is a couple of minutes walk from Pimlico Underground, under 10 minutes from Victoria Station. The church is open for a very long lunch-hour most weekdays. St James the Less is a seriously polychromatic Victorian Gothic church, by G. E. Street, one of the most important Gothic architects. Visits need to be timed carefully. I have been twice and am indebted to the website of Bob Speel dedicated mainly to 19th century British art, mostly Victorian.

 

Then close to St Stephen with St John is an art deco flight of fancy the Royal Horticultural Hall in Rochester Street. I am trying to get inside it looks huge insides from such pictures I have been able to find on the web.

 

I must keep wandering. I must keep my lunchbreaks!

 

 

Ayia Kyriaki Chrysopolitissa is also known as The Church by St. Paul’s Pillar in Kato Paphos on the Island of Cyprus.

 

This church is not falling in to disuse.

Two Anglican services, 8.30am and 6.30pm,

The Roman Catholics wedge in three services, at 10am, 11am and Noon.

Occasionally the Armenians hold an afternoon service.

Some eight hundred attend this church every Sunday.

 

I attend Anglican Communion, plain rite, three easy hymns.

It was like my local Church, but in sandals with a tan.

Everyone nicely is turned out only wearing fewer clothes.

 

A sermon with force and vigour, we are called to count and share our blessings.

 

With one ear temporary not working, I was not sure I was in tune, behind me a tuneless tenor of strong voice.

 

The place was packed; we lined up for The Host and finished with ‘Praise my Soul’. The Vicar extended an invitation to refreshments in the Parish Hall, two hundred yards from the Church door.

 

I left the 11^th century church, its cool dim light and bright icons.

 

I casually enquired for directions for the Parish Hall and was scooped up by Norman.

 

Norman, a Welcomer, was actually in charge of the welcoming rota for the Church. At his command some thirty-people are organised three days a week and Sundays to offer visitors a friendly word in Church and hospitalities thereafter in the Hall.

 

“Working behind the counter” the phrase Norman oft repeated, as credentials and to describe the Welcomer’s role. He was from behind the counter having been a successful butcher in Blackburn.

 

Eight years ago he arrived with Irene his lovely wife (we were introduced later). He rents in Paphos (“Don’t whatever ever you do buy” advice then suffixed with a heartfelt attack on the Cypriot banking system).

 

Norman has had (has still) a rich life. He is blessed with three children in the UK and a son in Adelaide. His visiting strategies to all four offspring were clearly explained over the second cup of coffee.

 

From behind the counter in Blackburn, his family connected with Blackburn Rovers football team. His father was Chairman in the 1950’s. Irene and Norman were both employed at Ewood Park the club’s home ground. She and he both wore the navy blazer and welcomed guests to their places in the Directors Box every other Saturday. 

 

Like all good welcomers Norman gives the visitor many blessings; mine included a recently published guide to the main icons within the church, several good bookshop recommendations in Paphos and a home drawn map of the best local beach (two sun loungers and an umbrella for six euros)

 

Blessings on Norman once a great beneficium to the Director’s box at Blackburn Rovers and now here, at Ayia Kyriaki on the Isle of Cyprus.

From every part of the Empire they came, journeying for miles, for days. Each year they gather in the appointed place. On silver birds they travelled fearing not for the ozone layer. Arriving they assembled and stood in line to enter the city, to enter their place of lodging, to enter the Coliseum.

Once each citizen’s credentials were established he or she was passed to attend, badges of rank adorned their noble necks for the rituals of four days.

We gathered in the ‘Big Tent’ when every citizen of every tribe assembles, where each person sits is according to rank and honour through achievement. Those who sit directly opposite Caesar and his Triumvirate are those blessed most. Those who fail to harvest are banished to the highest seats of the Colisseum far away. Rank and honour are clearly shown on this day.

Cheers arise, cheers, a chorus of applause. “Hail Caesar, “Hail Triumvirate, “Hail Senators; “Speak to us of our many victories this year and what is yet to come. “Oh Senate, spur us on the glory in the year ahead.

The people number some thirteen thousand people, over 10 legions. The allegiance is sworn and as citizens they dare not fail. Each member of the Senate reminds them of those, outside the Empire, who would see them fail. They cannot brook success of these who would compete against us; these latter-day Goths and Vandals.

The nights follow these great days. Heat and fatigue are brushed aside for feastings. Tables are set in many parts of the city. The Triumvirate, the Senate and all the peoples gather and feast. Music and wine flows, speeches continue to be made. The rhetoric of the day is discussed, debated and dissected. Night becomes day and still the people celebrate.

“Oh War Lords on the stage, invincible, we salute you”.

Smaller meetings in less significant arenas are held in the dark. These places are dim and cold. Yet the Centurions hand down the messages to more cheers from the people there. Those of populus who remain awake are chilly and remain waiting for the speeches to end so they may regain the light and warmth outside the amphitheatres.

There are more assemblies more feasting each day in the gigantic refectory where all thirteen thousand of us are feed and watered.

Eventually, after the final spectacle, urging us onwards into another year, we journey home. Our leaders go first; the Legatis, senior commanders, after that the Tribunus Laticlavius of senatorial rank, followed by Praefectus Castrorum the long-serving veterans and Tribuni Angusticlavii the career men and women performing important organisational tasks.

We all return to our countries stronger and prepared for the year ahead. We tell those who remained of the great days and nights and what came to pass in the Coliseum.

 

Sunday morning: I smiled sweetly at the man on the desk and managed to get the both of them in; into the North Lounge, British Airways, Terminal 5. They were Dave (airline pilot for twenty years and now Stable Boy to his wife’s horses and Mike, former European CEO of Fortune 500 enterprise and now selling smoke salmon on Borough Market. We three were off to Scotland to meet up with my super-chum Richard. We had hired a 10 metre sailing boat and planned to sail along the Caledonian Canal which links the east coast at Inverness with the west coast near Fort William, about 62 miles.  We were to collect our boat at Laggan Locks about a third of the way up, just north of Fort William.

Richard met us at Glasgow Airport and we drove via Loch Lomond and Glen Coe for three hours or so to Mallaig, a port in Lochaber, on the west coast linked to Fort William by the A830 road known as the "Road to the Isles".  It was a warm sunny evening when we arrived at the house Glasnacardoch Lodge a SOE training school during World War II and were weapons stored, serviced and checked for accuracy. The Special Operations Executive, SOE, was a British World War II organisation initiated by Churchill to conduct warfare by means other than direct military engagement. Agents destined to serve in the field underwent commando training in this part of Scotland including specialist skills such as demolition techniques or Morse code telegraphy.

Monday:  Bright and clear. Whilst Richard was arranging the last of our provisions for the voyage I ran Mike and Dave around the local coast to Arisaig which is farther along the coast and farther still to Rhue, now deserted, with views across to the Western Isles of Eigg, Muck and Rum. Emigrants from this area founded Arisaig, Nova Scotia (new Scotland) in Canada.

We set off, stopping briefly at Fort William for gin and whisky and onto Laggan Lochs, to West Highland Sailing’s dock, to collect the boat; the good ship ‘Rosie’. With Richard at the helm we were soon on the water, slowly motoring north up Loch Oich, part of the Caledonian Canal that connects to Loch Ness. It is all part the Great Glen, a large geological fault which bisects the Scottish Highlands.

 It clouded over as we moored up for the evening, just by the Aberchalder swing bridge in readiness for when it would swing open for us at 08:30 the next morning. We enjoyed a Spaghetti Bolognese and I slipped easily into the role of ship’s cook as well of cabin boy; plates cleared away we opened the whisky Caol Ila from a small distillery situated on the north eastern shores of Islay on the west coast, delicious and addictive.

Tuesday: Despite the Caol Ila I rose early and dived off the boat for a dip, it was shockingly cold even by my standards and I was soon back on board. Before breakfast, croissants, strong coffee and black tea for Richard, I make a drawing of the Bridge of Oich.  It was build in 1852, a flight of fancy suspension in wrought iron, its filigree-like supports designed by brewer turned engineer James Dredge. Dredge’s lasting claim to fame was that he was pipped to the post in the competition to design the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol by none other than the great Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

We motored through the Locks of Cullochy and Kytra; there was no other craft on the water.  We had the locks to ourselves as we chatted amiably to the lock keepers who saw us safely through and onto Fort Augustus. This town is at the point where Loch Ness meets the Caledonian Canal. The canal bisects Fort Augustus with an impressive flight of five locks. The name dates from the building of a fort after the defeat of the 1715 Jacobite Rising. The fort was named after one of George II's sons who was later to become the notorious Duke of Cumberland of the '45 Jacobite Rising!  Arriving at 10:20 we were let into the first lock at 11:50 and through the fifth and out into Loch Ness by 13:00. We lunched on quiches, distressed leaves drizzled with olive oil with hot tomato soup and crusty bread.

Once into Loch Ness we were immediately buffeted by the headwind blowing across the 56 km² stretch of water.  This loch contains more fresh water than all the lakes in England and Wales combined. Nessie the monster did not show, or we might have missed it as we took it turns to duck below to the cabin to put on more layers of clothing. We motored on through the winds and swell, past Urquhart Castle, one of the largest strongholds of medieval Scotland, impressively towering above us as we sailed north. Then at the far end of the Loch we saw clear sky and moored 5 miles south of Inverness at Dochgarroch by the lock. We were soon joined by a couple of other boats including one full of Swiss chaps also hired from West Highland Sailing.  They seemed to be merry long before us, as dusk fell.

Supper on the second nightfall was steak in oil, red wine and garlic with cheese board to follow all with a couple of bottles of red wine. The chocolate which Mike had purchased in Fort Augustus served as an excellent desert.

Day 3: Wednesday dawned bright and clear. The canal was like a mill pond, the boat’s sails and outline, every feature reflected perfectly. We breakfasted on sausage, beacon, mushrooms and toast. The toast was not perfect but neither was the crew! We decided not to head any further north. We left our mooring and the Swiss boat and returned south back down the short stretch of canal that would lead us back into Loch Ness.  The wind we had hoped for to enable us to cut engines and hoist the sails was not in the loch either.

We moored up at Urquhart Castle to wait for the wind where sure would come! The earliest history of the castle began in the time of St. Columba in the 6th century, when he visited King Brude a northern Pict. It is not known precisely when the castle was built, but records show the existence of a castle on this site from the early 1200s. It was certainly in existence in 1296 when it was captured by Edward I of England.

In 1509 it was given as a gift to the Grants, whose ownership lasted until 1912. The opposing MacDonalds captured the castle in 1545. The castle was then largely destroyed in 1692 by troops loyal to William II of England who had been holding the castle against Jacobite forces. The vast castle plan lay stretched out in the morning sun. We toured the site, enjoyed the full Urquhart video experience in a splendid Visitors Centre which was carved into the hillside above the ruins. We avoided the temptation of the mugs and bowls, ashtrays, egg timers, spoons and notepads, DVDs, CDs, post cards, outfits, hats, and all manner of clothing and hardware designed to make one resemble a Jacobite soldier.

By midday, with the sun high, we re-boarded the Rosie and continued south. As if to order the wind picked up as I was making lunch of smoked salmon and smoked sea trout sandwiches with Carlsberg Lager.

The engines were silenced and the sails hoisted and we were off!  The air stream was with us, the tacks across the loch were not too shallow and we made good progress. We moored up in Fort William for the evening. The cook was given the night off and we set forth for foaming ale and hearty fare.  There are few pubs hereabouts. One excellent one, The Bothey, ran out of beer after pouring our four pints.  Not flustered we walked a little to the Lock Inn and Gilligorm Restaurant. Again after our beers were served the management were turning other beer orders away. It was the night of the Premier League final – Chelsea FC .v. Manchester United and this must have led to a run on beer stocks in these parts. We enjoyed a great meal of fish and chips, eaten at a real table in area that did not move. Happy and tired after some real sailing we retired to bed, noting that the Swiss were moored several boats below us. Indeed the pontoon had a festive air as a large hire cruiser crewed by Rotarians from Germany were enjoying their evening.

Next morning, our final day on the water, we all trooped towards the showers and toilets that are a part of every major mooring point along the Caledonian. The wind was still with us as entered the lowest loch. And as we slipped our lines the Swiss and German boats motored quickly past to be ahead of all other boats entering Fort Augustus lochs.  We saw this as the boating equivalent of our mainland European friends reserving the best sun loungers with their bathing towels. Unperturbed, we fell in behind them both.

Augustus has five locks, thus the water pressure on the lowest lock is considerable. This fifth lock is the lowest and the turbulence as we prepared to move from five to four was huge. The Germans and Swiss, ahead of the rest of the pack were unprepared for this. We enjoyed and photographed the surprised crews of both as they struggled fending each vessel away from the other and apportioning blame for the confusion!

Going through the locks is a process that took about an hour. The other boats raced off while we bought, wrote and mailed postcards and I contemplated what to offer the crew for the midday repast.

So now we were in the final few hours of our journey. We sailed back through Kytra Lock, and then back down to where the boat Rosie was berthed at Laggan

We sailed past as the wind was in our favour for a brief opportunity to be under sail for a hour or so longer, and  we entered Loch Lochy at the north-eastern end, site of a clan battle: the MacDonalds, MacDonnells and Camerons against the Frasers in 1544. This encounter is known as the Battle of the Shirts -Battle of Blar na Léine - and took place in the summer of 1544. Highland armies at this time were still wearing chain-mail hence the reference to shirts. The whole event seems to be a continuance of the fight factions coming down from Urquhart Castle.

The wind blew hard and changed direction at every moment so the helmsmen, Mike and Dave’s new found helming skills were severely tested. When back at the house in Mallaig, Fiona, lady of the Glasnacardoch Lodge, provided a seafood feast of baked oysters, langoustines, scampi tails and razor clams. The perfect last supper washed down with Cuvée des Amandiers Blanc 2007 Vin de Pays du Comté Tolosan, Richard and Fi’s favourite tipple!

On Friday we returned south. A train service took us all the way from Mallaig to Fort William (The West Highland Line) and on to Glasgow.  The West Highland Line is one of the most scenic railway lines in Britain. From our carriage we saw The Glenfinnan Monument situated at the head of Loch Shiel that the place where Prince Charles Edward Stuart ("Bonnie Prince Charlie") raised his standard, at the beginning of the 1745 Jacobite Rising. A little farther on we crossed the Glenfinnan viaduct as featured in the Harry Potter films when the steam train that runs on this line in the summer was  transformed into the Hogwarts Express.

At Fort William, with a stop-over of seven minutes Mike and I disembarked and sprinted for the buffet bar; three coffees and some cake. Re-boarding the train was pandemonium, we had been told to use the front carriage no seat reservations were evident. Regaining the carriage we saw an anxious Dave trying to retain our seats from senior citizens waving tickets and claiming the seats;  a Conductor entered into arbitration and directed the fretful new passengers where the might sit.

Three hours later we eventually arrived in Queen Street Station in Glasgow, having enjoyed the north-westerly shores of Loch Lomond.

It was a great trip, kind weather, fair winds some of the time and wonderful company all of the time.

The highland locks, their deep waters coloured peat brown at the waters’ edge, clouds scudding across the sky, and the magic of the sun breaking through, turning the water  to sparkling diamonds. And now we are planning were to sail next May. The River Shannon in Ireland is a strong contender.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Melissa, Luis, Juan Carlos, Jose Miguel and Barry, who always guides me.

Some people start every Monday this way, sitting in the BA lounge in Terminal 5. As I waited for super –colleague Melissa I re-read the email:

‘There are significant issues in traveling to Colombia. It is for that reason that such travel should be closely examined to ensure that all prudent precautions are taken.  The primary security concern/issue, of course, is the FARC and its 40 years of experience in terrorism’.

The note read more like a CV than a call to precaution. We boarded the plane for Miami, where we would transfer to American Airlines flight to Bogota. This represented 6,000 miles of the 16,000 miles M and I would cover in the next five days. We were to work with colleagues in Bogotá on Tuesday and Buenos Aires on Thursday. Sales training, I was the facilitator, Melissa was the expert.

In the (merry) month of May the BA in-flight films were excellent and the nine hours past quickly. The euphoria was quickly broken as we entered the US; Homeland Security harried me for loitering around after Passport Control. I was only waiting for Melissa; everyone knows Australians take longer at any immigration point. Paying for drinks in business lounge (American Airlines) was also a shock.

Bogotá four hours later; we were met by dear colleagues Jose Miguel  and Juan Carlos as we left the terminal in the warm evening air and were whisked away in Juan Carlos’s car. At the Hotel Casa Medina, where ex President Clinton and the King of Spain always stay; we registered and turned in for the evening. Tomorrow would be a big day we had to be brilliant.

  Bogotá — is the capital city of Colombia, with 7 million inhabitants. The city today has a lower murder rate than Caracas, São Paulo, Mexico City and Rio de Janeiro. The situation in Bogotá seems to be "greatly improved in terms of security and public safety from five years ago, and the atmosphere is much more relaxed", said Marshall Louis, a spokesman for the United States Embassy.

Luis Alberto Gonzalez our guide, co-presenter and friend over the remaining days was waiting in the hotel lobby the next morning. Based in Argentina he looks after the programme content from MSN’s websites in Columbia. We three walked to the offices, through security and travelled up the elevator of glass tour, like the glass and steel towers that our company occupies in every city in every country throughout the known world. 

It was a great day: working with great sales people, attentive, questioning and discursive. At the end of the session we saw the sun breathe its last on Tuesday, a particular light I have seen in every South American city and only in this part of the world. It was special here; as this city nestles between mountains and forests, the trees appear glow at dusk.

Later that evening we enjoyed the city’s special cuisine in the Club Columbia. The place was a handsome old residence converted into a restaurant by the country’s main brewery. We were graciously thanked for visiting Columbia by our hosts.

The city was quieter as we left the hotel at four-thirty the next morning for the flight to Buenos Aires. Coffee in a wonderfully empty and clean airport terminal was welcome. The sun, shining red to highlight the tail fins of the local airline’s 737’s and overalls of their ground crews.

Luis was held up at passport control which is a regular occurrence for him.  The authorities in Columbia have five people the name of Luis Alberto Gonzalez on their wanted list. Our Luis Alberto Gonzalez eventually joined us for the flight.

Touching down in Lima for two hours and then off again we were in Buenos Aires by late afternoon and took a taxi to the Hilton. Luis left us at the airport to go home and see his family! 

Later Melissa and I walked along the side of the Puerto Madero one of the coolest barrios of Buenos Aires, regenerated from red brick warehouses were all but abandoned when the port left the city in the 1930’s. We found a restaurant, waited briefly for a table outside looking across the waterfront.  The steak was great as was the half bottle of red wine we enjoyed. In a warm evening we walked back to the Hilton for another early night to be ready for our Chilean and Argentinean colleagues the next day.

In our final training session of the week we acquitted ourselves well. We were guests that evening of sales director Agustin and the regional executive producer Greg Hayes. Greg had worked his way across the media world from the shores of Sydney, up through Asia, working in TV and radio. Having made his home in Seattle, with his wife from Chile he has close ties to the region. Both friends entertained us in the locos por el fũtbol sports bar against a backdrop of 28 TV screens showing a local soccer derby with incessant commentary.

Friday footnote:

Melissa was remaining behind, taking some holiday. She planned to explore the icebergs, towering peaks and the drama of the Perito Moreno Glacier in the far south of Argentina.

It was grey and dull as the taxi took me back out the airport. I remember it this way when I was here two years ago. I said good bye to the Aussie Concierge on the front desk as he again provided stamps for my post cards as he had on the last trip. Adios Bogotá, adios Buenos Aires, thank you for your warmth, your energy, attention and hospitality.

 (For my friends here, especially M)

January and 32 degrees of heat

Everyone noticeably more tanned than me

Energy and colour still the same in San Paulo

Traffic still crazy

People still friendly

Now the place is familiar and the rhythm is right.

I have the same driver at the airport, Elaine

She greets me with a big smile

We hug and make the pact:

To rendezvous on time for the journey back in three days time

I know where I am are going

Into the Hilton at 8am and the Bell Boy organises a coffee

It arrives before you have finished checking in

Service and miles my home for three days

Glass marble and pale pale wood

Chocolates from the manager

Across the plaza from the hotel and into the office

A second home for the duration

San Paulo,

Energy and heat and wonderful women

Brazil so famous for fabulous womanhood

Travel the greatest privilege, the work there too

Be grateful for only the minutes or hours you have to step out

To soak up the culture

Travelling is being open and appreciative.

Can there be a better evening than in the company of a friend?

The best of warm conversation

Just two bars full of Paulistos,

In both I am the only gringo in the Mercearia and Posto Seis

M and I talk of work, talk of history and culture,

I hear about Luiz de Camões,

His book Os Lusíadas

Portugal’s Chaucer

Learning that Portuguese was born out of Spanish

That the former can understand the latter but not the other way around

Discovering how big and beautiful this country really is

Travel is learning.

In each and every bar the same energy, People out talking, enjoying the warm summer evening,

Music, music oozing out of every pore

Brazilian beer and small side dishes

Sustenance as substantive as any banquet

Flavoured and garnished with laughter and conversation

Oh lucky traveller.

Thank you M.

 

Proud Rome the capital city of Italy, within it four million proud Romans and within Rome the State of the Vatican City, the sovereign territory of the Holy See; this metropolis, so essentially Renaissance and Baroque with its 400 churches.

We arrived for four days in warm February sunshine which remained with us throughout. Our first day was mostly travel, with the Leonardo Express whisking from Rome airport to city centre giving  us a good afternoon, starting at the top of the Spanish Steps and walking down into the arms of Dolce & Gabbana. The sun set as I sipped espresso in the Café Canova in the Piazza de Popolo. Canova is a popular place and once the meeting room of the city’s fascists. Popolo one of the great squares with its two churches - Santa Maria dei Miracoli and Santa Maria in Montesanto, by Bernini, standing sentential.

COLISEUM

Tuesday was designated ancient Rome tour day (the following being ‘religious Rome’ day and our final day ‘retail Rome’).

The coliseum large and impressive was heaving with people. Originally it was capable of seating around 50,000 spectators; it seemed there were that many trying to get in, all like us, the victims of cheap air travel.

And the same hoards followed us across the road to the Forum. I sat down to capture the ruins of Temples, Basilicas and the Arch of Septimus Severus – knowing we would see more commemorating his victories when we visit Libya in November.

Lunch is to be recommended is the Gino Al Funari restaurant five minutes’ walk from the Forum where the pizza was mouth-watering and served with a smile and joke by the elderly maitre d’ (perhaps Gino himself?).

More than 30 years ago I first came to Rome and the Piazza Navona was one of my earliest memories.  I was unprepared, this afternoon, for the number of traders and sellers and the poor Borromini fountain of the Four Rivers covered in cladding. However the Sian and Bron, post-pizza, dozed in the sun whilst I drew the basilica Sant’Agnese built on the site where Saint Agnes was martyred in the Circus of Domitian - now the Piazza Navona.

COFFEE CLUB

Each morning I rose early and went in search of something to draw and coffee. The independent café is thriving in Rome each one, regardless of size, has neatly turned-out men in white shirts and black aprons to produce wonderful, thick creamy espresso served in double-quick time. The overcomplicated coffee menus, with too much choice, offered by the likes of Starbucks have not entered Rome

CROSSING INTO THE VATICAN: DAY 3

Vatican City at approximately 44 hectares and with a population of around 900, it is the smallest independent state in the world. Again, thirty year ago I gained access through staying with a community of Franciscan Brothers in Gianicolo Hills a mile or so south of St Peter’s. My hosts had a free access into the Vatican and went there to shop. With them was that was the first time I had seen the Sistine Chapel best known for being the location where the election of a new pope is conducted. At that time the place was deserted

SILENZIO!  IN THE SISTINE

Central to the chapel’s ceiling decoration are nine scenes from the Book of Genesis of which the Creation of Adam has iconic standing. All this was Michael Angelo’s lasting achievement, the most famous frescos in the world completed in little over four years. The place was packed and one of the guards stood near the high alter hissing “silenzio!” every five minutes and “no photos” to the crowd that swarmed in, eddied with craned necks, and still took photographs!

PROUD ST PETERS

Dear Mother Church of Rome and the largest church in the world even London’s St Paul’s Cathedral is knee high to this impressive place – fitting as the architectural matriarch to the Roman faith. A famous as a place of pilgrimage, as a work of splendid architecture associated with numerous artists, most significantly Michelangelo.

I hunkered down at the far end of the church behind the high altar and started to draw the massive columns with their ant-like visitors crawling around between. Two guards walked over to where I was standing and looked over my shoulder, complimenting me on my work - “eccellente”.

SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE

I had visited Santa Maria Maggiore, one of the four major or four papal basilicas, on one of my before breakfast morning excursions earlier in the week. We returned again, Sian was keen to discover the links to the Borgia Family which we failed to do. We did discovered that after the Avignon papacy ended and the Papacy returned to Rome, Santa Maria Maggiore became a temporary Palace before the papal residence later moved to the Vatican.

Proud Rome with its Cafés still independent and espresso sublime, stationary shops that sell attractive and stylish fountain pens some still actually made in Italy, four hundred churches and almost many baroque facades and men’s clothing that still takes pride in itself – all in this most eternal of cities.

 

Dedicated to Dominique, my most favourite and the most chic ‘frog’ and Karen who put the whole trip together and got us a great table at the World Place

It was Bronwen’s choice, we wanted a half term trip, she wanted to speak French and go to Johnny Depp’s restaurant.

The flight, withdrawn from the Air Miles account was uneventfully late in arriving in CDG and caught the train into the city. We trundled through the suburbs of northern Paris with their high rise housing blocks and burn out cars, past the Stad de France scene of England’s defeat at the hands of the South Africans a day or two before and eventually emerged into a warm sunlight on the left bank of the Seine. We crossed the road and into the arms of the Pizza Iolanda for lunch. It was good to see people smoking in a restaurant; obviously the French have set aside their 12 month old ruling on smoking in bars and restaurants.

I rose early the next day and wandered around the area near our Novotel and entered into the Bistrot Linois warm and full of transient local residents quickly consuming a coffee and croissant before disappearing into the Metro.

THE RADIO MAST

The Tour Eiffel, I stood underneath it centre and looked up into the infinity of wrought iron like some great extraordinary tree. Sian and Bron bought a ticket for the top leaving me to nurse my vertigo and try to capture this amazing iron work on paper. Built in 1899 it was nearly torn down twenty years later until someone suggested it would make a great radio mast. Crowds queued for tickets, girls from northern Africa wandered around each trying to make people to read their postcards detailing their poverty. Several pairs of soldiers ambled across the piazza formed by the Tower’s four giant legs; safety catches on, posing for the occasional photograph.

Travelling along the Seine, up stream to Notre Dame, I was befriended by a delightful Korean student who caught me drawing her. We disembarked beneath the great cathedral in the heart of Paris, the heart of France, as all road distances are measured from a point not far from the steps of the West door.

Grand gothic on the grand scale, a masterpiece which begun in 1163 and took nearly two centuries to complete. Like the Eiffel its intricate exterior and interior was difficult to get down on paper. And inside it was packed with people making their way round the aisles and filing past the side chapels.

CAFÉ JOHNNY

Monsieur Depp’s magnificent restaurant, called the World Place, aka Man Ray. All major credit cards accepted.  The World Place is a vast floor space, glitzy and very 50’s. We were expecting to see Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr, Frank Sinatra, Bing and the rest of the Brat Pack descend the sweeping double stair case. 

Around the room tall, luscious coloured women, on the arms of men with impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waists paraded, flamingo-like between the tables whilst on stage the young pianist played the occasional flat note; Sian and I gawped while Bron disappeared into the wash room to talk her photograph.

ART TRAIL

The Louvre: after the French Revolution, the salve of culture was needed and thus the majestic Louvre was transformed from palace to picture house. In 1793 the Museum Central des Arts opened to the public in the Grande (that word again) Galerie from where the collections gradually spread to take over the entire building. Anne of Austria’s apartments were taken housed the antique sculpture galleries and she was, presumably housed elsewhere in the palace!

More recently sticking a glass pyramid in front of this Baroque facade is the ultimate gesture, only in Paris. And so the Louvre, fabled for its vastness, continues to grow this day, art on the grand scale, a building on the grand scale the Louvre is a city within a city. As we make our way to the entrance ticket machines we pass through a shopping mall (all art stuff), past the Post Office and the temptation of Starbucks.

Everyone wants to see the Mona Lisa. The gallery is, like Notre Dame, full to capacity and the lady with the enigmatic smile is cordoned off so people can file past, gaze and move one, occasional an out stretched hand rises above the heads in the queue to fire off a digital camera.

Artistic counterpoint: Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris. A wonderful collection housed in part of the Palais de Tokyo which was built as part of the International Exhibition of 1937. the Museum of Modern Art was officially opened in 1961, before entering take time to admire the post modern fascist architectural exterior, spray paint typography and skateboards. Inside, build in a moment for an excellent brownie in the Musée cafe!

Then you can see works by Robert Delaunay, Jean Fautrier, Christian Boltanski, Georges Rouault, Robert and Sonia Delaunay, Raoul Dufy, Marcel Gromaire and notably two of the three Henri Matisse triptychs of La Danse (1931-33) and La Fée Electricité (1937) by Raoul Dufy.

Finally our time was running out: Service is again something that Paris does on a grand scale or rather it takes a big delight in providing its unique blend of surly waiting on table, the prelude to the most excellent Steak Frites, with a dainty half bottle of Médoc. So my proposal to return to the Linois was accepted by the girls for our last meal in Paris before returning home early the next morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LA PUSH

Acrylic on board - 30 x 50 cm October 2007

Commissioned by friend and super-patron Carrie Bogner

La Push is a small community in Washington State coastline. Four hours drive from Seattle it is home to the Quileute Indian Tribe and is located along the Quileute River. It is known for its surfing and whaling and incredible natural beauty.

The strange name, La Push, is an infusion of the French la bouche, meaning "mouth", into Chinook Jargon. It describes the town's location at the mouth of the river. La Push is home to the westernmost ZIP Code in the United States, 98350.

Carrie handed over some photographs of this spiritual place, immediately I was struck by the magic and feeling of prehistory with temperate forests that run up to the waters edge and driftwood on the beach with almost human form. The colour palette evening from these pictures was so very different from any other coastline I have ever painted.

TWO MEN IN A BOAT

THE VOYAGE OF THE LADY WOODMOUSE

We quietly motored along the river; at 10 in the morning it was already hot as we passed the banks on either side, as green as Shrek in the May sun. A heron left its perch; a moorhen escorted her brood gently away from our path, with the furious flapping of wings a Swan took off ahead of us; May flies came and went.

This was the second day of our journey up the River Thames aboard the good Lady Woodmouse, Richard’s boat which he had brought down from the Loch’s of Scotland. Now we were on some very different water.

Yesterday we had put in the water at Cookham, launching from the Sailing Club’s slipway, with a whoosh the boat hit the water like a lifeboat. A few final checks, warps secure, motor tested, fenders to hand and spars stowed and we push off. Cookham, thirty three miles upstream from London Bridge was where the Romans often crossed the River, being Monday there was not one in sight or indeed anyone to witness our beginning.

It was a dull day, grey, clouds scudding across the sky, past Bourne End and the Upper Thames Sailing club, fierce competitors of us Cookham sailors. As the Iron suspension bridge of Marlow came into sight it was time for a stop. We moored up in the town centre hopped off the good Lady W in search of good coffee and maybe a chocolate brownie. Satisfied in Marlow we pushed on.

Our first day was the only one where we actually had the sails up, just past Bisham Abbey. The rust red sails (‘the rags’) looked handsome against the grey sky. For the remaining days they lay wrapped around our masts in the gunnels for, as the weather improved, the wind died down or came from completely the wrong direction.

Relying on the motor again we looked for a late lunch. A large sign proclaimed The Flower Pot. Located some 300 yards up a track from the river this gem with its tiny public bar and grunting regulars provided a welcome and good pint of the local stuff – Brakespears.

We finished up our first leg of the voyage in Henley, already busily preparing for the Regatta, tents and seating being erected, piles being driven in to support additional landing stages. Tying up behind a house boat we met Malcolm the Australian owner who promised to keep an eye on the Lady over night. We went back to the house.

Tuesday was sunny, we drove back to Henley. The boat was safe, Malcolm was sitting on his favourite bench next to his boat greeting and exchanging words with each dog owner and jogger or walk who passed by. Malcolm was a fixture. As we were busy readying the Lady for another day Malcolm proceed with chapter and verse on the river conditions, names of Lock Keepers we would encounter on our next leg. When it came to the upper reaches of the Thames Malcolm was a Player or so he would have us think.

On, on and into Reading past technology parks, gasometers and red brick and we make a short diversion: off the Thames and into the mouth of the River Kennet, the beginnings of the Kennet and Avon Canal for we’d spotted an enticing landmark on the map – The Jolly Angler public house. We were able to tie up right outside and scrambled up the steep wall on the path and into the pub and some excellent beer.

We had rather got the taste for this spot-pub-tie-up-have-a-pint thing so we pulled off a double two hours later upstream from Reading town The Swan at Pangbourne came into view and again being on the edge of the river it was silly not to tie up and rest with a pint in the shade.

The evening of day two we finished up in Streatley; the night before we had called ahead and booked a room at The Bull Hotel. The Bull is a comfortable place, five minutes from the river up the hill. An excellent mix grill for supper, Richard had the fish. Later that evening we were joined by my friends David and Mike who had driven over to meet us for a beer.

We rose early on Day 3, a comfortable night, in the same bed; we had booked a double room and assumed it to be twin-bedded, no matter Richard and I had known each other for nigh on forty years and he didn’t snore!

A walk down to the river to fine the Lady Woodmouse secure after another evening moored just downstream from the bridge. Overnight bags back on the boat, check the engine and then off and through Goring Lock. Again, early in the morning it was hot and sunny as we motored upstream. Through the locks, Cleeve and Benson, Benson Lock was unmanned so we had the task of opening up at one end, water in, close, open and close again and we were through! We soon had the down to fine art and better still going through with another boat which made the hard work of working the gates easier as a shared task.

Wallingford was the next town now we were not too short of our destination for the evening and when were aimed to pull out. Then we discovered a fuel crisis, going under Hampden Bridge the engine cut out. We had to tilt the fuel tank on its side to ensure the last drop of petrol was available to us and got ready to use the oars if we had too!

Abingdon by mid afternoon and again we were able to tie up right in the town centre with three tasks in short order;  find fuel, find a pub open and fix some overnight accommodation. All three were soon completed and we settled into our lodgings for the night the comfortable St Ethelwold’s House in East Helen Street an excellent Bed and Breakfast establishment with breakfast arrangements made for us in and equally lovely house six doors up in the same street.

With all this achieved and time on our hands before the need for an evening meal we returned to the boat for a small two hour jaunt up stream. We entered Abingdon Lock squeezed in with precision by the lock keeper right up close to an impossibly large pleasure cruising boat. Looking up from our boat its stern was threatening, were we going to get crushed as the lock filled. The keeper knew what he was doing and soon big boat and the little one were moving upstream.

A lovely evening, insects buzzing round, eights were practising out on the river; from Radley College, we guessed they readying themselves for Henley Regatta. We cut the engine and drifted up on to a shallow bank of sand, opened some Ginger Beer and watched the young teams exerting to the encouraging shouts from their coach in a small pursuit boat.

We turned around and returned to Abingdon and stopped for a pint at the Nags Head, a lovely pub with an appalling selection of beer. With half points of lager we did not stay long.

The next day, our final day was focused on collecting the boat and taking her out of the water and home to Scotland. Every means of transport was employed. We took a taxi with its overpowering smell of pine air freshener five miles to Didcot station on the main London-Bristol line, a train to Twford, changed onto another for Henley, collected the car, drove the Cookham collected the trailer and drove back west to Abingdon. Richard dropped me off and I motored the good Lady Woodmouse round to the Marina where Richard arrived soon after and we pulled the boat out and up onto the trailer for the ride home.

In three and a bit days we had passed through sixteen locks and covered forty or so miles of lovely river with its banks steep and wooded, sometimes giving views of wide flat fields with grazing cattle, wild flowers in May, imposing and isolated country houses. A great trip, reunited with a great mate, in a pretty looking boat, blessed with some great weather, pubs and other stopping places.

  

ISLAMIC ART AND COMMERCE

Three days in the heat and dust punctuated by the sights of Moroccan women in their dazzlingly bright abaya’s an over garment - the traditional form of hijab or jilbab. More Islamic colour, more muted was noticeable in our lovely Riyad - the Nora – a 17^th century house, ten minutes walk from the famous Jema El Fnaa central square. The Nora has tiny peaceful courtyard and fountain; we were given cool room with impossibly high ceilings and rose petals strewn on our bed each morning.

Getting to the Nora necessitated buying a bottle of airport water for £16, until we realised that we had been given the wrong amount of change and paying three times over the going rate for the taxi from the airport, until we realised that it was to only way to get out of the airport.

Commerce is always at your elbow in Marrakesh, literally; there seem to be people employed to eves drop on you, especially when you are discussing where to eat and then drag you to their restaurant. In each street and square there are self-appointed tour guides who if inadvertently commissioned become overly aggressive if you refuse to part with some cash. Shops and stalls are populated with owners who are making you “best price” usually because “you are the first customer of the day”. We had one ‘best price’ from one man who had been on Michael Palin’s ‘Sahara’ TV series. On several occasions failure on our part to make the necessary buying signals or purchase saw us swiftly ejected from several emporia.

Our first outing from the Nora was to The Bahia Palace created in the late 19th century, the name means 'brilliance'. Built by Si Moussa, who was grand vizier to the sultan. He brought in craftsmen from Fez to build this richly decorated place bearing the name of one of his wives.

Contrast the Bahir with gentle ruins of the El Badi Palace (its name means the ‘incomparable’). All that remains of a magnificent palace built by the Saadian king Ahmed el-Mansour in 1578. The original building, influenced by the Alhambra in Granada, is thought to have consisted of 360 rooms! A courtyard of 135m by 110m and a pool of 90m by 20m once richly decorated with Italian marbles and large amounts of gold imported from Sudan. So beautiful to just be there amongst what’s left, staring out through the mid morning heat.

A Gemstone: The Majorelle Garden designed by the French artist Jacques Majorelle in 1924, during the colonial period when Morocco was occupied by France. He fashioned a garden in which his special shade of bold cobalt is blue used extensively amongst an amazing collection of cactuses, palms, bamboos, the pots in bloom and the aquatic plants. Majorelle also houses the Islamic Art Museum; a collection that includes North African textiles as well as ceramics, jewellery, and paintings by Majorelle himself.

We were often in the Jema El Fnaa. By day predominantly occupied by orange juice stalls, chained Barbary apes, water sellers and snake charmers. In the evening the snake charmers depart, and in is crowded, with Chleuh dancing-boys story-tellers, magicians, and peddlers of traditional medicines, and dozens of food-stalls. The whole area glows with lamps hung from hundreds of stalls and tents.

Marrakesh is so rich in art and colour in contrast this with hustle and bustle, five times the call to prayer each day, and each moment, everywhere the buzzing of small motorcycles and men ready to sell much.

INDIAN SUMMER:  MUMBAI, DELHI AREND SINGAPORE – PART 2

 

TRAFFIC REPORT

Lets talk traffic in India; Nothing would have prepared me for the disorder of the traffic both in the city and along the main road to Agra, through the towns and villages the chaos prevails with no lane discipline and drivers with the talent for traffic to turn a two lane carriage into one for four streams of traffic and reverse the concept with just as much contempt.  Lorries painted brightly all appear to be hopelessly overloaded or crumbling by the road side have given up the Promethean struggle to go one yard further! Cows across the road are regular occurrence with worst offenders for causing auto anarchy being the auto rickshaws (scooters with cabin) and motor cycles. Four hours with our driver hooting  and tooting,  the heat, the dust and beggars tapping your window when you are at a level crossing, one feels  quite aggressive, almost hoping to see some human road kill somewhere on the journey.

 

TAJ MAGNIFICENT

Agra, 200 kilometers south of Delhi: At 06:15 on Sunday we visited the Taj Mahal. The Mughal Emperor Shāh Jahān commissioned it as a mausoleum for his favourite wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Construction began in 1632 and was completed in approximately 1653[1]. Of all things in India this is a place one simply must see. As the sun rises on this marble box, its rays catching each semiprecious stone one by one as it ascends into the daytime sky.

 

The Taj Mahal is the finest example of Mughal architecture, combining elements of Persian, Turkish, Indian, and Islamic architectural styles. Soon after the Taj Mahal's completion, Shah Jahan was deposed and put under house arrest at nearby Agra Fort by his son Aurangzeb. Our guide told us that he spent the remainder of his days gazing through the window at the Taj Mahal. Upon Shah Jahan's death, Aurangzeb buried him in the Taj Mahal next to his wife, the only disruption of the otherwise perfect symmetry of this wonderful place surrounded by myths.

 

A longstanding fable holds that Jahan planned a duplicate mausoleum to be built in black marble across the Jumna River! The story suggests that he was thrown into Fort Agra by his son Aurangzeb before it could be built for the cost of importing black marble would have broken the bank. We looked out across the river at the ruins of blackened marble seemed to support this story.

 

STAGE THREE SINGAPORE

We entered the pale lilac cabin and colours of Singapore Airlines for the five hours down to Singapore from Delhi arriving at 7 in the morning. It was raining, lovely rain and dark clouds the perfect counter point to the heat and dust of the Indian subcontinent. Lovely rain was washing the perfectly manicured metropolis of tall towers and green spaces.

Everyone polite exemplified by my return to the airport/ the journey back to London I discovered the delights of assisted shopping at the duty free shops at the Airport! Also at the airport where ever official and shop attendant smiles at you I also enjoyed a short conversation with the (smiling) Passport Control officer as she explained the plans for building another Terminal at Changi Airport – looking around I was amazed they needed it. 

 

CRAB-U-LIKE

Three days in Singapore, one to prepare work, the next to deliver and the third to debrief our excellent locals! We did head out along the airport road to restaurants that offer seafood to savour! I am not a great fan of shell fish but the restaurant provided me with a nice plastic wrap around coverall, which enabled me to attack and enjoy Black Pepper Crab and Chilli Crab, sitting out in the warm evening looking out across the water.

 

There is a high risk of retail intoxication in Singapore and the energy people appear to put into shopping is tiring just to observe. There is plenty of choice, all UK retail icons, River Island and M&S, and one shopping mall with six floors of just electrical goods. Everyone in here prepared to make you “best price as you are my first customer of the day”

 

FINAL BEST PRICE

Those nice people at BA gave me their equivalent of “best price” as I reached the gate last night – seat 4G. This was perfect ending. Now as I sit here, it’s hard to get a perspective on the entire trip: The Taj Mahal was quite wonderful the rest of India I am not sure about. Singapore is super dirt-free and full of energy and electricals and a Government who exhorts its people to find event more ways of being special to attract more people like me to come and visit.

JET BOY

I am travelling into the interior, from Mumbai to New Delhi (700 miles) with three Chinese ladies. All this courtesy of Jet Air a full flight in the world’s smallest 737 replete with screaming two year olds placed strategically throughout the aircraft.

 

I had arrived in Mumbai on Thursday midday and was disappointed not to find pigs in the airport car park as reported by Mike. I billeted at the Taj Lands End in Bandra. The Bandra district is home to most Bollywood stars so I felt quite at home in this massive hotel with mock regency interiors.

 

I have been assiduously following sundry ‘Advice to Travellers’ - only bottled water, keeping tooth brush in a sealable polythene bag, avoiding salads and fruit (never a chore).  Therefore, so far, I have experienced no untoward feelings in the downstairs department.

 

METRO MUMBAI

The experience so far has been strictly metropolitan; two upscale restaurants, the later serving exquisite sea food (curried strongly) and on the first evening a visit to a disco. Given my paranoia in relation to diet and staying off the toilet, I was concerned about the name of the venue; the invitation to the ‘ice breaker’ party was at a club called Poison

QUOTE “Poison is one of the most famous night spots of Mumbai, and probably one of the very few place that are likely to be active on a Thursday Night J However, being more of a lounge / night club, they do not serve dinner. We have made sufficient provisions for appetizers…but just thought ill point this out so that everyone can prepare accordingly”

 

No matter – it was hip hop night (excellent music and I was familiar with most of the artists featured) and by the time I left at 12:30 am the queue of well dressed, highly attractive young people had wrapped itself around several blocks.

 

BLOW UP

One or two drawings completed, on Saturday morning, I emerged from the chiller cabinet/hotel lobby out into 30 degrees of heat at 9 am to make a picture of the Rock View Hotel, out on to which I look each morning from my room. The hotel was one of the 10 locations bombed one Friday in 1996. The bombed out rooms stared back it me as I looked out of my hotel room. I later learnt that an internecine dispute has prevented the Rock from being redeveloped.

 

Now I look forward to Delhi hopefully without the belly as I stare at my in-flight snack.

 

DEHLI: STAGE TWO OF THE JOURNEY – ABOARD FLIGHT 407 SINGAPORE AIRLINES TO SINGAPORE

Well the airport car park Delhi was more interesting.  A ‘take charge’ porter in luggage reclaim took charge. He got us through the crowds and followed the hotel driver dutifully to the car park. Along the journey he ‘collected’ a few other men who also claimed to be porters and wrestled him for the trolley

The closer we got to the people carrier the more disturbing the fracas. I was keeping an eye on the girls, herding them together and got some cash ready to bung our porter from reclaim. Whatever, I gave him the money and ducked swiftly into the van and let them sort it out.

 

Sunday morning marathon sightseeing in Delhi and in the afternoon the drive, 210 kilometres to Agra to see the Taj Mahal the next day: the Wonder of the World who’s  name that launched a thousand take-aways.

 

DEHLI MOSQUES AND LUTCHENS

King George V commissioned architect Edwin Lutyens to layout out the central administrative area of the city - very different from designing large houses in the Home Counties of England. At the heart Lutyens placed the impressive Rashtrapati Bhawan, formerly the Viceroy's House and the arresting India Gate. He collaborated with fellow architect Herbert Baker to create an impressive body of Edwardian architecture topped out with distinctly Moorish features. It is now known as the LBZ in Delhi – the Lutyens Baker Zone.

Our Toyota people carrier cut it way through the crowed Chandni Chowk market area and getting out and clambered up the almost sheer flight of steps to the Jama Masjid Mosque. Jama Masjid was commissioned by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan and is one of the largest and best known mosques in India. We left our shoes at the courtyard door and I donned a wrap to cover my bare legs. The building, in local red sandstone ascends impressively from its central court yard and in a heat the burns the soles of bear feet the whole site appears the hover above Delhi.

 

We were taken to the Qutub Minar is the tallest brick minaret in the world, 72.5 metres high (237.8 ft) It is  significant example of Indo-Islamic Architecture, inspired by the Minaret of Jam in Afghanistan and  now listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It towers above us, made of fluted red sandstone, covered with intricate carvings and verses from the Qur'an. In 40 degrees of heat we drifted around the surrounding buildings among many fine examples of Indian artwork all built around 12th century.

I ask several precious colleagues what I should go and see in Sao Paulo – I got the same answers and paid my dear driver Elaine for a couple of hours of her time.

1.       Architect Oscar Niemeyer is as big a hero in Brazil as Ayrton Senna da Silva. He is also considered one of the biggest names in international modern architecture, a pioneer using reinforced concrete to create dynamic and curves – architect or sculptor?

Latin America Memorial is set over a large open site. We wandered round the concert hall, gallery, murals and library, next to a spectacular concrete hand protruding out of the ground with Latin America running red from the palm into the ground - Oscar’s gigantic structures and curved forms complement an enormous free feel of the place.

2.       Everyone said don’t go to the São Paulo Cathedral: Catedral da Sé de São Paulo without an escort. Outside the main doors, in the square, are speech makers, down and outs, people asking for money and traders of all kinds.  Elaine and I hid all visible attributes of wealth, our phones, purses, my camera, Moleskine and scurried through the throng.

Inside I stared up at its five-aisled nave and a dome that reaches 30 metres over the crossing trying to get some of it down in my sketch book.  Elaine smiled sheepishly trying not to look too uncomfortable. The Pope is due here in four weeks time; let’s hope he feels more at ease when he pays his visit.

3.       Five minutes brisk walk from the Catedral da Sé (no eye contact with the locals) and you reach the Patio do Colégio, erected on the very site of the Jesuit mission. The Patio do Colégio marks the place where the city of Sao Paulo was founded in 1544, a Jesuit school was built in this spot with the help of the local Guaianas Native American inhabitants.

4.       The Pinacoteca (meaning Art Gallery) is a bright sunlit joy – Elaine added it to the itinerary as her personal contribution. It's the perfect place for anyone wanting to see and understand Brazilian art. Renovated in 1997, the roof and many interior walls were removed, replaced with a latticework of glass and open spaces, and connected by a series of iron and steel catwalks within a neoclassical building build around 1900 –click on this  link for more detail – it is a lovely place to visit.

5.       The lung of the city is the Parque Ibirapuera, where Paulistas come to play, was created by the  illustrious Niemeyer It boasts among its facilities open to the public—which include the auditorium, planetarium, botanical gardens and green house and the cool and spacious Museum of Modern Art (MAM) where I enjoyed a good show of photography.

A week in March in Mexico City; each day I rose to the warm sunshine and deep blue skies.  Today I was headed down the Avenida Paseo de la Reforma. This big road snakes through Mexico City like a main artery. It is always full of traffic, as if all twenty two million of the city’s inhabitants are trying to get somewhere at the same time. Until now I had been confined to Santa Fe district at one end of this reptilian highway, now I was escaping to the city centre.

Santa Fe was OK – a major business district, located west of the city in with its brutal high rise buildings centred on a huge shopping mall, the largest mall in Latin America! Santa Fe was designed on top of a rubbish landfill area, a car centric suburb with little concern for human scale. This was a successful outcome - each day I braved six lanes of traffic for my Starbucks! 

But the post modern tall towers made an impact. My hotel was only minutes walk from the Calakmul building also known as La Lavadora (The washing machine). I tried to photograph it and was chased off by a security guard. I went round to the other side of the Lavadora and began to draw it; another guard come approached and told me to stop. It appeared there are embassies inside the building who overly value their security!

 On this, my last day I was with Gilberto Cruz Velasco; FLUENT IN ENGLISH it said on his business card. I discovered Gilberto earlier in the week. He drove me to the office from the hotel, a five minute journey, in five minutes; the other drivers had managed to do it in 30 minutes and 40 minutes respectively.

Gilberto dropped me off outside the Museo Nacional de Antropología, the place to visit if you have just time to see one thing worth seeing in Mexico City. The guidebook was right; Designed in 1963 by Pedro Ramírez Vázquez, this majestic place has exhibition halls surrounding a patio with vast square concrete umbrella supported by a single pillar down which splashes a cascade of water.  The 23 rooms for exhibits and covers an area of almost 20 acres.

Gilberto was also a qualified tour guide and recommended the Teotihuacán, Maya and Aztec rooms. In these I feasted on thousands of years of rich carvings, art, sculpture and artefacts.  Tenochtitlan was the capital of the Aztec empire and at its height was one of the largest cities in the world, with over 200,000 inhabitants. The Spanish conquistador Cortés and his men conquered the city in 1521.

The Maya civilization, 1000 years BC is noted for the only known fully developed written language of the pre-Columbian Americas, as well as its spectacular art, monumental architecture, and sophisticated mathematical and astronomical systems all of which with were beautifully represented in the museum. At its peak, it was one of the most densely populated and culturally dynamic societies in the world.

From 1300 to 1521 the whole region was militaristic their deities were the patrons of war. The most important rites focused on prisoners capturing. Rather like Iraq and Afghanistan!  With human sacrifices became the focal point of daily activity. Politic and social organization structured from military hierarchies conformed by young men who were remarkably fierce, brave and bellicose.  They were popularly known as the Aztecs and were eventually overcome by the Spanish.

I was eventually overcome with the museum and its marvels so I wandered ten minutes north into a Polanco. This is the trendy business area and location of the excellent W Hotel that nestles next to restaurants and shopping, embassies, art galleries and feeling hungry  found and excellent café and enjoyed n the most excellent plate tacos; the first Mexican meal I had ordered by myself!

I wandered back into the large park area - Chapultepec and found the Museo de Arte Moderno or National Museum of Modern Art another beautifully designed building. I walked round the permanent exhibition including works by Rivera, Kahlo, Siqueiros, and Tamayo but found the works, as a body, very colourful but strangely every piece struck me as slightly psychotic – the colour palette’s were light but the subject matter dark.

At the appointed hour of 5 pm I was at my rendezvous point for Gilberto, he was there ready to run me back to the airport. He fully debriefed me on my day and seemed satisfied that I had given a good account of myself in the time available by the time we pulled up outside the international terminal to fly home from this city founded by the Aztecs in 1325.

 

If you want to find a palace ask a Princess;  my colleague, the ever clever and resourceful Amanda had discovered another perfect venue for a client dinner – see previous dispatch MARRAKESH EXPRESS - with thanks to Amanda and Cassandra

On this occasion Amanda, assisted by the equally etc Trish had fifty of us around seven tables in a room as tall as the space shuttle, with chandeliers to shame a star filled sky. We were in the Palácio dos Condes in Lisbon about to sit down to a wonderful meal. Business life, being at Heathrow before dawn, working too hard and neglecting one’s family has its advantages; I was in Lisbon for a whole twenty-four hours.

Dinner was preceded by excellent glass of white port, as cold as a sister’s kiss and a remarkable recitation on the history of Lisbon by a local lady in a red coat who was part of the organising committee! I managed to capture the gist of it in my small Moleskine.

(Deep Breath) Capital of Portugal, home to the Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans and Visigoths and Moors (she drew our attention to the fabulous decoration in the room  which was like a lot of Portuguese decoration is Islamic in style) situated close to the Atlantic becomes the capital city in 1255, home of Vasco di Gama,  renown for its trade in spices and silks, in 1755 two-thirds of the city died in an earth quake, in the nineteenth century bore the brunt of the Napoleonic wars, in 1910 the Royal Family died out and a Republic begins, a republic that enjoys fourteen presidents in one year, 1974 there is a bloodless revolution and the end of  the Dictatorship and in 1986 joins the EEC.

I have been to Lisbon several times, all for business, and on previous occasions just outside the main ‘centre’, this time we are close to some wonderful winding streets, lovely old buildings in the 19^th century grand style. The agenda confined me to the pale marble floors and floral drapes of the Lapa Palace Hotel, with my room overlooking very tall palms in the hotel gardens, out across the Rio Tajo, very attentive staff garnished with bright and engaging colleagues and clients.

 

I was only two days in the Desert, less than 48 hours in 84 degrees (F) of sunshine warmth. We had come over for the U.S. National Sales Conference. We arrived into Los Angeles, 5,500 miles from home and had decided not to wait around for the plane down to Palm Springs. We were headed to Palm Desert California, in the Coachella Valley approximately 11 miles east of Palm Springs. We hired a nice white Pontiac from Avis. It took 3 hours to drive on Highway 10 on the Tuesday evening slightly shorter the afternoon of Thursday.

The drive through the desert whilst dry was not deserted. Our route featured strip malls, strip joins and real-estate bill boards the square area of an aircraft carrier’s deck. All was not quite what I had fantasised about since the trips inception; there was one part of Highway 10 flanked by large wind farms whose towers disappeared in long lines over the hill tops, nearer Los Angeles tightly defined bands of smog stretched the length of our horizon.

The Desert Springs JW Marriot Resort rambles around several large lakes, swimming pools and golf courses. Its luxury easily absorbed two Europeans and 500 colleagues from across the USA. Every room had a view; from mine I saw the sun rise around six-thirty colouring the mountains from purple, to scarlet, orange and finally settling on hazy ochre for the balance of the day.

As we checked out I picked up my complimentary copy of Desert Woman with its stories of lost dogs and women honoured by the Palm Springs community. The magazine was crammed with curious advertising for “Brilliant Smiles and Brilliant Dentistry”, Trunk Shows, Botox and Micro-Dermabrasion (not in my spell checker) and Hand Rejuvenation packages.

It was an interesting trip, work wise I came away with two good ideas I can put to immediate use. 

As I look out of the dinning room window across the garden with the heavy fall of snow that arrived while I was away now melting, all is dull February green; so very different to the purple-ochre of the mountains around Palm Springs, home to Aja Nicole Testa (Psychic Readings and Paranormal Investigations) and Trudy Spencer Serious Skin Care offering Turbo Lift.

MARRAKESH EXPRESS*

 

With thanks to Amanda and Cassandra

 

The city has been on our ‘to do’ list for sometime so it seemed churlish not to accept the invitation to work at a conference there for three days. Blue skies and 18 degrees of heat is the perfect counter point to London in December.

 

Marrakech the city of four colours the Tourism Office representative told us as part of his obligatory local colour speech at the beginning of our conference: Pink for the colour of the buildings, green for the gardens, blue for the sky and white for the snow on the Atlas Mountains, always visible from any point in the city.

 

Morocco a land of mountains, deserts and coastline that faces the Mediterranean and the Atlantic on the North West tip of Africa; it has 26 political parties where the King as ruler of state and head of the Faith decides everything. These gems were revealed by our tour guide Mohammed in the mini-bus on as we sped past the Jacaranda trees with purple blossom and Orange trees on fruit, reminding me that it will be time to make Marmalade in a couple of weeks time.

 

BUS TIME: Mohammed also spoke of Marrakech being after China and Amsterdam, the biggest cycling capital and I was convinced, having seen our bus come perilously close to most of them on our way into the city on the morning of day three. This is land of two races the Arabs and Berbers who lived in North Africa long before the arrival of the Arabs, with its culture probably dating back more than 4,000 years. Between the 11th and 13th centuries, two great Berber dynasties - the Almoravids and the Almohads - controlled large parts of Spain, as well as north-west Africa.

 

We stopped off at Koutoubia Mosque constructed around 1162 it is one of the largest in the western Muslim world. Actually it was it built by the Almoravids and sacked by the Almohads!

 

Ophiophilia: For a pound (£1) you can have you photograph taken with snakes draped round you neck. I went for the two snake shot, me a latter-day Indiana Jones. In fact one of the Indiana Jones films was made in Marakesh and the surrounding country. My viper photo call took place in Djemaa el Fna a square and market place in the medina (old city). Its name it means Assembly of the Dead in Arabic and until 1800’s the square was the place for many very public executions.

 

GROWING PLACES: The bus pulled up outside The Majorelle Garden created by the expatriate French artist Jacques Majorelle in 1924, during the period when Morocco was occupied by France. This is his creative masterpiece. The villa he built, in an Art Deco-Moorish style is decorated in a sparkling shade of bold cobalt blue which zings out across a landscape of cactuses, palms, bamboos, yucca and cypresses. For the last 30 years the gardens have been owned by Yves Saint-Laurent and his lover Pierre Bergé.

 

MORE THAN A KABAB: Cassandra and Amanda, both talented and beautiful, organised the whole conference. They found this nice little Palace, PALAIS SOULEIMANE KAA EL MACHRAA tucked away on the edge of town on the ROUTE DE FEZ for all 70 of us to enjoy a feast fit for Balthazar himself on our last evening.

We enjoyed local wines, not so local beers and salted almonds and fresh olives in antechambers strewn with small tables and cushions. This petite palace with it’s with its open and breezy interior spaces; adorned in red, blue, and gold was blessed with Moroccan music throughout a splendid meal.  The walls of the main hall, at least 40 feet high  least were decorated with stylize foliage motifs, Arabic inscriptions and arabesque design and covered in glazed tile.

 

Marrakech, the "Red City” remains on my ‘to do’ list because I am going back!

 

 

 

*One year before I left school: Marrakesh Express by Crosby, Stills, and Nash, released on their 1969 self-titled debut album.

 

 

Standing in the cold grey half light he looked inside. He put his hand in the pocket of his coat to check if it was still there.

Entering he enjoyed the ferocious blast of hot air from the fan heater over the shop’s door and shuffled up to the grimy counter. Anxious, he looked up at the colourful display of cards each with the familiar blue fingers crossed logo.

 His filthy hand placed the coin on the counter.

“A Bonus Plus please”

She put it on the counter. He left hurriedly, desperate to scratch away at the dull metallic squares.

Going to the Highlands of Scotland for two days is rather like going into The Ivy for a glass of water. OK, Well, I was thirsty. And if you count the 10 hour drive there and back, it works out to four days. So, yes, I will take ice with that water, thanks.

My longest standing friends Richard and Fiona and daughter Charlotte, my god daughter (rediscovered a year or so ago) had invited Sian and I up to their home a mile outside Mallaig at Glasnacardoch.

The Highlands of Scotland: miles from anywhere, scenery that makes a deep impression, weather that blows you away, literally, colours – purple, reds, greys, coastal rocks, islands rising out of the mist were seen our bedroom window.

 TOUGH COUNTRY

Mallaig is on the west coast of the Highlands of Scotland, the end of the line for West Highland railway line and the ‘Road to the Isles’ - the A830.

One way in and one way out! It is the main fishing Port on the West Coast - during the 1970's was the main herring port of Europe.

During World War II these parts were home to SOE specialist training establishments. SOE was Churchill's Secret Army and charged by him to "set Europe ablaze". SOE members were shipped up here and trained in demolition techniques, weapons training Morse and survival skills. When you look around the terrain here – well if you can survive here you can survive anywhere. Richard and Fi’s house is actually recorded in the SOE archives as a foreign weapons training establishment.

Five miles down the road is Arisaig bay. Until the 19th century, the shores around this bay were home to a thriving community. Then in 1801, over 1000 crofters were cleared off the land and shipped to Nova Scotia, you can look up Arisaig on a map of Canada.  This was an example of the dreadful Highland Clearances, a story repeated across this part of Scotland again, again and again.

LONG JOHN SILVER?

John Silver was born in Arisaig in 1853. As a young man he went to work on the construction of a lighthouse at Barrahead with the designer Thomas Stevenson, father of Robert Louis. Silver met Robert Louis on a few occasions; the story goes that Robert Louis Stevenson took the name for his character in Treasure Island.

 Arisaig is home to seals and sea-birds, and small fishing boats on the shore suggest that a living is still to be made from the sea. We had langoustine the size of lobsters the night we arrived at the house. From the house and the A830 you have excellent views of the small islands of Eigg and Rum.

TROUBLE ON EIGG

Eigg in medieval times the island was held by Ranald MacDonald. A lengthy feud with the MacLeods led to the massacre of the island's entire population. They had taken refuge in a cave on the south coast, and they were suffocated by a fire lit at the entrance – nice.

 Rum is another one of the small islands in Lochaber, with indigenous population, but is inhabited by about 30 people working for Scottish National Heritage and their families, researchers, and a school teacher.

 

BEACH BRIDES

Richard ran us over to Camusdarach Beach, famous for its white sands. The fields and dunes, surrounding the beach, are home to Hebridean Sheep buzzards, rabbits, pine martens, and ravens. You can now be married on the beach. Chose the day carefully, it was blowing a gale with leaden skies

 SHORTEST RIVER

The old road takes you past the rapids of River Morar, Britain's shortest river.

Loch Morar, at the river’s end is the deepest lake in the British isles at depth of 310.0 m and ranks seventeenth deepest in the world.

 

IN RICH’S RANGE ROVER

We visited Loch Garry about 15 miles north of Fort William, 7 miles long and 15O feet deep we got out to take pictures and I to make drawings. A quirk of perspective makes it appear like a map of Scotland.

ON TO LOCH DUICH

Loch Duich is a sea loch situated on coast, in the Highlands. A castle, Eilean Donan, stands at the meeting point of Loch Duich, Loch Long, and Loch Alsh.

Here is the site of The Battle of Glen Shiel, between the British and an alliance of Jacobites and Spaniards, resulting in a victory for the British. This was the last close engagement of British and foreign troops on mainland British soil.

Glenelg was the plan for lunch; Where the Isle of Skye is closest to the mainland. We visited see the nearby remains of two of the best-preserved Iron Age brochs (Dun Telve and Dun Trodden). A Broch is an Iron Age dry stone circular structure of a type which is found across Scotland thought to be defensive places of refuge for a community and their livestock.

West Highlands, miles from anywhere have made a lasting impression: high mountains red with the colour of bracken in autumn, orange are the larch trees that cling to the hills. Windy grey skies full of rain and clouds reflected in the deep deep lochs, and when the sun shines the piercing Celtic light.

History everywhere with tales of local heroes and the plundering English.

I want to return and sit on the white sands and paint the sea with the islands close in the distance. I will return.