Bill's Travels

[BillB]

Our plane landed at Sidney airport in late morning. We took a taxi to the hotel booked for us. “The Copthorne Millenium,” I told the driver. “A really good hotel,” he remarked as he pulled away. When we had reserved our round the world trip we had specified 5-star hotels all the way. Little did we know what lay ahead.
The taxi took us through downtown Sidney, past the famous bridge and the spectacular Sidney Opera House, giving us a sight of Darling Harbour and Circular Quay. Once we checked into the hotel, we unpacked, freshened up and decided to have a quick lunch in the restaurant before departing for the harbour area to look up some tours. It was here that we started to experience the sheer incompetence and lackadaisical approach to their guests’ wishes that marked out the staff of this shop of horrors. They made Fawlty Towers look like the Savoy.
Perusing the menu I saw that they had beer-battered cod and chips (it would be several years before I developed T2), which we both ordered. We waited a while and then our lunch arrived. Well, it was fish, but not cod, there was no sign of batter, and instead of chips there was a scrawny-looking salad. We decided to eat it rather than waste any time by sending it back.
We loved Circular Quay with its vibrant atmosphere and wonderful views across the harbour. An Aborigine played a didgeridoo, with his hat beside him to encourage passers-by to donate. There were all kinds of shops and businesses, cafés and restaurants. Moored up was the replica of HMS Bounty built for the version of the mutiny story starring Mel Gibson and Anthony Hopkins. A short walk from the Quay is the Opera House which looks like a galleon’s billowing white sails. We found a tourist office and booked up for a city tour that afternoon, a trip to the Blue Mountains the next day and a journey to view the dolphins at Port Stephens the day after.
We staggered, exhausted, off the bus after our city tour and took a taxi back to the hotel where we kicked off our shoes and flopped onto the bed. It had been a strenuous day and we really didn’t feel like walking round Sidney looking for a restaurant, so when our feet stopped throbbing I suggested we try the Japanese restaurant in the basement as we were both Sushi lovers.
We entered the restaurant and were shown to a table. There weren’t many other guests, just a couple sitting at the Sushi bar and 4 businessmen sharing a table. We ordered aperitifs, studied the menu and gave our order to the waiter. We sipped our drinks and waited...and waited...and waited. We finished our drinks. The waiter brought the bottle of wine we had ordered. We waited. We sipped our wine. And waited. Finally, I asked the waiter what the problem was. “Sorry,” he said. “Your Sushi will be here any moment.”
We waited. I studied the surroundings. The Sushi chef was paying close attention to the couple at the bar. He would make them some Sushi, watch as they ate, wait for them to order something different, make it for them – and so on.
The level in the wine bottle went down. The waiter came and apologised again. I suggested politely that perhaps he would like to go and insert a squib into the fundament of whoever was supposed to be preparing our dinner.
We waited some more. And then, 45 minutes after entering the restaurant we were served our meal. The waiter had the air of someone who was about to feed the 5000. I had the air of someone who was extremely hungry and very irritated. The restaurant had 8 customers that evening. There were tables for about 80. God help anyone who turned up on a busy evening.
The next morning, with a bus due to pick us up at 8 am, we had an early shower and went for breakfast in the restaurant (of beer-battered cod fame). Looking at the menu I suggested that we take the Baker’s Basket as they probably had that ready to serve. We ordered it and a pot of tea. 15 minutes later we were still waiting, so I reminded the waiter of our absent breakfast. He looked totally blank, then drifted off and brought us our Baker’s Baskets about 10 minutes later. We scoffed the rolls and pastries as quickly as possible and then we had to rush away as we could see the bus pulling up outside.
The journey to the Blue Mountains was incredible, difficult to believe that such an impenetrable wilderness could exist so close to a big city like Sidney. It seems that for many years in colonial times it was believed that Sidney would remain a settlement hemmed in by the mountains, its growth restricted within the area close to the harbour. It was not until someone discovered the trail that led over the mountains that Sidney was seen as the gateway to the whole Australian continent.
The mountains themselves really are blue. The eucalyptus trees that smother the mountains give off a vapour that is turned blue by the sun’s rays. So dense is the forest that travellers are advised not to stray off the road, as they could be only a couple of hundred yards from the tarmac but never know it, and wander around getting more and more lost until they died of exposure. It’s still a fairly common occurrence and the chance of being found once you are lost in that country is virtually nil.
We stopped at the Three Sisters, a rock formation of three columns, and had lunch at a restaurant with a circular floor which revolved slowly, giving every diner beautiful views of the mountains as he passed the windows. Outside there is a funicular, the steepest in the world we were told, which took us down to what was once a coal mine, but is now a nature reserve. What a strange sensation – you feel as if your eyeballs are about to fall out.
At another point there is a waterfall, the Bridal Falls, which cascades down the mountainside like a lace veil. We penetrated into the mountains, seeing one stunning outlook after another. We were quite saddened when we began our return journey.
That evening we decided not to risk dinner in the hotel, and as I’m a Chinese food addict we went to the hotel concierge to ask about any good Chinese restaurants in the vicinity. A large book was pushed towards us with barely a glance from the concierge. I flicked through it and found it was nothing more than a printed list of just about every restaurant in Sidney and its surrounding areas. Now I knew something of a hotel concierge’s job as our eldest son had been promoted to head concierge of a 5-star hotel a while before our departure. He made sure he knew every restaurant in the city so that when a guest asked his advice he would have a ready answer, and would make a reservation for the guest. (It helped that he got a percentage of every reservation he made.) So here were we, in a strange city with no idea of what area was where, trying to pick out a restaurant from the book which left us not knowing whether it was a short walk away or an hour’s taxi ride. I pushed the book back and made for the entrance. I had seen an attractive Chinese restaurant near the Bounty replica so I suggested we tried there. Jackie agreed and we took a taxi down to Circular Quay and had a great meal, sitting outside in the shadow of the Bounty with an unbelievable view of Sidney Harbour Bridge illuminated by the setting sun.
Our trip the next morning was a long day with an early departure so before turning in I went to Reception and ordered an early morning wakeup call for 6 am. Luckily I was awake at 5.30 – I’m still waiting for the wakeup call.
We got downstairs in good time for an early pickup and went into the restaurant for breakfast. Deciding that putting a couple of rolls and pastries into a basket seemed beyond the wit of the restaurant staff we decided to go for the buffet. It looked good, and we helped ourselves to fried eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, etc. Took it back to our table and found that every item on our plates was stone cold – not just lukewarm but icy cold. By now I was getting so demoralized that I had lost the will to complain. I had almost lost the will to live in the face of such shoddy treatment. We helped ourselves to a couple of slices of toast and rushed out to the bus that was awaiting us.
It was a long trip to Port Stephens, passing through Newcastle along the way. Port Stephens has a harbour even bigger than Sidney Harbour and is equally picturesque. We embarked on a seagoing yacht with a bunch of other people and cast off to go find the dolphins. We sailed around the bay, having lunch as we went. It was extremely pleasant but nary a dolphin did we see. The skipper said that he would try the pool near the entrance where the dolphins often hung out when they had young. The wind began to get up as we approached the ocean and the yacht canted over at an unbelievable angle. The wind increased in force and the waves began to pile up. We smashed through them. The skipper told us that when he had children on board the dolphins seemed to know and always came out to have a look. Sure enough, a couple of dolphins came zooming alongside, eyeing us for a short time before diving. The children on board were mostly being seasick in the lumpy conditions, and I was hanging on to a rail and taking pictures of the dolphins almost vertically downwards.
Once the yacht turned for home we found the sea conditions grew calmer as we left the harbour entrance behind. Even the children began to perk up again.
By the time we arrived back at the hotel it was after 10 pm. I went to Reception and said that I had ordered a wakeup call that morning. “Yes,” said the receptionist, with that strange Australian raise of the voice at the end of the word, virtually turning it into a question. “Yes,” I said, “and I’m still waiting for it.” She shrugged in a couldn’t give a **** manner and said, “Human error.” “Human error?” I said,incredulously. “If I had missed a flight this morning, do you think the airline would have accepted ‘human error’ as an excuse?” She just shrugged again. What can you do when faced with this attitude?
We went up to our room to discover that it was totally untouched since our departure that morning. The bed was unmade and our wet towels were still lying on the bathroom floor. By this point I felt like banging my head against the wall until I fell unconscious, but no. I’m made of sterner stuff than that – I’m British, the blood of Nelson and Wellington flows through my veins. I girded my loins and every other loose part and called housekeeping. “Our room hasn’t been made up,” I announced. The lady at the other end of the line began a string of excuses but I cut her off. “I think you should come and see it,” I suggested firmly, “before I call the manager.”
While we waited we decided to call room service for something to eat. It had been over 9 hours since lunch and we were starving. I ordered a Xu Burger (No, I don’t know what a Xu is either) and Jackie decided on a cheese omelette and chips. We added a half bottle of wine to the order, then sat back and waited to see who would arrive first.
It turned out to be the housekeeper – a bolshy, bad tempered Vietnamese lady. “You see,” I said to her, indicating the unmade bed and leading her to the bathroom and the dirty towels. “You didn’t put out the sign that says, ‘Make up room’,” she said. Jackie broke in. “Are you telling me that we have to put out a sign to have the room made up?” she expostulated. “Look, we have been all around the world and stayed in more hotels than you can shake a stick at, and we have never had to put out a sign to have the room made up.” The bolshy one tried another tack. “The girls who do the rooms must have heard you in the room and decided not to disturb you,” she ventured. “We left the room at 7 this morning and never came back,” we told her. “We’ve been away all day and have just returned.” “Well, what do you want me to do?” she said in sulky tones. “Make up the room,” I suggested. She bristled. “We don’t make up rooms at this time of night.” “You don’t seem to make them up at any time,“ I observed. “Now, you can make up the room now, or I can call the manager, tell him what has happened and ask for another room. And I will then demand that all our clothes are packed and transported to our new room. Now, the choice is yours.” Very reluctantly she muttered, “We will make up room.” Then marched to the door and said that she was going to get somebody to help. She left.
Room service arrived. The young waiter wheeled in his trolley with covers over our plates. He laid the little table , put our plates down and lifted the covers with a flourish. “What’s that?” I asked. “Linguine,” he said. “Mmm.” I said. “But I ordered a Xu Burger.” “No, you ordered linguine.” I was now so wound up that I would have taken on the world while standing on one leg. “I ordered a Xu Burger and my wife ordered a cheese omelette with chips. Now, I can see the omelette on that plate, but I don’t see any chips.”Now it was his turn to become sulky. “I’ll take the linguine back then,” he muttered. “And I’ll bring the chips when I bring the Xu Burger.” “Fine,” I told him, weariness, both physical and mental, creeping over me. He left and I glanced at the wine bottle. “God Almighty,” I cursed, “he’s forgotten to open the wine.” And I grabbed it to go haring down the corridor, finally catching him at the lift. He opened the wine and I carried it back to the room.
Jackie was faced with a rapidly cooling omelette and the promise of chips to come. She ate the omelette.
Then the housekeeper returned with a helper and, muttering under her breath, began to tidy the room, make the bed and replace the towels. When they had finished and departed the waiter returned with my burger and Jackie’s chips. I could only manage half my burger and Jackie couldn’t eat any of the chips. We shoved the whole lot outside the door and went to bed.

 

[BillB]

I don’t know what I did to upset them, Suzi, I’d never been there before. I don’t think England had won the Ashes that year, so it couldn’t have been that. Anyway, the sequel was that when we got back Jackie was still fuming at the service we had received from an allegedly 5-star hotel that she wrote a letter of complaint to the general manager of the hotel, something we had never done before. A while later we received a reply, apologising and offering us two free nights at the hotel in Sidney, or at a Copthorne hotel in Europe during the year.
We wrote back saying that we had no plans to revisit Australia that year and that we would prefer to take the free nights at a hotel in Europe. He replied to say that he would extend the period to cover the following year as well. We threw up our hands in disgust, not being able to work out if the man was being deliberately obtuse or if he was just plain stupid. No wonder his hotel was so chaotic: he clearly couldn’t understand a simple sentence in his own language.
We gave up writing to him, looked up the address of the Copthorne company and submitted our complaint to them, pointing out the idiocy of the manager in Sidney. They wrote back to say that we could take the free nights at any of their hotels in Europe.
We thanked them and left the matter there for several months until Jackie, a Neil Diamond fan, read that he was going to perform a series of concerts in London. We bought tickets and wrote to Copthorne again, telling them that we would like to take our two free nights plus a third night that we would pay for at their hotel in Kensington. They wrote back to confirm that this would be possible and that our reservation was made.
When we checked in we found that our room was a poky and dim little corner with a view over the railway lines behind. Then I noticed there was only one bathrobe in the bathroom so I called reception to point this out and asked if they could bring another robe up. “Oh, but we only put one robe in that room,” the reception began, and then she must have entered our names into the computer and discovered that we were flagged. She changed her tack instantly. “I’ll have another one sent up right away,” she said. My inference was that they had put us into a single room, even though we were paying for one of the nights we were there. Cheap so and so’s that they were. So remember the name – Copthorne hotels or Millenium Copthorne Hotels and do yourselves a favour. Avoid them like the plague.
In contrast, after we had left Australia we had booked into the Mutiara Hotel in Penang for a week with the intention of chilling out after all those flights. It was the difference between chalk and cheese. Their car met us at the airport, we were warmly welcomed at reception and we settled down to a great week of relaxation and self-indulgence. On our wedding anniversary, which occurred while we were there, I hired the hotel’s yacht for the morning, arranging for us to be taken along the coast and dropped off at Monkey Beach where we enjoyed the experience of being castaways for half a day. Another day we went jungle trekking, getting the chance to see some of the birds and wildlife of the rainforest. The Malaysian staff were attentive without being overpowering and everything worked perfectly.
When our week was up we really didn’t want to return to Europe in the middle of winter.

 

[BillB]

Although we did a big trip on average once a year, we also fitted in some shorter trips, usually within Europe, if the prices were attractive. We found an offer from Page and Moye at one point and at just under £300 a week in a hotel in Sorrento sounded just up our street. We flew out of Gatwick towards the end of October and landed in Naples. A bus picked us up and drove us along the coast to our hotel, situated in the hills above Sorrento. We were enchanted with the view from our room – imagine lying in bed and, without moving, being able to see Vesuvius slowly turning pink by the rays from the rising sun. We didn’t have to pull the curtains at night as there was no one overlooking us so we lay there watching the lights of Naples playing on the water of the Gulf. I’m still filled with nostalgia when I think back on that amazing view.
We signed up for some of the tours as a visit to Pompeii and to Vesuvius were absolute musts for us. Pompeii had been one of my dream destinations ever since I had seen a photo of a street with ruts made by chariot wheels in a geography book at primary school. In those poverty stricken days just after the end of WW2, the possibility that I would one day visit Pompeii was as remote as swimming the Atlantic.
At the entrance to Pompeii we were met by our guide who took charge of our little group and led us through the happenings of that day in 79AD when Vesuvius erupted and buried the Roman port in ash and pumice. It lay undisturbed for 1700 years until being rediscovered in 1748.
What is so fascinating about the place is that it is like a snapshot of the town on one day almost 2000 years ago. There are shops with recesses in the counters where lentils, beans and other goods were displayed. There are private houses where the original murals can still be seen on the walls and the visitor can walk across the mosaic floors that were laid all those years ago. The baths can be seen, as can the public toilets. There is even a phallus carved in a paving stone pointing the way to the nearest house of ill repute.
But the most moving sights are the bodies found underneath the ash, still with their arms in the ‘boxing’ position that extreme heat induces. Of course, these are not the actual bodies, as they decomposed over the 2 millenia they were buried. So the ash solidified, leaving the space where the bodies had lain like moulds. Later, researchers filled these spaces with plaster and when it was set they chipped away the surrounding rock and were left with replicas of the bodies in their moment of death. Many of them have their mouths open in their silent last scream, a women shields a baby with her body, to no avail.
Even if your only contact with the Roman Empire is watching a rerun of Ben-Hur on TV, you owe it to yourself to visit Pompeii.
Vesuvius, the cause of the mayhem in the port below it, is also a must if you are in the area. I was over 60 but how often do you get the chance to gaze into the crater of a volcano in a lifetime? I was determined to climb it so Jackie and I took one of the offered stakes and began the trek to the lip of the crater. It took us about 40 minutes but doesn’t involve any actual climbing, other than lurching up a very steep path that twists back and forth over the pumice and lava that coat the face of the mountain. Breathing heavily we finally reached the crater and stared down. I don’t know what I was expecting – was it molten lava boiling and frothing down there? Or had I seen too many films? The reality was a riot of tumbled rocks, interspersed with vents from which sulphurous-smelling smoke rose. Scientists were taking readings from the vents as part of their jobs to keep an eye on the volcano. Throughout history, Vesuvius has erupted every 55 years and the last was in 1945 so a big one is 9 years overdue.
On the southern side of the peninsula where Sorrento is situated lies the Amalfi Coast, generally reckoned to be one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in the world – and you’ll get no argument from me on that score. The road curves around the outcrops and inlets, revealing unbelievable views at every turn. We visited Ravello, Positano and Amalfi, our jaws dropping in amazement.
On another day we visited Capri and took a boat to the Blue Grotto, a cave where the sunlight, reflecting off the sandy seabed, illuminates the interior of the cave with a weird blue light. You can see the home of the Roman emperor Augustus, right on top of the cliff where those in disfavour with him were thrown over.
One of the products that they sell on Capri is lemon-flavoured chocolate. We bought some and saved it for Christmas. We handed it around to our visitors on Christmas Day and it was so delicious that we wished we had been really greedy and kept it for ourselves.
We also explored Sorrento and its fantastic, narrow little shopping street called The Drain. On a couple of evenings we decided to forego the evening meal at the hotel and took the bus into Sorrento to sample the local restaurants. Well worth it as they produced some of the best pasta I have ever eaten. Nowadays, pasta will send my BG levels off the scale, so it’s something I’ve had to give up.

 

[BillB]

Throughout the ‘80s we continued to spend time on our boat on the Upper Thames. Our sons continued to grow and continued to come on holiday with us so we ended up turning in our 27 foot aft-cabin cruiser in part exchange for a 33 foot Freeman sport, with aft cabin, two toilets and a shower. She was a beautiful boat, finished inside with nicely weathered elm. There were two engines as well, not as big as I would have liked, but they made the boat easy to manoeuvre. She turned heads when her exhausts rumbled into life and we called her Drumbeat, at the suggestion of our friend Tony.
After I had bought a boat with plenty of room for all of us, our sons decided that going on holiday with Mum and Dad was so uncool that it should no longer be considered so Jackie and I were left on a boat that accommodated 6. We made the most of it.
But then we began to experience more and more unpleasant little incidents – one night somebody thought it would be a laugh if they cast us off just upstream of a weir. Luckily we heard what was going on and were able to bring the boat back to its mooring. Another time some yobs hung several lengths of transparent fishing line from a bridge with fish hooks attached. Luckily another boater called out and warned me before I got to the bridge so I was able to take precautions, but it shook me that anybody would think of doing something that would rip the eye or eyes out of someone. Another trick was for teenagers to jump off a bridge onto boats, run through the boat grabbing anything valuable they saw and jump off the stern.
The final straw for us turned out to be several consecutive wet summers, with the last one being so rainy that we were on the verge of packing up and returning home. Morning after morning we woke up, listening to the rain hitting the deck above us. We were still in the marina after three days when the rain went from a downpour to a light drizzle and the sun actually shone through the clouds for a few seconds. We grabbed the opportunity to cast off and head out. The weather improved slightly but didn’t do much to raise our spirits.
The following February we were invited to spend a week with my uncle and aunt at their flat in Spain, close to Marbella. The weather was better in the Spanish winter than in the British summer. We returned again the following year, and a friend of my aunt’s took us around one day to show us the kind of property that was on the market. We had no intention of buying a property in Spain, until the third place we visited – a 2-bedroom town house on a very nice little development of 6 houses with a communal pool and gardens. The price seemed reasonable and the thought of having guaranteed sunshine was alluring. It also raised the prospect of retiring to the Spanish sun. As a consequence we returned to Luxembourg, took out a second mortgage on our house, put the boat on the market and signed on the dotted line for our Spanish holiday home.
We became the proud owners at Easter that year and spent Christmas there. When we returned home in the New Year we found an unpleasant surprise. A letter forwarded to us by our Spanish lawyer from the Mijas tax office, telling us that we had lied about the price we paid (which had been Pts 9,000,000 (at that time around £45,000) and that our house was in fact worth double. This was absolute nonsense, of course, as I worked for an international organisation and had I been caught trying to evade tax I would have lost my job and the pension and other benefits that went with it. And they demanded another £4,000 tax on top of what we had already paid. The problem was that the tax due on a purchase is calculated as a percentage of the purchase price and most people declare far less on the deeds than they actually pay, handing over the balance to the seller in cash out of the sight of the lawyer. As I wasn’t about to throw my career and prospects down the drain to save a couple of thousand pounds I had declared the correct price. After a couple of months trying to sort out this contretemps I finally ended up asking the lawyer if he represented me or the tax office. He didn’t seem to have much sympathy with my position and simply told me that I would have to pay it and it wasn’t worth making an appeal. There being no alternative, I reluctantly sent a cheque to the lawyer. Having heard nothing for a month or so I sent him a fax asking if he had received it. He wrote back to say that he had indeed received it and was in the process of paying the tax.
Time went on and this piece of unpleasantness faded in our memories. We enjoyed our property, got on well with the other owners and explored the surrounding areas, which included Gibraltar.
Some six years later we returned home from work one evening to find a frantic message on our answering machine from the young man who administered our development asking us to call him at once. We did so and found a situation so horrendous that it was scarcely believable. Our lawyer had never paid the tax bill and the Mijas tax office was on the verge of seizing our house and auctioning it for unpaid taxes. It seems that the tax office had sent someone several times to our house to deliver the papers warning of this prospect but, as it was empty (naturally, it was a holiday home) the papers had never been handed over. They announced the auction of the house in a newspaper advert, and here was our only piece of luck: there was an error in the ad and the auction was cancelled because they had to start the process all over again. Once more a representative of the tax office turned up at the door of an empty house but this time, by the greatest luck, someone told him that he should go and see the administrator. I’ve never been able to find out who that person was, but he saved our house. The administrator told the taxman that he would contact me and that, in his experience, I always paid my bills and taxes on time.
I had also acquired a new lawyer, an English lady who had grown up in Spain and was ferocious in her defence of her clients’ interests. She got to the bottom of the story, persuaded the tax office to hold off on the seizure of the house and told me what was going on. My first lawyer’s excuse was that when he received my cheque for the tax it was too late and he realized that interest would be added. He sat back and waited for the tax office to notify him. This was dereliction of his duty in my view. I felt that he should have contacted the tax office immediately, notified me how much extra was due and then paid the total sum.
I sent the cheque to my new lawyer who paid the tax office and reassured me that the house was now ours. I should have taken that as a warning from the gods, a shot across my bows, if you like. But did I listen? Like hell I did.

 

[BillB]

A couple of years after our runaround with the Spanish tax authorities, we found the prospect of retirement looming in front of us. For years now we had been saying that we intended to retire to Spain but we realised our little town house wasn’t big enough for a permanent home so we had to decide what kind of home we wanted and where we wanted it. Our first decision was that we didn’t want it situated on the coast, where the tourist season could be hell upon earth so we decided that we would move inland into the mountains behind Marbella. We also decided that a property with a fair amount of land would ensure privacy and ensure that nobody could build close to us.
We put our town house on the market and sold it within a couple of months. With that money in the bank we began to look at properties in our chosen area. We did a lot of surfing on estate agents’ websites, learning what kind of prices were being asked and the kind of properties that were available. As the date we had selected for our possible retirement approached, we put our Luxembourg home in the hands of an agent. We had tried selling it ourselves but found that the timewasters and the plain barmy seemed to be attracted to us. One odd couple turned up and while the husband nosed around the house, his wife went from room to room kicking the radiators. What can you tell about a heating system by kicking the radiators? We didn’t have the faintest idea, but she must have found something because we never saw them again. The agent we selected did a much better job and brought a number of prospective buyers who seemed realistic prospects. Within another couple of months he had not only sold our house but got a price that we hadn’t dared hope for. Now that our ties to Luxembourg were cut (except for our son and daughter-in-law living here) we both put in for retirement and began a more intensive search for our new home.
We found it surprisingly quickly, and though we continued to look at other properties we knew that this was the one for us – a 3-bed, 2-bath home with swimming pool and 12,000 square metres (approx. 3 acres) of olive trees and a variety of fruit trees. The house had stunning panoramic views of the distant Sierra de las Nueves. The only thing missing was a garage for our 2 cars, but I would put in an application for permission to build one when we were resident. So it came to pass that one snowy February morning we flew out of Luxembourg to begin our new life in Spain.
We settled in, made friends and became volunteers for the cancer charity Cudeca, which was raising money to build a cancer clinic in the nearby coastal town of Benalmadena. Jackie worked two days a week running their video library and I took care of the secondhand book sales.
The first summer was one of blistering heat, from May to September. Every afternoon, around 2 o’clock, a strong wind would blow up and fill the pool with dust, leaves and general rubbish. You might well think that a good wind would cool things down a bit, but it was more like standing in front of a gigantic hair dryer at maximum temperature.
I established a vegetable garden and grew broad beans, courgettes, aubergines, melons and tomatoes. Because of the blazing sun I had to water the plants every evening but even I, generally regarded as being to plants what traffic is to hedgehogs, raised a sizeable crop. There was a problem here, though. Water is fairly expensive in Spain and it cost me an arm and a leg to keep them irrigated and the crop was ready just at the time when all these goodies were at their cheapest in the markets. Nor could you give it away, as everybody else we knew had a surfeit of vegetables as well.
One day, regarding the mountain of tomatoes I had just plucked I decided that I would make a batch of sauce to use as a basis for future pasta dishes. I was quite pleased with it – I had cooked onions, garlic and tomatoes down to a sauce consistency, added herbs, principally oregano, and a good half-bottle of white wine. When I was happy with the sauce, we got ready and went out for dinner to a rustic hotel about three miles away where we had stayed while waiting for our furniture to arrive. We had our first course when I realised with a horrified start that the sauce was still on the stove, cooking away. I jumped up, asked Jackie to get the cook to delay my main course and dashed off like Michael Schumacher in the direction of home. When I got there I found my sauce to be nothing more than a layer of black cinder in the bottom of the pan. I turned off the heat, cautiously filled the pan with water and left it in the sink. When I was sure there was no danger of fire, I hurtled back to the hotel in time for my main course, which was baccalao on a bed of lentils and yoghurt. It was delicious – but I was out of breath.
Nevertheless, despite what many would see as an idyllic lifestyle, I realised that Jackie was very unhappy. She did her best to hide it, but after more than 40 years together I didn’t need a road map to show me. I confess that I wasn’t 100 per cent satisfied myself and one of the reasons was the weather. I know that most people will say that they’d love to have four or five months of guaranteed sunshine every year, but when the sunshine raises the temperature to 105°F day after day, week in and week out, it gets to be very wearing, if not downright awful. Our routine during the summer was to do any work outside before 11 a.m., by which time the sweat would be pouring off us so we would retire inside, switch on the air conditioning and stay there until sunset.
“But you could have all your meals outside,” somebody once said to me. Well, yes, but at breakfast we would be inundated with wasps and the same at lunchtime. In the evening we would be eaten alive by mosquitoes. We quickly learnt to eat indoors.
After waiting a year for a response to my application to build a garage I went up to the town hall, only to be told that no decision had been made. In the meantime we had to leave our cars outside in the blazing sun all day. Spain is a very lacking in shade as very few trees survive in the climate unless they are well watered. And when we went down to the coast to do our weekly supermarket shopping, there was hardly any parking to be found in the shade. Consequently, when we returned to the car it was blisteringly hot and we had to turn on the engine, switch the air con to maximum, and wait until the air inside was down to about 120°F before we could get in.
I was also getting fed up with being constantly accosted by timeshare touts whenever I walked around which, along with all the chancers, conmen, frauds and tricksters made me feel that I was always on the verge of falling victim to some scam or other. The stories I heard from people who had been defrauded or conned would make anyone despair of the human race.
One of the biggest obstacles in the way of a normal, civilised life was the poor standard of services. If it rained too much, there was a power cut; if the wind blew too hard, there was a power cut. Even if there was no obvious cause, there were regular power cuts. When there was power the water would be cut off because they were working on the water mains 10 miles away. Telephone services were very hit and miss.
The roads were full of potholes and the edges crumbled away quickly, narrowing them down considerably. The Spanish attitude seemed to be that once a road was constructed, that was that and no further maintenance was necessary. At one time the road from Mijas down to the coast was stripped of its surface prior to repair. It then stayed like that for months on end until one evening the mayor was driving along it, skidded and almost went off the road. Within a few days the road was being resurfaced. During our second winter there we had a very high rainfall. Up in the mountains was a reservoir for drinking water and there was so much water in it that it was at risk of overflowing. What did they do? Without any warning they opened the sluice gates to let an enormous quantity of water pour into a stream further down the slope. The stream overflowed and a wall of water came roaring downhill and washed into a small development occupied mainly by non-Spanish people. A Range Rover was washed several hundred metres downstream, a cement mixer was washed away and was never seen again, while houses were flooded up to a metre deep.
Every week the local press would carry at least one story, often more, of a village mayor being arrested for stealing municipal funds.
Finally, 18 months after we had moved there, I broached the subject with Jackie. We were having lunch in a Chinese restaurant in Puerto Cabopino and I asked her if she would prefer it if we sold up and moved to Provence. The look on her face said it all. She told me that she had said nothing, despite being desperately unhappy, because she thought I was totally happy messing about in my garden. As I told her, I would be more than happy to buy my vegetables at the greengrocer’s. So we put the house on the market.
Once again we faced the usual timewasters and nosey parkers who only wanted to see what kind of furniture we had. During the rainy season there were always more viewers – holidaymakers would decide to have a look at properties for sale on rainy days as a more interesting pastime than sitting in their hotel rooms waiting for the rain to stop.
After a year, one family were really enthusiastic, they loved it, “I have found my little piece of paradise,” raved the mother. They owned a B&B in Kent which was under offer, they said so they were cash buyers. They made an offer which we accepted, and then sat back while one excuse after another was trotted out as to why they couldn’t sign. It seemed that they hadn’t been exactly truthful and they had applied to a Spanish bank for a mortgage. Nevertheless, they fixed a date when they would come over to sign on the dotted line. We had given our power of attorney to our lawyer and taken off for Provence. We visited a couple of French estate agents in search of a new home and explored the area to suss out places where we would like to live. Then our lawyer phoned. Our buyers had arranged everything to sign that morning, then, at the very last moment they had phoned to say they wouldn’t be buying after all. No reason. No excuse. Charming, I thought. We decided we may as well stay on in Provence and turn it from a house-hunt into a holiday. At least we would familiarise ourselves with the area.
So after two weeks in the south of France we headed north to visit our son and d-i-l in Luxembourg in what was the hottest summer in years. It was actually hotter in Luxembourg than it had been in Provence. One morning I awoke just before 6 a.m. while everybody else was still slumbering. I got up, made myself a cup of tea and went outside onto the balcony to enjoy the peace and quiet. The balcony was in the shade of the house across the way but after about twenty minutes the sun rose above the rooftop and was shining directly onto the balcony. The temperature rose so dramatically I picked up my cup and went inside. Then it struck me – we had been searching for a sunny climate when what we should have made our priority was quality of life. The climate didn’t really matter if you didn’t have what you needed to provide a good life.
When son and d-i-l had gone to work I put it to Jackie. We didn’t even need to live in Provence, we could live anywhere that suited us. But we had to be really sure this time as we couldn’t afford to sell up every couple of years and start all over again. We contemplated a return to the UK, but who would voluntarily live in a country where a fat buffoon like John Prescott, unable to string a coherent sentence together in his mother tongue, was Deputy Prime Minister?
In the end we settled on a return to Luxembourg as we had everything we could possibly want there. We spoke the language(s), films were shown in the original version with French and German subtitles, our newspapers were available everywhere, we could get in our car and within a few minutes be in France, Germany or Belgium. A couple of hours on the train brought us to Paris (I refuse to drive in Paris if I can avoid it), a couple of hours drive sees us in Brussels, 30 minutes in the car and we’re in Trier. We had been happy there before retirement. And so we finally sold our Spanish finca and returned to Luxembourg.

 

[BillB]

Ever since he had left Germany in 1966 we had kept in touch with our friend Bob. He had stayed with us in Luxembourg with his wife, the beautiful, gentle, Lois, when they came over to Europe In the ‘90s and we had exchanged news of family happenings over the years. When we moved to Spain I wrote him an email and told him that the Bill Hotel was open for visitors and he made flight reservations almost immediately. Lois had died several years previously and Bob had had a leg amputated due to him not taking his Type 1 diabetes seriously enough, so he came over with his daughter-in-law, Claire, as his travelling companion and unofficial nurse.
Unfortunately, they were due to fly out on September 12, 2001; the Twin Towers came down and all flights out of the States were cancelled for several days. They finally were able to get on a flight a week later.
We met them at Malaga airport and had a great two weeks with them. Bob was his old rumbustious , wisecracking self. We got on really well with Claire and kept in touch with her when they returned home. As a result, we were invited to stay with Claire and Bob’s son, Terry, should we visit the States.
A few days before 9-11, we had paid the balance on a trip we had reserved – to Lebanon, Jordan and Egypt. All our friends and acquaintances kept telling us we were mad even to contemplate such destinations at that time. To which I replied that I’d just as soon go and get shot than flush £5000 down the tubes.
So we landed at Beirut airport one evening and were astonished at the spread of lights all along the Lebanese coast. It must be one of the most spectacular sights in the Mediterranean. We joined a small group of intrepid travellers and were transported to the town of Jounie, north of Beirut. The civil war that had raged through Lebanon a few years previously had ended and the long task of reconstruction and rebuilding had begun.
We toured northern Lebanon, returning each evening to Jounie. We got as far as Tripoli which had some remarkable Crusader constructions. We visited a number of mosques and churches as well as the Cedars of Lebanon Forest, now a national park and the home of the tree that has had such an impact on Lebanese history that it is represented on the Lebanese national flag.
After 3 nights we moved to Beirut and spent that day touring the city. The next day we opted out of the tour that was offered as I had a family duty I felt obligated to discharge. I had an uncle who died in Syria in 1942, just 3 months before his only child, a son, was born. I had discovered on the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website that he was buried in Beirut. Jackie and I took a taxi from our hotel to the cemetery, stopping to buy flowers along the way. The taxi driver was really friendly and helpful, dropping us off and waiting for us. We discovered that we were in a cemetery containing WW1 graves so we returned to the taxi and told the driver. He asked us to wait, then went off and talked to someone in the Register Office of the group of cemeteries. He came back, drove us a couple of hundred yards and dropped us off at the right one. We went inside and I found my uncle’s grave. I was the first member of the family ever to visit. I laid our flowers and took some photos for my cousin, the son my uncle never saw. Then a young man employed by the CWGC came over and asked if we had any problems. We assured him that the cemetery was pristine, beautifully kept. We signed the visitors’ book and returned to our taxi. We had him drive us to the Beirut Museum, where we left him, after thanking him profusely and giving him a hefty tip.
The Beirut Museum had some interesting artefacts from the city’s history lying, as it does, at the crossroads of empires from before the Christian era to the present day. We had a light lunch and took another taxi back to the hotel. We freshened up and went out for a walk, traversing the grounds of the American University, a hive of student life. We arrived at the seafront and walked southwards, arriving at the two remarkable rocks which are a Beirut landmark, Pigeon Rocks.
That evening we went out to dinner, and Lebanon is a paradise for low carbers. The food is always fresh as nothing seems to be prepared until a customer orders it. The wife of another cousin of mine used to be a stewardess for a well-known airline and she told us that Lebanon was always a much sought-after flight among the aircrews simply because the food was so good. Apart from the freshness, Lebanese food is light and healthy with chicken, fish, hummous, salads, and kofta kebabs with pickled vegetables and peppers serving as accompaniments, and little pastries made from wafer-thin filo pastry covering a cheese filling. Yoghurt, lemon juice, olive oil and olives are used liberally. The great attraction is the mezze, a range of these dishes served as a whole course of small portions. We used to have a superb Lebanese restaurant in Luxembourg and Jackie and I were frequent customers, but the owners sold up and it became a French restaurant. I still miss it.
One evening we decided to stop off for a drink on the way back to the hotel so we wandered around until we found a decent looking bar then stopped off. Afterwards we got somewhat lost (no, we weren’t drunk) and headed roughly in the direction of the hotel. We found ourselves in some narrow, deserted streets and then, turning a corner, we saw ahead of us a group of teenagers spread all the way across the pavement. My antenna went up but I felt that turning around would signal us as potential victims so we carried on towards them. As we neared, they all stepped back to give us space and all of them wished us a good evening. We greeted them in a friendly manner in return and carried on. Another lesson learnt: there are better forms of exercise than jumping to conclusions.
Another visit was to the Beqaa Valley, scene of some ferocious fighting during the Lebanese Civil War. Now it has become what it was previously – an agricultural area which forms an important part of the Lebanese economy. Baalbeck, named Heliopolis by the Romans, has some stupendous remains, notably the Temple of Baachus. Even today, Beqaa produces some very good wines so the spirit of Baachus lives on.
We also visited the port of Sidon, also known as Saida. The port was a Phoenician city originally, though the Crusaders later built a beautiful castle in the sea which is reached by a causeway. From the castle’s tower the visitor gets a magnificent view of the town. There is also a caravanserai, built in the 17th century as a stopover for camel trains. Their goods were stored on the ground floor and the merchants slept on the upper floor. The camels were tethered in the central courtyard. Another interesting place to visit was the Souk, a market consisting of a winding area of streets where you can buy just about anything.
We only had a week in Lebanon, and we saw the highlights, but we felt a longer stay would have allowed us to visit many more historical sites. One of the fondest memories we took away with us was the spontaneous friendliness of the Lebanese people. At the airport my wife was trying to buy a couple of stamps for postcards she wanted to send. She asked the man at the information desk and he told her that the post office wasn’t yet open but if she left the cards with him he would post them for her. “How much are the stamps?” she asked. He assured her that she didn’t need to worry, he would post them. And when we got home we found that he had indeed posted them for her. On several other occasions complete strangers stopped us in the street, offering their sympathies for the World Trade Centre atrocity.
An oddity of the Lebanese economy is that they have two currencies, running side by side. They have the Lebanese Pound and the US dollar. You can pay with either one and get your change in either one. Everybody knows the exchange rate and can tell you the latest rate off the tops of their heads. It makes shopping more fun than usual.
Our next stop was Jordan, another country we had been anticipating for a long time ever since we had seen pictures of Petra in the National Geographic.
We landed in Amman around lunchtime and were met by a driver who transported us to our hotel. We had lunch and then went for a walk to have a look at the surrounding area. I really didn’t know what to expect, and Amman turned out to be a big surprise. It was sparkling clean, the buildings were white and of an interesting architectural variety. There were lots of high quality cars among the traffic and the traffic itself was restrained compared to a city like Cairo. Once again we were stopped and offered condolences on the 9-11 atrocity and we were struck by the friendliness of the Jordanian man in the street.
The next morning we met our fellow travellers, just two other couples – Mike and Sarah who were pretty much on the same wavelength as us, and a couple from Wales who seemed to be trying to pass a week and spend as little money as possible. Our first morning was spent in a tour of Amman, which has a wealth of Roman buildings and sites. The biggest is a theatre which is beautifully kept and maintained. You can stand on the stage and look out at the rows of benches stretching up in front of you and you can almost hear the crowds waiting for their entertainment to begin. There is also a phenomenon in the theatre which ranks along with the Whispering Gallery in St Paul’s Cathedral. If you stand at the front of the seats, there is a low wall lined with recessed bas reliefs. If you put your mouth close to one of these recesses and speak, someone at the extreme end can hear what you are saying perfectly.
After that we visited the King Abdulla Mosque, which is a truly beautiful building. The interior is equally striking as it is finished in pure white stone.
The city itself is one of the longest inhabited cities in the world and is mentioned in the Bible as Rabbath-Ammon. There are remains from as long ago as the Stone Age, and every civilisation since. Half of Jordan’s population live in Amman which makes it a rich and vibrant city.
The next morning at breakfast Jackie, who was recovering from a cold, got a fit of coughing. An elderly Jordanian gentleman at a nearby table got up and walked over to the buffet, then returned with a pot of honey. “Hold a teaspoon of this at the back of your mouth for as long as you can,” he said. “Your coughing will stop.” And sure enough, the coughing stopped. We thanked the gentleman profusely and were again struck by the kindness of the Jordanian people.
The following morning we drove down to the Dead Sea to spend the day at one of its resorts. There were just the six of us, the staff and 5,000,000 flies. But only outside, inside there were no flies. We took a dip in the Dead Sea and became one of the rare band who have floated in it from both the Israeli and the Jordanian side.
But Sarah, Mike, Jackie and I decided that we didn’t fancy sitting around while the flies drank our drinks faster than we could, so when Adnan asked if we would prefer to go back to Amman for lunch, we quickly assented. The Welsh couple looked stricken that they would have to pay for lunch (it was free at the resort) but as they were outvoted they had to return to Amman. Adnan dropped us off outside a very classy restaurant with a stream running through the interior courtyard where the food was excellent (similar to Lebanese) and very reasonable. The Blodwens, as I dubbed them, said they were off to do some shopping and they would return in an hour or so. We got on with our wonderful meal and were just sitting back, totally replete, when they came back. They showed us their purchase – a mug that said “I heart Jordan”. Must have cost all of 10p.
After visiting several more places in the surrounding area we left Amman to head for Petra – the Rose Red City half as old as time.
It was dark by the time we arrived, and there are few places as dark as the desert on a moonless night so we didn’t get to see our destination until the next morning. When I woke up the first thing I did was pull the curtains and take a look at our surroundings. A jumble of red rocks met my eyes, which grew round with astonishment at the awe-inspiring view. We showered quickly, had breakfast and were waiting at our little bus for our driver, Adnan, to take us down to the entrance to the ancient city.
When he dropped the six of us off there were a group of Bedouin with horses. The Bedouin each grabbed one of us, clearly practiced in relieving tourists of their money. My Bedou asked me what my name was. I told him it was Bill. I climbed up on the horse and before I could get myself properly settled, the Bedou started out at a run. Unfortunately, in swinging my leg over the horse I had managed to sit down on a rather tender part of my anatomy and as the horse started bouncing up and down, so did I – in agony. “Do you want to gallop, Bill?” shouted my Bedou and before I could get my jaw unclenched he did just that. I think it would be best to draw a veil over the rest of that half-mile gallop. Suffice to say I walked around unnaturally bowlegged for at least two days.
We arrived at the entrance to the Seekh, the narrow passage through the rocks that takes you down to Petra. The Seekh is quite wondrous as the strata in the rocks range from red to beige to yellow and just about every possible shade in between. As you approach the end you begin to catch glimpses of the most magnificent building in Petra – the Treasury. As you exit the Seekh, the Treasury faces you, a beautiful pillared facade, carved into the rockface of the cliff facing you. We were shooting off pictures like crazy as it’s one of those sights that you won’t get the chance to view very often.
A guide was waiting for us to explain the history of the incredible constructions we were viewing, but the Blodwens slunk off, afraid that they would have to tip him. The remaining four of us had lunch inside Petra itself and then decided that we would take a donkey up the Monastery, another splendid facade but carved near the top of the cliff. We climbed up the steps carved into the rock until we were halfway up, where another Bedou waited with a number of donkeys. We all climbed aboard and let the donkeys do the donkey work (sorry about the pun). Then we had to get off and climb the rest of the way on foot. After the Treasury every other building there is a bit of a letdown; although the Monastery was spectacular, it didn’t have the beauty and grace of the Treasury. A family of Bedouin were selling mint tea in a little cafe they had set up inside a cave. We fell into the chairs and imbibed our mint tea. Never was a drink so much appreciated.
And now I see that I have run on far too long, so I’ll leave the rest of the story to the next posting. Hope I haven’t bored anyone.

 

[BillB]

All during that day the four of us had vowed that we wouldn’t return to the hotel area on the back of those damned horses. When we had dismounted the Bedouin had asked when we would return. None of us wanted anything more to do with the horses so we told them 3 o’clock, knowing full well that we would be later. We hoped they would get fed up.
We wearily returned to the Treasury and then began the long hobble up the Seekh to the entrance. There were our Bedouin, waving cheerfully when they spotted us. And then we showed our real two-faced natures. Our legs ached so much that we all climbed more than happily back on the horses for the ride back to the hotel area.
Having paid off the Bedouin we walked gingerly to the hotel lobby where we collapsed into armchairs and ordered drinks. Then we were astonished to see people staggering into the hotel, in even worse condition than we were; some actually collapsed and had to be carried in on stretchers. It turned out that they were participating in the Desert Marathon. They looked more as if they had taken part in the battle of Marathon. Some had blisters the size of 50p pieces, others had blood oozing out of their footwear. I was utterly astonished that any apparently sane human being would try to run a marathon across the sands of the Jordanian desert.
The next morning, legs as stiff as planks, we took our minibus to the Wadi Rum, one of Lawrence of Arabia’s hangouts. At the entrance to the Wadi we saw a remarkably shaped mountain, with its facing side ruffled like seven folds in a curtain. This was the famous Seven Pillars of Wisdom, after which T.E. Lawrence named his book. What a magnificent sight, soaring out of the desert sands which spread flat to the mountain’s base. I studied the scene, working out how to photograph it to its best advantage. I finally hit on what I thought would be a great shot and looking through the viewfinder what did I see? None other than Mrs Blodwen, video camera in hand, marching dauntlessly across the desert, leaving a line of footprints in the pristine sand before stopping to set up her mini-tripod and film the mountain. I waited to take my shot while she did the necessaries and marched determinedly back. I got the picture, but I had to zoom in to avoid the footprints she had left.
We drove further into the Wadi, intrigued by the colour of the sand, which was bright orange. In fact, David Lean shot scenes for the film Lawrence of Arabia in this area and when you watch the film you can immediately tell which scenes were shot in Wadi Rum because of the orange sand. We pulled up and climbed out of the minibus and found ourselves in front of a range of mountains. Partway up the nearest slope was a water source called Lawrence’s Spring, which was basically the main reason why Lawrence chose this spot for one of his clandestine camps. The water ran down the rocky slope and across the sand for a short distance before it sank below the surface and vanished. A couple of Bedouin appeared with open-backed 4-wheel drives into which we climbed. They drove us out into the desert, away from the mountains and among the sand hills. It was a mesmerising landscape and gave me an inkling into why Lawrence was so drawn to this land.
On leaving the Wadi Rum we stopped at a little cafe for a drink. The Blodwens carefully bought one Coke and shared it between them. They must be the only people to go on holiday and make a profit.
As we turned out of Wadi Rum, passing the Seven Pillars once more, we turned on to the King’s Highway, a new road which runs through the Jordan and is one of King Hussein’s legacies. The late King Hussein, we discovered, was very much loved by his people. He held public audiences every week where any of his subjects with a grievance could come and lay his problems before the king.
We drove the King’s Highway, a beautifully constructed motorway that runs all the way to Aqaba on the Red Sea. We checked into the Aqaba Gulf Hotel, with views of Jordan to our left and Israel to the right. Jordanians are very easy-going and people move back and forth between Eilat in Israel and Jordan. Our guide once remarked, “Jordan doesn’t have problems with anybody.” The view over the Red Sea from our room on the top floor was worth travelling all that way for. Without moving your head you can see Israel, Jordan and Egypt.
The next morning Mike, Sarah and us went off on a snorkelling trip and the Blodwens went off somewhere that didn’t cost anything. The snorkelling was incredible, with corals aplenty and the kind of marine life you only see in TV documentaries. I spotted a scorpion fish (also known as a lion fish) and gave it a wide berth, but I kept seeing them everywhere I looked so I became a lot braver, even knowing that their dorsal spines contain a very deadly poison.
Back on board, my legs were still so stiff from our Petra visit that I couldn’t bend them enough to put my socks back on. Apologetically, I asked Jackie if she would mind slipping my socks over my feet, which she did while I leant backwards over the thwart. The young Arab boatman looked on in astonishment as I appeared to lie back while my wife put my socks on my feet. He must have thought that we had our women trained even better than the Arabs.
On the way back to Aqaba, we came upon a turtle, swimming along with his head out of the water, apparently ignoring us, until we got too close, upon which he promptly dived, never to be seen by us again. We told the Blodwens that we had seen dozens of turtles. They looked somewhat chagrined.
The next day we took the hydrofoil to Nuweiba in Egypt where we completed the entry formalities quite quickly and boarded our bus to take us to Sharm el Sheik. After about an hour and a half our bus coasted to a stop – it had broken down. Our driver phoned Sharm and promised us that a new bus would arrive shortly. We sat in the middle of the Sinai coast, not a living soul in sight and waited for our bus. Sure enough, a very modern, comfortable bus arrived within an hour and we boarded it for the rest of the journey. Mike, Sarah and us were staying at the Movenpick hotel, while the Blodwens had chosen the cheapest option. We saw them from time to time plodding along from their hotel to spend the day on the excellent beach where our hotel was situated.
We spent that week just relaxing, lazing around and eating. We took a cruise on a glass-bottomed boat to study the corals that abound in those waters. And strangely, one evening as we walked back to our room from the hotel restaurant, in the dark, we passed a lady walking in the opposite direction. I didn’t pay much attention, but Jackie asked me, “Wasn’t that Angela M?”. Angela M was an Irish lady we had known in Luxembourg before we retired. “Surely not,” I answered.
Two day later, at breakfast, Jackie again said, “I’m sure that’s Angela M.” I looked but couldn’t be sure. “Let’s wait and see if she has a husband with her,” I remarked. And sure enough, her husband arrived a few moments later and it was indeed our friends, Peter and Angela M.
Now how much of a coincidence was that? We were living in Spain, they were still living in Luxembourg. We had booked our trip through a British company and they had booked theirs through a Luxembourg travel agent. And we had ended up at the same resort, in the same hotel, at the same time.
We flew back to the UK without suffering any of the terrible fates that had been predicted for us. We had discovered fantastic historical sites and experienced nothing but friendliness and kindness.

 

[BillB]

Before we left Spain we took two more trips – the first one to Rome. We discovered that the Spanish airline Iberia was offering a flight to Rome and a week in a hotel at a good price. Our travel agent, a beautiful Malaysian girl named Sonia, quickly fixed it up for us so that we were soon underway and had the unique experience of checking into three hotels in less than 24 hours.
The first hotel apologetically explained that while we were welcome to stay, the water mains in the street outside were being worked on (we’d noticed as we entered) and as a result the water supply was intermittent. They had reserved a room for us in a nearby hotel if we preferred. They transported our luggage and we strolled around the corner to our new hotel and settled in, after being told that they could only accommodate us for one night.
The next morning we returned to our original hotel where they apologised again and told us that the town water supply was still being worked on and if we liked we could transfer to another hotel by the Trevi fountain. We agreed to this and went out to make bookings for a few tours of Rome during our stay.
Once again they transported our bags and we returned to the Hotel Trevi, which was literally less than 50 yards from the fountain. We loved the hotel and its situation – it was within walking distance of the Colosseum, the Capitol and the enormous Victor Emmanuel Monument. In another direction was the Piazza Navona with the famous fountain of the four rivers by Bernini (anyone familiar with The DaVinci Code will remember this) and also the Parthenon.
We were struck by the beauty of the Trevi Fountain, with its white marble statuary and tumbling water. We passed it several times each day and were impressed by this monument more and more. One morning we were so early that there wre no tourists there, just a couple of workmen hoovering up the coins that tourists throw in.
Having long had an interest in Roman history the Colosseum was an absolute must see for me so that’s where we first headed. This is one of the most impressive buildings in the world, and even after several thousand years it has the ability to take your breath away. It doesn’t take much imagination to see the tiers of seats stretching up, filled with the Roman crowd avid for the latest spectacle while vendors moved around selling sweetmeats and snacks. The arena covering has long vanished but the labyrinth of tunnels and holding chambers are thus exposed. This was where the animals were held before being thrust into the arena, and where gladiators and convicted criminals awaited their fates.
Just a few yards’ stroll brings the visitor to the Capitol, where Julius Caesar was assassinated and Marc Anthony gave his famous speech rallying the crowd against the assassins. The Senate is also close by, where the most momentous events in Roman history were played out; where the senators sent Marcus Licinius Crassus off to halt the rebellion of the slaves led by Spartacus, the Thracian, and where Caligula thoroughly cowed this august body with his cruelty.
Another short walk from the hotel brought us to The Parthenon, where the artist Raffaello’s tomb is to be found. Once again it’s a building that takes the breath away by its sheer size and scale. It demonstrates the amazing architectural and engineering skills of the Romans. The pillars at the front of the structure are so big that it takes around six people with their arms outstretched to circle each one. Yet so perfect are the proportions of the building that they appear much smaller when viewed from 30 yards.
The Piazza Navona was originally a horse racing track, which is why it is oval shaped. The Bernini fountain stands at one end and is itself a beautiful work of art.
A stroll in another direction brought us to the Spanish Steps, where hordes of people hang out by sitting on the steps to watch the passersby.
We took a tour of the Vatican, which started in St Peter’s Square - astonishing in its size – much bigger than newsreel shots would lead you to believe. Inside St Peter’s, almost the first thing to be seen is Michelangelo’s Pieta, an immensely moving representation of Mary holding the body of her dead son, Jesus.
Passing through the corridors of the Vatican is awesome as there are more works of art per yard of corridor than you’ll see anywhere else in the world. And even if you discount the paintings and sculptures, the decorations of walls and ceilings will keep your amazement levels on high.
And then of course there is the Sistine Chapel. To appreciate the glory of this immense painting you would need to lie on your back on the floor for several hours, studying the ceiling while tourists stepped over and around you. As this is clearly impossible, the best you can do is wander around, giving yourself a crick in the neck.
We signed up for a tour to Florence, leaving Rome fairly early in the morning. The highlight of the day was not just the city of Florence with the Ponte Vecchio but the original of Michelangelo’s David. What can be said about this work of genius that hasn’t already been said? It’s marble turned into a symphony.
On our last day in Rome we walked around the corner to the Trevi Fountain and threw our coins in, ensuring that someday we’ll return to Rome. Then we took a taxi to the airport.

 

[BillB]

The following year having been invited by Claire and Terry to visit them and Bob, we decided to visit California for the first time. We thought we’d break the flight with a few days in New York so we booked our tickets from Malaga to Heathrow and then Heathrow to New York.
We checked in at Malaga, making sure that our luggage would go straight through to NY without us having to pick it up at Heathrow. As we were waiting at the boarding gate, a very agitated lady came bustling up, enquiring, “Is it just our luggage they’ve lost or is it everybody’s?” Since we hadn’t even left the airport, I couldn’t see how anybody’s luggage could have been lost, but as we were bussed out to the aircraft we saw luggage by the hundredweight lined up on the tarmac. On the plane we learned that the luggage conveyor belt had broken down. Our plane waited and waited. Not a suitcase was moved. We had 2 hours from the scheduled landing time of our aircraft to the take off time at Heathrow, so it was going to be pretty tight. As it was we waited on the tarmac for more than an hour and we grew more and more anxious.
The plane finally took off, sans luggage, and we arrived at Heathrow with about 30 minutes to change terminals. We had explained our problem to the cabin crew and they told us to speak to the Iberia representative as we exited the plane. They held the rest of the passengers up so we could be first off and approached the Iberia representative. We explained our problem. She shrugged and pointed up the ramp. I just couldn’t be bothered with any more of these jobsworths so we grabbed our hand luggage and hared off in the direction indicated. We found the transfer gate and made for the bus. No, no, not so fast, said the security men, and we had to stand in line for the security checks. They confiscated my Swiss Army knife and let us go and as luck would have it, the bus waiting outside closed its doors as we boarded and headed off to Terminal 4. Again luck was with us as the gate we came through into Terminal 4 was right next to the gate for our flight. Any further and we would have missed it. As it was the door was closed right behind us and a planeload of people glared at us as we made our way to our seats.
And so we arrived at JFK Airport in New York without our luggage. We took a taxi to the Pennsylvania Hotel on 7th Avenue where we had a reservation. Anyone familiar with the Glenn Miller Band’s repertoire, or has seen the film The Glenn Miller Story will recognise the name as it was the hotel where Miller himself was living while playing in the pit band for the Broadway musical Girl Crazy, and whose phone number he incorporated into a hit tune called Pennsylvania 6-5000, the hotel’s phone number at the time. In fact, although the hotel has a new prefix on its telephone number, 6-5000 is still the number to call. We had requested a renovated room when we booked, but I can’t say I particularly noticed any difference. It was just as lucky that our luggage was still in Malaga as the room, strangely, had no cupboards or wardrobes of any kind.
They call New York the city that never sleeps, but just try buying a toothbrush and paste at 10 o’clock on a Sunday night. Finally, Jackie’s bag was delivered to the hotel early on Tuesday morning, but mine was still missing. I bought a couple of shirts in Macy’s and some underpants and socks.
The next morning we took a hop-on-hop-off bus tour of New York City. We often do this when we’re in a place for the first time as it gets us orientated and gives us an idea of places we’d like to return to for a more thorough exploration. We learnt all sorts of details about the route we followed and saw all those well-known places, Central Park, Carnegie Hall, the Rockefeller Centre and the beautiful Chrysler Building. We carried on to the Flatiron Building and the Courthouse where many scenes for the TV series Law and Order are filmed - on the steps in front of those imposing columns. We got off the bus at Battery Park, situated on the southern tip of Manhattan, where we caught the boat that takes visitors out to the Statue of Liberty. Many restrictions were imposed in the wake of 9/11 – one of them being that it was no longer possible to climb to the top of the statue. We got off at Ellis Island, the place where untold thousands of immigrants were processed for admittance to the US. Back at Battery Park we disembarked and walked to the site of Ground Zero. The sheer scale of the horror of that awful morning is brought home to you when you stand looking down into the excavation where the foundations and underground levels of the Twin Towers once sat.
We had lunch in a small restaurant nearby, then took the bus back for the second part of the tour, taking in the UN Building (closed off to traffic because there was a sitting taking place and they weren’t about to take any chances). We passed the three bridges that span the East River, Brooklyn Bridge, Midtown Bridge and the Washington Bridge. We also learnt that the East River isn’t a river at all but an inlet of the sea.
That evening we had booked seats to see our favourite Broadway musical, 42nd Street. Another reason we chose it was that the theatre it was showing at is situated on 42nd Street. We walked the 10 blocks to the theatre then walked back after the show, stopping at a diner on 7th Avenue for lasagne.
A prime location is one of the great assets of a hotel, and ours was beautifully located – just across the road from Madison Square Garden and Penn Station while just around the corner sits the Empire State Building.
The next morning we took a short stroll to the Empire State and bought tickets for the elevator ride to the top. It was an exciting ride in the high speed cabin, which we left on the 86th floor, transferred to another, smaller, elevator and rode to the 102nd floor. The views from both floors were breathtaking – we had anticipated great panoramas, but we really weren’t prepared for the reality. New York stretched away in every direction – and we were lucky to have a cloudless day and unlimited visibility. We could see the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, at the very entrance to the harbour and New Jersey to the west. Northwards we could see over Central Park and miles beyond.
We had a coffee on the ground floor when we descended while we decided what to do for the rest of the day.
We decided to pass the time exploring the area around the hotel – we found Grand Central Station nearby and explored the interior, and close to it the Chrysler Building. We took a stroll along 5th Avenue then did a little light shopping in the famous department stores: Macy’s and Bloomingdales. We had lunch in a Chinese restaurant called Oliver’s, which was crowded but had the fastest service I‘ve ever experienced.
That evening, my suitcase still languishing in Neverland, made packing easy. I didn’t have to do any. And next morning, after breakfast, we headed for JFK and caught our American Airlines flight to San Jose in sunny California.

 

[BillB]

Flying across the States was a fascinating experience as we crossed deserts, plains, the Rockies and farmlands. As we approached San Jose we saw fields of the strangest hues – yellows, reds and purple. It turned out they were the local crops, radicchio and other salad leaves.
We found Claire waiting by the luggage carousel, which seemed odd to us but then, on thinking about it, we were on a domestic flight so we didn’t have to go through the customs and immigration processes. We had been so long in the air that we had slipped into international flight mindset.
Claire drove us to a hospital at Morgans Hill, where Bob was recuperating from his second amputation. He was now, literally, legless – unfortunate for a man who had given up alcohol. He was delighted to see us and called in all his carers to be introduced to us. Bob was as upbeat as ever, still full of jokes and funny stories, and his carers clearly thought the world of him. At the end of our visit Claire drove us to a small but hugely interesting private museum dedicated to the museum owner’s ancestor who was a Doughboy in the First World War. The exhibits ranged from the weapons he used down to items of uniform and even his letters home. It was well worth the stop.
We then progressed to Aptos where we settled in and Jackie unpacked her suitcase – mine was still in limbo – but Claire looked up the FedEx website and tracked my suitcase which she said would arrive before 11 am the next day. Sure enough, at 10.30 the next morning a FedEx truck pulled up and there was my long-lost luggage. At last, I had more than three shirts. Oh, the luxury.
Claire took us around the local area, showing us places of interest. We drove up the coast to San Francisco and spent the day in that lovely city. We stopped off for a coffee at Half Moon Bay, a pretty town about halfway to SF. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and clear and we sat outside in balmy weather. Claire told us that we were exceptionally lucky that day as Half Moon Bay was usually bathed in thick fog and she had rarely seen it in sunshine. Just lucky, I supposed, but every time we drive up that way we stop for coffee and the sun always shines for us.
We had a great time in the following weeks. Claire drove us down the coast to Big Sur, a stunning stretch of coastline, that impressed the heck out of us. She also took us to that gorgeous little town, Carmel-by-the-Sea, where we explored by ourselves while she and Terry had a meeting with their financial advisor. Another of her destinations for us was Monterey, which was a must for me as I’ve been reading John Steinbeck’s books since I was in my teens and he wrote much about this area. My cup truly runneth over, I thought, as I walked down Cannery Row and passed Ed Ricketts marine biological lab, which features in the ribald stories of Cannery Row and Sweet Thursday.
On another day, Claire picked up Bob from his care home and we all headed for Salinas, Steinbeck’s birthplace, where we visited the John Steinbeck Centre to view some of the artefacts from the great man’s life, including the little camper he bought to drive around the States with his dog Charlie, talking to the people he met along the way, a journey that ended up as the book “Travels with Charlie”.
Poor old Terry still had to work, so he only got to come with us on our outings at weekends. Claire, who types out transcripts for university lecturers and researchers, could fit her work around our comings and goings.
One Sunday we were taken down to Big Sur and had lunch at the River Inn, a great place with, naturally enough, a river running through its grounds. On Sundays a jazz band plays Dixieland jazz on the terrace and diners are invited to try to stump the musicians by requesting a number they don’t know. Having played in a jazz group myself I tried a couple of little-known numbers, but they came up trumps every time.
On another day Claire drove us to the little town of San Juan Bautista. There is one of the early Californian missions there, as well as a museum displaying some of the artefacts from the town’s history. We stood in the grassy square that’s in front of the mission with the museum on the other side. The scene seemed awfully familiar but I couldn’t work out why. I know I’m getting a bit absent minded but I knew very well that I hadn’t been there before. Then later I learned that Hitchcock had filmed scenes for Vertigo there – the mission was the building where James Stewart was unable to save Kim Novak from falling to her death and there was a prior scene where the two of them wandered around the museum. The tower that Kim Novak fell from doesn’t exist in real life, so Hitch created one in the studio and it was added into the film by using process work.
Claire took us for lunch to an absolutely wonderful Mexican restaurant called Los Jardines de San Juan. We sat outside, in the gardens, enjoying magnificent Mexican food – truly an experience to make you think you’ve arrived in Heaven. Every time we’re in California we make a point of having lunch at Los Jardines.
Another excursion Claire cooked up for us was a visit to the wineries in the Napa Valley. That sounded like an attractive proposition so we gave it a definite yes. Claire went onto the internet and booked a suite at a hotel called the Embassy Suites, in the town of Napa itself. This turned out to be a good choice as our suite comprised 2 bedrooms, a sitting room, a bathroom and a kitchenette. We weren’t planning on doing our own cooking but nevertheless the price was reasonable for the three of us. And as we found, from 5 to 6 o’clock, the drinks were free in the bar. Good value, indeed.
We found the Napa Valley a delightful area, with most of the wineries having been created by immigrants from the Mediterranean region early in the 20th century. Film director Francis Ford Coppola (The Godfather films) has a nice winery there with his Oscars and artefacts from his films on display in the tasting room. Despite the fact that I really enjoy good wine, we tasted sensibly as I can’t stand the sensation of being out of control and the even worse morning after. We bought a bottle of white wine for Terry, still at work back at Moss Landing. In the evening Claire suggested we had dinner at a restaurant called the Celadon which she had heard was worth a visit. And it was – we had a really memorable meal there and, as we found throughout California, the prices were surprisingly reasonable. I had the most delicious crab cakes I have ever tasted.
The next morning we began the drive home, stopping for lunch in the delightful little town of Sausalito which is just off Highway 1, close to the Golden Gate Bridge.
All too soon, our few weeks in California drew inexorably to their close and it was time for Claire to drive us to San Francisco. Our plan was for her to drop us off and we would spend our last few days there exploring San Francisco. Claire booked us a room at a hotel on Union Square and drove us to the city. We passed a couple of hours with Claire as she drove us around, showing us some of the areas that would be worth a return visit and driving us down the twisty Lombard Street for a drive that was more a rollercoaster ride. We said goodbye outside the hotel and then we went inside and checked in.
We loved that area of the city as it’s so close to so many fascinating places - we had dinner in Chinatown that night, which is just around the corner.

 

[BillB]

Not long after our return an estate agent brought two South African guys along for a viewing. They apparently liked the look of the property. They chatted to us for a while and then left. We thought they were pleasant. Even so, as they had been noncommittal we weren’t holding out too much hope, but then shortly after Christmas the agent again called and asked if they could make a second visit. It sounded as if they were interested, so we gladly said yes. This time we had quite a long chat with them and discovered that they were naturalised Spanish citizens and had lived in Spain for quite a while. They were currently living down on the coast in Fuengirola. We answered all their questions, offered them drinks and chatted on. We got on with them really well.
A couple of days later the agent called and said they had made an offer. It was a little less than we were asking, but I made a counter-offer, splitting the difference between us. They accepted and paid the deposit quickly. We were on our way to selling. And inadvertently saved my life.
Some two weeks after our agreement, they invited us down to their townhouse for dinner. Henti, a retired dentist, loved to cook and he prepared a beautiful meal for us that would have done credit to a high ranking French restaurant. He and I had a lot to talk about as I also love to cook. They showed us around their home and garden and Jackie and I came to the conclusion that if we had met them under other circumstances, we would likely have become firm friends.
We set about getting quotes from removal firms for the move back to Luxembourg, finally settling on Pickfords because though they were not the cheapest we were attracted to their many years of experience. That was a mistake, I must say.
We filled in the necessary forms and a Spanish company duly arrived, packed our furniture and loaded it into a truck.
We booked with a local British restaurant to organise a going-away party and we invited our buyers along to meet some of the locals. They asked if we could meet up at the finca before the party as they would like to bring some of their outdoor pot plants to the house and put them on the terrace. I arrived at the house, opened the door and walked into a totally empty space. The only thing still left was the telephone, which began to ring. I answered it and found that a young lady from Pickfords was calling. After I identified myself the young lady on the other end asked where in the UK I wanted my furniture delivered. I was somewhat taken aback by this as all the information was on the forms we’d filled in. I told her that it wasn’t the UK but Luxembourg and that it was to go into storage as we hadn’t yet bought a new home. I gave her my son’s telephone number in Luxembourg and told her that I could be reached there in four or five days.
We duly set off in the car for Luxembourg, stopping in Barcelona for a couple of days to view the buildings designed by Gaudi, including the still unfinished church, the Sagrada Familia.
When we arrived in Luxembourg, we moved in with our son and d-i-l while we went house hunting. We viewed a number of properties, some of which were dire and some of which did absolutely nothing for us. Every morning we perused the local paper, the Luxemburger Wort, to see what was for sale. One Friday, I had one section of the paper while Jackie was marking up another section with possibilities. I noticed an ad for a 3-bedroom detached house in a village not far from the Moselle. Something nagged at me – go and see this, it was saying. Jackie looked up and said that she had found a half-dozen that sounded like possibilities. No, I told her, I want to go and see this one. She thought we could stop off and see a couple of others on the way. No, I was adamant, let’s go and see this one. To this day I don’t know why my instincts kept telling me to view this house, but I felt something urging me towards it.
In Luxembourg, the estate agents will often put the address of properties for sale in their ads so a prospective buyer can go and have a look at the outside, consider the situation and the neighbourhood and if he’s satisfied with that then he contacts the agent and makes an appointment to view the interior. So on a snowy morning in March we drove out, found the street and had a look at the house. It had been neglected, the facade was dingy and peeling in a couple of places and the garden was overgrown but it was in a pleasant area of residential homes and the view over the back of the garden was lovely, a grassy hill sloping upwards where horses grazed. We liked it at once and called the agent, who came out to show us around the house. It turned out that it had been owned by an old lady who was in a care home and had been uninhabited for 4 years. Her sons made sure the oil tank was filled and the heating was kept on a low setting during the colder months.
The house itself was in a 1960s time warp – wallpaper, lamps, light fitments and carpets were all relics from that era. We would have a certain amount of work, repapering and painting, etc., but we could see the possibilities for the house to become a comfortable home. We put in a sensible offer – one that was not too far off the asking price – which was accepted by the three sons. A few weeks later we signed on the dotted line and became the owners of the house.
The owners had very kindly given us the keys to the house some weeks before we signed so we were able to do some decorating. We realised that the windows would all have to be replaced as they were single-glazed, wood framed ones and the wood was beginning to rot. Also, the bathroom would have to be ripped out and rebuilt (it was in ghastly shades of sky blue tiles with the suite in the most appalling shade of pink I have ever laid eyes or nether regions upon). Furthermore, as we progressed in our decorating we realised that the whole house would have to be rewired.
Some of these jobs were major and we had tickets to fly out to friends in Pennsylvania and California a few weeks after the signing. Then our daughter in law mentioned that a former colleague of hers had set up a business where he took charge of projects like ours and relieved his clients of all responsibility for hiring plumbers, tilers, electricians, etc. He sounded like the answer to our prayers, so we gave him a call. He came over and we got on with him immediately – he clearly knew his job. Among other jobs we discussed the problem of the bathroom with him and he went upstairs to have a look. After a couple of minutes he told us that he thought there was an empty, enclosed space behind the back wall. He got out a powerful drill, pierced the wall a couple of times and knocked out one of the breeze blocks, Sure enough there was a considerable area to extend the bathroom into. He got in the plumbers, the tilers, the electrician, the painters. We went with him and selected our new bathroom suite, fittings and tiles, shortly afterwards departing for the US. While we were gone our son and d-i-l looked in from time to time and kept us informed of progress.
When we returned we were amazed at the transformation. The bathroom was now much larger, tastefully designed and executed; our double-glazed windows were all in place; the wiring was brought up to date and a new floor laid in the kitchen. There was only a little bit of tiling still to do in the downstairs loo.
The kitchen is my area, so we went off and chose a new fitted kitchen which was duly installed within a few weeks. A touch of paint here and there and we had a pristine home.

And here's that bathroom - before and after.

 

[BillB]

The only thing we had to do was contact Pickfords and have them deliver our furniture. That was easier said than done. I had been receiving emails for a while telling me that I was going to have to pay more. I replied by pointing out that I had signed the contract, drawn up by them, that specified the price I would have to pay to have our household effects delivered, unpacked and placed in the house as we directed. I pointed out that to ask me now to pay €800 more was breaking the contract and I would not pay it. The young lady with whom I was dealing had clearly royally screwed up as there were several errors in the contract. Obviously, she had opened up a previously-used contract on her computer and had not updated it properly. I told her that her company was already more expensive than the other quotes I had received and that to add another €800 would have put them so far over the top that I wouldn’t even have considered them. She chose not to answer. I called them – and it was clear that she was refusing to talk to me as I kept being put onto girls who were not really aware of what was going on. What a childish response from an employee of a large, international company.
I was left with the ultimatum, pay up or they would refuse to deliver our furniture. I paid, but added the rider that I was paying this sum under protest and that I reserved the right to take legal action as necessary. In the end I wrote to the CEO. I included the original contract, the subsequent emails, and a list of telephone calls I had made (at international rates) along with the results. I pointed out that for one of his employees to refuse to speak to me was childish and unworthy of his company. I told him that for a company to increase its bill by almost 20 per cent after making an offer that was accepted and contracts signed smacked of sharp practice and that my next step would be to lay the matter before their professional organization for adjudication. His reply was an apology, the promise to refund my €800 and €200 as a goodwill payment. At all times I had remained, calm and polite in my communications with them. There was no way I was going to give them the opportunity to accuse me of rudeness.
Our furniture duly arrived and we heard from the local storage people that the first they had heard that our furniture was due to arrive from Spain was when the truck was 15 minutes outside Luxembourg. And they didn’t have the space for our furniture. Fortunately, they found space.
So we settled down in our new home, considerably poorer but a great deal happier than in Spain. We stayed in touch with all our old friends both in Europe and in the States - and some old/new ones. While we were in Spain I had gone onto the Friends Reunited website and entered my name in my old primary school. I noticed the name Jim, someone who had lived in the same road as I had, albeit at opposite ends, so I dropped him a line to see if he was the same person. He replied that he was, was delighted to make contact with me and we corresponded for a while. It turned out that he now lived in Pennsylvania where he had worked prior to retirement. He had been an engineer, specialising in water purification plants, and had worked all over the world. Jackie and I invited him and his wife, Pat, to visit us and they came over. I remembered his wife from school – in fact, she told me that on my first day at school I had been placed next to her, something I had completely forgotten. She also reminded me that one time, during an altercation in the milk room, she had spat a mouthful of milk over me and from that day on I had totally ignored her and never spoke another word to her. I’d completely forgotten that, too. Convenient amnesia, I would call it.
We subsequently flew over to visit them several times, the first time being while our new house was being renovated.
They live in a beautiful area of forested land – the name Pennsylvania is derived from William Penn, the state’s founding father, and the word sylvan, meaning wooded or forested. Their son had moved over there to join them, working for an insurance company as a loss assessor before forming his own company and when he built his own house, Jim and Pat sold their house and built an annex onto their son’s house.
We visited them several times and we explored the historic places that played such a large role in founding the United States. Jim and Pat live close to Amish country in Lancaster County so there was an awful lot for us to see. And I think it best if I described our travels there in my next posting.

 

[BillB]

Few people planning a holiday in the US consider Pennsylvania as a must-see destination, but there is a great deal of interest. It’s just that Pennsylvania doesn’t go in much for self-promotion. Which is a pity because the variety is enormous – first the historical Pennsylvania, then the physical Pennsylvania of forests, canyons and caverns. And then there’s all the other neighbouring states and their places of interest.
Over two visits we’ve made some pretty wide sweeps and taken in a lot. Our friends, Jim and Pat, thought we would find Philadelphia interesting and they were absolutely correct. This is the city where the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution were drafted and the Independence Hall is where they were signed. It is where the Liberty Bell hangs for visitors to see, and to observe the large crack that runs down it.
Philadelphia means “brotherly love” in ancient Greek, and was founded by William Penn, who hoped that the city would serve as an example of liberty and religious tolerance. He is to be seen to this day, standing atop a tall pillar in the centre of the city. For many years it was forbidden to build a structure higher than William Penn, though practicality has since overridden that idea.
We took the “duck tour” – a city tour in a vehicle that was based on the WW2 DUKW, a type of landing craft that could drive straight up the beach as it had both seagoing and landgoing capabilities. This is, I must confess, somewhat touristy, but a great deal of fun and very informative, nevertheless. And after driving around the Philadelphia landmarks and historical sights, the vehicle drives sedately down a slipway and takes you for a cruise on the Delaware River.
Not far inland from Philadelphia is Valley Forge, where George Washington wintered with his army during the War of Independence. It was a bitterly cold winter and the army was ill-equipped to withstand it. It was probably the lowest point for these men in the entire war. Today it is worth visiting as a site of historical significance alone, yet there is more here. Passing around the site one is overcome with a feeling of serenity and calm. It’s a beautiful area, and even more beautiful in the Spring when the boxwood and dogwood trees are in blossom. The museum at the entrance gives the visitor fascinating insights into how the army withstood that terrible winter, despite losing thousands of men to frostbite and starvation.
Jim and Pat live on the border of Lancaster County, which has a large Amish population. The Amish are also called Pennsylvania Dutch, although this is due to a mishearing as they were of German origin and the English speakers in the local communities misheard the word “Deutsch” meaning German, for Dutch. The Amish were stuck with the name Pennsylvania Dutch for centuries.
The Amish still live as the original Amish migrants lived – they wear 19th century clothes, live without electricity, any kind of engine, tractors, telephones or computers. They get around in horse-drawn buggies, or oddly enough, adult-sized foot-powered scooters, but not bicycles. Their clothes are held together with straight pins as they regard buttons as personal adornment. You can see them driving their horse-drawn ploughs in the fields. The women pull their hair tightly back into a bun, which leads to their hairlines receding as they grow older, under the stress of the tightness applied. They refuse to pay taxes or to serve in the armed forces, and the US government gave up forcing them as they also refuse to accept any form of money from the government, including pensions or farm subsidies. Their laws say that their farms must be divided equally among the children when the patriarch dies, which has resulted in the farms growing ever smaller until they reach a point where they are unviable as they are too small to support a family. As a consequence, to earn sufficient to live, they have branched out into furniture making and house building. Our friend Jim had a TV cabinet built by them and he says the workmanship is superb. He also told us that the houses built by the Amish are immaculate in their handicrafts.
The main town in the Amish area is called Intercourse, (all the jokes have been made) which comes from the two roads that meet in the town and resulted in people from other townships arriving there to meet.
On another occasion we all drove to Gettysburg to tour the battlefield. We had heard that the museum in Gettysburg sold a CD which conducted you around the battlefield, explaining what happened in each spot and even telling you when to stop the disc and when to turn it back on. To anyone with the slightest interest in history, this is a tour that will keep you engrossed all day. You can spend as long as you like at any one spot.
We stopped at the Seminary which saw the opening moves in what was to prove one of the biggest battles of the American Civil War, then moved on around the national park, stopping at Little Round Top and Big Round Top, where the Confederates attacked uphill, only to be driven back by the Federal troops several times until the Northerners broke the Southern troops with a suicidal downhill charge. We stopped at the Peach Orchard and the Wheatfield, ending at Cemetery Ridge where 12,500 Confederate troops attacked the centre of the Northerners’ line in what became known as Pickett’s Charge. They advanced out of the woods and began to advance up the gentle slope, all the while under intense rifle and artillery fire. They reached the Northern lines, but were repulsed. This effectively ended the battle. You can stand today where the Federal troops had their line and look down at the field where their opponents advanced into withering fire. It’s a moving sight even on a peaceful day with the sun shining. Monuments and memorials are dotted around the battlefield, dedicated to commanders or whole regiments who performed acts of courage.
On a lighter note, on Saturday mornings there is a market held in Lancaster County called the Green Dragon Market. We tootled along for breakfast one weekend and treated ourselves to eggs, bacon, home fries and toast. Nowadays I have to pass on the home fries and toast. Jim had warned us in advance that the hillbillies started in Pennsylvania and there were certainly plenty of them at the market. Jackie was seated next to a group of men, all eating breakfast with their baseball caps on, chewing on toothpicks and talking nineteen to the dozen. She confessed to me afterwards that the only word she understood in the entire conversation was “hogs”, so they may have been pig farmers. But they can certainly mangle the English language. The wares on sale at the market was as varied as the dialects – candies, delicatessen meats, clothing, wagon loads of hay; you name it, and you’d probably find it there.
If you drive towards Philadelphia you come to the exit for the King of Prussia Mall, which has to be one of the biggest malls in existence. We drove out there a couple of times and the first time around we did a bit of window shopping then decided on some lunch. Jim knew there was a food court there but we couldn’t see any signs for it, so we asked a passing lady. She looked blank for a moment then said, “I don’t know, I always drive there from here.” Which I suppose demonstrates how big the place was and also how difficult it is to separate Americans from their cars.
Another giant store we visited is called Cabella’s, which specialises in sporting goods. So big is this store that in the winter goods area they have a full size seaplane hanging from the ceiling, while a little further on there is a scene of the African bush with full-sized animals such as elephants, hippos and buffalo. The number of fishing rods is so great that it is like standing in the middle of a forest consisting of very thin trees. The gun department probably has more weapons than a small country like Luxembourg.
After buying some shoes the four of us stopped at the cafeteria for a coffee. Jackie and Pat sat down at a table while Jim and I went to buy the refreshments. The lady at the cash register was absolutely fascinated by us. First came the inevitable question – “You folks are not from around here, are you?” We explained our circumstances – that we were visiting Jim and Pat, who lived in Pennsylvania. She listened with her mouth open and when we finished she said, “Oh, keep talking, I love your accent.” The coffee wasn’t bad either.
On another day, Jim suggested that we took a visit to a coal mine, and we saw the most weird phenomenon we had ever seen. We stopped off first at a coal mine which was kept open for visitors. The visit starts with a trip on a train, carrying its passengers along the track it traversed in earlier days before taking them to the mine itself. The only other passengers were schoolchildren on a visit with their teachers and chaperones. The guard made room for us by making all the kids squeeze up. We settled down opposite one of the chaperones. She listened to us talking for a while then came that question, “You folks aren’t from around here, are you.” No, we told her and went into the same rigmarole, Jim and Pat live here in Pennsylvania but we were visiting from Luxembourg. She pondered on this for several minutes, then asked, “Are there many kangaroos where you live?” Now you can believe this as the gospel truth. We all kept straight faces as I told her, “Not many, no.” The coal mine itself made me glad that I hadn’t taken up coalmining as a career when I left school.
There are enormous deposits of coal in Pennsylvania, though not much is mined these days. We drove into a ghost town called Centralia which sits atop an area of abandoned coal mines. The streets and pavements are still there, but all the buildings and homes are gone. When we were there, the town had a population of 7. It’s been abandoned because the coal seam that runs under the town has been burning since 1962. No one is sure how the underground coal caught light, some think it was rubbish dumped down a shaft which burst into fire spontaneously, others maintain it was because the landfill rubbish was burnt in an area where the seam runs close to the surface. Whatever its cause, smoke still erupts from fissures in the ground, looking like mist wreathing the area – until you smell it, that is. Due to the noxious gases rising from the fires, carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, etc., the state offered all the inhabitants generous terms to buy their houses and pay their removal expenses. Even so, there were a few stubborn people who refused to move and stayed put, even after everyone else had left. Various attempts have been made to extinguish the fires, but none have been successful. It’s estimated that the fires will eventually cover an area of 3,700 acres.
Centralia is one of the eeriest places I’ve ever visited – streets and sidewalks all in place, the front walls are still on the plots where houses once stood. All the houses except one or two are gone, smoke rises and drifts around. In one or two places you can put your hand on the ground and feel the heat of the fires hundreds of feet below.

 

[BillB]

I’m combining the two visits we’ve made so far to Pennsylvania into one narrative. I’d hate readers to think we packed all of this into 3 weeks.
I’d read about another Civil War battlefield which was the site of the bloodiest single day battle on American soil – around 23,000 dead. I’d first come across this battle in a book by Bernard Cornwell and further research made me want to visit the area. I looked up its location and found that it wasn’t that far from Jim and Pat’s home.
I suggested to Jim that maybe we could visit the battlefield and he came up with the idea of making it part of a round trip taking in Washington, DC, Baltimore and Antietam. Jackie and I were game for that so off we subsequently set.
We went first to Antietam, calling first at the visitors’ centre to get ourselves orientated. The drive around the battlefield isn’t particularly long as most of the action took place in a surprisingly small area, encompassing the Dunker Church, Miller’s Cornfield and the Sunken Lane. Photographs taken after the battle of the Sunken Lane, which was held by the Confederate troops and attacked again and again by the Federal army, show the tragic sight of bodies piled 3 and 4 deep.
Walking across Miller’s Cornfield is another moving experience as thousands of troops died here, trying to advance across the field and being faced by the enemy in the woods beyond.
Driving further on, the visitor comes to Antietam Creek, where it is crossed by a narrow stone bridge known as the Burnside Bridge. General Burnside was given the task of crossing the bridge which was defended by the Confederates situated on a wooded hill behind the bridge. Again and again the Northerners attacked the bridge, but were shot down en masse as they advanced as far as the creek. Eventually they broke through, crossing the bridge, but the arrival of the Confederate General A.P. Hill with his troops from Harper’s Ferry, drove the Northerners back and effectively ended the battle. Although the result was a strategic victory for the North, it was nevertheless inconclusive but it did put an end to Robert E. Lee’s invasion of Maryland. From there we drove towards Washington, where we had booked rooms at a hotel outside the capital, which gave us the advantage that we could take the subway to the Smithsonian the next morning.
It was raining that day so it was just as well that we had decided to visit the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum. This is an exhibit that tells the story of air and space travel, with examples of aircraft from the beginnings of powered flight through to one of the space capsules that returned from the moon.
In the big hall I stood looking up at a real V1 and wondered whether I was the only one in the museum who had actually lived through the V1 and V2 attacks. Would anybody have cared? Probably not.
The next day we drove to Baltimore which had been one of America’s busiest ports in its heyday. The waterfront has been refurbished and is an enjoyable place to visit. The National Aquarium is there as are several historic ships which can be visited, including the USS Constellation, the USCGC Taney, the last remaining ship from the Pearl Harbour attack and the submarine, USS Torsk. All of them repay a visit with enormous interest.
Leaving Baltimore we got lost (Satnavs were just coming onto the market and we didn’t have one). If you’ve seen the TV series The Wire you’ll know the backstreets of Baltimore are not really the place to wander around asking directions in a British accent, one which immediately identifies you as a tourist, or in other words, potential victim. So Jim didn’t really want to stop and ask directions. We drove around, confidently, trying to look as if we were intentionally driving down these streets where we were the only people with white faces and without concealed weapons. We made it out in one piece, eventually.
On another visit to Washington, we parked the car at the bottom of Capitol Hill and strolled around, shooting off snaps of the domed Capitol building and surrounding area, which included a circular reflecting pool at the base of the hill. We took a further drive around towards the Washington Monument, which used to be open to visitors but is now closed due to fears of it being a terrorist target. From there we moved on to Arlington Cemetery, where any member of the US armed forces can be buried. We walked up to the Tomb of the Unknowns to watch the changing of the guard. We crossed the Memorial Amphitheatre, a stunningly beautiful place where ceremonies for large numbers of people are held. As we came out, we crossed the road and the first grave I saw was that of Audie L. Murphy. Murphy had been of particular interest to me as I had known him only as a film actor until I read his autobiography To Hell and Back and discovered that this soft-spoken actor was the most decorated US soldier of World War II. Strange that he survived the carnage of war as an infantryman, only to die in a plane crash in 1971 after carving out a career as a successful actor.
We had hoped to visit the Lincoln Memorial while we were there, but it was impossible to find anywhere to park within walking distance. We drove past it, though, so that view of it will have to do us.
Another trip we took was to the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania, up in the northwest part of the state, not far from the Great Lakes.
This is not as spectacular as the Grand Canyon itself, nor as large, but it’s a fascinating area to drive around, and the wildlife can be spectacular – eagles, turkey buzzards and so on, circling over the canyon itself.
Our final visit was to Crystal Cavern – a cave system that makes up in spectacle what it lacks in sheer size. The stalactites and stalagmites will surprise even a dedicated cave visitor like myself.

 

[BillB]

There were a few more visits we made during our stays in Pennsylvania. An interesting one was to the Yuengling Brewery in Pottsville. This is the oldest brewery in the United States, even surviving Prohibition in the 1920s. It did this by switching to the manufacture of ice cream. Its stock of beer was bricked up in the cellar and when the Prohibition Act was repealed, the brewing of beer was resumed and the beer in the cellar was rescued from its tomb and sold.
We took the tour of the brewery, a first-time brewery visit by me so doubly fascinating. They produce a number of different beers, including lager, premium and porter, which can be tasted at the end of the tour in the very comfortable tasting room – a pleasant way to end an interesting day.
A day in Atlantic City was another first for us – and again very enlightening. Atlantic City is the nearest thing to Las Vegas that exists on the East Coast. We parked in the car park of the Trump Plaza Hotel and went into the casino. It didn’t have quite the lavish luxury of the Las Vegas casinos, but it was close to it. We had a wander around, watching the blackjack tables, the roulette wheels and the craps tables. We put a few dollars into the slot machines and then went for lunch in one of the restaurants. We chose the buffet lunch as the choice was enormous and one can take as much or as little as one needs.
We all went for the salad bar as the starter, which had as generous a selection as anyone could wish, with an equally wide choice of dressings. The main course selection was eye-popping – every kind of roast you could think of: pork, beef, lamb, chicken and turkey with roasted vegetables to match. Or you could have seafood – crab cakes, poached salmon, shrimp, halibut, cod, haddock.....
We returned to our table with our plates and as we ate we became aware of an apparently South American family at the next table. Each of them returned with a plate piled to overflowing. A slice of roast beef, about an inch thick, was draped across each plate. Each of those plates would have fed a family of four, but these people tried a small piece cut off the beef, ate a couple more mouthfuls from the rest of the food, then pushed the plates aside to return to the buffet for more. This time it was the seafood they attacked, again returning with plates overflowing. Once more they ate a tiny quantity, then discarded their plates to raid the desserts, with the same result. All four of us were children of the war years and the rationing that went with it. We grew up with the notion that wasting food was one of the greatest sins – men had died to bring that food to our tables, so all of us were angered by the stupidity of these people. Jim was virtually enraged and it took a lot of persuading to stop him berating them for the sheer pointlessness of the waste they were creating. We asked the aged waitress who served us with drinks if that kind of behaviour was normal. She assured us it was. I still can’t fathom the mentality of people who would take far more than they could eat, or even want, and then simply throw it away. That hotel’s trash bins could probably feed a small country.
After that experience we felt we needed a stroll along the boardwalk, a couple of hours that kept us thoroughly entertained. The buildings that line the boardwalk have brightly coloured false frontages erected on them – cowboy towns, old fashioned saloons, etc. We wandered in and out of the various types of casinos and malls for a couple of hours, finally coming to a shop front that had a large sign announcing to the world and his brother that the proprietor was a spiritualist and medium who specialised in “Tarot’s – Crystal’s – Palm’s, etc., etc.” I had picked up Lynn Truss’s book, “Eats, shoots and leaves,” at the airport on the way over and I’d passed it on to Jim. “Look at that,” I said. “The apostrophe is wrong in every case.” “Hmmm,” murmured Jim, and I could see a glimmer of amusement in his eye. He went over to the medium and spiritualist who was sitting outside. “Do you know,” Jim asked, “that you’ve misused the apostrophe every time on your sign.” The medium was not amused. “People know what it means,“ she snarled. “Maybe,” said Jim, “but how come you didn’t foresee that the signwriter was going to misuse those apostrophes?” We returned to our wives, leaving one furious medium behind. We were still laughing in the car on the way home.
Cape May was the last of our full day expeditions, a couple of hours’ drive from our hosts’ home in Pennsylvania. The day was beautiful with blue skies and sunshine and we arrived in Cape May about mid-morning. There was pleasant breeze blowing from the sea as we ambled around this lovely little township of original Victorian houses, all beautifully maintained.
We stopped for lunch on the seafront at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House (we Bills have to stick together) for seafood omelettes, light, fluffy and utterly delicious. After lunch we drove down to the lighthouse at the tip of the cape. Jackie and I went walkabout while Pat and Jim decided to stay in the car, having done this bit several times before. The beach was pure sand, scarred only by an enormous bunker, built during World War II to keep a watch out for submarines or other forms of enemy shipping.
A day or so later, Jim and Pat deposited us at Philadelphia airport to catch our American Airlines’ flight to San Jose, where our dear friend Claire was going to meet us. One of the plans we had been concocting with Claire was a trip to the Grand Canyon, as she had never been there (and neither had we) so we were looking forward immensely to this segment of our trip.

 

[BillB]

Waiting for us at the luggage carousel was not only Claire but also Terry and Bob. It was a happy reunion and after loading our luggage into the car, we were driven to Los Gatos, a delightful town near San Jose where we stopped for lunch on the terrace of a very pleasant restaurant. Los Gatos has become for us one of those towns we like to visit a couple of times on each of our visits. It is also the town where John Steinbeck was living when he wrote his great masterpiece, “The Grapes of Wrath.” It’s changed a bit since those days, though.
From this point on I’m going to collapse all our numerous visits to the Golden State into one narrative to spare readers a lot of repetition.
Once again Claire showed us places we hadn’t visited previously, taking us down to Carmel and then along 17 Mile Drive, an area of very upmarket properties on the coast south of Pacific Grove. Although it’s open to the public, you have to pay to enter, but coasting slowly along gazing at properties worth millions is as interesting a way of passing a morning as any other. We stopped at Pebble Beach Golf Course, supposedly one of the finest in the world. Not being a golfer I wouldn’t know one way or the other, but they serve a mean whisky in the bar, though the prices will make your hair stand on end. The restaurant upstairs in the clubhouse serves pretty good food, and their prices are not outrageous. We often stop there now if we’re passing that way.
That same day we stopped off at the Mission Ranch, a hotel owned by Clint Eastwood. We had a drink sitting outside on the terrace, where we enjoyed our drinks while taking in the magnificent view across sea marshes to the beach and the Pacific rollers which come thudding in.
Claire also gave us free tickets for Monterey Aquarium, which is another place we always visit when we’re in California. There is a regular change of exhibits, which makes every visit a new experience. Last time we were there they had an exhibit of seahorses which showed even me, a former diver, species that I didn’t even know existed.
I had long been curious about the coast north of San Francisco so when Claire was occupied with work we set off for Point Reyes. We found a little B&B called the Bear Valley Inn in the village of Olema and booked for a couple of nights. Just up the coast is Bodega Bay, more famous, perhaps, as the coastal town where Alfred Hitchcock filmed “The Birds”. We took a drive up there just to have a look around and see if it has changed in the years since the film was made. We discovered that the petrol station which explodes in flames in the film didn’t exist at the time Hitchcock and his crew were there, so they built a mock garage just for the film After the film was released so many people visited the area and asked where the petrol station was that the town built one as close to the spot where the one in the film was constructed. I had actually filled up there without realising.
Point Reyes was in fog while we were there so although we drove out over the peninsula to Chimney Rock we didn’t actually get to see a great deal. That’s always the risk in this part of California: fog is something you have to learn to live with.
On another occasion we took a drive down to Cambria, about halfway to Los Angeles. We had reservations for a couple of nights at Whitewater Inn, which looked delightful on the internet and turned out to be as good as the initial impression. This was an example of how good a motel can be, with a pretty courtyard decked out with flowers and pristine rooms to give guests a luxurious stay. Breakfast is brought your room at the time you specify.
From Cambria we drove up to San Simeon Castle, the stately home created by William Randolph Hearst in the hills just inland from the coast. Hearst was immensely rich (he was the model for Citizen Kane) and collected art works from all over the world, which his architect had to incorporate into San Simeon, changing the plans constantly as construction went on. His guests included stars such as Cary Grant, who insisted on sleeping in a different bedroom each time he stayed so that eventually he could say that he had slept in every bedroom in San Simeon. In the morning we took the standard tour of the castle, which took in the public areas. We enjoyed it so much that after lunch we booked a second tour which takes visitors around the private rooms.
The following day we drove to Paso Robles to visit two more of the Californian missions. In Paso Robles itself we were held up at a level crossing and waited while the longest goods train either of us had ever seen passed through. America is a vast country and distances between destinations can amount to thousands of miles, so it makes economic sense to move goods by train as much as possible. We found both of the missions without problem and walked around both of them. These missions were built along the highway known as El Camino Real, or The Royal Highway, and were among the first structures built by non-Native Americans in California as the Catholic priests moved up the coast, converting the Indians as they went. They are always a rich source of historical material, as each one frequently has a museum attached, and we have an unofficial project to visit the mission whenever we are in the area of one we haven’t visited before.
Another drive took us to San Luis Obispo which also has a mission. This is a very pretty town with a small stream running through it where visitors can walk beside the flowing water to a large water wheel. Just a few paces away is the mission. We stopped for lunch and ate it outside on a terrace overlooking the stream. Later we drove to the local library where the upper floor is a museum dedicated to the history of the Chinese immigrants in California. The treatment the Chinese workers received was appalling, made even worse when one considers they were recruited from China to build the railways and other necessary infrastructure. Nevertheless, the museum bears testimony to the resilience of the Chinese workers and how they managed to triumph over man-made adversity wherever they settled.
Just as we were thinking of booking our trip to Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon, Bob was taken ill and Claire and Terry had to drop all plans to take care of him. We had to go ahead alone as our flight home was scheduled to fly from Las Vegas via North Carolina where we were to catch a flight for Heathrow.
On the internet we booked a room at the MGM Grand for a few nights after we returned from the Canyon, and after flying from San Jose to Las Vegas I had booked a night in a small motel not far from the airport where we were due to pick up a rental car with Hertz to get us to the Canyon. The motel was pretty standard so after checking in we went for a walk along the Strip, where most of the big hotels are situated. We had lunch then had a look around the MGM where we were due to stay a few days later.
The next morning we collected our car and set off for Grand Canyon Village where we had a room reserved at the Holiday Inn Express. GPS wasn’t very common just a few years ago and somewhere along the way we got lost. Around lunchtime we found ourselves in a little town with the delightful name of Bullhead City. My opinion was that the term “city” was a gross exaggeration as it was little more than a strip of houses and stores along the road. However, we came upon a pleasant-looking restaurant and went inside. This was a Sunday morning and there were just us and the churchgoers who stopped off for lunch after they had attended the local service.
Of course, as soon as I opened my mouth the waitress came up with the usual question: ”You folks ain’t
from around here, are you?” Luckily, they didn’t seem to hold any grudges from 1776 and we had an enjoyable meal of roast turkey and mashed potatoes. After lunch we sat in the car working out a route on the map. We didn’t get lost any more and finally arrived at our hotel in late afternoon after driving past towns with picturesque names like Coyote Gulch or Arrowhead.
After checking in we drove down to the entrance to the Grand Canyon State Park and bought entrance tickets for the length of our stay. At the hotel we booked a bus tour of the Canyon for the following day. Our hotel didn’t have a restaurant but the desk manager suggested the hotel next door, which had a restaurant with a good reputation. Absolutely true, we discovered. I’m always being taken by surprise in the States by restaurants in the most unlikely places whose quality would be admired in Paris but whose prices are a fraction of what one would pay in Europe. Our stay at the Canyon had started out just fine.

 

[BillB]

We were up bright and early next morning, had breakfast and waited for our bus to arrive. It took us straight to the Canyon and parked some way back from the rim. We got down and approached the edge. What a sight met our eyes! To say that the view takes your breath away is an understatement. You stand there with your jaw sagging in astonishment. To give the dimensions, 1 mile deep and between 4 and 18 miles wide, does not give your imagination an idea of the scale and the sheer beauty of this world famous landmark.
We took delight in watching other people getting off their buses and walking towards the Canyon. The reaction was always the same, be they Americans, Europeans or Asians, a look of disbelief, then a smile of delight, followed by awe. It doesn’t matter how many pictures or films you may have seen of this place, nothing prepares you for seeing the reality with your own eyes.
I don’t think it’s possible to count the number of features down in the Canyon – palisades, towers, fortresses, thrones, battlements, buttresses, statues – wherever you look you find a rock formation whose shape reminds the viewer of a gigantic work of art. The colours vary from black to sandy to red, in bands and striations on the rock faces. Down at the bottom the Colorado River winds its green waters
along the channel it has cut over millions of years.
Our bus took us several miles to the right of our point of arrival and then several more miles to the left. We managed to catch sight of American Condors gliding over the walls of the Canyon, their great black wings outstretched as they rode the air currents rising from the depths. When one would land it stood on an outcrop and spread its wings in the sun. A magnificent sight in that unbelievable landscape.
Next morning we decided that we’d drive along further than we had on the day before, pushing out for a good few miles more than we had done previously. In retrospect, this was a mistake as we were only seeing more of what we had already seen. It was our last full day and if I had the choice to make again I would have driven eastwards to the Painted Desert, maybe even as far as Bryce Canyon. But I’d love to go back and visit those other places, so who knows what the future holds.
They have an Imax cinema at Grand Canyon Village so after we returned from our day’s excursion we bought tickets for the 5 p.m. show as neither of us had seen an Imax performance before. The film was about, of course, the Grand Canyon, with sequences shot from aircraft and helicopters as well as from rafts shooting the rapids of the Colorado River. The gigantic screen and the crystal clear image give an excellent impression of the real thing.
We departed after breakfast and made good time across the kind of landscape that we’re more likely to be familiar with if it has Indians or cavalry galloping across it. We pulled off the Interstate at the town of Henderson to look for somewhere to have lunch. To my delight I found that we were driving down Andy Devine Boulevard. Now someone who’s less of a moviegoer than I am might well ask: “Who is Andy Devine?” The answer is that in the ‘40s and 50s he was in almost every Western as the buddy of the hero. Before he died in 1977, he played with all the great stars of the period – John Wayne, James Stewart, etc., and I thought very few people, myself excepted, remembered him, yet here he was celebrated with his very own street.
After Henderson our next stop was the Hoover Dam, as big an attraction in that part of the world as any I can think of. They even sell excursions to the Hoover Dam from Las Vegas. The water built up behind the dam has created an enormous lake, while on the lower side of the dam is a gigantic electricity generating plant. We parked the car and had a walk around, crossing the dam on the upper side and coming back on the lower side. Next to the car park was a series of pylons, all leaning over at what appeared to be a perilous angle but were, in reality, firmly anchored in concrete.
Once back in Las Vegas we drove to the airport, handed the car back to Avis and hailed a taxi to take us to the MGM Grand.
The lobby at the hotel was the largest I have ever set eyes on. There were dozens of desks and you just sashayed up to an empty one. We were quickly checked in and made our way to our room, which to our delight, overlooked The Strip, the main street which runs through the heart of Las Vegas. Looking down the road from our window we could see the Bellagio with its dancing fountains. Facing us was the New York, New York, which has a rollercoaster running round the outside. Next to it was the Excalibur, whose facade is built to resemble an Arthurian Castle, with characters such as Merlin placed in the turrets. A little further around we could see the Mandalay and close to it the magnificent 30-story black pyramid which is the Luxor Hotel.
After our return drive through the desert we freshened up and put our feet up for an hour before descending to have a look around the hotel facilities and the casino. One of the features of casinos is that usually they have no windows and no clocks on view – the operators want nothing to distract the gamblers, not even the time, or perhaps I should say, especially not the time.
We drifted into the casino and watched various games, roulette, blackjack, craps. I had a little knowledge of these games as an explanation of each one and how to play is contained in a booklet to be found in every room. I had done a little homework while we were relaxing in our room. One of the features is the MGM lion, or in this case, several lions in a glassed off enclosure overlooking the casino. As with almost everything in Las Vegas, no expense had been spared on the lions’ living space. It was large and contained every kind of landscape that lions inhabit.
We studied the restaurants and snack bars on offer, watched the old ladies playing the slot machines and marvelled at how much money so many of them were spending. We went outside and took a stroll down The Strip, discovering a shop close to the hotel that sold only one product – M&Ms, the chocolate- covered peanuts. They had them in every kind of packaging imaginable and as an M&Ms addict I bought a large bag. Again, I have to stress this was a few years before I was diagnosed T2, so it was a guilt-free purchase.
We returned to the hotel and had dinner in the Chinese restaurant close to the hotel’s theatre. Once more I was struck by the quality of the food – this restaurant had added a modern twist to Chinese cuisine. The food was exquisite, the prices reasonable and the service was excellent – our waitress had an extensive knowledge of the dishes, the ingredients, the method of cooking and the wines to accompany them. Feeling well fed and mellow we went back to the casino to do some serious gambling. Well, not exactly serious. We had decided that we would run to a $100 dollars a night, and once that was gone we’d call it quits. Last of the big spenders, that’s us. Before we started we went from table to table, watching the other players. At one of the roulette tables there was one player who was putting down stacks of chips all over the table each time the wheel was spun. Jackie started counting the chips as he laid them out and said that he was staking $50,000 for each turn of the wheel. Looking at the odds for roulette, it struck me as a mug’s game, especially when the wheel has 00 added to the numbers. This tilts the odds very much in the house’s favour and I couldn’t see how he could recoup what he was laying out unless he struck the big one. Deciding that roulette wasn’t my kind of gambling I finally settled on a blackjack table, while Jackie took her chips and made her way to the slot machines.
Blackjack is virtually the same as Pontoon, a game I had played a lot when I was younger. I was actually slightly ahead after Jackie rejoined me and said that she found the slots boring so she handed me the rest of her chips. I played for about an hour, my stake money rising and falling until it fell all the way and I quit. As you can see, Jackie and I have not been bitten by the gambling bug as much as we were by the travelling bug.
Next morning we had breakfast in the hotel’s coffee shop and decided that we’d go and visit some of the other hotels. We went down to the Bellagio, which is spectacular even by Las Vegas standards. The entrance lobby has a ceiling of ornate glass pieces, while genuine works of Renaissance art adorn the walls. We went into New York, New York, then into the Excalibur, whose employees are dressed in Arthurian costumes. We had a coffee served by a waitress masquerading as one of Guinevere’s ladies in waiting before moving on to The Luxor. If we ever return to Las Vegas I’d spend a couple of nights at the Luxor and a couple at the Bellagio. Both are spectacular in their own way and I’d like to try them both.
We ran to the grand sum of a further $100 dollars that evening, with pretty much the same result as the night before.
After that it was a return to our room to pack for the journey home. The next morning we descended at 6 a.m. for breakfast in the coffee shop and were astonished to see people still playing the slots, and the high rollers were still in their own special enclosure playing baccarat.
We enjoyed our breakfast, returned to our room to collect our luggage and checked out, taking a taxi to the airport. Even the airport has slot machines dotted all over the place and it doesn’t matter what time it is, you’ll always see people playing.

 

[BillB]

Bob, at one point, decided that he would like to be in Hawaii, where he had worked for several years earlier in his life. Claire and Terry flew out to Hawaii to check out some of the possible care homes for him. They found one he liked and that they trusted and in short order Bob was ensconced in his own room in a lovely part of the island. Sadly it wasn’t to last. He was in bed(!) with a lady inmate one night but his exertions saw him fall out of bed. As he’d had both legs amputated he couldn’t get back, and nor could his companion help him back. They had to call the duty nurse to get him back. Claire and Terry shortly received a telephone call from the administration of the home suggesting that they were not really in a position to cater to Bob’s medical needs. I was astounded. Here was a man, a double amputee, approaching his mid-80s, and he gets kicked out of a care home for falling out of bed because of his exertions with a member of the opposite sex. My admiration for him grew by leaps and bounds. “How old was this lady?” I asked him. “In her 60s,” he replied seriously. “But I usually prefer them a bit younger than that.” Jackie and I still laugh when we talk about that.
Eventually he was brought back to California and installed in another care home. After a time Claire and Terry had to find a hospice to take him as his health was deteriorating fast. He had only been in there a day or two when he was once again admitted to hospital as it was becoming more and more difficult to balance his medications for his various ailments.
We were due to fly out to visit, arriving on a Wednesday afternoon. We went with Terry to visit Bob the next day and though he seemed drowsy, he was still as feisty as ever. Terry asked him if he knew Bill and Jackie were here. “Of course,” he said testily. And began singing, “Bill and Jackie are here,” very loudly. We chatted with him for a while but he seemed drowsy so we didn’t stay too long.
The next morning when we got up we found Claire and Terry were not there. The hospital phoned in the night to say that Bob had died. Claire and Terry drove to the hospital, trying not to wake us. Bob was cremated and his ashes were interred in a US military cemetery on Hawaii, which he was entitled to as a former WW2 GI. His passing left a big hole in our lives – as I had once remarked to Claire and Terry, “Bob’s not so much a man, more a force of nature.” And as he said to Claire shortly before his death, “I’m ready to go. I’ve had a good time.” When Bob was around, everybody had a good time.

 

[BillB]

Ever since I was introduced to Chinese food all the way back in 1958, I have chewed my way through its many regional variations. I’ve struck up friendships with many Chinese restaurant staff and always had a keen interest in China’s history and culture. So it’s somewhat odd that we never got around to visiting China until a few years ago. That’s when I said that it was about time we went as it must be one of the most fascinating and intriguing countries on earth. We duly booked a tour which took us from Beijing to Hong Kong, wending a course down the eastern part of China.
We landed in Beijing in mid-morning and went through the entry formalities quickly (you have to get your visa in advance, which saves time at the airport). Our little group was taken by bus to the Garden View Hotel, where we checked in and freshened up. Our guide, Patti, gave us a brief orientation of the district where we were based and we had the rest of the day at leisure.
Never being the kind to sit around in a hotel when the world outside beckoned tantalizingly, Jackie and I set off in the direction of a supermarket whose whereabouts had been explained to us. The weather was strange, overcast with a yellowish tinge to the clouds. As we strolled along, we found that the Chinese people found us as fascinating as we found them. We were stared at by many people, which had me thinking that I had perhaps forgotten to put my trousers on. Well, Westerners are not an uncommon sight in China’s capital, so I was at a bit of a loss to explain why they found us so fascinating. In the end I came to the conclusion that they are more used to seeing us roundeyes being herded around in groups, not wandering around their streets on their own. They were friendly enough, very friendly, in fact, and many a passing stranger gave us a warm smile.
We found the supermarket easily enough and wandered around, examining the goods on sale. Some items were familiar – Kit Kat, branded detergents and cleaning fluids – while others, such as exotic-looking vegetables were totally unknown to us. We made our purchases, and made our way back to the hotel.
That evening we were due to visit Tiananmen Square after dinner to see it at night, but when we left the restaurant it was raining and Patti suggested we visit a food market instead. This really intrigued me, as the food was mostly prepared on wooden skewers, some of it absolutely new to me. I decided to pass on the grilled silkworm larvae. As we passed the stands we could see that the food, its storage and the people who prepared and served it were scrupulously clean. Why not give it a try, I thought to myself, and finally came down to a tossup between grilled snake or frogs’ legs. I finally went for the frogs’ legs which were served on a skewer about a foot and a half long. The others in our group looked at me in astonishment. I couldn’t understand why, as it all looked very, very, hygienic. The frogs’ legs were delicious, and though I offered to share them with the rest of our group, nobody took up my offer. Patti told me that I was the only one of her visitors ever to try the food market’s wares. Yet I had eaten in the food markets in Kuala Lumpur and Singapore, and suffered no dire consequences. And I suffered none in Beijing. I’m always intrigued by the attitude of the British to food. So many people are so conservative that few of them will try anything new. My father, until the day he died, wouldn’t put any trace of Chinese food into his mouth – yet his favourite meal was stewed neck of lamb, which was bits of fatty lamb, boiled for hours in water with a chopped carrot added. The meat was grey, the “broth” was water with blobs of grease floating on top. As you can imagine, it tasted vile and smelled even worse. Vegetables were boiled for hours until they were little more than mush, and if it was cabbage or cauliflower, a stinking mush, at that. An aunt of mine once tried cooking mushrooms back in the ‘50s, but she overcooked them and they shrivelled up to “little black cinders” as she described them. She threw them away and to this day refuses to eat mushrooms – not even when they’re properly cooked.
Next day we went to Tiananmen Square, where the entrance to the Forbidden City is situated. The rain of the night before had washed away the smog and we experienced blue skies and sunshine. This square, at 440,000 square metres, is the largest city square in the world, with Mao Zedong’s mausoleum on one side, and the Forbidden City looming redly at the far end. As far as I have been able to verify the Legation Quarter, which was besieged by the Boxers in 1900, covered part of what is now Tiananmen Square.
There was an enormous floral exhibit celebrating the upcoming Beijing Olympics, which people came from miles around to view. There were particularly large numbers of Chinese soldiers, who all looked about 14 years old, though were in fact at least 18 and older. The Forbidden City is so called because only the emperor, his staff, his eunuchs, his guards and his concubines were allowed to enter. Foreign diplomats were allowed admittance when attending a summons by the emperor, but ordinary Chinese people were banned from entering.
Adorning the wall above the entrance gate is a large portrait of Mao, the old political gangster whose insane policies led to at least 70 million deaths, mostly his own people. The government still encourages reverence for this murderer, using the weasel words that he was 30 per cent wrong, but 70 per cent right!
The palace consists of courtyards, palaces, statuary, audience halls, and living quarters. Anybody who’s seen the film The Last Emperor will recognise parts of it as the film was shot in large part inside the Forbidden City – the first film ever to have been made there. Most of the interior decorations are in the imperial colours of gold and crimson – lamps, curtains, walls, furniture. It’s an astonishing achievement, considering it was built in the 15th century, and is today the largest collection of preserved wooden structures in the world.
We spent just a day there, but to see everything would take several more. We passed through hall after hall, across massive courtyards until we arrived at the far side, and took the exit.
That evening we went to the most renowned Peking Duck restaurant in the city, which boasts an awful lot of Peking Duck restaurants. Our chef carved our duck and served it while wearing surgical gloves and a surgical mask. Was it to protect him from us or the duck from him, I wondered. Whatever it was, it was the finest duck I have ever eaten – and I’ve eaten quite a few over the years.
The next day took us on a visit to the Great Wall. Fortunately, our guide said he wouldn’t take us to Badaling, the area where most tourists get taken as, he said, it was far too crowded. Instead he took us to Mutianyu which was further outside the city and gave us a much more interesting drive through regions where visitors rarely venture.
The bus dropped us off at the bottom of a hill, up which we had to climb to reach the cable car that would carry us to the Wall. We found ourselves riding with a cheerful Chinese family who smiled at us and were very polite. When we emerged at the top of the hill, the Great Wall stretched away as far as you can see in both directions. You think that the stretch you can see is enormous, but when you realise that it stretches for thousands of miles you realise how insignificant you are and what an immense achievement the building of it was.
We strolled along a length of it, very few people about, compared with the pictures we had seen of Badaling. Once again the weather was beautiful with not a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was warm and pleasant. The Great Wall is a photographer’s paradise and we happily snapped away, taking shots of the watch towers, their arrow slits, and panoramic shots of the Wall winding over the hills and into the far distance.
The following day we went out to view the Summer Palace, constructed for the emperors to escape the heat of Beijing in the hottest weather. A large part of it was destroyed by the Anglo-French force in 1860 but was later rebuilt by the Dowager Empress Cixi, who is said to have diverted money for the work which was intended for the Chinese navy. The site of the Summer Palace covers 2.9 square kilometres, of which three quarters is a lake. This was what kept the surroundings cooler in the summer. Many of the pavilions and gardens are open for visitors to stroll through. The Marble Boat is an enormous piece of work, a boat literally carved from marble and which sits beside the shore as if it was floating. Of course, it isn’t, but it fools the eye as it sits on the lake bed. The Moon Bridge is a beautiful example of bridge building, with the arches almost perfect circles. I had seen photos of the Summer Palace many years ago and was drawn by the beauty of the buildings and bridges. At last I had seen them in the flesh – and the reality was as beautiful as the photos had led me to believe.
In the afternoon we visited a cloisonné factory where young Chinese girls painted the most gorgeous colours onto plates and vases, which were then baked to make the enamelling permanent. The artwork was subtle yet striking. Crimson plum blossom, pink peonies, blue cornflowers all dazzled the eyes of the beholders. I fell in love with a plate painted with plum blossom, but after discovering the price we settled for something smaller, with blue carnations painted on its surface.
Chinese history occupied us the next day as we went out to visit the Sacred Way and the Ming Tombs. The Sacred Way leads to the tombs and is a tree-lined walk which takes the visitor past statuary of real and mythical animals. The tombs are where the emperors of the Ming Dynasty and their most important officials are buried, and luckily they seemed to have escaped the vandalism of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, which destroyed so many artefacts from China’s rich history.
Only emperors were permitted to have golden tiles on their roofs, and these tombs, each with its glowing porcelain tiles dazzled the eye. The museum nearby houses costumes, crowns and artefacts which were the sole property of the Ming Emperors.
One of our most heartwarming visits was our arrival at the Temple of Heaven. As is usual for me, the Temple itself was covered in scaffolding as it was being renovated in time for the Beijing Olympics, but the grounds were filled with retired people doing their own thing on a massive scale. As we walked through the surrounding park we first came upon a large paved area where someone had set up a CD player and dozens and dozens of couples were enjoying their ballroom dancing with great fervour. They waltzed and foxtrotted around the square, having a whale of a time. One elderly gentleman took Patti’s hand and invited her to dance. She joined him on the dance floor and they quickstepped with the best of them. Chinese people are fascinated by blonde hair, and Patti was blonde. At the end of the tune, Patti’s partner escorted her back to us in a courtly and courteous manner.
In other areas people were carrying out their Tai Chi exercises while others played a game invented by a local university professor consisting of a light ball and each player holding two bats, each one flat with an indentation in the middle. The aim of the sport was to catch the ball in the indentation and serve it back to your opponent. We were told that he aimed to create a pastime that was active, but able to be played by people of all ages.
We carried on towards a covered walkway where we were astonished to see hundreds of retired people occupied with their hobbies and sharing their knowledge with anyone else who was interested. One old gentleman was carving wood, other groups played cards or board games; at various points players of exotic musical instruments formed small orchestras and played together. One lady had created a hat that was a replica of the Temple of Heaven. But it wasn’t just the range of activities that was so striking, rather the enjoyment that everybody seemed to find in their particular activities. They seemed flattered if we stopped to watch, or asked if we could take photos.
Finally, we came upon another area filled with gymnastic equipment which had been set up by the local authorities to help the population keep fit. But what struck us all was the sheer enjoyment that these senior citizens got out of their activities, the cheerfulness and absolute joie de vivre they displayed. I defy anyone to visit the Temple of Heaven and come away less cheerful than when they went. The good nature of the people is highly infectious. I had expected to be regarded with suspicion, as in the past the Chinese had regarded us as barbarians or foreign devils, but quite the opposite. We felt more welcome here than I had ever felt before. The Temple of Heaven truly lifts your spirits.
Our last day in Beijing was occupied first by a visit to the zoo to view the pandas and other exotic animals native to Asia, then to the hutongs, the old housing areas.
Pandas are portly, and beautifully coloured with those black and white faces that hold such a fascination for us. They move slowly but purposefully and eat nothing more than bamboo shoots.
The hutongs are a fascinating jumble of houses and courtyards, with canals running between them. We were transported there by rickshaw – not the most comfortable means of transport, but it brings you closer to Chinese life than you would be in a bus. We alighted and walked along a narrow path and entered the garden of Mrs Wu’s house. Once again we gained an insight into the everyday life of a Chinese family. They were proud that they had a TV, a fridge and their other appliances.
After we bade farewell to Mrs Wu we spent an hour or so wandering through the street markets nearby. Again we saw a number of fruit and vegetables we did not recognise, although we discovered some of them on our plates at various restaurants during our journey.
We returned to our hotel, picked up our bags and drove to the airport where we joined our flight to Nanjing – our next destination.

 

[BillB]

As we made our way to the airport I pondered on some small incidents I had witnessed which had illuminated Chinese life for me. The first was a barber who had set up his chair on a pavement close to a park. One of his clients was sitting in the chair, fully lathered up as the barber was on the point of setting about him with a cutthroat razor. Passersby went about their business without a second glance, which told me that this was not an unusual sight. And, in fact, I saw a similar scene in another part of Beijing. On another occasion I was sitting on a bus which was slowly passing a city bus. I wasn’t paying much attention until I realised that a Chinese gentleman on the other bus was studying me with great curiosity. I smiled and gave him a wave and he almost exploded with happiness, the widest smile spread across his face and he began waving furiously. And so we carried on until our buses went their separate ways. And lastly, in the airport, I made a visit to the Gents while waiting for our flight. Like all the toilets in public places we had seen in China this one was spotlessly clean. As I finished washing my hands the young attendant appeared at my side with a paper towel. I thanked him, dried my hands and looked in my pocket for a tip. Riffling through the cash, I was looking for a 10 Yuan note, but he indicated that he would like more. Since 10 Yuan is the equivalent of just over 1 euro I thought that was sufficient, but he pointed to 50 Yuan note in my hand. Now even by the most generous standards five and a half euros for a paper towel was a bit much so I shook my head and offered him the 10 Yuan note. He flounced off like the most temperamental prima donna.
On the drive into town from Nanjing airport I thought there had been a power cut, but it seemed that the city had outgrown its generating capacity so only certain lights were illuminated. All office buildings and businesses were in darkness, though the street lights were burning. Fortunately, our hotel was well lit and once our luggage was delivered we were able to have a very pleasant dinner in the hotel restaurant.
Nanjing, then known as Nanking, suffered the most appalling atrocities by the Japanese invaders in the years prior to WW2. The onslaught against the civilian population is sickening, even today. Men, women and children were indiscriminately slaughtered, babies bayoneted, women and young girls raped and abused. The cruelty was unheard of, and even today the Japanese refuse to acknowledge their behaviour or to apologise. Anyone who wishes to learn more can read it in the book “The Rape of Nanking” by Iris Chang.
One of the first impressions of Nanjing was a bright, leafy city and we learned that every inhabitant had to buy a tree every year. Our first visit was to the Regional Museum which, apart from the usual displays of Chinese history and culture, featured a workshop where young girls were weaving silk pictures of surpassing beauty. One which caught our eye was a brilliant illustration of a waterway with houses, a bridge and some trees. The reflections in the canal were so skillfully woven that the viewer feels that anyone touching them would have wet fingers. We ended up buying it and it now adorns our living room wall.
Nanjing was the capital of the early Republic of China after the Emperor was deposed and it’s here that Dr Sun Yat Sen, the architect of the Republic, is buried. His tomb is built high on a nearby mountain, Purple Mountain, and it draws visitors from all over the world. It’s an impressive structure, with wide steps climbing up the mountain to the tomb itself. The view of the city and the surrounding countryside is breathtaking and makes the climb worth the effort.
The next morning we visited a freshwater mussel farm where freshwater pearls were cultivated. This was done by inserting pieces of flesh from dead mussels into the ones being cultivated. The result is that each mussel develops around 27 pearls. They’re not all the same round shape that we think of when we see a string of pearls, but the Chinese have found ways to mount them or string them into attractive necklaces, bracelets, brooches and rings.
In the afternoon we went tto the centre of Nanjing to visit the massive bridge that spans the Yangtze River. The Yangtze is pretty wide at this point and the bridge is 6.7 kilometres long. It’s a double decker and is the first bridge built across the river at Nanjing. The upper level carries road traffic while the lower level carries a railway line. It even has its own museum.
After that we took a cruise on the Yangtze, passing many ships in varying stages of construction. On the banks the land was divided up into allotments and many people could be seen cultivating their plots with a wide variety of vegetables. After our return to Europe I bought a book on the rape of Nanking, and found photos of hundreds of bodies lying on these very same pieces of land, and others being ruthlessly massacred by Japanese soldiers.
After breakfast at the hotel the next morning we took a bus to the Nanjing station where we caught a train to Wuxi. We had reserved seats and found them extremely comfortable when we settled into them. What was extraordinary, though, was the emptiness of the platform when everybody had boarded the train. There wasn’t any pushing or shoving, everybody filed on board, and when the train doors closed there wasn’t the slightest piece of rubbish in sight on the platform. Nobody, absolutely nobody, had so much as dropped a piece of paper. I have never seen such a clean railway platform anywhere I’ve been. And it was the same at every station we stopped at.
At Wuxi we were taken to the Quing Ming Bridge area to visit the home of Mrs Hu, who had a lovely bonsai collection in her garden. The bridge itself is beautifully graceful in its typical historical Chinese design.
Wuxi is renowned for its spare ribs, reputed to be the finest in China, and that’s what we had for lunch. They were quite something, certainly better than the ones I was used to in Europe.
From Wuxi we boarded a cruise boat which took us down the Grand Canal. This was begun in the 5th century BC, but the various lengths which had been built over centuries were finally all linked between the end of 6th century and the beginning of the 7th century AD. It’s the longest canal in the world, running over 1000 miles from Beijing in the north to Hangzhou in the south.
There is an enormous amount of traffic on the canal, and we passed every kind of floating transport you can imagine. We saw barges full of coal, scrap metal, construction materials, large pieces of engineering equipment and boxes of fruit and vegetables, among the variety. Our boat had the most ornate toilet any of us had ever seen.
We moored in the late afternoon in the city of Suzhou (formerly known as Suchow) and transferred to our hotel.
Highlights of our stay in Suzhou were visits to two gardens, the small but beautiful Master of Nets’ Garden and the Humble Administrator’s Garden built during the Ming Dynasty in 1509. The Master of Nets’ Garden was created during the Song Dynasty (960-1279 AD). Both are incredibly beautiful and should be included in any trip to China. If you are even slightly interested in gardening, they will give you enough ideas to keep you working in your garden for the rest of your life.
Later we visited a Silk Mill where I bought a dark green shirt that I thought was beautiful – unfortunately just over a year later I began to lose weight rapidly and was soon diagnosed as Type 2. The short no longer fits, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.
On another day we took a small boat that took us on a tour of the Minor Canal, a much smaller waterway which is lined with homes and shops, which we passed on our way to Mrs Hu’s house, another Chinese home which we were invited into. Hawkers and deliverymen paddled their small craft along the canal, stopping here and there to sell their goods.
Early the next morning we arrived at Suzhou station to take the train to Shanghai. Once again the whole area was spotlessly clean – not the smallest scrap of rubbish was to be seen. On a dais a beautifully polished grand piano played away to itself, obviously electronic but a noteworthy sight nevertheless.
The train was as before, clean, comfortable and on time to the second. We emerged from Shanghai station into the frenetically paced city that is one of the most vital on earth. We took a bus to our hotel through the teeming streets that left us breathless at the non-stop activity.. That night I achieved one of my ambitions – to walk the Bund. I had read many books about China over the years and any of them that mentioned Shanghai also mentioned the Bund. I had known a writer who had been in the Shanghai police before the war and he had often mentioned the Bund which is, quite simply, the promenade along the embankment which lines the Huangpu River in central Shanghai. It was the centre of the International Settlement in pre-war times. On the Bund you can gaze across the river to what was, just 10 years ago, a marshy wasteland. Now there is a forest of skyscrapers, all brightly lit, including a tower with two globular additions across which play a never-ending display of lights. There is also a building which had been the tallest in the world but which was outbuilt in the height stakes a couple of years after it was constructed. What a breathtaking view!
The following day we took a walk along the Bund in daylight which was just as impressive and, sad to say, gave me better pictures than I had got at night. From there we took a cruise on the Huangpu which took us to areas that visitors don’t normally see. The river is a busy artery with an enormous variety of boats and barges working their way around. It was busier even than the Grand Canal.
In the afternoon we suggested to our Chinese guide a ride on the Maglev railway. This wasn’t part of the tour but we all agreed that it would be worth the price of the ticket to take a ride on the fastest train on earth. The guide agreed to buy the tickets on our behalf and we all stumped up the cash. This train runs from Shanghai railway station to the airport and back at a speed of 431 kph (279 mph). It doesn’t run on regular rails but works on a magnetic levitation system. We stood on the platform (again, immaculately clean) and watched the aerodynamically smooth train waiting for us. We climbed aboard with a great sense of anticipation and very soon the doors hissed shut and the train started to move. Incredibly quickly it picked up speed, and the speed indicator in our cabin rose to the maximum – 431 kph. We raced through the countryside; at one point we were travelling alongside a motorway. The speed limit on Chinese motorways is 120 kph and we were passing the traffic as if it was standing still. All too soon we were pulling into the station and we climbed out, to stand marvelling at the smooth lines of the train before crossing a bridge to a train that was waiting on the opposite platform. Once again we climbed aboard and enjoyed the fantastic experience all over again on the return journey.
After dinner we took another train, this time running under the Huangpu and at a considerably slower speed. A different experience awaited us as a light show was projected onto the walls of the tunnel as we travelled along it – giving riders the impression of travelling through a kaleidoscope. At the far end of the line we emerged onto the embankment and made our way to the (onetime) tallest building in the world. A high speed lift took us the top where we were able to look down from a gallery into the interior of the building which is a hotel. Innumerable floors below we could see the lobby, so distant that people down there looked like little more than moving dots. Lining the interior walls were galleries with doors leading off them which were the hotel rooms. Looking outwards the view of Shanghai by night left onlookers stunned. Thoughts any of us may have had that China was a developing country were totally dashed. Building on this scale shows a highly developed industrial state which will be the world leader before too many years have passed.
When we returned to our hotel we met up with Billy, an old friend from Luxembourg, the owner of one of the best Chinese restaurants in that part of Europe and one we had been patronising for many years. One of his brothers had left the family in Luxembourg with the intention of opening a restaurant in Shanghai. This endeavour was so successful that another was opened, and then another. At last count they had six in Shanghai, and a seventh in Beijing. Another in Beijing was in the process of being created. Various members of the family went out to Shanghai to work in the growing business.
We had made arrangements with Billy to meet at the hotel and after a happy reunion he drove us to several of the family restaurants to show us the scale of the operation. At the third he ordered snacks for us, meaning classic dishes that the restaurant specialises in. All the restaurants were similar – a central dining area with rooms leading off that can be hired for private dinners. Our friends were clearly riding the economic boom that Shanghai was enjoying. After a great evening he drove us back to the hotel and we said our fond farewells.
The next day we went to a special school where Chinese parents take their children on Saturday mornings. The children are given tuition and practice in various artistic disciplines, such as dancing, painting, etc. The parents pay a small fee per term and those children with talent are picked out and can undergo more courses in the field in which their talents lie. There can be few children more appealing than Chinese kids, and we were invited in to watch a group of young girls at ballet practice. These lovely little kids, all dressed in pink tutus and taking their exercise very seriously were irresistible to those of us with cameras. We went into another classroom where young artists were painting. We bought a small watercolour, the proceeds going to help the school’s upkeep, and the painting, now framed, is hanging in our hallway.
We followed that with a Mongolian barbecue lunch and then went out to the airport (by bus, not maglev) for our flight to Xi’an.
As our plane descended towards the airport in Xi’an I noticed that many of the buildings had golden roofs. In the Forbidden City we had been told that golden roof tiles were solely the prerogative of the emperors and were stictly forbidden for the rest of the population. How come then that Xi’an, one time capital of the Chinese empire, had houses with golden roofs? The ride into town gave us the answer. The roofs were not covered in golden tiles but were flat roofs, and practically every one of them was covered in a layer of maize, drying out in the sunshine before being stripped from the cob to preserve them for the coming winter.
We checked into our hotel, keenly anticipating our visit to view the terracotta warriors, one of China’s most impressive historic sites.