the haymee.com blog

Beaches, jets and a thief

2011-09-30T19:07:00.000+01:00

The 'W' Hotel is a massive landmark, and it's where the beaches start.

You'd never believe they were created, not natural. Imported sand where docks used to be, that sort of thing. Anyway, very popular.

Steve swam.

Then the Spanish equivalent of the Red Arrows arrived overhead, and wow!

And we were distracted, and a passing cyclist grabbed my bag off the bench. I chased, shouting very, very loudly. Someone intercepted him, I got my bag back and walloped him. Oh, and he dropped his sunglasses on the way, so actually I'm up on the deal. Drama over.

Moral: watch your stuff.

A fishy day

2011-09-29T20:24:00.001+01:00

See fish.
A visit to the aquarium is well worth it. There will be pictures later, and video. Sharks, eels, 'Nemo' fish, lobsters, anemones, jellyfish, sea horses, rays ... penguins. You get the idea. Well presented, informative and enjoyable.

Sea fish.
We tasted the beaches. Well, a beach, and a beach bar. We'll be back tomorrow for the full cruise along Barcelona's seven conjoined beaches. Or that's the plan, anyhow.

Eat fish.
Please, if you visit this fine city, patronise Cán Rámonet, an extremely good fish restaurant slightly off the tourist beat (don't expect good English from the staff) in the Barceloneta district.

Steve chose grilled sea bass, I had a middle cut of hake (so, so soft) 'San Sebastian', both served with carrot crisps and a sort of compressed potato/cheese thing.

Popular, with very professional and discreet service. Price: excellent given the quality; or expensive, if you prefer.

Sagrada Familia

2011-09-28T14:04:00.001+01:00

Just ... wow. Will write more when I can get my head round it.

It was Chris

2011-09-28T10:24:00.002+01:00

Columbus, that is, on the column. From yesterday. Because after discovering the East by sailing West - or so he thought - in 1492, he came back and landed at Barcelona the next year. Only he knows why, having done a return journey across the Atlantic, he sailed three-quarters of the way round Spain before putting in to port, but hey.

Watched over by Mars

2011-09-27T23:59:00.000+01:00

After a slow wander up a warm and packed Rambla - and a few diversions into shoe shops (and Massimo Dutti) - we found somewhere very pleasant to eat, and watch people, near the scaffolding-clad Cathedral.

Mars rose slowly above a Gaudi gallery, in-line skaters raced by, cyclists wound between the ubiquitous sellers of illuminated blue rubber-band-propelled flying sycamore-seed-inspired thingamabobs, while we ate what seemed the equivalent of dinner, breakfast and lunch.

Hola from Barcelona!

2011-09-27T12:40:00.002+01:00

Up at a silly time: taxi+train to a dark, cold and foggy Gatwick. Smoothly through and on board the Airbus A319 to Barcelona.

Hot!

Easy airport coach with one change onto the Metro brought us to within a couple of hundred metres of our hotel, at the bottom sea end of La Rambla. We got a good deal on an upgrade and we're now just waiting to get into our room.

We've been for a wander, mind, down around the impressive statue (of whom we don't know, but we're guessing a navigator) above, and round a bit of the marina.

Quick guide to Europe

2011-09-04T23:01:00.001+01:00

Netherlands: laid back.

Belgium: dirty.

France: armed soldiers on the platform.

UK: officialdom* and prohibition signs on everything.

*Why, when we've all been through UK Border Agency checks in Brussels, do we need our passports AND train tickets checked again at St Pancras? In Gare du Nord you just walk off the train onto a French street...

Well, I'm home. That was fun!

Your A Star

2011-09-04T18:10:00.000+01:00

Geddit??

Pulling away from Bruxelles-Midi. Or is it Brussels-Zuid? Only in Belgium can a station have two completely different names. Or Wales (probably).

Boorish-Brit-deadening earphones in, bliss.

Travelling backwards. Again. Grrrr.

Flat, flat, flat

2011-09-04T16:30:00.001+01:00

Why does it take the best part of three hours to travel by train between Amsterdam and Brussels? It doesn't look that far on the map.

Mind you, this Intercity train does a lot more stopping and travelling sedately than I was expecting. I probably could have paid extra for the high-speed Thalys train, but actually it's quite nice to see some countryside. Not to mention occasional train-set style sidings and marshalling yards, with locos and wagons waiting to head off across Europe to who-knows-where.

Flat wagons, open wagons, covered wagons, car transporter wagons, gravel hopper wagons, wagons of every colour and marking, graffiti-covered passenger cars, strange Dutch passenger trains with curious 747-type cockpit-bulges in the roof. It's the whole Hornby, and then some.

Fields, dykes, polders, other railway lines, bridges, highways and byways, rivers, container barges, gas barges, Friesian cows, football stadiums, churches, level crossings. You get to see everything when the country is so flat. There's an occasional gradient on the track, but that's to take us over a bridge or causeway, not because the land is hilly. All through Holland and Belgium.

Oh, and I'm particularly excited* to be on a corridor train, in a compartment. Just like when I was Interrailing back years ago. In fact, I might well have taken this line, thinking about it.

*Not that you'd notice. You might wonder why I'm guffawing frequently, but that's because I'm reading Paul O'Grady's At My Mother's Knee.

The Emperor's New Clothes

2011-09-04T13:15:00.000+01:00

Once in a while I find it necessary to visit a museum of modern art, just to remind myself how some of my fellow humans are pretentious wankers.

This afternoon I went to the Stedelijk Museum, or more exactly "temporary stedelijk 2" (note the lower cas, because the main museum is undergoing major enlargement. Actually the plans for the new building look rather good.

There were the usual exhibits you expect, such as piles of coal, inexplicable video installations, and distorted bronzes. I really dislike having to read the caption to understand what I am seeing. Give me classical art any day, which, with a moderately standard education, I can 'read'.

My eye was genuinely only caught by a few things. The best was an old Super 8 projector which had been ingeniously modified, DIY-style, to show a continous loop of film. (The film was of some naked women standing, and occasionally walking, on a hillside. It was of _no_ interest.) Others, I noticed, were intrigued more by the projector too.

The best video installation was called "Mastering Bambi". Two artist had visited the American forests which had inspired the Walt Disney background animators of the classic film. They had photographed and shot video, then produced this moving montage, devoid of animals, and featuring a menacing soundtrack also inspired by the film. All in HD on a giant screen. Yes, and I had to read the csption to get all that, but it was good.

Having said everything I've just said, it was lovely to see a number of original Mondrians, and be introduced to the similar, Ukranian, Malevich. There was some Pop Art, including at least two enormous original Warhols.

And nice to note the gift shop was just part of the museum, you weren't forced through it. It was mainly a selection of art and design books, and some postcards, anyway.

€10. Regrets? No, not really.

Check-out Blues

2011-09-04T11:00:00.000+01:00

Always get 'em. You know? You've handed your room key in, left your bag behind the desk (complete with mild theft anxiety), and wandered out for the two or three hours before your journey home starts. Not enough time to _do_ anything meaningful, yet you don't want to waste time, nor think about leaving quite yet.

Time to reflect and assess.

Love the 'dam. Could happily live here. The city's easy to get the hang of, and around; it's friendly; the boys are pretty; everyone speaks English, but Dutch is easy to listen to, and not too hard to translate, at least when written.

Missed Steve, here more than in Berlin. Berlin is _my_ city, but we have shared memories of Amsterdam, and there's lots I want to show him next time we come here together.

Barely thought about the school reunion thing yesterday, and not at all last night, which was partly the point. Good.

By the way, apropos nothing, sorry there are no pictures in this blog, but I haven't got the facilities. Travelling light, you see. Next time away I'll have my new MacBook Air - which I know is waiting for me at home.

Right. Coffee drunk, time for precisely two hours' meandering. Take a few more photos; only taken 78 so far - and three of those are of a cat.

Dammit - I mean Dam-it

2011-09-04T02:33:00.001+01:00

Last night involved drinking etc. And choosing the wrong nightbus back, the one where you have to pay €4 instead of being able to use your tram multi-day card (hint: don't take a nightbus that has a number starting N - this ain't London). Dammit number 1.

This morning, breakfast, that meal where you get to see what your fellow guests look like. Uh-oh. Then wish you hadn't.

A planned meander with photo opps everywhere (there will be an album of the best sometime after I'm home), and a coffee outside the main theatre, people-watching, ended at what I now like to call "my coffee shop" (this is my second visit) to make a purchase for later.

Then a tram back to the hotel (no. 2 is better than no. 16, I find). After a short break, a wander into Vondelpark, very close to where I am staying. Heaving isn't the word. Well, ok, it is the word. Found a spot to sit and read and smoke. Would have loved Steve to be with me.

For some reason I then needed a nap.

After which I caught a tram again and visited a couple of bars. Very much like last night.

Except tonight, it started to rain. A few drops, then suddenly a full-blown storm, thunder, lightning, wind, the works. I'm wearing a t-shirt because it's been like 25 degrees all day, including when I went out for the evening.

I had bought a cheese and salami roll and a chocolate muffin on the way to the bus-stop, because I had forgotten to eat earlier (I have a habit of doing this on my solo holidays). I had researched the bus nunbering this time, and despite arriving at the bus shelter (and it was a shelter from the storm) just after a bus had passed so I had nearly half an hour to wait, I got myself outside my baguette, and listened to a bizarre conversation between two young Moroccan/Dutch girls who were sheltering with their bikes, and an extended Spanish family waiting for a bus. All in broken English. Hilarious.

Then, on cue, the 358 nightbus comes tanking down the road in the tram lane through the puddles. Hand out. Bus sails past into the storm. Bastard.

That was a 25 minute wait, and now I have another 30 minute wait. Bugger this. So I dash and find a taxi. That's €13 including the tip. So my 3-day tram card is working out quite expensive, all in all. Dammit number 2.

You may have remembered there was a muffin in the story earlier. I've just eaten it writing this.

Good night.

Had to be done...

2011-09-02T14:44:00.000+01:00

Boats, trains and canals

2011-09-02T13:00:00.000+01:00

There's a TV in the cabin showing more channels than I have at home, including views from the bridge, and a 'doggy-cam' from the kennels! And free wifi - after a fashion. The bed was comfortable even if the crossing wasn't completely smooth. Great shower as well.

At Hook of Holland it's again straight off the ferry onto a train to Rotterdam, where it's an easy change onto the Intercity to Amsterdam Centraal.

For £82 from Liverpool Street to Amsterdam, including a night's accommodation, I'm impressed and would recommend it to anyone.

The square outside Centraal Station is being dug up all over the place, but I soon bought a €15 3-day travelcard and found my tram stop. Shame I hadn't worked out where to get off the tram! Getting lost while being literally off the edge of the map, and relying on your sense of direction and a vaguely-remembered Google map from when you booked the hotel... is all part of the adventure!

Anyway, I found the hotel and was able to check in despite it being only 11 o'clock. The room is a bit shabby, but it's not expensive (well, ok, it's not cheap) but I won't be in it much, and there's free wifi.

Lunch and a coffee out, and much to see and explore!

Away to Amsterdam

2011-09-01T23:59:00.000+01:00

Why am I going to Amsterdam? My decision was actually triggered because of a class reunion being organised at my old school - a boarding school in Bath - this Saturday. 1985 was my leaving year, so I haven't seen some of those guys (and gals - we had a few in the Sixth Form) for 26 years. After some initial enthusiasm, I started to realise what a terrible idea it was, to 'go back'. I've spent several of the intervening years coming to terms with certain aspects of my enforced life away from home. This is not the place for any more details about that, but let me just say, I am who I am in no small part through my time at Prior Park, and meeting a group of my classmates, deliberately and in those buildings, isn't going to do me any good. Going abroad seemed logical, plus Steve has his best friend staying at home over the weekend. Anyway, as you know by now, I'm rather partial to an Adventure!

Liverpool Street Station isn't the Gare de l'Est, despite being my gateway once again to Europe, but it's pleasant enough.

I settled onto the 1900 out of Liverpool Street - eventually as I hadn't initially noticed I was in someone else's reserved seat.

I found another seat, facing backwards which for some reason I don't like though I'm not quite sure why.

The man next to me got out a gigantic laptop and started watching the film Captain America. I was slightly distracted out of the corner of my eye by all the shifting in and out of focus as the 'cameraman' tried to line up properly on the cinema screen.

As we passed the building site which is the new Olympic park, I thought "wow" at a great red steel twisting structure.

On the train I misread that the wifi was free, and after a convoluted registration process, decided against paying £2.95 for the journey - or what was left of it by then.

Off the train at Harwich (after an easy change at Maningtree) straight into the ferry terminal, and on board the Stena Hollandica after very little wait. This is essentially a floating hotel across the North Sea, very spacious and comfortable. My cabin was set as a double but I'm a dab hand at getting rid of unwanted bunks now. There wasn't much to do, so after a drink and a bite I retired. Well, there is quite a lot to do if you want to eat and drink and play slot machines. There's even a cinema.

Last post from Berlin

2011-08-09T23:00:00.002+01:00

Sorry, in note form. Packed up, sad, pleasant hotel, efficient, friendly. Coffee again at favourite place.

U-Bahn running (only closed nights as found last night). Trip left over from yesterday to Stasi Museum at Normanenstrasse ... huge complex - not in correct building (refurbishing) - apologised not enough English signs - fascinating anyway - chatted to staff, explained about Dad and his job/post, all staff were ex-DDR.

I later wondered ... would it possible to explore my own, or his, Stasi File? Must research this possibility.

Back to hotel for bags, Schönhauser Allee by S-Bahn to Flughafen Schonefeld, too crowded (new BBB airport will open sometime on same site) but smooth through airport.

Last day!

2011-08-09T10:24:00.001+01:00

Well, I'm all checked out, bags are stored for later, and it's time to head out on another little adventure. Flight is at 1830, so I have a few final hours to enjoy Berlin. I'll update once I'm home.

Four out of five ain’t bad

2011-08-08T17:59:00.016+01:00

The waspy café a few doors up from the hotel (where I had a less waspish pasta – indoors – at lunchtime yesterday) had its doors open, but wasn't open – as I was rudely told when I wandered in. So they didn’t get my breakfast business, not will they ever again.

Instead I strolled the other side of the hotel, to an altogether more pleasant establishment, where coffee-making is clearly a passion. In fact, I had two – and a croissant - the while planning my day. After breakfast, I managed to time leaving the hotel with the heavens opening – rather wide – and a gale blowing. In the two minutes it took me to walk up the road, realise how stupid I was, turn round and run back, I, my jeans, jumper and hat were soaked.

I swapped wet jumper for dry jacket, and tried again, just as it was easing. In point of fact, my coat was essentially a nuisance to carry for the rest of the day, but life is perverse like that.

Where I was heading before the abrupt wardrobe change was Bernauer Strasse, which in 1961 found itself on the front line, as it were. The houses on one side of the street were in the East, and the pavement was in the West, as the border was enforced overnight. People jumped from windows, three to their deaths, here. The houses were later bulldozed by the DDR, but there is still waste ground where they stood.

I then took a stroll to the old Schultheiss Brewery, now a cultural centre called – perhaps unsurprisingly – the Kulturbrauerei, but there wasn’t much to see. Architecturally interesting, but that was about it.

My third point of call was some unfinished business from last year. You may recall I went to the site of one of the checkpoints in the Wall, and tried to work out where the hospital was where I had been treated in the winter of 1978. Only thing was, I got the wrong checkpoint. So today I was off to the right one, which is to say Invalidenstrasse. Which I found, and I’m pretty certain the large building which is now a Federal Ministry was the hospital. Back in the day it was for Party officials and other privileged people, including, it luckily turned out, the children of British diplomats who happened to have an abscess in their middle ear.

I then did one of those unfortunate things … not being completely certain I’d got the right building, I took a picture and thought, “I’ll show that to Dad and ask him, he’ll remember,” until, of course, I remembered myself why I couldn’t. This still catches me out, once a week or so.

No video this time.

From there I took U- and S-Bahn trains to Orianenburger Strasse, to visit the Synagogue. It was a cutting-edge modern building when it was built in the nineteenth century, with under-floor heating, clever illumination of double-glazed stained-glass windows by means of gas light and reflectors, and a beautiful and innovative onion domed-roof. Burned and smashed about in 1938, it was more or less finished off by Allied bombing in the war, and what was left was demolished by the small Jewish community that still existed in the East during the Cold War years. But since reunification the front third or so, including the façade and dome, have been restored using as many as possible of the recovered original parts (some of which were found buried in new floors). It reminds one a little of Pompeii, inasmuch as there are original bits held together by plain modern bits: for example a ceiling painting will have patches of original, with the outlines of the rest drawn in; or there will the base and capital of a column, with a plain modern column between.

It seems rather sad that there is a permanent armed police guard outside, and that to enter you have to pass through a complete airport-style security check.

However, the building contains a must-see exhibition of the history of the Jewish community in Berlin, and of the building itself, including tapestries, lamps, scrolls and other religious artifacts. The remainder of the structure, the important worshiping bit towards the back, has not been – nor ever will be – rebuilt. It stands, or rather doesn't, as a constant reminder.

After a delicious coffee and cookie nearby, it was now a little too late to visit the fifth place on my itinerary, so that can wait until tomorrow.

Coming back through Friederichstrasse Station, I recalled that this was essentially another border crossing in the Wall, although very much in the East, because, with the right papers, you could travel from here to the West by train. The catwalks high above the tracks at either end of the station canopy or roof are still there, and I can remember seeing armed East German Grenzpolitzei, or border guards, patrolling up along them. Back at my hotel, it’s cooking up a storm again outside.

I’m going to have a little sleep before dinner, and see if it goes away.

Je suis flâneur

2011-08-06T18:58:00.021+01:00

After last night's interesting excursion, any vague notion I may have had of getting up in time for a hotel breakfast was wasted. So my restorative strong coffee and selection of breads with wasp-attracting strawberry jam and Nutella was taken a few doors up the street, in the sunshine.

My work routine back in the UK usually means very late to bed, and very late up; it so happens this really suits having a lively time in Berlin, which is the original twenty-four-hour city.

I had a plan: go to the big shops of West Berlin. The U-Bahn chucked me off several stops early (cf last year's holiday blog - this is becoming a habit). So I emerged into the dazzling sun right where just over twenty years ago was no-man's-land and the Wall: Leipziger Platz and Potsdamer Platz. It took me a couple of wandering minutes to get my bearings and work out which way to walk.

I decided on a meandering route along the southern edge of the Tiergarten, Berlin's great urban park (think Bois de Boulogne, Central Park or Hyde Park). This took me past a number of new embassies, specifically those of South Africa, Italy, Japan, Saudi Arabia, and South Korea. The architecture of embassies are a great way of expressing your country's style and character abroad. Shame Great Britain, then (see last year, again). Sadly I missed the Scandinavian complex.

I was somewhat taken aback on reaching the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche to discover what should have been the bomb-ruined remains of the old church (irreverent Berliners call it "the hollow tooth", next to the "powder box and lipstick" modern church and bell-tower) appeared to have been replaced by a monstrously ugly block of flats, which on closer inspection seemed to be some sort protective cladding, presumably whilst restoration works are underway.

The Kürfurstendamm was just too packed with tourists to make for any enjoyment, and the shops are the same ones you can find in London or Paris. I came, I saw, I was disappointed.

So I walked up the smelly edge of the zoo towards the Bahnhof Zoologischer Garten, then followed the train tracks through the Tiergarten again, up towards the Strasse des 17 Juni, but keeping inside the park. Berlin is sandy, and the ground often keeps the moisture, so from some recent rain there were muddy puddles to avoid in the shady areas, despite the heat of the day.

I skirted round the Siegessäule, the Victory Column, and headed straight for the Brandenburg Gate, that great, glorious, powerful and historical symbol of Berlin, through which armies have marched, which has been fought over, claimed by the Russians, and is now the happy centre of the city once more. But before reaching it I stopped as a noisy procession, or series of floats and followers on foot, was escorted past by police. I don't know what the protest was about; I suspect a political faction, possibly anarchists from the state and attitude of some of the participants, a few of the younger members of whom I witnessed, at close hand, square up to impassive, body-armoured police parked nearby. It never seemed dangerous, but thrillingly close to danger. I'm reading Isherwood* at the moment; there were faint echoes.

And so to Pariser Platz, the new-built square just on the western side of the great Gate, at the edge of which I remember in 1978 standing, behind steel barriers, to observe the Brandenburger Tor at a distance, and through it, the white strip of the Wall. But today, in the sunshine, it is teeming with street artists and dancers, tourists with cameras, horse-drawn carriages ... and life! Zest! Zing! There's a video on YouTube, or will be shortly, because I was one of those tourists with a camera.

I toyed with the idea of visiting a Kennedy exhibition in one corner of the square, but there were no admission prices on display, and besides I was tired, and had walked a long way already. I wanted my hotel bed for a nap! So I popped down the new underground station and onto Berlin's latest U-Bahn, the U55, just three stops to the Hauptbahnhof; then the S-Bahn to Alexanderplatz, and my line U2 to Senefelderplatz, a couple of hundred metres from my hotel.

I did indeed nap, fought the netbook to get some photos loaded, Skyped with Steve, then headed off to The Bird for a very late meal.

Please, if you come to Berlin, visit The Bird. If you're on your own, sit at the bar, chat to the American and English staff, get talking to strangers. I spent a happy couple of hours next to two Americans who were engaged in a half-hearted drinking contest with great 1.5 litre glass boots of beer; and then chatting at length to Dara, a young Dubliner doing the Interrail thing. Imagine the voice and mannerisms of Father Dougal crossed with one of the hairier Avett Brothers (for looks).

Then burger and fries consumed, off for a drink or two ...

Upon returning to my hotel, I discovered that I couldn't get online, so this is posted a little late.

*I brought Christopher Isherwood's Berlin Novels with me: Mr Norris Changes Trains and Goodbye to Berlin, partly because my long-held desire to read them was recently re-ignited by the BBC's Christopher And His Kind, and because the time seemed just right for this trip.

Ow

2011-08-06T11:02:00.002+01:00

I have a headache this morning, which isn't surprising. 2-4-1 drinks ... nicht so gut.

Going to have a look around the big shops of Westberlin this afternoon. But I definitely need to find some coffee first. Catch you later.

Don’t mention the wars

2011-08-05T13:13:00.004+01:00

This is the first post in my holiday blog for my 2011 trip to Berlin, following very much in the footsteps of my little jaunt last October. I’m hoping it’s going to be a different experience though, and not a complete repeat.

Yesterday lunchtime I was actually ready early, the taxi came on time, and I got a train from East Croydon directly to St Pancras (I would have taken this train last year if I’d known about it, rather than messing about with the Tube).

Getting to the Eurostar terminal ridiculously early does slightly defeat the idea of taking the train partly to avoid hanging about in airport departure lounges, but hey-ho.

The Eurostar got away exactly on time at 1502. I assume it has to hit its slot at the Tunnel, merging in with freight and car shuttle trains, and soon other continental railway operators too.

We thus arrived at the Gare du Nord bang on 1817 local time. At 2:15 that’s the fastest I’ve ever got to Paris, using the new HS1 line, and no stops at Ebbsfleet, Ashford or Lille.

It is literally a ten-minute walk to the Gare de l’Est, so I had nearly two hours to wait, as I did last year. I really should catch the later Eurostar but I’m so afraid of it being delayed or getting stuck. Obviously one cannot catch a later sleeper from Paris to Berlin!

There are very few seats in the station; as last time I wandered, went outside to smoke too many times, watched everyone (which is huge fun in stations and airports), bought and ate a ham baguette … Oh, and noted that this time my train continued on to Moscow and Belarus. Really important I get off in Berlin!

As before apprehensive as to with whom I would be sharing my compartment. Once I boarded I found I wasn’t the first in: Augustine from Argentina, an 18-year-old student travelling on InterRail (as I had done at his age) was already there, excited by his first inter-continental train. We decided that as only two bunks were made up, it would be just us. However, after a short while up turned Eric, who was booked into our compartment too. He apologised and hoped to stay with his mates further up the carriage, but might be back later.

And so it turned out. He was soon back, turned out by the slightly fearsome female German steward. So we had to work out how to move the middle bunk down a notch so as to set up the top bunk, which we managed.

Eric, who is nearly 20, is American (at school in Philadelphia, lives in NYC, but from Boston) and travelling through Europe with friends. We all got talking. Agus’s English, though not perfect, is far better than Eric’s limited, and my non-existent, Spanish. I thought of Geoff, who would have been in his element!

A funny thing: I had to literally produce my passport to prove my age, as they didn’t believe I was 44! I like Agus and Eric!!

I didn’t mention the Falklands or the Revolutionary War. I’m tactful like that.

We talked until we drifted off to sleep.

During the night there seemed to be lots of stops, as there were last time, some quite extended, and some shunting. It was a longer journey too via I’m not sure where. Overall, I didn’t sleep very well.

In the morning we remade the compartment cabin with seats; they had too much luggage for it to be entirely comfortable or practical, (these back-packers…) Breakfast was delivered, and Eric’s disorganised friends came by. I do hope they get on OK in Berlin.

Agus didn’t seem very awake. Anyway, we all exchanged Facebook details, as you do these days.

Once we’d stopped I headed straight out of the station for a smoke, saw Agus come out, look vaguely at a map printout and head off in a hopeful direction, and saw the Americans head straight for a taxi.

I wasn’t entirely with it, not enough sleep and not enough good coffee, couldn’t remember where in the Hauptbanhof to get a U-/S-Bahn/tram/bus ticket, but eventually remembered - on the platform. I may have bought a slightly too expensive A+B zones ticket when, on looking properly at the map, I probably only need zone A; but at least this time I decided that I will buy tickets daily as I need them, rather than end up with one unused at the end like I did last year.

The hotel is a little nearer Alexanderplatz and is pleasant enough, even if the room is rather too like so many of the hotels I stay in for work in the UK, but it’s friendly and has free internet, so it’s all good.

There’s a noisy building site opposite, but I won’t be in here much during the day.

I’m going to have a little kip now.

When £10 becomes £8

2010-12-12T19:39:00.005Z

Ich bin ein Berliner

2010-10-13T16:44:00.005+01:00

Possibly the least original blog post title for a visitor to Berlin, but hey, who cares?

Just a bit of a wander today, although this leaves me with a quandry: what to do with the left over travelcard I didn't use. I may just leave it in the room tomorrow, or give it to whoever I hand my key to in the morning. Should have bought them daily!

This old brewery is now a cultural centre.

This is the first water tower in Berlin, constructed by an Englishman in the mid-19th century, allowing fresh running water for the first time in Germany.

Some buildings are still waiting to be done up.

I got as far as a lovely, busy autumnal park in Friedrichshain (the Volkspark), although I failed to find the Prenzlauer Berg museum on the way.

Back via Konnopke's Imbiss, as predicted, for a currywurst and a Schultheiss. I ordered in German, but was floored by a question, a choice. He asked me again in English. At least I tried, which was appreciated.

Ornithologically speaking ...

2010-10-13T12:16:00.002+01:00

... have you any idea what this is, please? I snapped it yesterday in Berlin. It looks like a cross between a crow and a magpie, only black-and-grey. It was quite tame, too, and with its mate liked to perch on car roofs.

(Full circle) burger

2010-10-13T11:30:00.007+01:00

I have a very good Berlin guide book with me on this trip, and I have no hesitation in recommending the Time Out city guide (ISBN 978184670057-6); I will certainly want to buy others in the series from now on.

So this faith was again borne out last night in my (its) choice of restaurant. It's rather wonderful when you discover that somewhere you really like the look of on the page, turns out to be just round the corner. And so it was with The Bird. But first, I need to tell you a story ...

I'm sorry this is another of those stories that starts "When I lived in East Berlin ..." Look, it's somewhat inevitable that I know and relate the now to the history.

Anyway, having lived a sheltered childhood in Paris and rural England, I arrived in Berlin for my first summer holiday with very little practical understanding of Americans and their ways. I'd also never eaten a hamburger. Now during that holiday I discovered, sometimes with a colleague of my Dad's called Jim Brown and his family who had just come from a posting in Washington as Americanophiles complete with exported Pontiac Trans-Am ... so, as I was saying, it was with the Browns that I first discovered ten-pin bowling, Coca-Cola, and hamburgers in the American Air Force base at Tempelhof.

Now the British Officers' Club was a posh place, and the French one was, well, very French. But the Americans had what was basically a hamburger joint, and I loved it. Real US-style burgers and French Fries, Coke The Real Thing (the American stuff does taste different ...). It was all a revelation.

Steve reminded me the other day that I have a habit of demanding, when we are abroad, that we don't eat, say, Chinese food in Paris, or steak and chips in Spain, that we should eat the local food styles. I think I may be wrong about this, or at least I would like to modify this rule. In the great international cities of the world, there is a melting-pot of people, and cuisines. Who wouldn't want to eat Italian in New York? Or Caribbean in London? Or Chinese in Toronto? Or, as it turns out, New York burgers in Berlin?

And so we have come full circle. As an inveterate avoider of hamburgers and generally all things beginning with 'Mac', I enjoyed a wonderfully meaty, medium-rare, thick, cheese-covered, flame-scorched burger, and crisp irregular fries, along with half a litre of German beer, perched at the bar in a noisy, crowded, lively, happy burger joint, five minutes walk from where I'm staying. It was a million miles from a bland worldwide food franchise, and it was wonderful! Oh, and it's run by Americans: big, warm, friendly, have-a-nice-day Yanks, who speak little if any German. If you're in Berlin, especially if you're in Prenz'lberg, get yourself to Falk-Platz at the western end of Gleimstrasse. And if you don't really want to take a chance there'll be a table or even a place at the bar, you'd better book. They only take cash.

Today I'm going to spend quietly. I'm off for a walk around the bits of the Bezirke (borough) I haven't seen yet, including a museum, (and maybe wander as far as the next, Friedrichshain); I'm determined to get a currywurst from the hottest Imbiss in Berlin, which happens to be just down the road; and later on I'd like to find a cosy local café, and then maybe a cosy local bar, to sit and do some writing.

Hangover Pilgrimage

2010-10-12T16:46:00.014+01:00

Bit of a late start, unsurprisingly. Walked to nearest functioning U-Bahn station. Took train into Mitte.

Visited the odd new Holocaust Memorial (Denkmal für die ermordeten Jüden Europas) near the Brandenburger Tor. There's a video on YouTube. Then walked to the western side of the Gate, and made another short video for reasons which will be obvious if you watch it. It's on YouTube. Then I walked along to the the Soviet War Memorial on Strasse des 17 Juni, for reasons which ... oh for heaven's sake, just go to YouTube.

After a quiet few minutes sitting on a bench in the Tiergarten, I decided to go and find the Stasi Museum. I couldn't, but I did find some impressive Albert Speer Nazi-era architecture.

Next plan was to go to Heinrich-Heine-Strasse. I could have walked, but I had a BVG (Berlin public transport system) ticket, and besides, it's quite a way. Remember, I'm still feeling delicate.

So I found the nearest U-Bahn, which is in Friedrichstrasse, and called Stadtmitte. Now when I was in Berlin back in the days of the Cold War this station, or at least the part of it on the line I was to take, south to Hallesches Tor, was closed. The line, you see, ran north-south from West Berlin, through a section of the East, back into West Berlin; if you travelled on this line, you were aware of dimly-lit stations at which the train slowed, but did not stop, and there were armed East German guards lurking in the shadows. All very creepy.

Anyway, I was rather thirsty, and was looking for a shop selling bottled water. After some meandering, I found myself unexpectedly at the Gendarmenmarkt and the back of the block of flats in which my parents had lived. Having done this particular bit of nostalgia back in 2007, it hadn't been on th itinerary this time. Still, here's a picture looking along Leipzigerstrasse, with the front of the block in question just visible behind the trees on the left. It has been tarted up since 1990, but it used to look a lot like the blocks on the other side of the road: DDR-utilitarian.

[I'm really pissed off that everything I originally wrote beyond this point has been lost due to some sort of auto-save balls-up by blogger.com, so what follows is probably only half-remembered.]

I took the U-Bahn two stops southwards on line U6. Back in the day I'd walk through Checkpoint Charlie, invariably get on at the first station the other side, Kochstrasse, and change at Hallesches Tor, as I did today. Now a weird thing happened, as I walked up the steps at the end of the platform and headed towards line U1. The corridors, the orange wall tiles, even the old photographs on the walls, hadn't changed in thirty-two years. It freaked me a little.

The reason I wanted to go to Heinrich-Heine-Strasse will be apparent if you watch the appropriate video on YouTube. Essentially I was looking for a hospital at which I was wonderfully treated (an East German hospital, mind you) back in the winter of 1978. I'll tell you the story another time, since I've already typed it in loving detail once today ... grrrrr.

Drinking in bars with boys

2010-10-12T12:00:00.000+01:00

Too many half price Beck's. 4am. 'nuff said.

Managed breakfast this morning though.

Finally online

2010-10-11T16:00:00.005+01:00

Berlin today is a bit cold and a bit foggy, but I have wrap-me-up-warm clothes, and at least it isn’t raining. I’ve wandered a few of the main streets of the neighbourhood (Prenzlauer Berg, in the former eastern part of the city), checked in to my clean, tidy but very compact room, had a refreshing shower, and bought a bit to eat.

If you’re reading this now and a slew of previously-written postings, then I’ve successfully sorted out my internet access. Which means my next job is to post a few video clips on YouTube (www.youtube.com/haymee) and then work out where I’m going to go this evening.

"Schnell!"

2010-10-11T10:30:00.000+01:00

Berlin's new Hauptbanhof is an impressive, airy and light-filled building, into which I arrived some seven minutes late, which defied predictions. Unfortunately it's also filled with the same shop chains found now everywhere in the world.

Thinking it was a terminus and that there was no hurry to get off what was essentially an hotel on rails which would need a lot of maid service to be habitable again, I was in no rush. It turns out it's not a terminus. I nearly didn't get off in time before it pulled off on its way elsewhere. The friendly attendant, horrified he'd missed me, propelled me out of the door at speed.

Daily S- and U-Bahn tickets are more expensive than I was expecting, but I negotiated the system uneventfully ... until the U2 line from Alexanderplatz ended prematurely a few stops short. From the replacement bus it was easy to see why: the line, which is on stilts all the way up Schönhauser Alee, is being overhauled, with heavy machinery and hoardings; they're upgrading the line and stations, I imagine, from DDR days to a more modern system.

The hotel, friendly as the last time I was here nearly four years ago, have told me I can check in several hours early, at 1230, so a little exploring has started with a coffee and a Danish nearby.

The Night Train

2010-10-11T08:30:00.002+01:00

I have slept on trains before, of course. I don't mean drifting off on the Southern service to London Bridge, I mean properly overnighting. Not long after I left school (I honestly can't remember the year, but somewhere around 1986 or '87) my friend Peter and I did the Interrail thing, for I think ten days or three weeks, all over France, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, the Low Countries, Denmark, but saving precious time and even more precious money by catching trains between distant locations overnight wherever possible, sleeping in couchettes, seats or even in the corridor, and waking up in a different country.

Last night wasn't what you would call 'a good night's sleep'. To begin with, I wasn't tired, and Stephen Fry's 'Chronicles' is not a great soporific work. But after an hour or so I could hear Erich gently snoring below me so I turned the light out. Lying across the carriage, and with little in the way of conventional acceleration/deceleration forces, it's a bit disorientating for a while. In fact you are more likely to be moved towards your head or feet by centrifugal forces as the train encounters banked corners. It's also completely impossible to have any sense of the speed the train is doing, as the predominant noise is the air-conditioning and a much less distinct sound from the wheels on the track. There's rarely any sustained 'clackety-clack, clackety-clack' either.

All this pseudo-physics going round in my head did send me off, eventually. To be woken later by Erich taking a trip to the loo, then a text from Steve. The compartment is very small, with a possible three bunkbeds on the back wall (only two for us: the bench seats flipped over for the bottom bunk, and mine lowered from the wall; the third, if needed, is lowered from the wall even further up, with the middle bunk slid down to make equal spacing). On the front wall two wooden doors open to reveal a washstand, mirror, light and so on, and to the right of that a tiny interconnecting door to use if a family or group have two adjacent compartments. There's an effective blind on the window, and then a hotel-style solid door to the corridor on the other, with one of those punch-card keys you must remember to take with you if you go to the loo so you can get back in.

The unusual movements of the train didn't aid sleep, and although I did go off, I woke a lot too. We stopped for prolonged periods at least twice, and various clunking noises gave me the idea we were changing engines. If we were ever shunted, and we may have been, those doing it were at least sensitive to the cargo in the wagons they were moving: starting and stopping were barely perceptible.

Erich is clearly not a quiet person in the morning, although to be fair getting washed and dressed in a small, dark, unfamiliar space isn't really conducive to allowing your roommate to sleep. I didn't. Anyway, he disappeared with his breakfast-in-a-box even before we arrived at Hannover. I contemplated a bit more kip, but as I could start to see hints of the outside world (lights flashing across the compartment from under the bottom of the blind) from my high bunk, I started to get a bit too excited to sleep. I climbed down, easily worked out how to turn the bottom bunk back into three seats with armrests, and plugged my phone in to charge. Quick wash and dress, and as the eastern sun, into which we were headed, was beginning to penetrate the low mist lying over the night-frost-covered fields, I started to write this piece, only interrupted by the attendant bringing in a clip on table and my breakfast. He seemed happily surprised I'd saved him the bother of putting the seats out.

As I write this we have just stopped outside Berlin-Staaken station, so it cannot be long before we pull into the Hauptbanhof. I shall have to put the laptop away and get prepared for the start of my first day in Berlin!

Jarheads and bunkbeds

2010-10-10T22:00:00.005+01:00

It's 1910 in Paris and I'm sitting in a busy Gare de l'Est - a short walk from the Gare du Nord where my Eurostar arrived nearly an hour ago - anxiously looking at the departures board every few minutes. It is stubbornly refusing to display anything beyond the 2004 to Rheims. My Deutsch Bahn sleeper is due to leave at 2020. I have a delicious ham and cheese baguette and a pain au chocolat to console me while I wait. The place seems packed with young, off-duty, muscular, cropped, tanned, heavy-pack-carrying national service types.

Of course the train is eventually displayed, and is the DB train at Platform 5 I had already guessed it would be. I had to - for the second time today - walk the length of the platform to my carriage right behind the engine: the benefits of booking early are not just a cheaper fare, but a fast egress from the train at the terminus, not that that matters much to me on this journey.

On board the attendant points me to my compartment. I am slightly disappointed that the bunks are already down. Do I feel sleepy yet? Nope. As I'm sitting gingerly on the lower bunk, wondering who my roommate will be, in comes a white-haired gentleman in a check shirt. He is Erich, a retired German living in Paris. He will be getting off at the only stop on the way to Berlin, at Hannover at 0700, so at least I will have the last two hours to myself, hopefully in a seat if I can persuade the attendant to rearrange the compartment when he brings breakfast.

We talk a little - in English, as my German is rubbish - then after the train gets under way, bang on time, there's not a lot else to do but get ready for bed. I've taken the top bunk, so there's an amount of arranging of stuff to do in a confined space. If you've ever slept in a tent, you'll know what I mean.

It's a bit noisy and a bit rocking, and some people next door are obviously planning to stay up late talking, but I think I shall sleep well.

Tomorrow ...

2010-10-09T16:10:00.001+01:00

Quite excited! It's tomorrow I travel inter-continentally by train.

Keep your eye on this blog, and Facebook, for updates and photos; and YouTube (my channel is 'haymee', naturally) for short videos.

The Adventure Begins ...

2010-09-05T18:04:00.007+01:00

The tickets are booked!

St Pancras to Paris Nord leaving at 1502 on the Sunday afternoon, two-and-a-quarter hours; then a 10-minute walk to Gard de l'Est, and a two-hour wait (I might find somewhere for a bite to eat on the way); then it's the night sleeper leaving at 2020 to Berlin Hauptbanhof, arriving twelve hours and thirty-nine minutes later, at a minute to nine in the morning (and I bet it will pull in at one minute to, as well!)

Then I'll need to make a prompt dash for the hotel, because I think I'll only have until 11 to leave my bags (check-in doesn't open until 4).

All of which is brilliant because I will have a full day on Monday, plus Tuesday and Wednesday, and indeed most of Thursday before my flight from Schoenefeld at nine in the evening, arriving at Gatwick at 10.

The whole train booking business has been made immensely easy, I have to say, by The Man in Seat Sixty-One website. Oh, and less than £120, London to Berlin.

The whole flight booking business has been abysmal: it's Easyjet. Initial delight at a sub-£20 flight has been somewhat tempered by the £9 charge for the hold bag, then the £9.90 charge to pay by credit card. That's a 35% surcharge to pay by the card which will protect me if something untoward happens. It would even cost me a 14% surcharge to pay with a debit card (every other retailer charges no extra for this). The only way to avoid any charge is to pay using a Visa Electron card, whatever one of those is. So my £19.27 seat is costing me £37.17. Still, I suppose forty quid is a cheap flight, however the total is arrived at.

And finally ... I have a theme song for the trip. There will be regular blog updates, possibly some vlogs and certainly a few pictures as I go along, and a video at the end.

When am I going? Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Sunday the 10th October. Tschüs!

Ashamed

2010-08-28T22:06:00.001+01:00

A few nights ago, staying in Edinburgh, I was standing outside in the street having a last smoke before bed. It was around 2 in the morning. A young couple, who had been snogging fairly energetically nearby for a while, approached me, clearly rather drunk. But they were friendly. The man asked me if I knew where a certain street was. I told him I was sorry but I didn't. Could I at least tell him which direction was north? Nope, sorry, not from around here, can't help. Now this was all while my hand was on my iPhone, in my jeans pocket. You know the iPhone, the one with Google Maps and a compass built in.

I have simply no idea why I didn't offer help. None at all. They weren't aggressive, and actually he was very, very sweet. I'm quite ashamed. They wandered off, happily enough, but I went to bed a bit sad with myself.

What a Drag It Is To Get Old

2010-08-28T18:49:00.001+01:00

Mick was singing about something rather different, I know, but I refute that sentiment. This blog posting will be available soon as some sort of podcast too, for variety.

I absolutely refuse to accept age as a limiting factor. I might be 40-something, but I've never felt like I've ever really emerged from my twenties. Other people - people I know and love - choose to allow their actions, choices, attitudes and philosophies to conform to the number printed on their last birthday card. I just can't. It's really that hard-wired in. I don't believe there's anything I can't do. I want to try new stuff. I want to have adventures. I don't just remember what it was like to be a kid: I still am a kid. Life experiences shape and hone what those new, fun things, will be, granted. I'm not taking up skateboarding. But I want to tell you about two things to illustrate this idea further.

First off, a couple of days ago I was driving from the southern Lake District in England, to Glasgow. A sensible driver might have elected to cut across to the M6 and get on that motorway at the earliest opportunity. However, my sat-nav had other - and, as it turned out, rather better - ideas. It wanted me to follow the road up past Windermere and Ullswater to join the M6 much further north at Penrith. I was happy to oblige … the road was phenomenal! A switchback black ribbon laid out across the countryside - For My Pleasure!

Now I drive, for work purposes, a Skoda Octavia estate. Diesel. This isn't the slickest, fastest or most responsive car on the planet. And it's not helped by being fairly heavily laden. Oh and then there's the roof-bars. And the ladders on the roof-bars. But tell me, honestly, what would you do, faced with that road ahead? I gunned it. I zipped up that road, I climbed the hills, I marvelled at the views as I cut yet another corner. Don't worry, when there were pedestrians, I slowed down. I'm not completely reckless. I want to live another day. But I had about as much fun as I legally could.

And, in fact, there was a limit to the fun I could have. Why? Other cars. Driven by 'sensible' people. Old people. Or people with an 'old' attitude, at any rate. The worst two, I have to tell you about. The first was a TVR. Now TVRs are taut, racing chassis, with lightweight carbon-fibre bodies on. And a powerful, responsive engine. Exactly the sort of car you can throw round Lake District roads with ease and pleasure. But not this one. Every time the road opened up ahead, I expected the driver to do the same. Once or twice - no more - he half-heartedly did so. I felt annoyance - partly because I wanted to get past him and not waste the road ahead, but also because I could see and sense the waste of his car. I got past him in the end. Bye-bye old man number one.

The second was some codger in a Golf Plus - itself a rather pointless car (who needs a Golf to be taller?) - and he was not so much annoying, as dangerous. I'd already overtaken - patiently and with plenty of margin for safety - several other cars, including large Jaguars and the like. Most were happy to assist my manoeuvre. But as I went to overtake the Golf, on a straight road I could see clearly ahead, he moved across to block me, and blared his horn. I could barely believe how stupid he was. Dangerous, and a kill-joy. Once I'd started to get past him, he swerved petulantly back onto his side of the road. Then flashed me as I got ahead of him, for good measure. Dick. Bye-bye old man number two.

The rest of the journey was, more or less, glorious. I so wish I'd been driving something more fun, but never mind. One day, I'll have another car as entertaining as my old Golf GTi Mk 1 …

Now onto the second example. For various reasons we haven't booked a proper holiday away this year. We went to Paris for Steve's birthday, of course, and we're off to France again in November for a long weekend, but though we both have a week or so of leave left, Steve wants to stay at home, and I'd like an adventure! So for the first time in a long while, I'm going abroad on my own. I'm going to Berlin, one of my favourite cities, and one I know quite well. But, as someone once said, the travelling is all part of the adventure.

And so the plan is to get a train into London, and take an afternoon Eurostar from St Pancras to Gard du Nord, then pick up the overnight sleeper from Gard de l'Est, travelling through the night to arrive in Berlin around nine in the morning. I'm going to try and stay in the same place Ian, Steve and I stayed back in January 2007. It was very friendly, the breakfasts were great, and it was in the kind of laid-back, artistic district of Prenzlauer Berg just off the Schönhauser Alee, which was very appealing.

Things I don't want to do: the Pergamon Museum; Checkpoint Charlie; the Fernsehturm; our old flat in Leipzigerstrasse.

Things I do want to do: a pilgrimage to the hospital where I was so well treated in 1978 - if it's still there; a visit to the Holocaust Memorial, which I understand to be visually stunning, and which we failed to get to three years ago; pounding the pavements and re-learning the city as it's changed since the Wall came down; hanging out in bars and meeting people.

Sounds like an adventure to me. I'll let you know how the planning goes.

Stay young!

... hello Holyhead

2010-08-27T19:09:00.001+01:00

Goodbye Dublin ...

2010-08-27T19:08:00.001+01:00

Glorious Twelfth

2010-08-12T22:41:00.001+01:00

Whilst it's still - just - the 12th August, I thought I'd mark the 25th anniversary of the day I started work.

Just a test

2010-06-18T21:24:00.000+01:00

Just a test. If succesful this post will be deleted.

Graham McDonald 1966-2009

2009-12-12T20:05:00.004Z

I learned yesterday of the untimely death of an old school friend, and it has made me very sad. Graham was at once one of the popular guys, but had time for everyone (and I wasn't one of the popular guys). Many tributes have been paid to him on Facebook by his friends. No-one can possibly imagine what goes through someone's mind to imagine that the only answer is take one's own life.

Rest In Peace Graham

Breaking News

2009-11-24T18:02:00.000Z

Discovery Channel trailer-man voiceover: "...and Hitler invades Poland."
Steve: "Not again?"

Podcasts and Twitter

2009-11-21T21:43:00.014Z

These lists accompany the haymee-pods numbers 8 (podcasts) and 9 (Twitter).

Podcasts I subscribe to:

Friday Night Comedy

From Our Own Correspondent

Mark Kermode/Simon Mayo Film Reviews

The Apple Byte (video)

Buzz Report (video)

Carpool (video)

NASAcast

As It Occurs To Me

The Ross Patzelt Radio Show

Twitter - the people I follow:

Bill Bailey - RealBillBailey

Simon Pegg - simonpegg

Peter Serafinowicz - serafinowicz

John Cleese - JohnCleese

Jimmy Carr - jimmycarr

Will Harris - WillHarris

Robert Llewellyn - bobbyllew

Phillip Schofield - Schofe

Stephen Fry - stephenfry

Victoria Coren - VictoriaCoren

Mika - mikasounds

Gareth Mitchell - GarethM

Bill Thompson - billt

Prof Brian Cox - ProfBrianCox

Jeff Williams - Astro_Jeff

Nicole Stott - Astro_Nicole

Mark Kelly - ShuttleCDRKelly

Scott Kelly - StationCDRKelly

Andrew Collins - CollingsA

Chris Addison - mrchrisaddison

Armando Iannucci - AIannucci

Tim Minchin - timminchin

Charlie Brooker - charltonbrooker

Rob Brydon - RobBrydon

Phill Jupitus - jupitusphillip

David Mitchell - RealDMitchell

David Quantick - quantick

Dave Gorman - DaveGorman

Alan Rusbridger - arusbridger

Nick Clegg - nick_clegg

Jack Of Kent - jackofkent

Paul Bailey - paulbailey

Robin Ince - robinince

Johann Hari - johannhari101

Daniel Edward Pitt - myinfamy

Crispian Jago - Crispian_Jago

Simon Singh - SLSingh

Richard Wilson - dontgetfooled

Maggie Philbin - maggiephilbin

Richard Herring - Herring1967

Tweetdeck - the iPhone app I use, has improved since I recorded the podcast. Oh, and I'm haymee of course, on Twitter!

Nick Griffin speaks the truth?

2009-11-15T16:04:00.005Z

You've seen this already, right? In case you haven't - it's probably not quite what you're expecting...

Windy Queen

2009-11-14T19:50:00.004Z

Into town this afternoon - on my own* - for a mixed bag of retail experiences.

Boots was civilised and polite, and had everything I needed pretty much where I expected to find it. Sainsbury's was as Sainsbury's is; that is to say, frustrating, over-crowded and generally unfulfilling. Micro Anvika was helpful and had exactly what I wanted, but at a price.

But then I had to go to Primark. I say "had to". Steve needed some socks and I needed a new practical top for work. So it's the only sensible place to visit. God, it is awful. Full of scummy people (well, this is Croydon) and disgusting 'store standards'. The queue was monstrous, and the socks - from a newly-replenished display - turned out on examination at the till to be faulty, so I was invited to follow the (admittedly helpful) BO-emitting sales assistant back to choose a replacement. £7.83 unsatisfactorily spent.

And boy was it blowy out.

*Steve was in London, and is now The Ghost Club's new Press Officer. He came back with some new vinyl, including Queen + Paul Rodger's The Cosmos Rocks, which is playing as I type, and rather fine.

Remembrance Sunday

2009-11-08T14:45:00.007Z

As usual we watched the ceremony from the Cenotaph on TV this morning. Brought a lump to the throat. I think this is the first year there are no longer any Great War ("the war to end all wars") veterans. But more and more injured and killed from our own times.

Where's my new car?

2009-11-06T23:45:00.006Z

'cos mine's done 100K - earlier today in fact. On the A1 southbound, just south of the M62, near Pontefract.

Guardian gagged!

2009-10-13T01:23:00.004+01:00

The Guardian has been gagged from reporting parliamentary proceedings.

Scandalous. However, free-thinking people may care to look here.

For more on this read the current Private Eye and, I strongly suspect, the new edition due in your favourite newsagent later this week.

[edited to tidy up formatting]

It's Croydon

2009-08-22T17:00:00.001+01:00

Well I'm not going in there then.

haymee-pod

2009-07-15T21:45:00.009+01:00

If you read this blog regularly - or even just occasionally - you may like to know that I've started a podcast. Three episodes so far. It's been quite exciting to watch them appearing in the iTunes store.

If you want to subscribe to my random burblings, you need to click here if you use iTunes, or they are available here as well, where you can subscribe.

Improve your mood through sewing

2009-07-12T19:58:00.002+01:00

Down in Salisbury for quick weekend visit to get stuff together before Larmer Tree. In generally low mood for some reason. But just finished sewing our camp* flag up, and this has lifted my spirits a little somehow. Mind you, I'm expecting it to unravel in the wind...

*it's for identifying the tent at a distance, but also it's purple and gold and shimmery, so kind of camp in both senses.

Dublin to Belfast – dictation from when I drive off the ferry at Dublin Port

2009-07-02T18:57:00.001+01:00

I may have alluded (on Saturday 2nd May, to be rather precise) to the fact that I had recorded a sort of burble into a tape recorder recently, and so here it is, transcribed:

Right, this is Ireland. Drive on the left, yes that's fine. Oh, the traffic lights are a bit different. They don't go Red.....Amber.....Green, they go Red.Green.

I need to get used to these road signs, but apart from that everything looks pretty normal.

And Kilometres! Kilometres per hour. Thank goodness for that! My TomTom set to kilometre units is finally … you know … worthwhile.

My radio seems to be playing pop music, and adverts, and I haven't de-tuned it from Radio 4 since I left England. Or rather, Wales. So this is the Irish Radio 4 is it? Well, no, it seems to be some commercial station in Dublin. But it's quite listen-to-able.

OK, I've got to go left here [indicator on]. Dammit.

Damn, why didn't I get some bloody Euros out? I could have taken this Toll Tunnel [from Dublin Port] but now I've got to go through the City Centre – in the rush hour. What an idiot.

OK, now we've got … oh, wow, he's fit! He's dressed... What's he? Rugby? No, he's carrying a sort of stick thing. What is that? Not Gaelic football … it's more like lacrosse, but it's not lacrosse, lacrosse is for girls, what is it? No, can't remember. [It's hurling. Ed.]

Oh buggery bollocks. I'm in the wrong f***ing lane now [indicator on, TomTom: “Turn right. Turn left”]. That means I've got to turn left. Actually though, that might turn out quite well. It's going to get me past this jam.

Oh look! An Irish pub.

Orange-jacketed evening newspaper sellers at the traffic lights, patrolling the queues of cars. Headline on the … whatever the paper is … a quick glance and I thought it read, “Body Found In Bog”. Too many Irish clichés on my mind I think. It actually says, “Body Found In Boot”.

[Indicator on] Erm … they're going to hate me. I've just scooted past a load of cars. I got into the left lane in front of a bus, and now I've realised it becomes a bus lane the other side of the traffic lights, and I've got to cut back in again, and they're going to hate me.

Slightly bizarre as we join the M1, or N1 – not sure which it is – motorway heading north out of Dublin: a funeral cortège with police motorcycle outriders, which seems a little … extraordinary … although somehow, very Irish.

Ok. Is this the M1, the N1 or the E1? I think it's the M1.

Or is it the E-01?

Ooh! I can officially do 120 km/h, which is 75mph. Although I can't, because it's congested, but I could.

I've just been undertaken on the motorway – that's not right! Ah, it's a Brit.

Right. The N1 is not the same road as the M1. The N1 is, I think, more like our A1, and the M1 is like … well … our M1.

Oh come on, you're having a giraffe. There's a sign to a village just off the motorway called Termon Feckin. Surely not. That's for tourists, no?

Well, I've kind of missed the border somehow, because they've diverted the road just at that point from where my sat-nav thought I should be, and the only indication I'd crossed into the North was a road sign warning “Speed Limit in MPH”.

Impressions of Ireland – driving through it: a mixture of Britain and continental Europe, which I suppose is no surprise.

Salisbury as seen from 100 years ago

2009-07-01T20:48:00.009+01:00

A couple of nights ago I was in one of those hotels that has a pile of old books on a table next to the four-poster. I picked up the top volume “The National Encyclopædia Vol. XII Rom.-Spr.”, published I'm not sure when as there appears to be no date, but claiming to be “A Dictionary of Universal Knowledge by Writers of Eminence in Literature, Science and Art”, which makes a bit of a change from Wikipedia I suppose.

One interesting point of note is that these are the planets as listed in a wonderful fold-out colour plate at the beginning showing comparitive magnitudes: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Vesta, Juno, Ceres, Pallas, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune.

So we are pre-1930(?) when Pluto was discovered, and I assume the four listed between Mars and Jupiter must be major asteroids, long-since discounted as insignificant in any list of planets.

Anyway, that's all by-the-by, as what I wanted to tell you was how I opened the book completely randomly, and it fell open at the entry for Salisbury (page 96, if you care) and this is what it says (all punctuation etc maintained):

SALISBURY (or New Sarum), parliamentary and municipal borough, and market-town in Wiltshire, 83 miles W.S.W. from London by the Exeter branch of the South-western Railway, and 23 miles N.W. of Southampton. (The name of the town in pronounced Salz'bury.)

This city had its origins in the thirteenth century. This bishops and canons of the cathedral, which was then within the fortifications of Old Sarum [see SARUM], being exposed to injury from the captains of that fortress, with whom they were at feud, determined to remove their church to another site; and Richard Pauper or Poore, who held the see, having obtained an indulgence from the Pope, commenced a new church on the lands belonging to the see on the site of the present cathedral, in 1220. The inhabitants of Old Sarum, espousing the cause of their bishop and clergy, also removed, and thus the city of New Sarum, or Salisbury, rose into existence. A charter granted by Henry III., making it a free city, and giving to the inhabitants a fair and a market, contributed to its prosperity, and in the succeeding reigns several parliaments were held there. It was fortified by a wall and ditch; and the erection of a bridge over the Avon at Harnham brought the great western road (which had previously passed through Old Sarum) through this town in 1244. From its position it rapidly rose into commercial importance. In the Wars of the Barons and the Roses it was, however, a considerable sufferer. The Duke of Buckingham was beheaded in its market-place, in 1483, by order of Richard III. During the Civil War it was successively occupied by Ludlow, Doddington, Waller and Charles I. It was triumphantly entered by the Prince of Orange (William III.), on the 4th of December, 1688.

Salisbury is situated on the eastern bank of the river Avon, which is crossed by three stone bridges, and the principal part of it lies immediately to the north of the extensive Cathedral Close. It consists of several streets, regularly laid out at right angles to each other. Most of the houses are of brick, of comparitively modern erection, and several of them of handsome appearance. The town is well paved, and kept remarkably clean by means of water continually running down the principal streets. The drainage is good, and the city is one of the healthiest in England. South of the Avon, where it makes a bend to the east, is the suburban village of Harnham.

The cathedral is considered one of the most beautiful in England. It was begun in 1220, and finished in 1258. The architect was Elias de Derham, and among its benefactors were William Longespée, earl of Salisbury, and his countess, Ela. The spire was added in the reign of Edward III. The Close is entered by several ancient gates. The freedom of the cathedral from the encumbrance of contiguous buildings adds much to its imposing beauty; and further, it has the advantage of being built in one style, the Early English, and from a uniform plan. The tower and spire are of later date, but admirable accommodated to the style of the building, the extreme length of which is 449 feet; width of the great transept, 203 feet; height of the interior, 81 feet; and of the spire, 404 feet. It is in the form of a double cross, having two transepts, each of which has an aisle eastward, and the nave has a large north porch. There are spacious cloisters, a chapter-house, and a tower for a library and muniment room. The exterior of the cathedral was thoroughly restored between the years 1863 and 1870. The work included not merely superficial renewals, but the strengthening of the foundation throughout, so that everywhere the security as well as the appearance of the building as regarded. The chief work, however, was the strengthening of the matchless tower and spire, so as to insure its future safety. This was fully accomplished by means of an ingenious and elaborate system of iron ties, devised by Mr. Shields, the eminent civil engineer, whom Sir G. G. Scott (under whose superintendence the restorations were made) had called in to assist him in this delicate operation. The choir of the cathedral was restored in 1873-77 at a cost of about £15,000, as a memorial to the late Bishop Hamilton. The three parish churches of the old city are large; St. Edmund's and St. Thomas' are fine buildings in the Perpendicular style. The episcopal palace contains a feudal hall built in 1460.

The Roman Catholics have a handsome chapel, and there are places of worship for various denominations of dissenters. There is a grammar-school in connection with the cathedral, and another in the patronage of the corporation. The other public buildings are the council-house, town-hall, the infirmary, library and news-room, St. Nicholas hospital, founded earlier than the cathedral; and Hamilton Hall, erected in 1874 for the use of the literary and scientific institution and school of art. The Victoria Park was opened in 1887 and the County Hall erected in 1889. A statue to Henry Fawcett, M.P. was erected in 1887.

Since 1885 the borough has returned one member to Parliament. The population of the parliamentary borough – the limits of which were slightly extended by the Redistribution of Seats Act of 1885 – is 17,362. The markets are held on Tuesday and Saturday, with large cattle fairs on alternate Tuesdays.

Having had a further flick through the book, which covers from Romford (“a busy and increasing town of England, in the county of Essex, with a large cattle market, a good corn exchange, a town-hall, two iron-foundries, and a celebrated brewery...”) to Spring'bok (“a species of antelope found in South Africa, and nearly allied to the gazelle”), I think the date of publication must be around the turn of the twentieth century, because there are dates late into the 1890s but none I can see after this.

I thought you might be interested.

Strange co-incidences pt. 94

2009-05-30T19:16:00.005+01:00

We got back from holiday fine. Onto a dirty train at Gatwick full of nasty Sussex oiks. And I mean "f-ing, c- ing" retards. Welcome home...

Two days ago I found myself driving along the Euston Road, crossing over Baker Street. And for the rest of the journey I was trying my damnedest to get that song out of my head. Have you ever tried whistling it, you know, straight from your head? Could I get the sax solo right, the bit where it goes all twiddly? No, I could not.

And then for the co-incidence.

First let me explain that way, way back, when I was at boarding school, I used to spend half-term holidays in this country, either with my maiden great-aunt in Salisbury, or sometimes with my sister and brother, who shared a house in Bramley, near Guildford. And we would go to a pub, the Wheatsheaf, where I would have a Coke while my siblings would consume pints, and we would play pool, and I would put some pocket money (25p?) in the juke box, and my favourite selection was Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street.

And yesterday afternoon, re-routing my sat-nav to avoid a congested M25, completely unexpectedly I found myself driving through ... Bramley. And past the Wheatsheaf, and there's Baker Street pounding inside my head yet again.

The end of the holiday

2009-05-23T10:23:00.002+01:00

After our trip to Sóller we ate again at Ses Oliveres.

And yesterday was a bit of a non-day really, and in the evening after cocktails at the hotel, we ate at a little tucked-away upstairs terrace restaurant.

And today we fly home...

The Spanish Armada* is late

2009-05-21T17:55:00.008+01:00

Bit pf a catch-up here, sorry.

More sun yesterday - wow this is soooo tiring! Lay by the pool for an hour again, then a little later sat on the beach while Steve swam enjoyably in the sea for a while, doing handstands! That is to say, he was doing handstands in the sea - I wasn't doing them on the beach...

Last night we walked further round than usual, to 'Es Passeig' restaurant. Apart from a German mother and her two unruly kids nearby all was good. We started with salads and I had spagetti while Steve had fish - as in a whole fish, baked. I've never been keen when fish is served with head and tail intact, and eating it is more a biology lesson disection exercise than a meal. Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

During the course of the meal my new green check shirt, already well-fitting, became tight, so now I am officially fat.

Despite the service being slow and us dragging the meal out as long as possible with dessert and coffees, we still found that Miguel Pastor was playing his merrie organe when we got back to the hotel, so we ordered cocktails and endured (and I do not use the word in any exaggerated sense) it for half an hour before going to bed where we could still hear him murdering various standards ('Please Release Me' springs to mind for some reason) as well as unknown Spanish compositions.

A word or two about birds. This morning while sitting out on the balcony just before the 0800 national anthem from the naval base (only the usually-efficient Spanish Armada* didn't play it until 0805 today) I watched three swallows (or were they swifts?) wheeling about, almost in formation like little jet fighters, catching insects before the heat of the sun. There are sparrows everywhere here: they hop onto the back of the chair next to you when you are eating a sandwich at an outdoor café, they flit around the hotel balconies looking for dropped crumbs, and I even watched one hopping along the beach yesterday. And they're noisy little buggers. Ducks here like the sea - a lot. We often see two or three bobbing along a few metres from the beach. In the dried up river you can see ducks, geese, seagulls and last night some weird bird (like a chicken or turkey yet with webbed feet). And when we went for a wander the other day to a great place up by the old church (now a museum) where you can sit and look out over the headland to the exit from the harbour, we watched a gull for probably five minutes wheeling about without flapping his wings even once, enjoying the air currents off the cliff face. I swear he was enjoying himself.

You can hail the tram right outside our hotel, and this morning we did so, and clattered our way into Sóller where we spent three hours or so having a coffee, a look around the shops, a longish (for us) walk through orange and lemon groves, some lunch including of course plenty of fresh local orange juice (Sóller's wealth is built on oranges), and then caught the tram back.

I may have mentioned this before, but when I was little I came to Port de Sóller with my parents on holiday from Paris, where we lived at the time. Way, way back in my memory I can recall visting a shop where Dad bought the large olive wood cheese board and fruit bowl they still use to this day. Now I think I found the same shop/workshop in Sóller, right by the tram terminus. On chatting to the nice lady inside I discovered it opened forty years ago (which would be about right) and the photograph of the then owner she showed me brought back more memories...

Oh, and when we arrived back at the hotel - joy of joys - the air-conditioning is on. Won't go lower than 21° unfortunately, but hey, it's air-con!

*Armada in Spanish just means Navy

Fantastic news!

2009-05-20T14:50:00.002+01:00

See what we have to look forward to tonight!!

A day in Palma de Mallorca

2009-05-19T20:00:00.002+01:00

After breakfast, a 'Tunnel Express' bus direct to Palma, for a gentle day of sightseeing.

In the 'Museu d'Art Espanyol Contemporani' I sat for some time in front of a large yellow daubing, but try as I might I didn't get it. It was cheerful, though. There were some things of interest (including some Picassos and Dalis).

We did a little fashion shoot in a colourfully-lit exhibit (at least I think it was an exhibit: it might have been a tanning salon).

Then we visited the 'Palau March Museu' to see some sculptures (including by Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth) and some absolutely stunning eighteenth-century Neapolitan Nativity scenes. See more of these pics here.

Then we just went a bit touristy, had a spot of lunch in a café on a square, wrote some postcards, wandered the shops, had a rather expensive coffee in a very hip establishment called Cappuccino, where we were paying for the exclusivity and the ambience, before catching the slow mountain bus back through Valldemossa and the beautiful village of Deià (where Michael and Catherine famously live).

A special meal

2009-05-19T19:00:00.000+01:00

Once every holiday we treat ourselves to an extra-special meal and last night we did so, slightly unexpectedly, when, on a whim, we decided to dine at 'Randemar', a fine restaurant set behind a hedge and a railing, which we have passed many times on our way to eat at lesser establishments.

We had the full works, and where Steve had a main of duck, I chose a tuna steak. And I learned something new. Now I would have expected the answer to the question, "How would you like your tuna steak cooked, sir?" to be, simply, "Properly, please." However, I have discovered that the correct answer is, "Medium, please." We enjoyed a bottle of fine, dry white wine, and I finished with a delicious sorbet.

When we returned to the hotel for a drink in the bar, the stereo treated us to possibly my worst nightmare: Karen Carpenter* followed by Chris de Burgh followed by the Everly Brothers followed by the Jackson Five ("Ben") followed by - Gawd help us - the Bee Gees with "Massachusetts". At least we are, so far at least, spared any of the outside 'entertainments' which we endured last time we were here, as the season hasn't properly started yet.

*Apparently I'm not allowed to diss Karen Carpenter.

Another beautiful day in paradise

2009-05-18T16:26:00.000+01:00

Possibly the hottest day yet saw us going for a wander after breakfast around the old lanes above the marina, stopping at a bar to sit and watch the world of Port Sóller go about its business.

The myna bird we occasionally hear wolf-whisling lives in a cage on a balcony above the dress shop next-door.

I rarely sunbathe even on holiday, but this afternoon I spend a very pleasant hour covered in lotion on a sunbed by the hotel pool.

I have declared that I fancy fish tonight.

2 pictures

2009-05-17T18:20:00.003+01:00

Me last night in the hotel bar.

Steve swimming in the pool this afternoon.

Hotels

2009-05-17T16:30:00.001+01:00

This is the second time we have stayed in the Hotel Eden in Port de Sóller.

But there are two other hotels here I like the look of:

The Hotel Aimia, which is next door,

and the imposing Espléndido.

Sunshine does not equal happiness

2009-05-17T15:09:00.009+01:00

I'm aware that my blogs on holiday are beginning to be a bit "...and this is what we ate for lunch, and the weather is hot..." rather boring nonsense. So a change is needed.

Last night unfortunately I was feeling down. It doesn't happen too often, but with Steve ill - indeed, signed off sick - with severe depression, it doesn't help when I too find myself feeling low. It's difficult to see what's happening around us with any kind of objectivity; it's like we're both trapped in the tentacles of some sea monster. There was a problem with the paella; there was a problem with noise (it was Saturday night, and I think the local youths were just letting off steam); and there was a problem with the heat (which might seem odd as the weather is now so wonderful after the rains - but when you're down, any problem is just a problem).

There is, we discovered this morning after talking to the hotel, nothing to be done about the air-conditioning - which doesn't come on in the room even with the balcony door closed - it's automatic. Whether or not the heat today will trigger it to come on tonight, we shall find out.

Steve has been writing the first essay of his OU course today to submit later, so I've been paddling, wandering, photographing, and reading. There are pictures here (from number 33 to 48).

The History Of Port De Sóller

2009-05-16T14:39:00.000+01:00

I have shamelessly copied this from the back of the menu at 'Albatros', our favourite morning coffee bar.

"The Port de Sóller has long attracted an ocean of conquerors, invaders, settlers and now tourists, who have all contributed to its rich and colourful history.

"The first settlers were shepherds and metal prospectors arriving around 4000BC who buried their people in rock carved caves. Next came the Talayotic period around 1000BC and cone-shaped towers can still be seen from this time. Phoenician and Greek traders followed and it's probable that the name Balearic comes from ballein, the Greek for sling throwing. These skilled sling-throwers helped the Carthaginians fight the Greeks and Romans. By 123BC the Romans had control of Mallorca introducing their infrastructures, roads, towns and Christianity. However, during the 10th century the island was annexed to the Emirate of Córdoba and followed 300 years of Muslim rule.

"The port was formed as part of the territory known as Sulyar (Valley of Gold) and with a strategic position between Africa and Islamic Spain, trade prospered as agriculture improved. In 1229 the prosperity tempted King Jaume I of Aragón and Catalunya who, angry with the Emir of Mallorca for stealing his ships, took the island. The northern port established itself as the centre of the great trading routes and a lucrative export trade of oranges, lemons and olive oil followed - evidence can be seen in the manor houses and farms whose façades show an elegance that is unusual in Mallorca. However, trade was continuously threatened by attacks from bandits and bloody battles were fought and won between the Moors and Christians over the following centuries. Each year proud locals celebrate the Mallorcan victory known as 'Es Firo' with a mock battle - a fascinating and energetic festival not to be missed*.

"With the growth of the shipping trade during the Middle Ages and up to the French Revolution, the Port of Sóller prospered with an extensive fleet of merchant ships, fishing boats and shipping lines. In the eighteenth century a commercial port was fitted out with new quays. However the Civil War (1936-1939) changed the focus of the Port. After the Civil War, the shipping trade had virtually disappeared, though the Port soon took on a new challenge with the growth and demand of tourism.

"Now the port enjoys a much more passive role where a proud traditional culture and lively fishing industry quietly live alongside the unique combination of mountains, beach and sea which attract visitors from far and wide."

*We did miss it - by two days.

We'll pass over the "Christianity" introduced by the Romans in 123BC, the quick skim over the Civil War and the complete lack of any mention of WWII, shall we? But that gives you a flavour of where we are.

...and a goat sneezed

2009-05-16T13:35:00.009+01:00

This morning we hiked up to the lighthouse on the promontory, which is a fair way, though the views out to sea, and back towards the town, are magnificent. And there are goats in them thar hills. Goats sneeze, too, which sounds quite funny.

We had cold drinks (I had lemonade) at the top.

The houses whose entrance gates we had passed on the road on the way up revealed themselves in all their glory against the cliff-face on the way back down.

This evening

2009-05-15T22:11:00.005+01:00

Steve paddled in the sea earlier.

Now you want to know what we ate tonight, don't you? We started with just some bread, olive oil/garlic mayonnaise and some olives. Then Steve had chicken, and I had grilled swordfish and a baked potato.

We watched the sun set, always a magical moment in Port de Sóller. Then we - perhaps foolishly - ordered tiramisù for dessert, before escaping back to the hotel for coffee (Steve) and vodka-based-cocktail (me).

Insmonia

2009-05-15T17:16:00.000+01:00

Ses Oliveras was open last night, so we had a fantastic meal. Please, if you ever come to Port de Sóller, promise you will visit Ses Oliveras, and order the shoulder of lamb. You will not regret it.

Was the waiter Dutch, or Welsh? Did it rain, and rain, and rain? Was the place full of ex-pat Brits? Did that matter? Was it annoying that two people, favoured guests, perhaps family of the owner*, were smoking inside, and when I asked if I could smoke I was told, no?

*He has a portait of himself, a painting, hung above the entrance to the toilets. It's a fairly large painting, and was done a few years ago when he was a little less grey than he is now. But he is a very nice man, and when we paid our second visit in a week two years ago, we left with a bottle of wine from him as a gift, so he is forgiven for all these things. And his lamb is so, so nice.

It is possible, in hindsight, that the vodka cocktail in the hotel bar aftwerwards was one drink too many.

I woke at precisely 0340hrs. Boom. Wide awake. Absolutely, completely, totally awake. I toyed with the following possibilities: going and sitting naked on the balcony and watching the lighthouse; setting up the laptop and randomly surfing; putting the light on and reading. I did none of these things, but lay, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the fact that I was so much happier being awake here, with the sound of the sea lapping against the beach, than back at home, with the alarm perhaps due to go off at 7.15... I think that helped me drift off again.

In fact the alarm did go off just before 8. This was because I had caught drifts of an anthem wafting from unseen PA speakers somewhere nearby each morning at about this time, and I wanted to get up, go outside and work out where. Now I know it comes from the (very small) naval base across the harbour. I recorded it, and offer this file (only as a WMA until I get home) for you to listen to. Is it the Spanish National Anthem? Anyone?

So, I was up. But Steve wasn't. He felt rough. A heady mixture of beer, wine and vodka cocktails, and the (perfectly legal, indeed prescribed) head-drugs that are slowly but surely twisting his mind back into the shape it should be, conspired to make him feel like s**t. Or that's what he told me, anyway. So I went to breakfast, smuggling back some of those trifle sponge fingers, before sitting out in the sun/cloud/sun/cloud/sun/cloud by the pool with a decent cup of coffee, until he joined me. Some people were even attempting to sun-bathe.

And now, later on, the sun shines very brightly upon us, and all is well with the world.

Wetness

2009-05-14T15:21:00.014+01:00

Yesterday afternoon we watched a man try out some flags on the four flagpoles on the hotel roof. He ran up a St George's flag, and a small Turkish one, before removing them and instead running up an EU one and a rather ragged Spanish one.

EU, Spanish, Mallorcan and Hotel Eden flags

I was rather impressed that after tying off the lanyard on each flag, he fixed it to the flagpole with cable-ties to stop the clang-clang-clang which can get very annoying.

Out for a small lunch and coffees, and to get cash and cigarettes. It was damp and we were pestered by sparrows. Then a wetter walk around the marina to look at some of the larger boats. 'Eagle III' from London was particularly impressive, as was a wooden yacht.

We came back to the hotel for Steve to sleep, while I read* and snoozed. The wind really got up at one point, testing the flag-man's attempts at silencing the clanging lanyards. I can report that, tested under pressure, he was only partly succesful. The harbour did its job of protecting the boats very well, while wind-whipped waves washed against the small beach below the hotel.

Beers dowstairs were followed by pizza at Diablito's, and then cocktails back at the hotel.

Woke up this morning to sun! At breakfast there is a good selection of cereals and traditional cooked eggs, bacon and so on, plus the more continental selection of cold meats and cheeses, as well as toast-making facilities, and a slightly odd (yet, again, typically continental) collection of miniature cakes, from which I sampled yesterday. The thing that looks like a dry trifle sponge finger turned out to be ... a dry trifle sponge finger.

The coffee, however, is possibly the worst coffee this side of the Pyrenees, so that is why we have not long come back from a trip to a proper cafe for a proper cappuccino.

Unfortunately we failed to miss the 'emergency sham', news of which has been posted about the hotel since we got here. We evacuated when the alarms went off, but I think it was more a bell test than a genuine attempt at an evacuation exercise, which I think should have involved marshalls on each floor and a serious attempt at checking rooms.

We was naughty and sneaked out without handing in our key at reception for a burger and baguette and beers at a nearby bar. It rained heavily. We bought more water and mystery chocolate biscuits at the shop under the hotel.

By the way, I'm aware this blog is a bit crap. I can write well, and if you want to see a better example of my travel writing, then click here.

The complete collection of photographs from the holiday can be found here. It will be updated whenever possible.

*This holiday's reading list: Rock Me Amadeus by Seb Hunter; Imperium by Robert Harris; The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (eBook); Grimm's Fairy Tales (eBook); Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka (eBook).

Note to self: use gracias not grazie

2009-05-13T10:37:00.007+01:00

Got to Gatwick early yesterday, but the flight was late. A gratis text first thing had confirmed the flight time, but apart from an uncalled-for advert for exchange services when we got to the airport, there was no info text about the delay. So EasyJet were true to type.

Airbus A319 pushed back at 1307, took off at 1320, and an uneventful flight.

Snow-covered lumpy bits (the Pyrenees)

In Palma we lost the bus station. Where it had been last time we were here two years ago was now a car park. We found it in the end - underground. Caught the bus through the tunnel out to Sóller and on to Port de Sóller - which felt, Steve said, like coming home ("It feels as if we haven't been away, as if we just popped into Palma for the day").

By 7pm we were on the balcony gazing out across the small bay to the lighthouses.

We went for a wander. Marley's had gone, and Ses Oliveres was closed, but, after some unpleasantness at one restaurant where we were pushed out by some Germans, we ate well, and returned for bed.

This morning at breakfast was every species of German on show: the rude ones, the arrogant ones, the intimidating ones. And the ugly ones. But there are no towels on the sun-loungers, at least yet.

Despite the fact that it's dull yet warm, several tram-loads of day-trippers have arrived from Sóller. Steve has studied this morning, so it's time to go and seek a decent cup of Mallorcan coffee.

A**e

2009-05-10T14:34:00.004+01:00

Quick pop into town for sun screen and some new sunglasses (but not the books I'd ordered, which aren't in yet), in preparation for our holiday next week. Then quickly back home with time to spare to watch the Spanish Grand Prix - or so I thought. I didn't check the Radio Times, but I had it listed in my calendar as 2pm. Only it started at 1. Like I said, a**e.

We went to Denise and Peter's yesterday, for a delicious meal and a very nice evening, with Kevin and Stephen there too. Peter has a rather fab new car, which I happily drooled over.

vil! The Story of Anvil, An

2009-05-02T14:44:00.005+01:00

The above is exactly how I have just seen headed a film review on the web. I can see what happened - can you?

A somewhat pointless post

2009-05-02T14:39:00.005+01:00

I have an interesting* journey to describe. I kind of burbled away into a tape recorder during it. But for a couple of important reasons I can't post it yet. But when I can, I will.

*Well, you be the judge.

Look ahead

2009-04-12T15:30:00.001+01:00

When you think about the future, do you imagine what you will be doing in one, two, five, ten years time?

And also, do you ever think back say five or ten years, and recalling where you were and what you were doing, do you remember thinking into the future? In other words, how close were the predictions for the future you made back then to the reality of today?

I ask because I've just come across a fantastic website called futureme.org, where you can write your future self an e-mail, which is kind of cool.

HD ready?

2009-04-12T14:28:00.004+01:00

Look, if you've got a Blu-ray player or PS3, and an HD TV, and a decent sound system, then I can't recommend highly enough that you buy and watch this.

It is truly stunning to watch, Patrick Stewart's narration is perfectly judged, it's filmed by the BBC Natural History Unit (need I say more?) and the music is from the Berliner Phil. It's HD at its breathtaking best.

After a long absence...

2009-04-04T18:05:00.011+01:00

As it's been months and months... here's a little catch up of where we are:

Steve's just back home from a few days convalesence in Salisbury;
I'm back from a week away in north Wales, Manchester and Scotland;
there's a Grand Prix tomorrow morning on't'telly;
I'm seriously contemplating the purchase of a MacBook (and an iPhone when my contract is up in June and the rumoured new handset is available);
we're looking forward to going on holiday in May to Mallorca;
we're looking forward to going to Larmer Tree in June (my first ever festival);
Steve's Dad has had cancer surgery, and (fingers crossed) is fine now;
my parents are coping with a few health problems as stoically as ever;
I recently bought my first edition of Q magazine and have thoroughly enjoyed it (I don't know why I never did before - it's the grown up, twenty-first century equivalent of Smash Hits);

That's it for the moment. As I always say after a long period of blogging abstinence, I will resolve to post updates more frequently. Maybe.

Top marks!

2008-11-07T11:58:00.003Z

Wow, I got 7/7 in the BBC News Magazine weekly quiz - that's never happened before.

More on the 5th

2008-11-05T15:24:00.004Z

Have you ever seen anything more miserably-written, more designed to dissuade people from attending, than this from Lewes District Council? Lewes Bonfire Nights are legendary, and rightly so as you will see if you read this or this.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November

2008-11-05T15:19:00.002Z

Remember, remember the Fifth of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot
I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes 'twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Three score barrels of powder below
Poor old England to overthrow

By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match
Holler boys, holler boys, ring bells ring
Holler boys, holler boys, God Save the King!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope
A farthing o'cheese to choke him
A pint of beer to rinse it down
A faggot of sticks to burn him

Burn him in a tub of tar
Burn him like a blazing star
Burn his body from his head
Then we'll say old Pope is dead

Hip Hip Hoorah!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Hip Hip Hoorah!

Traditional

Quietly seething

2008-10-09T11:12:00.002+01:00

OK, we know that some Icelandic banks have gone into administration, and we've learned too that a number of local councils around the UK have money on deposit, which they, and we, are hoping will be protected.

But then we see this wonderfully self-satisfied yet pointless quote from The TaxPayers' Alliance (who they? Ed.), as reported by the BBC: "Every year we hear that councils don't have enough money and need to raise taxes but it seems they have had sufficient excess tax to salt tens of millions of pounds away.

"In short, they should not have stashed this money in the first place and they simply weren't equipped to try to be clever in the markets with it."

"It's an absolute disgrace. If the councils can't get their money back, the people who took these excesses should seriously consider their positions as councillors."

For heaven's sake, Mark Wallace, campaign director at The TaxPayers' Alliance, get a grip. Have you the faintest idea what you would do if you'd just collected tens of millions of pounds from Council Tax payers? Would you pop home with it in bulging brown envelopes and try and stuff it under your mattress, or would you seek professional guidance and try and find a safe, reputable bank in which to deposit the cash pending its use over the coming months on essential local services? With the wonderful benefit of hindsight you have, exactly which banks would you reccommend, and which would you avoid? Come on, you've got all the answers ... haven't you?

2008-10-09T10:56:00.002+01:00

I had a lovely e-mail this morning, which I thought I'd share with you:

hey^) how are you?) do you have a girlfriend?)... i have not boyfriend(( I very want to meet real men...which will know woman's need ...like in a cinema ... you know)))) lets chat!) i am pretty girl)) I have a lot of time for meetings and if you have any ideas how to spend it with me... just email me back at [deleted e-mail address] and i will reply back with some nice ;) photos with me ...and maybe, you will want to write me again)))

No, love ... just ... no. The return address is in Singapore, so if anyone would like the contact details, just let me know.

SpamAssassin rated it 0.8 out of 4 which is disappointing, though I suppose I wouldn't have had the pleasure of reading it if it had been higher, maybe.

Not all doom and gloom

2008-10-09T10:37:00.003+01:00

In what we might call "challenging" trading conditions at the moment, the company I work for has reported increased profits in the last twelve months despite slighty reduced like-for-like sales. It's interesting to note how different news organisations, such as Reuters and the BBC, report what's effectively the same news. The share price has shot up on the news anyway, so yay!

4x4s really are bad for your health

2008-10-09T01:07:00.005+01:00

I offer, in evidence, the following photographs:

My apologies

2008-09-27T14:34:00.003+01:00

Since recently learning that the Chinese were planning a space walk, I've been boring anyone who will listen that the Chinese for astronaut is 'taikonaut'. This was one of those things I knew I knew, but not from where I knew it.

However, it turns out they are not taikonauts after all, but yuhangyuans. So, sorry about that. Read more here.

Political correctness/social phenomenon

2008-09-24T17:58:00.001+01:00

Is it just me, or are the Male and Female signs on toilets getting harder to tell apart? The little icons I mean. Maybe I'm just getting older - well, I am - but I think it's a collective resignation, not to mention cowardice, on the part of the corporate world, that has changed the designs to be so bland and inoffensive that you can no longer tell them apart at a glance - the point of signage, after all. No more pink for Ladies and blue for Men, and the female and male silhouettes don't show clearly the anatomical and sartorial differences. Are you noticing this too?

Who offers the best curry in Croydon?

2008-09-21T21:47:00.004+01:00

Probably not a question you ask yourself very often, but if you were to, then please consider The Chilli Room, where Steve and I took Chris and Jane on Friday evening. Now those two have eaten in restaurants around the world, and to declare this eaterie on Croydon's South End "the best curry we've eaten outside Singapore*" is, I would suggest, praise indeed.

*why the best curry should be in Singapore and not, say, Bangalore, I have no idea. You'd better ask them if you want the answer to that.

Sorry Mr Fry

2008-09-21T21:26:00.004+01:00

Have you listened to Stephen Fry's latest blessay yet? It's been a long time coming, but he's finally done the next one. In it, he first of all rails at those journos, bloggers and columnists who, devoid of anything important to say, waste space by simply ranting at something. Then, after apologising, he has a really good rant himself. Anyway, do listen to it.

And so, with apologies to one of my favourite Englishmen, I'm going to just, briefly, mention the fat tit in the fat Land Rover Discovery at the Waitrose garage this afternoon who, rather than sending his fat wife in to pay for the fuel he had just put into his fat tank, spent a good five minutes, oblivious to the half-dozen or so cars waiting patiently for their turn at the pumps, carefully and slowly to wash all the lights, then the windscreen, using the complimentary wet sponge, and only after doing this did he waddle over to the shop to pay for his fuel before, finally, shifting his fat vehicle.

OK, rant over.

My office

2008-09-21T21:19:00.006+01:00

Well, not exactly, but this is what I spend most of my day looking at.

Are politicians getting younger?

2008-09-19T13:34:00.003+01:00

To discover that the Leader of Her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition is just three-and-a-half weeks older than me is a sobering thought.

Politicians, in my head, and generally with a few exceptions, are boring, old, white, middle class men in grey suits. I may have to re-think this, because the alternative - that I'm boring, old ... da da da - is clearly unthinkable.

"Why would you want an electric book?"

2008-09-14T19:21:00.002+01:00

My percipient nephew's pretty damn cool comment about Steve's new Sony Reader.

Vote for me!!!

2008-09-12T21:11:00.007+01:00

Sorry, didn't mean to sound so needy ...

It's just that I've got a couple of designs entered at teetonic, and if you thought they had any merit, you could vote for them I suppose ...

(Note to self ... must stop doing all these ellipses ... shows lack of imagination ...)

Which designs? Oh, sorry, didn't I mention? One of them is a big yellow smilie with the legend under "smile", and the other is just the word "T-Shirt" in a kind of retro blue font. I'm sure you can find them.

Thanks!

Holidays ruined

2008-09-12T20:44:00.003+01:00

Sometimes one finds that 'counting one's lucky stars' is the only bright spot in a dull world.

This time last year (or thereabouts) we were coming back from Paris on the Eurostar (although delayed on our return for several hours due to a power cut at the Gard du Nord). If we were there now, we'd be stranded.

And this time six years ago we were in Madeira, having flown there with XL Airways. And again, if it was today, we'd be stranded. The particularly worrying aspect of this particular collapse is that, apparently, if you didn't book a package with a travel agent, but booked elements separately on the company's website - which we did - you almost certainly wouldn't receive any compensation from the bond which is supposed to guarantee customers' money. And with online payments by credit card attracting a surcharge, the temptation is to use a debit car (I can't recall but being a stingy so-and-so I imagine I would have gone for the cheaper option myself) you aren't even covered by the credit card company's guarantees.

Bad times for some this week.

Duran Duran

2008-09-12T20:38:00.002+01:00

I want to know how Jon's meeting with Andy Taylor went, don't you? I imagine the answer's on his Facebook, but their site seems to be down at the moment...

Two National Treasures

2008-09-07T23:35:00.002+01:00

Firstly, the impeccably-vowelled Mr Brian Sewell, on Sky Arts HD, taking us on one leg of a pilgrimage through Spain, heading for Santiago. I could listen to him for several hours with a huge grin on my face.

Then, a little later, Ms Joanna Lumley, on BBC HD, travelling on the adventure of a lifetime to realise her dream, held since childhood, of seeing the Northern Lights. By train and sled and ski-mobile well into the Norwegian Arctic, she had me transfixed for an hour. I was there with her, as she met locals and found out about this wilderness region of extremes, and the elusive phenomenon she sought so eagerly and, eventually, delightfully, witnessed.

It's what good TV is all about.

It's not just normal paranoia

2008-09-07T16:57:00.001+01:00

Have you ever felt like people were looking at you? I don't mean because you've got egg down your tie, I mean more the way people stare at someone famous they've unexpectedly just clocked. It's just been happening to me in Waitrose. So either I'm the spit of some paedo who's all over the Sunday papers, or maybe a pop star? I prefer to imagine the latter, natch. Still, rather disconcerting. Unlike a 'celeb', I doubt if Hello will be interested in shelling out a hundred grand for my exclusive story and picture feature, though, sadly.

Apple pie and ...

2008-09-03T17:33:00.001+01:00

Occasionally a car number plate occurs to me which theoretically could exist somewhere. Today I imagined CU57ARD.

A couple of thoughts on English and French things

2008-07-26T20:06:00.005+01:00

First a little rant ("What?" I hear you cry, "that's just so unlike you Hamish"); then an "Ah-ha, told you so" moment.

So, to begin with, apparently, 'they' are going to ban a couple of fine British traditions. Can it really be true that dustcarts can no longer display rescued cuddly toys on the radiator grille? And what's this about ice cream vans?

My beloved brother has been heard to suggest that he would like to move to India, or Goa, or somewhere, to live out his retirement in peace from the infernal regulators, 'health & safety' vigilantes and sundry other do-gooders with which our country is increasingly afflicted. For goodness' sake don't mention these latest ridiculous ideas to him, or he'll book the bloody ticket, and that'll be the last we ever see of him. Seriously.

Incidentally, despite exhaustive searching on t'internet, I can't find any references to the dustcart story, so maybe it's just an urban myth (allegedly the ban would be because children could be run over trying to prise a teddy bear off the front of the vehicle) but of course if you know better, let me know.

Once upon a long ago I lived in Paris, and naturally as a family we bought, daily, what I now refer to awkwardly as "French sticks", but which then I just knew as baguettes. There were, essentially, two styles: the baton, which was very long and thin, and another which I have been certain for as long as I can recall, was referred to as a batard. But since returning from France at the age of seven or so, any grown-up I have mentioned this to has insisted, shocked, that batard is a very rude word and could not possibly have been a loaf of bread. (Bâtard is indeed French for bastard.)

So, gentle reader, imagine my delight when I examined closely a photograph in the July edition of Waitrose Food Illustrated, the upmarket supermarket's monthly glossy magazine. Accompanying an unashamedly evocative article entitled C'est la vie is a picture of the price board (prix de vente du pain) presumably outside a boulangerie, clearly showing listed a Pain "Batard" de 300 grammes at FF3,80, along with other products including Baguettes de 300 grammes at FF4,00.

So there. Do you think Waitrose will mind if I scan the pic and post it here? I might do...

I have just looked up batard in the Collins-Robert French-English dictionary I have had since the sixth form, and it suggests, as well as the common, vulgar, meaning, that it also has the bread-based translation of "Vienna roll", whatever one of those is. Hmmm...

What a plonker

2008-07-22T22:50:00.001+01:00

Have you ever popped a bottle of room-temperature beer into the freezer 'just for a few minutes' to chill, but then forgotten about it? I did the other day...

A bit of a catch-up

2008-07-05T02:50:00.023+01:00

Enormous erection
A couple of weeks ago whilst travelling across-country, I found myself unexpectedly right underneath the Emley Moor transmitter in West Yorkshire. Wow, it's impressive! I mean, I've seen it many times before, of course, across tens of miles of countryside, as the telecommunications beacon it surely is. But it's taller than the Eiffel Tower, you know?

Steve's birthday

The Friday of Steve's birthday we both had the day off and went down to Salisbury, where we ate at The Lemon Tree. Very pleasant, and I wouldn't hesitate to reccommend it. On the Saturday, as Steve's Birthday Treat, we went to the cinema to watch the new Indiana Jones film. The Odeon in the New Canal is, architecturally, a very interseting building, but sadly the main screen has a disappointing sound set-up. Of course we don't want a huge multiplex on the outskirts to destroy the character of the town centre, and I am looking forward to seeing many more films at the Odeon, but perhaps for the must-see blockbusters a trip down to Southampton may have to be arranged.

Burly Chassis

On the way home on Sunday evening we came across a beautiful silver Aston Martin DB5 on the M25 (this was the car Sean Connery's James Bond drove in Goldfinger and Thunderball, in the mid-sixties). With slowish traffic across four or five lanes Steve was able to get into various positions for me to try and take some pictures, the best of which is reproduced here. Click on it for a larger version and you'll be able to see the two passengers are grinning at me!

Bibulous

Wednesday last week to Imbibe in Blackfriars for a pub quiz in aid of a number of charities, organised by Steve's indefatigable fund-raising colleague Simon. Great fun, and a slightly bizarre mystery-tour lift home afterwards with another colleague.

House move latest:
Still waiting.

Wooo-eeee-oooo

Last Saturday was the first of the two-parter Doctor Who season finale. Steve was, to put it mildly, captivated by the unfolding storyline - as you can see!

Health news

In Monday's Times was a story about the NHS, and the accompanying photo had this caption: "Aneira Thomas, pictured at the age of 4, was named for Aneurin Bevin". Dear Times, please please do not Americanise the term "named after". I know that "named for" makes exactly as much sense, and moreover is perfectly comprehensible to every reader, but come on.

Clarkson said it, too, in the report on the Mercerdes, filmed in the Black Hills in Wales, in the second Top Gear in the new series.

Incidentally, reading the newspaper story I learned that the 1.5 million employees of the NHS are exceeded only by the Chinese People's Liberation Army, Wal-Mart, and Indian Railways.

One year on
The 1st of July saw the first anniversary of the smoking ban in England, in case you missed it. Or cared.

What a boring summer it would be...

2008-06-13T10:54:00.002+01:00

Apparently Westminster City Council wants to ban all drinking outside licensed premises in Soho. Can you imagine what that would look like? No restaurant tables outside, no seating outside the pubs. It would be awful. Naturally, there's a petition.

Please highlight this to anyone who might sign.

Once in a while...

2008-06-08T14:32:00.001+01:00

Just occasionally I get to drive my car and really enjoy the experience. It doesn't happen often these days on Britain's congested roads. A couple of weeks ago I was able to chuck the car through some very satisfying south-Welsh twists and turns, and this morning I lifted Ian from Salisbury to Tollard Royal (he's doing a circular walk) through some pretty Wiltshire villages. And Roxana, Steve and I are off out there again very shortly to join him for lunch at the King John Inn, so I get to do it again!

Fab show

2008-05-31T00:26:00.001+01:00

Thoroughly good evening at the Palace Theatre. Go and see it - but only if you don't mind tasteless show tunes about the Jews, the Gays ... and the French! "Lovingly ripped off from Monty Python and the Holy Grail," says the publicity, and it surely is, but expands to satirise musical theatre in general. Highly recommended.