Category: On Travel

On Travel/

Holiday versus Home: A Recipe for Ruin

Comparing your holiday destination to your home city is a recipe for ruin. I should know. Been there, done that and still haven’t fully learned from my mistake.

Though I was happy to leave the frigid temperatures of London last Saturday and welcome the warm ones of St George’s Bay, Malta, we had scarcely landed before my mind got busy sizing up the place.

Shopping would not be a match. Food wouldn’t be up to scratch. And certainly hotels would not be a patch. Upon arriving at the Corinthia Hotel & Spa, it was just as I suspected–acceptable but not remarkable. It wasn’t until I got to our room and stood on the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean that it became clear that I was on a hiding to nothing.

Been there, done that! So from then on I ditched the comparisons. What I got in return was a true Malta experience, beginning with a bus tour to the North of the 27 kilometer (16.8 mile) island, though our concierge tried to convince us to go south.

“Why do you want to go north?” He asked.

“We want to see Medina (the old capital),” Mr. H responded.

“See this another day,” he said. “Why not go on the South tour today. There is a market, not for you, but for your wife.”

“We’ll stick with the North,” Mr. H said firmly.

Righty-ho and so we did and found Medina as perfect in her old age as had been said about her. Perched upon a hill which overlooks the Mediterranean, this old city is an excellent backdrop for contemporary events such as weddings. Luckily, we got there in time for a the tail end of one.

Like Medina, the rest of Malta embodies one of the world’s richest stories. Though not the most sophisticated of destinations, the island boasts 7,000 years of history, having been inhabited by Sicilians around 5000 BC.

Today the shimmering sea is a playground for water enthusiasts and is a bridge to world trade but over the years, it has been a tumultuous passageway for many conquerors, including the Phoenicians, Byzantines, Normans, Ottomans, Romans, the French and the British.

The British occupation, as featured in tours and the film,The Malta Experience, continues to be looked upon kindly, though Malta has been independent since 1964.  But the Brits’ ousting of the French who expelled the Order of St. John (see below)  leaves them in good stead with the Maltese, as evident in the English language and also in the many commemorations of statues and the like around the country.

Perhaps, however, the most influential leadership in Malta started in 1530 with the Order of St John; their Grand Masters leading for some 268 years until Napoleon expelled them. In any case, their contributions include the new capital, Valletta, the order’s namesake cathedral, many fortifications, aqueducts, a hospital, a university and so on.

During their reign, naturally Christianity was the number one religion, but it had been in Malta since 60AD when the Apostle Paul, en route to Rome, was shipwrecked there. As described in the Book of Acts, the apostle was revered after a viper latched to his hand but caused no harm. Moving forward, the apostle became the patron saint of Malta.

This is my favorite Malta story not only because I grew up Christian but also this story places Malta for my father, who at the precise mention of its former name Melite,  told the apostle’s story as if he had been there.Priceless!

Back in England, I can say I’ve been there and done that. And though London’s temperature of 3° C (37° F) and Valletta’s of 22° C (71° F) are unevenly matched to say the least, I won’t compare. To do so is a recipe for ruin.

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On London/

Sticking with my pen on London

Since my last post here, life has been a bit of a treadmill, sorting out our move and travelling to and from the US and doing a few other things here, there and in between.  I haven’t slowed down yet.

Only this week did we get home broadband service again and sadly it is spotty at best. Yet, I do have a wider perspective on London as predicted. From where I sit in my new office, I can see the Thames, England’s longest river. Quite contrary to the gentle rain falling is the roaring wind, causing the river to wave.

And though the first signs of night have come over London, it is a remarkable scene; even if it is framed by two tremendous buildings. Never mind the boxes surrounding me. Were it not for my aversion to frigid rain, frigid anything, I would walk onto the balcony.  Instead, however, I’ll mosey into my living room, where I can see Fulham stretching out before me in one direction and Wandsworth in another. The views are painting perfect.

Maybe one of these days I’ll take a brush to the scenery. But for now, I’m going to stick with my pen theoretically. In reality, my keyboard will have to do. And those who know my penmanship are saying thank goodness. In any case, I’m writing.

Needless to say, I’ve been lax yet again. And instead of grovelling and offering excuses, I’m going to chalk it up to a lax year at the risk of turning this into a New Year’s column.

With all the change that I’ve experienced this year, I am ready for resolve. But why wait for January 1 to start. I might as well start now by appreciating the brand new day.

So I am told the broadband problem will be fixed easily but until then, I’ll just have to turn to mobile devices such as my iPad and explore the area for Wi-Fi fitted coffee shops. Already, I’ve found one jewel–Cake Boy, Eric Lanlard’s creation.

Yesterday, I had a meeting there and wasn’t surprised to find it heaving with locals and others alike. My guest went on about how wonderful the place is. So it is; good thing there is a gym nearby.

This morning I returned and sat near a group of pregnant women and ignore them as I tried, I couldn’t. Not only were there bumps interesting but also there conversation was too, all about names.

Naming a child can be difficult, they all agreed, especially a first child. Not to mention the interfering from friends and relatives and the syncing first names with surnames. One woman said she loved the name Emma but her surname was something like Tremor.

Surely I heard wrong but you get the point anyhow.

Good material to include in a novel, a short story, a blog I thought, as I tuned out. Then suddenly it hit me I was writing again. I was changing my perspective. Ah ha!

I hurried back to my office and started this blog. And though I didn’t conclude until afternoon, it is refreshing to have a change of perspective.

More perspective next week!

On Travel/

Yorkshire Moors, Good Thought Experience

Last year while doing research for my upcoming novel, The Blindsided Prophet, I bought into the concept that we somehow influence our every experience with our thoughts. I know it’s a tough sell. I couldn’t buy it years ago either. And here lately, I am beginning to understand why.

Case and point: I can’t imagine that I’ve had any thoughts that led to my well kept recycling container being switched out for a broken scrubby one. No way, I thought as I picked up the old one and headed down the street to put things right. Only when I got to the container that I thought might have been mine was I unsure. Lost my nerve and brought the old scruffy one into my front garden.

All is not lost, I told myself entering the house. Surely my passport has arrived today. After all, I sent it off in May to the said agency in this country to get a very straight forward update. Nope, I flipped through the post. Not here, not here.

So much for the belief that if I write about the passport issue, therefore, I think negatively about it, and so on. You see where I am going, right? Rubbish! I have tried every positive thought you can imagine and even resorted to asking for divine intervention, which ought not to be used on such petty matters.

Forgive me, I cashed in. I can only hope my request will be honoured soon and very soon. In the meantime, what about the well researched concept? Well there is good news on that.

First, the bulk of the writing is done. And the concept really does make for compelling fiction. Watch this space–The Blindsided Prophet coming soon! Next, I have seen an awful lot of Great Britain by keeping this belief close to my chest. Don’t worry about your passport; just enjoy the moment. etc…

Never mind that the continent of Europe is on my doorstep and that Britain has hit or miss weather.

And sure enough last weekend, the good weather hit in London and missed in Yorkshire. Still, we had reason to go north. So we made our way to the spa town of Harrogate and spent our weekend in the Yorkshire Moors, a place of unrivalled scenery.

From crags such as the Cow and Calf to hillsides such the Kilburn White Horse, the views are stunning. And though we mostly drove around and enjoyed  the scenery (rivers and valleys), we did go for a walk or two.

As we climbed the moors, even with dark clouds hanging over us, I had a Great Wall of China moment. Okay, no not really but the point is that the beauty there is unmatched in Britain. On the descent, I had to admire the dry wall fencing. I even appreciated the natural paths covered with heather. The Yorkshire Moors are a hit indeed, even if the good weather does often miss them. Never mind, as long as you remember to wear hiking boots. We did this time, unlike the time we took a woodlands walk in Gleneagles in Scotland. You see on this occasion, we thought it through well in advance.

Maybe there is something to the concept of thoughts influencing experiences after all. Think about it.

On Travel/

Fast Track: London to Paris or vice versa

Whether the city of lights has more character than the big smoke is debatable if you ask me. While the former has an unmistakable youthful buzz that seduces anyone who comes near it, the latter has an indisputable sophistication yet a mellow politeness that draws its visitors back time and again.

Ask anyone for directions in London and you will soon be on your merry way. Not in Paris. You’ll be spinning around in circles until you figure it out yourself. Better take along a compass and a translator for that matter. And forget securing a taxi, but even if you do, be prepared to feel unwanted the entire ride.

Still, if you ask my godson, he’ll tell you there is no contest. Paris has it! While I don’t agree, even I have to admit that Paris is everything youthful, even its older attractions, the Sacré-Cœur and Notre Dame, for instance, still seem to be in their prime.

No wonder so many writers, particularly American ones, have flocked there. Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, Richard Wright, Ezra Pound and James Baldwin all spent extensive time there. Wright even gained French citizenship and moved his family there permanently.

In Michel Fabre’s book From Harlem to Paris, Wright is quoted as saying, “Can you imagine what this means to me? I never knew a city could be so beautiful.”

So it is. Paris is a beauty. And no matter how many times I go there, I too am lured to the left bank where Wright and others lived and worked. And repeatedly, as I looked around Paris, wherever I was, I saw a grand building or monument and was reminded of the words that my husband’s childhood French friend coined when he was a first time tourist in London.

Of St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, even the Tower of London, he said, “we have this in Paris but only bigger.”

He has a point. Even the gardens (jardins as they call them) are sprawling.You don’t have to go to Versailles for this. We found a vast, beautifully manicured landscape on the left bank. But still the debate goes on. London’s Hyde Park is not to be sneezed at.

Lots of differences between the two places, no doubt, but there is one particular that connects them from centre to centre–Eurostar, the high speed passenger train.

Arguably, it is the best mode of transport operating between the two. From St Pancras to Gare du Nord, it takes two hours and twenty minutes flat. This is better than flying by a long shot even if you are averse to the tunnel under the English Channel. This part of the journey only last for 30 minutes.

Well worth shutting your eyes and forgetting where you are for it is the tunnel that enables travellers to strip out the hassle that comes with air travel and cut back on the expense and time it takes to reach city center from an airport.

At your point of origination, you go through immigrations, passport control, and security and wait briefly in the Eurostar lounge–London definitely the better of the two. At your destination, you stroll pass a few officials without further delay.

But first you do need to board the train and take the journey. Now you get what you paid for: a reserved seat, comfy enough, even in coach. But don’t expect excess on Eurostar. It’s all basic, particularly the food, unless you bring your own.

Anyhow, who needs food when you’re on the fast track? Best to save your appetite for city center—London or Paris. You choose or do both.

On Travel/

The Children of Mrs Big

From now on, I am calling China Mrs. Big. Most of us saw her larger than life Olympic opening ceremony, if only in part. A scene was enough to get the gist of her scope.

Still, I thought the grandiosity was a short lived façade. No sir re, as my great grandfather used to say, it is real: millions of patriotic people, thousands of ancient relics, hundreds of traditions and a few modern innovations (just a few) make up today’s definitive Chinese culture.

But since you can read about the Great Wall and all that stuff any time, I am not going to write about it.

Admittedly, however, there is nothing like being there. Go if you can, if you can’t buy a good book.

In the meantime, let’s talk about her children, the people. When I say millions, I mean millions. There are some 32 million in Chongqing’s Administrative Area, a place I had never heard of before visiting their kiosk at Expo 2010 in Shanghai, which has a population of nearly 19 million itself. And there is another 17 million in Beijing and so on.

If you are still not impressed, consider that Mrs. Big has four times more children than Mrs. Liberty (USA), who has about 309 million off springs.

What does this mean? Any sociologist worth her salts can pontificate this matter, but since I am not one, I won’t try it. But I will give you my general impressions: controlled, cooperative, casual, curious and courageous.

Suggesting that the Chinese are totally controlled is misleading, but they do respond to a different kind of governance than most, particularly Western countries. For example, they don’t flap about giving up their home for the progression of the country. We were told many times of the government taking over land and re-housing people to build up an area. No problem mate!

Talk about cooperative, check out what happened on a tour boat when a German tourist delayed the tour because one person from his group was missing. So it was the husband of a dismayed middle aged woman. He had her passport. The officials detained the boat to the dislike of the rest of us. Let’s face it that does not happen in Germany, England, the USA or any other western country. Okay!

In a chaotic scene in the airport, casualness did not go unnoticed as the people skipped cues (cut in lines), talked boisterously, an inherent trait of Chinese crowds, but somehow accepted their fate with an uncanny calmness. Several desperate pleas – most of them met with no emotion – drew only one outburst. No, it wasn’t me.  This would not be the scene in Heathrow. But then security doesn’t stand just short of the negotiations, brandishing weapons.

Now, I don’t consider the Chinese curious because they have floor based toilets that perplex most women and offer snake wine in some modern restaurants. Not even bragging about eating anything with wings, except an airplane, and anything with four legs or no legs for that matter makes me wonder about them. But they do have a curiosity about foreigners.

Snatching a glance is an understatement, they don’t mind staring and in some instances snapping photographs. To be fair, no one took a picture of me or anyone in my group without permission. But in the confines of Expo, people did randomly snap shots of the two ladies hosting the Trinidad and Tobago exhibition. How is that for being on exhibition? They didn’t like it. I couldn’t blame them.

But they were courageous about it. Nonetheless, the best display of courage came from the Chinese, particularly in the way they hustle and in the way they drive. As for the former, they drive a hard bargain on goods from jade to tea. They work hard for their money.

And to the latter, they drive like h—l, a car, a motorcycle, even a bicycle. We had a an adventurous go at cycling, we’ll never forget it. Yet everyone else from children to the elderly seem to know how to negotiate the traffic, weaving in and out of lanes with the screaming honk of a horn and running traffic lights without wreaking havoc. Miraculously, we saw only one fender bender.

And talk about patience, sitting in traffic for hours without road rage. I will have some of that thank you, patience that is, but no thank you to the ride on the wild side. I will leave that to the children of Mrs. Big. It really works for them.

On Travel/

The Black Swan: a good find

It seems strange that ten years ago, I scarcely knew what a pub was, and now I live next door to one. That has it advantages and disadvantages, more of the latter for me since I am not a pub type of girl.

But I have come to appreciate pubs, the new waves ones that keep the concept of a drinking hole for the locals while introducing fine dining.

Yes fine dining. Whatever you have heard about English food, forget about it! And let me school you.

One friend came to Europe a few years ago, making London her last stop because she had heard the food was so bad. You can always find bad food—greasy fish and chips, an all day English breakfast with mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans—and you probably don’t have to look too hard.

She didn’t but that was her choice. I am here to tell you that London and all of England offers some fantastic dining experiences.

It takes a scroll these days to list the successful English chefs; you have seen their books in your stores.  I know I have: Gary Rhodes, Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsay, Rick Stein and Nigella Lawson to name but a few.

With their influence on cuisine throughout the world, Great Britain has come up in the hospitality industry, offering so many delights to choose from that it is hard to say where to start.

So why not go outside of London to begin and have a look into The Black Swan in Olstead, Yorkshire, a traditional pub located in a poky, quintessentially English village.

To get there, we cut across narrow roads hidden in the thickets of a rambling national park. Without the recommendation from the Square Meal guide and our GPS system, we would not have found it. But once we got there, we knew we had done the right thing in persevering.

The Black Swan makes its home in a sloping building that dates back to the 16thcentury. Though it has been renovated and added on to, the building that houses the restaurant and the bar has held onto its charm—low ceilings with dark brown beams, antique furnishing, oak floors upstairs and flagstones downstairs.

The atmosphere itself told all. We were in for a fantastic Sunday lunch, a mouth-watering tradition which normally includes some sort of roast. Paul had the traditional roast pork with all the trimmings. Good thing he had more than enough because I couldn’t keep my fork off his plate. I had fish, which was not only well presented, it was delicious. And for pudding (dessert), we both had a hot chocolate fondant.

The English like their desserts and have been often accused of indulging in sickly sweet puddings. I am one of the accusers, but here lately they have piped down the sugar and brought out the flavour. After Sunday lunch, we took our coffee in the bar area near the cosy fireplace.

Now I have to prepare you for the ending. Remember soul singer Betty Wright and her song about a young girl making love for the very first time. No, that is not the story, but the point she made was that she had to ease the song by her mother.

Try to think back to what her mother said. It was something like this to paraphrase. I like the music and the melody is so sweet, but girl I know you’re not gonna sing that song. But Betty eased it right on by her. I think I will give it a try, so you get the full picture.

Alcohol was not and is still not the done thing in the Lewis household. But these days a good meal is not the same for me without a good bottle of wine (not all by myself). And in this instance, I finished with a smooth port, watching the crackling fire. What a good find?

But don’t tell my mother.