tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66348556222083213422024-03-05T10:55:39.073+00:00G TravelsBorn in Essex, live in London, itchiest of feetThe Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-57184260453003851342020-08-13T09:47:00.030+01:002020-12-23T14:25:01.517+00:00Lebanon Autumn 2018<p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px;">Lebanon was a trip I had some reservations about. The country had recently become more accessible & only the Hezbollah-held areas were now off-limits, but still, think Lebanon & the mind's eye plays images of civil war & car bomb assassinations. Personally, I always thought of the Human League. I was an eighties child.</span></div><div><div><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">Beirut typified t</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">he Middle East mash of cultures,</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;"> with mosques & churches side by side</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;"> among</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;"> bullet-dotted concrete wrecks</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">. </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">Religion &</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">history were in your face or under your feet. Below ground </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">lay </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">exposed Roman ruins, blasted into view by civil-war</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">bombing & on the surface, </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">the t</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">ra</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">ffic roared through the street</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">s. </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;">I was constantly on the verge of being run-over</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px;"> or falling into an amphitheater.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img alt="Civil-war battered building" border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0aw_cEnnxyhbkbP00T7kKjQim5lH-6Ae-QNnWj4ASJIM_kutIcYzQCFA9m0yTya_PDys5vzxHOe8ULl-AbpK40vMgNHI7nCSU4S0XEiHIe6DscoEGVjIs_sivnEF2nOUDz20bWq9_KI/w240-h320/1B135A37-AACE-46A5-9B5E-20313A50487B.jpeg" title="Civil-war battered building" width="240" /></div><p></p><p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Architecturally, the city</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> was playing catch up. The evolution of laby</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">rinth souks into Zaha Hadid </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">des</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">i</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">g</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">ned malls </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">epitomised </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">the n</span><a name="_GoBack"></a><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">ew order</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">.</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">The civil war put everything on hold for a generation & only</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> recently had </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">much of </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">the </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">antebellum Beirut </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">been razed to the ground.</span></p><p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 21.6px;"> </span></p><p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">In </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Gemmayzeh</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> & Achrafieh, you co</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">uld buy fresh</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">falafal</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> & decent expressos. Everywhere there was music; </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">h</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">ip hop bla</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">sting from open windows or folk</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> melodies being picked from acoustic guitars on roof terraces. In the evening, graffiti-decorated bars served </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Almaza beer & </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">wi</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">ne from the </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Beka</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">a </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Valley.</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> It was young & </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">loud & </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">covered in classy graffiti. H</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">ow cities ought to</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> be.</span></p><p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 21.6px;"> </span></p><p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">But of course, this is just a </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">superficial</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">skim & clearly beneath the surface the economy was on a knife-edge despite the new faces in government</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">. C</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">orruption </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">was ingrained</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">. Two years on, in a world thrown upside down by Covid-19, Lebanon is falling apart. Rapid inflation has made basic goods unattainable & savings worthless. The police are firing rubber bullets into crowds of protestors & unbelievably, an explosion at the port killed over 200 people. Those bars & cafes I loved in </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Gemmayzeh</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">faced the blast</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">& lie glass-shattered & empty.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ7YEujxy_EWicTanlK2y59E3n1iCeDeFu9Wwjmb8Xz6B80AHGbCKROI1V_Sgi6N_FqzcdZkplzbfa-CHC8Fjj1FwKE4uDrIauPJIryHq_4H6jUqXWiipkOGGvOE9fNuofSAhseUXLNw/s320/E39B548D-3375-4795-A67C-266544F42EAB.jpeg" style="font-family: calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ7YEujxy_EWicTanlK2y59E3n1iCeDeFu9Wwjmb8Xz6B80AHGbCKROI1V_Sgi6N_FqzcdZkplzbfa-CHC8Fjj1FwKE4uDrIauPJIryHq_4H6jUqXWiipkOGGvOE9fNuofSAhseUXLNw/w320-h240/E39B548D-3375-4795-A67C-266544F42EAB.jpeg" width="320" /></a></p><p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 21.6px;"> </span></p><p style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 21.6px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Before I left Lebanon, </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">I took a bus to Byblos, as pretty a town as any I’ve seen. Steep streets twisted down to the bay & the heat was less of a force than Beirut. From a pebbly beach, I swam in the Autumn sea.</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">I s</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">tay</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">ed</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> at</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> the</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Fishing C</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">lub in a colourful cabin hacked into the</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">rock face. After t</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">he chaos of Beirut, Byblos was </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">gentler & quieter at night. The very stones felt ancient. I bought fossils that were 100 million years old from a time when Lebanon itself was beneath the waves. </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">Byblos was a magical place & </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">framed</span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;"> against </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">current </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: Calibri; line-height: 21.6px;">media footage of riots & destruction, almost feels like a dream.</span></p><p class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 21.6px;"> </span></p></div></div>The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-8140029005578679382017-06-22T11:41:00.001+01:002017-06-22T12:30:37.574+01:00Travels in the Holy Lands<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I had been thinking of a Holy Lands trip for some time. A
friend thought I was looking for God & everyone else just said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please be careful. </i>It’s certainly the
first time I’ve used a Lonely Planet guidebook with a section on how to survive
a missile attack.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Israel will never
be entirely safe because of what it is & who its neighbours are. However, there
had been a sustained period of relative calm, so I seized the moment.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX342vcAbkt3WHCXT35ghEPij7tpMxaDRjcO8uI3dvCL_X9ZTQPVV5CNZBwHU5LQVqRkzbrN8di0JPaAp97JEPbX2-1-XLjmwnUEi2M1IPz1O__aWYmyqPXrMUyLFzhqgr_dII_ut1Wak/s1600/IMG_7186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX342vcAbkt3WHCXT35ghEPij7tpMxaDRjcO8uI3dvCL_X9ZTQPVV5CNZBwHU5LQVqRkzbrN8di0JPaAp97JEPbX2-1-XLjmwnUEi2M1IPz1O__aWYmyqPXrMUyLFzhqgr_dII_ut1Wak/s320/IMG_7186.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was awake early on my first morning in Jerusalem; before
the heat, ahead of the crowds. I circled the Dome of the Rock &
photographed the concentric turquoise rings of the Dome of the Chain. Below me,
the Jews lamented the loss of the temple at the Wailing Wall.</span>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The city was waking up as I followed the Via Dolorosa to the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Jerusalem is the only place in the world where
you have to dodge both soldiers shouldering rifles & pilgrims carrying
crosses. I bore no cross but was cornered at every station by the brash tourism
of the bazaar. Everyone was my friend & I was, very welcome, sir. Except
for one man.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Where you from?” asked a craggy old shopkeeper as I picked
out some tat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“London.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“BRITISH ARE POISON.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At first I thought he said “British are Boyzone” & I was
going to point out that actually they were Irish. Weirdly, despite his growing anger,
we were in the middle of a transaction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Twenty Shekels, please. THE BRITISH ARE POISON!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I gave him Fifty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I HATE ALL BRITISH & AMERICANS!! Oh, have you got
anything smaller?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I’ll just get some change from the back.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“OK.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">From the back: “ONE DAY THE BRITISH & AMERICANS WILL BE
DEFEATED!!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He reappeared…“There you go, thirty Shekels.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Thanks.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Thanks. THE BRITISH ARE POISON!”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The Via Dolorosa is a trying walk, even now.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">From the site of the crucifixion, I travelled by bus from
Jerusalem to the West Bank (“Bethlehem please!”), out of Israel & into the
Palestinian Territories, paging back through the Gospels to the site of the
Nativity. The iconography of the Nativity is stamped on Bethlehem. Star Street
led down to Manger Square & Shepherds Street ran away to the countryside. I
stayed among ancient walls in a traditional pilgrim hostel full of interlocking
courtyards & sun terraces. Medieval arches dissolved into stonework &
my room was four centuries old.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0_GbB-MWXuPCF-SuvSv4UHTcuYqJ3BGlXmsjJlsGUStJ_bVARIH2NHFFccUpkD5yDoIVPHGloC00IdaL9MeRHHdyA4B2i1xLQEdZ7oiAm6T93Qc642xn6DSy3SpfJ3ADem2VyY2pxEw/s1600/Star.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0_GbB-MWXuPCF-SuvSv4UHTcuYqJ3BGlXmsjJlsGUStJ_bVARIH2NHFFccUpkD5yDoIVPHGloC00IdaL9MeRHHdyA4B2i1xLQEdZ7oiAm6T93Qc642xn6DSy3SpfJ3ADem2VyY2pxEw/s200/Star.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Global Corporate franchise</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Bucks</i>, a
bespoke local coffee house with a familiar look, I met Seif, who worked for the
new Bethlehem Banksy Hotel. Over Nescafe served in a plastic beaker we agreed a
fee & he drove me around town on a graffiti tour. Banksy has stencilled his
imprint across the Territories, turning the awful grey wall dividing Israel
& the West Bank into a concrete canvas. In turns inspiring some fine
original & much copycat artwork. I showed Seif several London Banksys among
my phone photos & he asked me, if perhaps, <em>maybe</em>, I was Banksy himself. </span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I said, “Do you really think Banksy would go on an incognito
tour of his own artwork purely to check the guides are on-message?”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Seif laughed, nervously. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLIOfBvA3bHe_sm4Ur5eNAh4cYFeN9Hs40U297SjDCVOsYrirMhyphenhyphen5sUxHjQkPyF7UNZtdHaPowwKFpn1d3Q768LU8ZHn1478jwigu0Ufa9yzTY49CMgXkgqmfrBviUpVTbQVnakLIEa4/s1600/IMG_7230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLIOfBvA3bHe_sm4Ur5eNAh4cYFeN9Hs40U297SjDCVOsYrirMhyphenhyphen5sUxHjQkPyF7UNZtdHaPowwKFpn1d3Q768LU8ZHn1478jwigu0Ufa9yzTY49CMgXkgqmfrBviUpVTbQVnakLIEa4/s200/IMG_7230.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Dividing wall</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-image: none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In the evening, I drank Palestinian beer at a bar in Manger Square as the call to prayer swept over the city. I'd seen the beautiful Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the gorgeous city of Bethlehem & the awful wall that divides the territories. I added today into the top 20 days of my life.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Back in Jerusalem, in the room where historians have
concluded the Last Supper took place; a spontaneous chorus of <em>hallelujah</em> broke
out. Impromptu singing was a recurring & highly pleasant feature of
Jerusalem but religious intensity was often quite rudely quelled by both guards
& priests as it created bottlenecks among the tourist flow. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I walked amid afternoon heat up the Mount of Olives. I could
smell the olive trees & sneakily picked petals from the Garden of
Gethsemane. The slopes of the valley were covered by graves. Come the day of
judgement, this is the front of the queue.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5_v9dNVeftiggaEuYV6BUvYIOStdOlCPC5wC3bSQK3I_4R0WoQmOId6S7LG-vKOAkwW1KpYGz1WgkZ8bhcuEslj08CVUnyfi27WtoUSm0v7NvY0x2Y3P7akxZKNcsI-RUl80xsP6KCg/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="418" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5_v9dNVeftiggaEuYV6BUvYIOStdOlCPC5wC3bSQK3I_4R0WoQmOId6S7LG-vKOAkwW1KpYGz1WgkZ8bhcuEslj08CVUnyfi27WtoUSm0v7NvY0x2Y3P7akxZKNcsI-RUl80xsP6KCg/s200/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="130" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Dead Sea mud</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In the evening, the unrelenting sun & wilting street
food combined in a pincer movement to attack my constitution. I rose on the
third day teeth chattering in 30 degree heat but having no space in my
itinerary for sickness, I pushed on, forcing myself out to see the Dead Sea
Scrolls & biblical archaeology at the Israel Museum. In the afternoon I
joined an organised tour & rode through the barren hills of Judea, passing
the Inn of the Good Samaritan & down, down to the Dead Sea. Coated in thick
mineral-rich mud, I lay in the sun until it dried, then floated on the filmy
surface of the sea, drifting towards Jordan as the mud peeled away. I felt
alive again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I left Jerusalem & took the bus to Tel Aviv. My neighbour
was in the military & slung his rifle on his lap, barrel pointing
at my thigh. It’s amazing how quickly things like this become the norm. As he
slept, I nudged it away.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7OJyBh3Gykh1MSRWpyP6O5luPSx6NRtHbsqGb_x7mFlwlUC1juZXuw2XNy7BvdmAxl9qbMZN7kfhe1vcT4VP72b2gIWDL245GIk-VesmJfn7X5rCw-Ke3-fLI9-Z655U0iZu8IjQKco/s1600/IMG_7270.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7OJyBh3Gykh1MSRWpyP6O5luPSx6NRtHbsqGb_x7mFlwlUC1juZXuw2XNy7BvdmAxl9qbMZN7kfhe1vcT4VP72b2gIWDL245GIk-VesmJfn7X5rCw-Ke3-fLI9-Z655U0iZu8IjQKco/s320/IMG_7270.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Bauhaus architecture, Tel Aviv</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-image: none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Tel Aviv is a coastal town; all gargantuan high-rise &
beach promenades. However, step back a block & it changes for the better.
Jewish students at the Bauhaus in Dessau saw the writing on the wall in the
1930s & fled Nazism in search of a new life amid the sand dunes of the
Palestine seaboard. This area grew into Tel Aviv & the city revels in its
Bauhaus legacy. Curved balconies wrap around apartment blocks, glass bricks
create lightwells & the wrinkled brows of blistered paint expose the true
age of the buildings. The relentless hammering sun wasn’t a lesson taught back in
East Germany. On the whole, this isn’t museum showcase architecture; people live
here, d-locking bikes in the lightwells & hanging washing across balconies.</span></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The modernity of Tel Aviv has a counterpart in Jaffa, its
southern neighbour. Jaffa is both the port city of Jonah, swallowed by a whale
& the Greek myth city of Andromeda, chained to a rock. Its well-scrubbed honey
coloured stones set among steep hills felt ancient & warm. In a port-side
café, I drank freshly squeezed orange juice & looked back up the beach to
the glass towers & Germanic order of the new city.</span></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-image: none;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsDy-uuT6H0Ky9HeNZp7j-ED6ygXD-VWF0J9gqOOA79WJMDEx9gJNGGgrxngXozGcc1X6dxqRwbrtwgRpdGJA9IXMvrQPeuqaMNQHwf6ZvZoyX4tpxANa8ip8qHT0ThFU1CmRDSI4Zno/s1600/whale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsDy-uuT6H0Ky9HeNZp7j-ED6ygXD-VWF0J9gqOOA79WJMDEx9gJNGGgrxngXozGcc1X6dxqRwbrtwgRpdGJA9IXMvrQPeuqaMNQHwf6ZvZoyX4tpxANa8ip8qHT0ThFU1CmRDSI4Zno/s200/whale.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Jonah & the Whale</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">On my final morning, I headed to the sea, crashing around in
the waves of the Mediterranean; refreshing myself ahead of endless airport
security & a five hour flight home. Israel was a different travel
experience; the summer heat was relentless, it was expensive, and everywhere
stood groups of teenage recruits brandishing weaponry. Clearly, the centre-point for three major
religions is always going to be a tense place, although the only altercation I had was with a craggy shopkeeper & even that was closer to comedy then acrimony.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’d seen the very spot where Jesus was born & the rock
upon which he died, but best of all was the Dead Sea; unique, surreal & a
great way to revitalise. It’s always great to return home after a solo trip
away, but it’s even more rewarding to come home when the guidebook has a missile
attack section & I didn’t need to use it.</span></div>
</div>
The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-18622303081564109452016-11-24T12:13:00.000+00:002017-02-09T18:06:29.386+00:00Transnistria - The Other Side of Moldova<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When Moldova
split during the fall of the Soviet Union, its eyes flicked west. Lurching
through independence, linguistically & geographically, Romania was its
closest neighbour & Russia represented the bad old days; authoritarian rule
& queues for food.</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;"><br></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But not everyone
agreed. </span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;"><br></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">A slither of
industrial land & communities dissected by the Dniester River still felt the
comfort of the Motherland & resisted the westward pull. A short & bloody
war secured a breakaway; creating a country within a country. With its own
borders & local currency, Transnistria has the tools of a nation, just
without international recognition. Only those in the same boat have formal
relations; Abkhazia, Kosovo, Palestine, all pseudo-nations screaming for
identity.</span></span><br>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<br>
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Until
recently, access for those of us in the decadent west was difficult; all impenetrable
bureaucracy & bribes at the border. But in the last couple of years, a kind
of tolerated tourism has developed. Now there’s an anti-corruption phone line at
the border. If an old-school guard starts thumbing your passport, suggesting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">registration issues</i> you get your mobile
out.</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;"><br></span><br>
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuhJCjHoteRhBTeD4nnEXQYMekSzJnQ3K-sXDoJvfJ9MJo_o0q21QSheGTnEnw_aSc7vtE1AdN73Dwb6cAsqEc2A8d9ChQNVYWQVFlKXGt0eGCB0jrTl7dROaRSNEG2hG6dRsfXwBatw/s1600/Lenin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuhJCjHoteRhBTeD4nnEXQYMekSzJnQ3K-sXDoJvfJ9MJo_o0q21QSheGTnEnw_aSc7vtE1AdN73Dwb6cAsqEc2A8d9ChQNVYWQVFlKXGt0eGCB0jrTl7dROaRSNEG2hG6dRsfXwBatw/s200/Lenin.jpg" width="150"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Angry Lenin</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">With its
Soviet iconography & tank-wide boulevards, the capital, Tiraspol, is a
freeze-frame of the old Soviet Union. Lenin hasn’t been toppled from his
plinths & the war memorial features both an onion-topped spire & a
tank. It begs to be photographed in sepia. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I walked the
main street, named after the 1917 Russian Revolution, from the towering statue
of Lenin at one end to the angry bust of Lenin at the other. On the way, I
passed Gagarin, Frunze & other Soviet icons. I chanced a croissant at a
bakery, but found a frankfurter inside. Luckily, the tiramisu was sausage-free.
It may thumb its nose at the decadent west, but Transnistria loves English
football, with several channels dedicated to the Premier League. The reason for
this is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheriff</i>; a private company
that has stamped its brand across the republic; a huge hypermarket sits next to
the FC Sheriff stadium & sponsored billboards are commonplace. Setup by
ex-KGB & heavily involved in national politics, Sheriff is the
corporate face of Transnistria. </span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;"><br></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">In truth,
Transmistria is no different to many other former Soviet republics in dealing with
70 years of Communist legacy. Some, The Baltics for instance, have smashed
Lenin & Marx to pieces. The Central Asian Stans have quietly relocated them
to less prominent positions (in case the wind changes), whereas Transnistria,
like Belarus, seems to dismiss the whole fall of Soviet Russia as western propaganda.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXp_2mpobzje8ABhBGdAkKGY4Ab52N0kZ-jjrBRplE5NRcxwvyN6zRPwyukocueN9HDRrBGcEXd8i4txyfN19rFsuZ0Q_g75wmSIOxhblrXf9oDbVTjzpoHtdk8XWt7t7FdkrV4PYhfk/s1600/Tiraspol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXp_2mpobzje8ABhBGdAkKGY4Ab52N0kZ-jjrBRplE5NRcxwvyN6zRPwyukocueN9HDRrBGcEXd8i4txyfN19rFsuZ0Q_g75wmSIOxhblrXf9oDbVTjzpoHtdk8XWt7t7FdkrV4PYhfk/s320/Tiraspol.jpg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>I Love Tiraspol</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">On the day I
returned home, the UK press carried an article about Moldovan politics. A new
President with pro-Russian sympathies was promising to review the status of
Transnistria, bring it back into the national fold perhaps? A reminder that politics,
territory & nationhood are ever-changing. I took three things away with me back to the west; how eerily quiet it was at night, a bottle of local Kvint
brandy (now in a million pieces thanks to my drunken butter-fingered sister) & a clever hotel toothbrush which could separate in two & slide
into a protective case.</span></span></div>
The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-15652116290031312712016-11-22T09:43:00.005+00:002016-11-24T15:07:31.607+00:00Odessa<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I first
travelled to Ukraine in 2008. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Orange
Revolution</i> had just rebooted national identity towards Europe & it felt
like a new path had been forged. Eight years on, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maidan</i> power had forced another Government overthrow, brutal & monochrome
this time with snipers on the roof & thousands dead. I returned to a
trimmer country, its Eastern border still blurred by violence & the exotic
southern peninsula of Crimea cut & pasted onto Russia.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZGdhOaqgwGvi-wyWWfV5w2vjbTboiSMUbzPJSE5Z77a0e5OKBJRhZGusVc226lXVr97gYBsgKKSjP0sB-PmTDktY_bOcIeRrsKvg_yf8ACBEbn7TqGSJ4GphPhcn91O37YFE5JqcfpA/s1600/IMG_6185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZGdhOaqgwGvi-wyWWfV5w2vjbTboiSMUbzPJSE5Z77a0e5OKBJRhZGusVc226lXVr97gYBsgKKSjP0sB-PmTDktY_bOcIeRrsKvg_yf8ACBEbn7TqGSJ4GphPhcn91O37YFE5JqcfpA/s320/IMG_6185.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Odessa port</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It took me
two days & three flights to get to Odessa; the city of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battleship Potemkin</i>, the wild-haired Eisenstein & a pram
bouncing down the stairs. Odessa is a Slavic Trieste with the thrust & polyglot
babble of a port city. Even the gypsies were multilingual, pleading “money mister,”
flashing silver teeth & flirty smiles. Creamy 19<sup>th</sup> century
architecture stood among right-angled Soviet blocs & onion domes but the
staircase was a crushing disappointment, under renovation; Cossack troops
replaced by hard hats, guns with drills.</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhur3pkhsZOdChQW93KSBS8e-EiVOaWwO6oPUdw6e_LnkM_kRcayTJr2d3TaQztJMPZ5RwhjcH_hs34hkwLhWlu6rpBlCYCrJ9ucQBcxocPyARR15TV9UpYsBS4vF995p4Y664wrnW1i8w/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhur3pkhsZOdChQW93KSBS8e-EiVOaWwO6oPUdw6e_LnkM_kRcayTJr2d3TaQztJMPZ5RwhjcH_hs34hkwLhWlu6rpBlCYCrJ9ucQBcxocPyARR15TV9UpYsBS4vF995p4Y664wrnW1i8w/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Potemkin Steps</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Odessa was a
city of small parks & bronze statues, surrounded by swaying wheat fields
& flanked by the Black Sea. A strong Jewish heritage had been reduced to
plaques & grim memorials. I stamped the streets & peered into
courtyards, plaster peeling under taut lines of drying clothes, looking for
vegetarian cafes & Turkish coffee. I stayed at the Londonskaya Hotel, a
Victorian-era classic still living on the radiance of glamour from a century
ago. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">From Odessa
I travelled by minibus, fuzzily hungover from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Odessa Champanska</i>, through fields of vines to Chisinau in Moldova. I
sat at the back, a seat with a view, plugged into music & the stories of
Isaac Babel. It was a beautiful journey across rural Bessarabia, sharply lit by
winter sunshine & the trace of village wood smoke in the air.</span></span>The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-92220909676868177412016-07-11T14:45:00.002+01:002016-07-18T09:02:56.655+01:00Kyrgyzstan June 2016<div style="border-image: none;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnOT1FTIkWtufS5Wp7RoDmBMmWDgVFs73vOXt22UeqlEpgjG4r7hSfmsXAZLLd30aM-zcaa-DM2upBtyKYQkbE6pFqD91AdfOsAQRFT1tE9hug6dBbQNblpjdWQBZEwvLBh-C78nXy-o/s1600/Hammer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnOT1FTIkWtufS5Wp7RoDmBMmWDgVFs73vOXt22UeqlEpgjG4r7hSfmsXAZLLd30aM-zcaa-DM2upBtyKYQkbE6pFqD91AdfOsAQRFT1tE9hug6dBbQNblpjdWQBZEwvLBh-C78nXy-o/s200/Hammer.jpg" width="144" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Bishkek</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-image: none;">
My journey to Uzbekistan the previous spring was perhaps my best ever solo
trip; I was captivated by the overlaying Soviet & Islamic worlds, the context
of the Great Game & the sheer depth
of Central Asian history. The research alone required a new bookshelf. The Uzbek
cities formed the backbone of the Silk
Road as the caravans of trade followed the paths of least resistance & left
Kyrgyzstan isolated. Local Kyrgyz travel literature is scarce & the country
is even difficult to pronounce, let alone spell. Kyrgyzstan is a Silk Road bypass;
a country of yurts rather than caravanserai. Mountainous & mysterious. Yet, visas were free & flights were cheap. They just landed at ungodly
hours.<br />
<br />
<br />
Historically, Kyrgyzstan is still looking over its shoulder. This is the
post-Soviet world which isn’t sure where to turn next. The traditionally
nomadic Kyrgyz along with streams of forcibly displaced ethnic minorities
created a new Central Asian society which after years of struggle & hunger
bore fruit in the Brezhnev era as the Soviets turned the region’s isolation to
their advantage. They built armament factories & secret submarine bases, all
away from prying western eyes. Benefit for the locals? Full employment. In the
capital, Bishkek, Lenin & Marx still stand tall on park-side plinths,
pointing to the future, to a scrapped world. <br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0cw5ufwLRSDiR-5Fg1Y4uGIGBmjRH_Bg8yFCxbDzeUHbsN0dumZwc3OH22eAPjpB-Sjs7VwqMStFgJeuBBy6d_WLZwq3tAsjeYr9yAbz_6ICS-wy2GQ0hL2f9EV1aMe_Zf3v5FucCys/s1600/MiG.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0cw5ufwLRSDiR-5Fg1Y4uGIGBmjRH_Bg8yFCxbDzeUHbsN0dumZwc3OH22eAPjpB-Sjs7VwqMStFgJeuBBy6d_WLZwq3tAsjeYr9yAbz_6ICS-wy2GQ0hL2f9EV1aMe_Zf3v5FucCys/s400/MiG.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>MiG, Bishkek</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My hotel was a concrete beauty with all the trappings of the Soviet era;
smoked glass, a vast marble reception area & juddering lifts. High up on my
balcony, I looked across to the Circus & the Palace of Sports. Still standing
& still open.<br />
<br /></div>
Bishkek felt provincial, particularly around the suburban fringes, but in
the centre it was pure Soviet. Tank-sized boulevards that took an age to cross,
huge squares with piped music & dancing fountains & parked downtown
among the marshrutkas & battered taxis; a MiG. <br />
<br />
<br />
A squashed three hour shared-taxi ride from Bishkek took me to Lake Issyk
Kul. The lake is the heart of Kyrgyzstan, an alpine bowl, a mile above sea
level with sandy beaches ringed by mountains. I stayed in a quiet village at a
newly built hotel. Only, Igor, the owner, spoke some scattered English &
the sole thing I could transliterate from the Cyrillic menu was an omelette,
which I ate three nights in a row. Every time I needed something (Wifi
password, another omelette); the staff summoned Igor by radio.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnU1uzavtRZQ23ho7iRlRKt5G18OTYojfaSvauGkzAWb44RN6URAAqoNTkEsD0gDEDdxvf8VyrmQJ55vDiTR2qzjlKs8YTp16l8w4wxGw0cWPrSRZUpN_wGaucG3dD18XmQ8hjPNRh620/s1600/Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnU1uzavtRZQ23ho7iRlRKt5G18OTYojfaSvauGkzAWb44RN6URAAqoNTkEsD0gDEDdxvf8VyrmQJ55vDiTR2qzjlKs8YTp16l8w4wxGw0cWPrSRZUpN_wGaucG3dD18XmQ8hjPNRh620/s400/Lake.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Lake Issyk Kul</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The lake has a mirco-climate & the weather changed quickly &
dramatically. In the mornings, blue skies backdropped snow-tipped mountains
& the lake glittered. Then dark clouds rolled over the mountains &
marched to the lake’s edge, surrounding the water but unable to push further.
You could swim in the lake & feel the warmth of the sun & then return
to the beach to find your clothes rainsoaked & the air full of static.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOeGQdp0XiNvTUjt7sCsTtCUMbReMARvQ21JN7zXzikjkl-QL6untqiuFDrBMo-TBsOrh8z3XpZApG60L0q65FkV-Txf1VubhKAWDgAG2dAUtOasCwzxo4PXHzQQoD1aqdbeTV9npeFc/s1600/Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOeGQdp0XiNvTUjt7sCsTtCUMbReMARvQ21JN7zXzikjkl-QL6untqiuFDrBMo-TBsOrh8z3XpZApG60L0q65FkV-Txf1VubhKAWDgAG2dAUtOasCwzxo4PXHzQQoD1aqdbeTV9npeFc/s400/Tower.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Burana tower</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I trekked to a petroglyph site up in the hills above Cholpon Ata.
Rainclouds were closing in & I was unsure of the way, even after a kind
local drew a map in the mud with a lolly stick. In the end I retraced my steps
& took a taxi, only to find I had walked to within thirty metres of the
entrance. Sigh. A pound wasted. The stones depict deer & goats, dating back to the 5th century BC. Despite their longevity, modern chemical restoration
could erode images which have survived 2,500 years of battering Kyrgyz weather.
The effect is akin to a photoshopped image, the colours saturated & the contrast
sharpened. I trekked back to town along an old runway & joined holidaying Russians
on the beach, eating Samarkand <em>non</em> bread
the size of dinner plates, & apples from Kazakhstan.<br />
<br />
In the post-Soviet world, every car is a taxi & I caught a lift with a family to the <em>Silk Road</em> city of Balsagun & the Burana Tower. The city is long-gone,
just grassy mounds, grave markers & a single minaret which in a country
with few Silk Road survivors creates a visual brand for Kyrgyz tourism. Samarkand
this isn’t, but the tower’s setting in a summer meadow full of flowers, backlit
by sun filtering onto green hills was an accurate microcosm of Kyrgyzstan.<br />
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYdUzMWVMThMXtO_w1tSussvkFFV4yxClohxG18SstENEHLAQvL7p96gKSAzDRyf9X3a4pFEjYb6qcUZ-U56E0hyphenhyphen_cjYUrB8XNdD1nL87DO4HcrTV9eKnz6p7GTw2ZBPp-vUBnMiMFik/s1600/Aral+Sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYdUzMWVMThMXtO_w1tSussvkFFV4yxClohxG18SstENEHLAQvL7p96gKSAzDRyf9X3a4pFEjYb6qcUZ-U56E0hyphenhyphen_cjYUrB8XNdD1nL87DO4HcrTV9eKnz6p7GTw2ZBPp-vUBnMiMFik/s200/Aral+Sea.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Aral Sea</em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Flying home, I lucked an
emergency row & window seat. From 40,000 feet the view was sharp &
cloud-free. <br />
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
Through Kazakhstan, over the smudged outline of the Aral Sea, where
Soviet irrigation has shrivelled the coast & then across the Caspian before
the view changed from blue sea to white caps as we followed the Northern
Caucasus to the Black Sea. </div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
In transit at Ataturk, I was four days ahead of a
terrorist attack that killed 42 in the arrivals hall. Two weeks later there was an attempted military coup. A sobering return to
reality.</div>
The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-50112268999821678802015-07-14T11:56:00.001+01:002015-07-22T09:40:24.203+01:00Along the Silk Road in Uzbekistan<p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><span class="bumpedFont20">Asia at last! </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">O</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">n the overnight </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">flight from London</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> my luck was in;</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> a full row to </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">relax</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> and watch </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">sleepily </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">as we flew through dawn skies over </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">s</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">ea </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">&</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> desert </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">t</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">o </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Uzbekistan</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">I spent </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">my</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">first </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">morning in </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Tashkent</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> but </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">the capital</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> didn’t have the sights </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">& experiences </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">I’d come for</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> and the </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">airport</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">taxi I took crashed into another car</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. An earthquake in the 60’s gave Soviet planners carte blanche to carve out marble-lined boulevards and </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">create towerblocked suburbia</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. Only the metro gave respite</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">; beautifully tiled, </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">slightly kitsch and </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">out of the sun.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilA-XOzhhGMikJudEH11yoNNnFtKJAGQBFH3vgLM54GI_9JS7Ri1S-GFKdpB9NjmJtwkRXC7OpDxCSzuam_xGxIHfi3GxjXUhJHWY27r4y1HKUKylA10T2fSyPUxJKV_1CyAIF70q7qAY/s640/blogger-image-1475244296.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilA-XOzhhGMikJudEH11yoNNnFtKJAGQBFH3vgLM54GI_9JS7Ri1S-GFKdpB9NjmJtwkRXC7OpDxCSzuam_xGxIHfi3GxjXUhJHWY27r4y1HKUKylA10T2fSyPUxJKV_1CyAIF70q7qAY/s640/blogger-image-1475244296.jpg"></a></div><p></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> <i>Hotel</i> <i>Uzbekistan</i>, <i>Tashkent</i></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">I reached Samarkand an hour before sunset and settled into a guesthouse run by a lovely lady who mothered me a little. I spent the evenings sat around a quiet cou</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">r</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">tyard with local beers & china bowls of tempura. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Amid the one-</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">upmanship conversations of Dutch</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> backpackers</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> & Latvian journalists</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">, </span></span><span class="s3"><span class="bumpedFont20">“</span></span><span class="s3"><span class="bumpedFont20">When I was mountain trekking in Bhutan…”</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">I tried my usual trick of hinting that I was a spy</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">, spinning intrigues in my own personal update of the </span></span><span class="s3"><span class="bumpedFont20"><i>Great</i> <i>Game</i></span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">.</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">As ever,</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> no-one bought it.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">The Registan is the tourist-friendly face of Samarkand, both rich in detail and more dazzling now than </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">at any point in history</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">A viewing platform even frames the scene</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">;</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">making it almost</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> impossible to take a bad photo</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">.</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">The issue of architectural restoration is a contentious topic in all the Uzbek Silk Road cities & it gives a homoge</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">nous shine which is both camera-</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">friendly & historically distorted. </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">I spent two days in Samar</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">kand, in & out of mosques</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> & mausole</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">u</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">ms</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">, </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">all glittering with rainbows of mosaics and honeycomb recesses. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">In the Gur-i-Emir, Tamerlane’s tomb was represented by a single jet-black slate in a chamber of high arches overhung by waves of lilac tiles. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">I changed currency in a dim antechamber</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">, counting out notes on </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">a </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">tomb & </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">spent my cash on</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">the same thick </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">rings</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> of bread that traders on the medieval </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Silk Road</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> ate, tearing off chunks and </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">sweetening</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> with soft cheese. </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZ7-Gd1IafwE-buvq6ioJxdcbReqIE_9oyVYeJW21hdALoAzjQ_PtZd37M6V5DOI1hOC54mmQWCubxlLDiZaod9kMA4tMdrt65QC59dkw6PL5EydUlMIdTqrH10p0Q57u2KUwQYBjVEc/s640/blogger-image--487440971.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZ7-Gd1IafwE-buvq6ioJxdcbReqIE_9oyVYeJW21hdALoAzjQ_PtZd37M6V5DOI1hOC54mmQWCubxlLDiZaod9kMA4tMdrt65QC59dkw6PL5EydUlMIdTqrH10p0Q57u2KUwQYBjVEc/s640/blogger-image--487440971.jpg"></a></div></div><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> <i>Tomb of Tamerlane,</i> <i>Samarkand</i></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">From Samarkand </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">to Bu</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">khara; two fabled cities connected by a slow & stifling afternoon train. Where Samarkand’s impact was </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">visual, Bu</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">khara’s </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">is</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">historical</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. In the 19</span></span><span class="s5" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="bumpedFont20">th</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> century</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> the </span></span><span class="s3"><span class="bumpedFont20"><i>Great</i> <i>Game</i></span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> kicked off in earnest when</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> two British spies were dragged from a tick-ridden prison pit & beheaded in the town’s square.</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> After posing on a Bactrian camel so I could send a selfie to my parents [who had no idea I was in Uzbekistan], I walked round the </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">sun-baked</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> mud walls to the prison, peering down into the pit wh</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">e</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">re </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">the spies, </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Connoly & Stoddart</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">,</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> spent their final days. The Ark fortress, where the evil Emirs ruled, </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">was </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">now stripped of character</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> & </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">had </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">none of the stunning impact of the town’s other </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Maidan</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">where </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">a </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">turquoise</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">-domed </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">madrasah</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> & imposing mosque</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">offset</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> a slender brick minaret.</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">I </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">bought a </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">dusky-</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">red </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Bukhara carpet from <i>Sabina</i></span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">who was familiar from an old edition of <i>Globe</i> <i>Trekker</i></span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. She </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">made me tea & </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">asked my budget. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">“$200.”</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">She looked offended and pointed t</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">o a stack of tiny ru</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">gs in the corner. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">The wily </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">S</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">abina had </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">the only working ATM in the country </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">in</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> her shop & my ineffectual haggling was no match for her business acumen.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xsWpT_tYZp9McKdYWxguSgjvqkTNxYdBKUu_o_unPrmGNQL0kguZj5cRta2W37Ny27DVn0GW9N4_a9txJNBJRWEQdTBApGfEW8pbdWW1355WJXttHGrcFixvlC8DSIIeneuSo1vDSKw/s640/blogger-image--2009684998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xsWpT_tYZp9McKdYWxguSgjvqkTNxYdBKUu_o_unPrmGNQL0kguZj5cRta2W37Ny27DVn0GW9N4_a9txJNBJRWEQdTBApGfEW8pbdWW1355WJXttHGrcFixvlC8DSIIeneuSo1vDSKw/s640/blogger-image--2009684998.jpg"></a></div> <i>Bukhara</i></div><p></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="bumpedFont20">I <font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">flew from Bukhara to Khiva and</font></span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">, swerving the taxi drivers, </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">took a trolley-bus into the ancient walled city. A mother dropped her swaddled baby as I sat down, astonish</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">ed at the sight of a</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20"> foreigne</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">r on the</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20"> bus.</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20"> The crying child rolled down the aisle.</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">My h</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">otel was the <i>Orient</i> <i>Star</i>, a res</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">t</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">o</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">red </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">Madrasah</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">; </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">student cells </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">made over with </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">modern plumbing and </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">set around a </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">courtyard</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">. </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">Under</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20"> cobalt</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">-</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">noon skies, birds swooped & dived, </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">re</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">lieved</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20"> at sunset by bats</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">, lapping in </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">the thickening </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">dusk. </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">Fronting the hotel a </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">stumpy green-tiled </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">minaret gave Khiva its postcard image, as if a giant </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">copper </span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20">burrowing machine was stuck</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="bumpedFont20"> fast and had rusted in the earth.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkhlR83yb1q-iR1yq5EK1WjST8Qm7-CJ5zPEPcH2LatkBei79NmhjWLJW_rHB8hIwjpEWvwi59Xd2iQyEYHheKqCXhHXjjM-DS1vx2BHmNkLGM-Ov4JcBcqOUanm943T6a3_7XqX2vqM/s640/blogger-image--1903166424.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkhlR83yb1q-iR1yq5EK1WjST8Qm7-CJ5zPEPcH2LatkBei79NmhjWLJW_rHB8hIwjpEWvwi59Xd2iQyEYHheKqCXhHXjjM-DS1vx2BHmNkLGM-Ov4JcBcqOUanm943T6a3_7XqX2vqM/s640/blogger-image--1903166424.jpg"></a></div><p></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><i> Orient</i> <i>Star</i> <i>Hotel</i>, <i>Khiva</i></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><i><br></i></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">All the Silk Road cities had been restored but Kihva’s was the most meticulous and it felt as if real life had been </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">neatly </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">brushed away</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> at times. On Sunday, it was heaving </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">with local tourists</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Throughout this</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> trip I was approached by Uzbeks from all walks of life who wanted to practice their English</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> & take </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">photo</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">s</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. Some barely spoke hello, while others were more fluent than I was. In Khiva, it reached its zenith and I became a tourist attraction for teenagers, schoolteachers, businessmen</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">, and weirdly, grandmothers</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">; all clicking camera phones at my middle-aged </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">ruggedness</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">There are hundreds </span></span><a name="_GoBack"></a><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">of photos of me in Khiva, but I didn’t take any of them.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Uzbekistan </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">felt like old-schoo</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">l backpacking at times; no atms </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">[</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">unless you want to</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> buy a carpet</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">], </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Wi-Fi</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> that floated on the breeze and a plug socket in S</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">a</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">markand that almost blew my arm off. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Worries about bureaucracy were unfounded. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">My only brush with authority was a single shrill whistle as I photographed a memorial to Soviet astronauts in Tashkent, followed by a wagging finger. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">The very names of these</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> Silk Road cities </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">are </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">evocative; <i>Samarkand</i>, <i>Bukhara</i>, <i>Khiva</i>. </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">Standing in the</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">ir</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> perfect squares and gazing at the </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">madrasahs &</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> minarets & mosques, i</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">t was often </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">impossible</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> to see where original decoration ended &</span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"> </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">restoration began and although that detracts from authenticity, it </span></span><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20">looks absolutely stunning.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"><br></span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4"><span class="bumpedFont20"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApMyhD5mDrk65JW3XDDDplfQTMgQtnfD6eKwCNGNkyTYy2ShQBibO0kyxH2ONBg4GRVpcrps_qTIXca9CzXtICHRogdm7rJzB_f8_6VdHEBmDw7VQnT4hWxMy3jlqqT1ZTFglcr8H7oQ/s640/blogger-image-1726153676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApMyhD5mDrk65JW3XDDDplfQTMgQtnfD6eKwCNGNkyTYy2ShQBibO0kyxH2ONBg4GRVpcrps_qTIXca9CzXtICHRogdm7rJzB_f8_6VdHEBmDw7VQnT4hWxMy3jlqqT1ZTFglcr8H7oQ/s640/blogger-image-1726153676.jpg"></a></div> <i>Registan</i>, <i>Samarkand</i></div><p></p>The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-3649706014171743942014-12-16T13:49:00.001+00:002014-12-30T08:14:31.076+00:00Baku, AzerbaijanThere’s a cheap back door into Azerbaijan unlocked by Wizz Air. Flights are via Budapest where I stopped off to bathe at the Gellert & rode the Children’s Railway through the Buda hills in rain which never relented.<br />
<br />
My time in Baku started with a grilling in passport control. <br />
“I see you were in Armenia. Why?”<br />
"Tourism,” I answered, which was met with a raised eyebrow before I was reluctantly waved through. At least it prepared me for the verbal barrage from the waiting taxi drivers who shamelessly lied about bus connections.<br />
<br />
My first impression of the city was <em>cats</em>. They were everywhere; strolling through the airport arrivals hall or sleeping in the metro. The old town even had a cat sculpture embedded in a honey-stoned alcove<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXZPw1oApgphLCfjvQm1n5NDbOkYG8u8H8MV4ywnJ4055_VTDwVz_eAfX-jLcDETN3SgVrDz1f_QNvLPa_i6alVxoFp2cw3caQMrpQUPoIBTIDYC_UKv78RjoYf5yzFSeWDfdBJbFzKE/s1600/IMG_0205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_68241="null" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXZPw1oApgphLCfjvQm1n5NDbOkYG8u8H8MV4ywnJ4055_VTDwVz_eAfX-jLcDETN3SgVrDz1f_QNvLPa_i6alVxoFp2cw3caQMrpQUPoIBTIDYC_UKv78RjoYf5yzFSeWDfdBJbFzKE/s1600/IMG_0205.JPG" gta="true" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caspian Sea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Baku is an ancient & isolated city, ringed once by walls, then by desert and partially moated by the oil-rich Caspian Sea. The old town sits in the shadow of an architectural playground funded by the oil that once lapped against the walls. Zaha Hadid’s cultural centre is the most beautiful, sculptured angles draped in a silk throw. Elsewhere are gigantic towers, a Freudian flagpole & Eurovision glitter. And you can’t miss the Carpet Museum, a vast carpet rolled tightly on the promenade. Baku may not be the prettiest place to visit but it was certainly the windiest. Walking along the Caspian shore, my glasses were blown from my face. I hastily employed two boys walking past to find them as I staggered around in a blurred frenzy. They turned up further down the boardwalk, sheltering under a bench & nursing a slight lens chip. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmncNY_OjQkvSNbI5bz5DMlyFO51kaDC7QRfo06CBV_rsZSSKx1CynIDN5PAEWG73rbIWIRBVst4A_A8OzmcFhj2n6te_NsorD6avZwXjvAXQBkrwena29tRkSyRCDQiRzWDWMwRJzwc/s1600/IMG_0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_68241="null" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmncNY_OjQkvSNbI5bz5DMlyFO51kaDC7QRfo06CBV_rsZSSKx1CynIDN5PAEWG73rbIWIRBVst4A_A8OzmcFhj2n6te_NsorD6avZwXjvAXQBkrwena29tRkSyRCDQiRzWDWMwRJzwc/s1600/IMG_0176.JPG" gta="true" height="150" unselectable="on" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baku Flame Towers</td></tr>
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The suburbs are dustier with oil derricks crammed into back yards; each tiny plot a potential money-pot. The near horizon is a constant blur of nodding donkeys soundtracked by the putting of home-made generators. I spent a day on buses and subway trains, mopping up sites outside the centre; A mountain on fire, a Zorastrian temple and inbetween, car repairs and roadside markets, all the untidy businesses of suburbia. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTfE_iwGyPMDjYKPPKQ7TkVqQ6R-eD04Kg2SrQ4rUInw0AOpidQQfYhvGs1IRD9hnJYgZImPqbCf8mQoDnOAM3e2d8Dh_6qlY9jMVzwea7sSoli7zoooWc-kRp9ZPDMcZ7iWEYcgf78g/s1600/IMG_0120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_68241="null" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTfE_iwGyPMDjYKPPKQ7TkVqQ6R-eD04Kg2SrQ4rUInw0AOpidQQfYhvGs1IRD9hnJYgZImPqbCf8mQoDnOAM3e2d8Dh_6qlY9jMVzwea7sSoli7zoooWc-kRp9ZPDMcZ7iWEYcgf78g/s1600/IMG_0120.JPG" gta="true" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zaha Hadid's architecture</td></tr>
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Soviet Baku has been mostly swept away with oil money but nestling in the new town is a beautiful old USSR football stadium built from tufa stone & formerly named after Lenin. Lenin, of course, is long gone and the statue outside now honours a local; Tofiq Bahramov, fondly remembered in England as “the Russian Linesman” after his assist to Geoff Hurst during the 1966 World Cup final. Baku had many faces; conservative Islam & boomtown economics, cobbled old town & Soviet drab, but at its heart was the romantic city of Ali & Nino, still just identifiable amidst the glass & steel of oil wealth.</div>
The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-23872593346922825262014-02-20T18:45:00.001+00:002014-02-20T18:45:52.766+00:00Romania & Moldova<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZafp3yQinrQKv01rPdJfVuvvi4Bi4FWzIUx-PqIYc5pThJ0LXnVXs-VFm1EN7FXsXIdMjIC8_GPxKqkjqHccfOjmuLALLaoPg-47I219Bjsg8E4x1LEa_TIN7iMmfz-Ef95IlSZQ8Tk/s1600/L1090148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZafp3yQinrQKv01rPdJfVuvvi4Bi4FWzIUx-PqIYc5pThJ0LXnVXs-VFm1EN7FXsXIdMjIC8_GPxKqkjqHccfOjmuLALLaoPg-47I219Bjsg8E4x1LEa_TIN7iMmfz-Ef95IlSZQ8Tk/s1600/L1090148.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bucovina Monastery</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Bucovina Monasteries are a cluster of churches in the Eastern Carpathians, decorated inside & out with bright frescos. Overhanging roofs shelter the pigment against the Romanian weather. In the medieval era when literacy wasn’t widespread, the frescos acted as stark pictorial warnings for those who wavered from orthodoxy. I hired Gigi, a local guide, and we visited Humor, Voronet, Moldovita & Sucevita; each with its own biblical themes, & all beautiful. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I asked Gigi, about the Communist era. He was a teenager in the late eighties and the Ceaucescus were executed days before his enforced conscription. Widespread resentment was already in the air & he told me he would have been lining up against his friends, rifle in hand. He described his mother queuing endlessly for bread while he flicked between the two state televisions channels, hopping between propaganda, praying for an end to the old order.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsKgjK4oQzw1qRxSguawTU9mcSrAMqjaUddrJUCBNesQ0fPfDzZFASon0qkP2hhqU0JO3_fjmgcHLfORzna2CpHX_Do8hLckhRn4_mnAx7EztyjbPZiw6pQ3U2O_u3HIu-5PLJrUxVjg/s1600/L1090198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsKgjK4oQzw1qRxSguawTU9mcSrAMqjaUddrJUCBNesQ0fPfDzZFASon0qkP2hhqU0JO3_fjmgcHLfORzna2CpHX_Do8hLckhRn4_mnAx7EztyjbPZiw6pQ3U2O_u3HIu-5PLJrUxVjg/s1600/L1090198.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chisinau, Moldova</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">From Suceava in Romanian Bucovina, I headed to Chisinau in Moldova. The only bus of the week left Suceava at 6am. I walked through the dark to the small bus station only to find the minibus full-up. “But I’ve come all the way from England!” I said. Some shrugging was the only response. Hiding at the back of the bus station was another bus which went part of the way, leaving at 7. At 7.45 it broke down in a forest. At 8.30 another bus picked us up from the forest and drove to the next town. A further bus took me to Iasi near the border and from there I could connect to Chisinau. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as we entered Moldova, everyone began bouncing up & down. We had now left the EU with its infrastructure grants & road maintenance. Moldova’s highways are domestically funded, bumpy & unsealed. As we approached Chisinau, the fertile fields were planted with rows of grapes, wrapping the capital in vines. We juddered into the bus station in late afternoon sunshine. One simple journey had become four and yet we arrived an hour ahead of the rammed 6am bus from Suceava!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzHdzmpjpPM-kX7O3ihvAZ4uLSXGsT3mV-cDftha1vy1hKWGMK9yFwOISp9xZoP8_CZ_CnRnr-dGXlZYhSRyA7i8T8CMs3eVkCgWI4fUyp3d8voXWUhBhipGxD4RmdGJ2noMzryHv5Uo/s1600/L1090203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzHdzmpjpPM-kX7O3ihvAZ4uLSXGsT3mV-cDftha1vy1hKWGMK9yFwOISp9xZoP8_CZ_CnRnr-dGXlZYhSRyA7i8T8CMs3eVkCgWI4fUyp3d8voXWUhBhipGxD4RmdGJ2noMzryHv5Uo/s1600/L1090203.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee & cake in Moldova</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I checked into a Junior Suite at the Hotel Tourist, a centrally-planned slab of downtown accommodation. After the colour-rush of the Bucovina monasteries, it was a return to communist brown; all the shades from beige to taupe. On the surface, Chisinau was crumbling; all rain-stained estates & wrecked pavements. Anti-fascist memorials rose proudly from intersections. The familiar clenched fists & red stars of Eastern Bloc progress. There was a cheek-by-jowl clash of post-war brutalism and neon-strip casinos; a complete absence of architectural harmony. But secreted inside was a brighter story. Bleak facades hid cosy cafes, modern enotecas & amusingly, Malldova. Here lived the capital’s young, flash with iphones & tablets, served by waitresses in traditional dress, everyone fluent in Russian & English.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQgQImPfzhdS_M-p6d-AIwdXJIsnRbQbaX6ODTDRV89nwAWQMxUu3Q2MhPW5_0xEXEfIdXPrjIeQt3WKug4IVqn5OFSBT5viiK4A-nijWQATo_pUGaWXN9lC1ym2F_PstD0WAKRfm4Zp0/s1600/L1090237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQgQImPfzhdS_M-p6d-AIwdXJIsnRbQbaX6ODTDRV89nwAWQMxUu3Q2MhPW5_0xEXEfIdXPrjIeQt3WKug4IVqn5OFSBT5viiK4A-nijWQATo_pUGaWXN9lC1ym2F_PstD0WAKRfm4Zp0/s1600/L1090237.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Timisoara</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">From Chisinau, I flew to Timisoara in Romania, where the revolution to overthrow the Ceaucescus begun. The light was fading as I arrived, but the city appeared tidy & prosperous and proud of its role in igniting the revolution. From Timisoara the dissent spread to Bucharest and gained enough momentum to topple one of the worst of the Soviet-endorsed regimes. Way up in Bucovina in the remote north, a teenager called Gigi, with a love of the local monasteries, was just relieved it all happened before he was called up to shoot his mates.</span>The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-92172339429670782062014-02-15T09:55:00.001+00:002014-02-16T09:39:00.262+00:00Minsk - Soviet Timewarp<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqd5VuhZ4oc3e5NkoyRJsUrwN2aKPAIOAkd49XESSdI1nM86WHrnyMhGiVt6lp0sK-HOzg-1bV1k_3resQIFoQ6Qo9lUhC9d2T1vUMnCJWyLx0q9rTKFXaHWefkeWn_Nt2crIGcxpKRI/s1600/L1100540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqd5VuhZ4oc3e5NkoyRJsUrwN2aKPAIOAkd49XESSdI1nM86WHrnyMhGiVt6lp0sK-HOzg-1bV1k_3resQIFoQ6Qo9lUhC9d2T1vUMnCJWyLx0q9rTKFXaHWefkeWn_Nt2crIGcxpKRI/s1600/L1100540.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel Planeta</td></tr>
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Belarus was a difficult country to visit. I was on nodding terms with the Embassy in London before they finally granted me a visa. Direct flights are expensive but there’s a cheap backdoor entrance via budget airlines & a bus trip over the border from Lithuania. Minsk was the grey city at Belarus’s heart, frozen in a Soviet timewarp & a fascinating experience. I stayed at the Hotel Planeta, a town-edge monolith. Prowling the lobby were ladies in short skirts & heavy make-up, eager for eye contact. I slalomed through, head-down and ran for the lift. Later my room-phone rang and a female voice whispered unknown Russian. “Sorry?” I said, at which point she switched to English and suggested a “private relaxing massage”. She was one of the few people in Minsk who spoke good English. I declined her offer.<br />
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Belarus was almost completely destroyed in the second-world war, the whole country transformed into a vast battlefield. Minsk’s large Jewish population was squeezed into ghettos and then annihilated. City monuments reflect the horror and sadness; a straggling Auschwitz-bound line clinging to small suitcases & maternal tears for those who fell later in Afghanistan.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNVXKJM1QRS4zyUj4c0k0-hyerNYeLp1duky0JOmS0yWAHPWFf1CbiZaRz0zGs7rdwg1ZOhH5UEVR7W4xwF_QauZ4y2_iit0aLSuVPvSGkuzqfz3qfsN61dFHr755chXVi-_MVRFLRkk/s1600/L1100584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNVXKJM1QRS4zyUj4c0k0-hyerNYeLp1duky0JOmS0yWAHPWFf1CbiZaRz0zGs7rdwg1ZOhH5UEVR7W4xwF_QauZ4y2_iit0aLSuVPvSGkuzqfz3qfsN61dFHr755chXVi-_MVRFLRkk/s1600/L1100584.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trinity Suburb</td></tr>
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The post-war city was rebuilt from scratch on Stalin’s watch, with wide boulevards & blockend murals of muscle-honed patriots. Everywhere there is concrete, grey & stained. Functional architecture drains the place of colour & I never saw a blue sky in Minsk. Only Trinity Suburb was different, a 1980s rebuild of the medieval old town where pastel shutters and decorated brickwork added an organic respite to the monochrome of Soviet Minsk. The tight string of streets looked more like the Belarus of Marc Chagall with gabled roofs and uneven cobbles and Trinity looked across the river to ribbons of green parkland.<br />
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I found Minsk oppressive at first, but then began to notice the welcome intrusion of human nature; traditional dancers harmonising folk ballads by the theatre, quirky sculptures decked with flowers and a wedding party spilling onto the streets drinking straight from bottles of Champanska.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79NfGUfzahWJ886nyO9sV8e5CCOxWULQajwG0gJYYtV_yLcjzttJznA-vBn8z6_sFHT5NPp7vBDWobC72Nyb4rtDwjnjUOlzCW0Fcl-x73rcvbVNVRHkB7nZhU-loiXZfQ1uA1Obx44I/s1600/L1100566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79NfGUfzahWJ886nyO9sV8e5CCOxWULQajwG0gJYYtV_yLcjzttJznA-vBn8z6_sFHT5NPp7vBDWobC72Nyb4rtDwjnjUOlzCW0Fcl-x73rcvbVNVRHkB7nZhU-loiXZfQ1uA1Obx44I/s1600/L1100566.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Metro artwork</td></tr>
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Belarus is one of the last dictatorships in Europe; ruled by a president elected with improbable majorities. Lenin still stood proudly outside Parliament and the KGB HQ was on the main shopping street. Even Lee Harvey Oswald made Minsk his home. The KGB bugged his apartment but couldn’t work out his motives & were as surprised as anyone when he changed the course of history. Belarus still leans towards Russia and turns subsidized gas imports into lucrative export capital. Iconic skyline vanity projects litter the suburbs creating construction jobs. No real freedom, no dissent, but work & a monthly paycheque. By day I walked the city until my calves ached but in the evenings, I rode the rattling metro lines in & out of Minsk with their spacerace tiling and starlit stations, picking up bread, cheese & fruit from local supermarkets at the end of the line. Wine was cheap & I stocked up on chewy reds from Georgia and crispy whites from Moldova.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gd_vS324InHljzWAQPXA2FnX0I0jknGBg556-y7Cn99BVF7FAN4mop0Z-1oabsliZePiq6Dfj8Tqq5fSPWWmdspcQ39J96eR57Vs3B6wEsqYGTE04Bn3l42Aw-AnGJhgKzENK5TElwg/s1600/L1100619.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gd_vS324InHljzWAQPXA2FnX0I0jknGBg556-y7Cn99BVF7FAN4mop0Z-1oabsliZePiq6Dfj8Tqq5fSPWWmdspcQ39J96eR57Vs3B6wEsqYGTE04Bn3l42Aw-AnGJhgKzENK5TElwg/s1600/L1100619.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Library</td></tr>
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Re-entering Lithuania, itself a former Soviet republic, was like discovering a new world of colour; Baroque churches; golden spires and the return of blue skies. The border crossing was a test of patience. Long waits in no-mans-land are common along the EU frontier but decontamination channels are solely the legacy of Chernobyl. The Soviet reactor was just inside the Ukrainian republic but Minsk lay directly upwind. Another legacy of Belarus’s unfortunate geography; stomped over by fighting armies and then poisoned by radiation from within.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-68454967398472422672014-01-27T14:46:00.005+00:002014-02-20T18:21:25.013+00:00Wine, Stalin & Tbilisi <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jsiO2j5tYsumFg_TgulAnCuUp4ZvRQ4FuM44eBRaT-XeHP1x9XTCqdZDllXQPopbIWAZGvmGYuhsgbkSikekBoWyPy6AgR2lB3-8a0ahfcr0P45IKU8JLm63qpXeMjrvq1r3X2sAcJE/s1600/L1050830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jsiO2j5tYsumFg_TgulAnCuUp4ZvRQ4FuM44eBRaT-XeHP1x9XTCqdZDllXQPopbIWAZGvmGYuhsgbkSikekBoWyPy6AgR2lB3-8a0ahfcr0P45IKU8JLm63qpXeMjrvq1r3X2sAcJE/s1600/L1050830.JPG" height="150" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tbilisi</td></tr>
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I headed to Tbilisi from Armenia, folded into the back of a bumpy minibus. My seat was a crate of watermelons & a toddler napped on my rucksack. I took a battered taxi to the old town, but walked the final stretch after the fuel warning light blinked on the dashboard & it spluttered to a halt. Tbilisi’s old town was both dustily atmospheric and falling to bits. I cleansed myself in one of the city’s communal baths, pummeled by an old man with giant soapy hands and headed to Gori to confront Georgia’s elephant in the room. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Gori is Stalin’s hometown, an hour’s shared-taxi journey in a brand new BMW from Tbilisi, the road skimming close to the Ossetian border. Rigid lines of rusty-red shacks studded the slopes; A refugee camp thrown together following Georgia’s latest skirmish with Mother Russia.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZxv9LXGN2tF6nwMgjkpdFcSw-cjjSnVu1ujEbQYY5AZjdsjEk6t5oYsQ_k11SxvdVogjn7zuKeKW3dHQCxYue6SIJUHoqhZSC2Bo1OjUK9aNgVYpESg2Wr31R2J2jMYK0pIsL_IPRuI/s1600/L1050864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZxv9LXGN2tF6nwMgjkpdFcSw-cjjSnVu1ujEbQYY5AZjdsjEk6t5oYsQ_k11SxvdVogjn7zuKeKW3dHQCxYue6SIJUHoqhZSC2Bo1OjUK9aNgVYpESg2Wr31R2J2jMYK0pIsL_IPRuI/s1600/L1050864.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man of Steel</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Stalin’s boyhood home has been incongruously preserved in the centre of town, enclosed by classical columns and shielding a museum that told a story but never the whole truth. There was a sharp focus on WW2 [USSR’s Great Patriotic War] and Stalin’s achievements. After that it presented a web of spin & doctored photographs. Five year plans and collectivizations without the famines and Siberian labour camps. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I bought a chapbook of Stalin’s boyhood poetry & a bottle of undrinkable sweet red wine. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">From Gori I headed to the Eastern town of Sighnaghi, the new epicentre of Georgian victiculture. The whole industry is undergoing a reboot after a Russian export blockcade had derailed it following Geogia’s succession. Stalin’s sweet-tooth influence has been supplemented by international recognition, particularly among the reds. Each label is transcribed by the gorgeously curly Georgian alphabet. However, in some lines naiviety triumphs & I couldn’t resist a bottle of Sparking Wine. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sighnaghi</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sighnaghi has been heavily restored and felt slightly staged, as if it had been scrubbed too hard. Close to the town was a stone chapel dedicated to the fourth century St Nino, where I submerged into the healing waters of a natural spring. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">This incongruous mix of the ancient & the modern formed my overriding impression of Georgia; Early saints & modern bodegas; new BMWs & petrol-scrimping cabbies. Georgia is a beautiful & ancient country, shoving away from Soviet rule, but tearing away fragments as it does so. The overriding issue for Georgia is this; what can you do when your most famous son is Joseph Stalin?</span>The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-14771979534135098672014-01-23T13:41:00.001+00:002014-02-20T18:22:28.578+00:00Thrace & the Rhodopes<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">On the Eastern Thracian plain in modern day Bulgaria lies Plovdiv, a many-layered city spread across several hills & atop capricious plates. I stayed in the steep, cobbled old town which crumbles over the Soviet-designed modern centre. Visible underneath is a Roman city whose contours still define the modern street plan. A 1970s earthquake exposed a large amphitheatre and looking south from the top row of seats, the jagged Rhodope Mountains line the horizon, creating a natural border with Greece. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Deep within the Rhodope Mountains lies the Devil’s Throat, a cave complex where Orpheus descended into the underworld to rescue Eurydice only to look back and lose her forever. The mountain roads crawl up to modern ski resorts and dip down to dense wood-lined valleys. Scattered in the mountains are low-walled foundations and white stone burial chambers; remnants of the ancient land of the Thracians.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plovdiv</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">I crisscrossed the valleys in a series of minibuses, bought Mursalski, an aphrodisiac tea & in the evenings, drank wine grown from Thracian vines. I stayed a night in Eliza’s Guesthouse in Trigrad, a village close to a roaring gorge and followed Orpheus’ footsteps into the underworld. Eliza cooked Rhodope Pie for me, a Bulgarian version of Tortilla Espanola, puffed with local potatoes and mountain herbs. She was in her fifties, a teacher, and her wrists were strung with red & white Martenitsa, awaiting the spring. We spoke about the Soviet era and her attitude was even-handed. Everyone had jobs & pensions but little freedom and the atmosphere was one of suspicion even in small villages. You had to constantly look over your shoulder.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Heading back to Plovdiv, I stopped off in the Rhodope foothills at the Monastery of Bachkovo. The monastic buildings are coloured with frescos & thick with incense, shielded by a perimeter of stone walls. My guidebook suggested an overnight stay was possible & I was intrigued. I’ve slept in caves & luxury Paradores, in castles and even a tent in my back garden in London, but never in a monastery. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">“Do you speak English?” I asked a group of monks. No, they didn’t. “German?” they asked. I didn’t. “French?” Umm. I was given an interview with one of the Fathers in an oak-lined study. His French was far superior to mine but we found common ground and I left with a large iron key and a warning to be back by dusk when the monastery closes its doors to the outside world. I took the bus back to Plovdiv, buying bread and cheese & wine, hiding the bottle in my rucksack, unsure of Eastern Orthodox protocol regarding alcohol. It was red wine, at least.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">The room was square & plain with polished wooden floors and a southern window onto the Rhodopes. I read Kapka Kassabova’s memoir of growing up in Soviet Bulgaria and ate a simple meal. The plumbing clunked a little but then settled down and quickly became noiseless. By late-evening the monastery was in complete darkness & the silence was total. There was nothing to do but go to bed. I was awoken by a cliché; a cockerel crowing from the monastery’s in-house menagerie. The best night’s sleep I’ve had since the children were born.</span>The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-963638969892035872014-01-22T15:47:00.001+00:002014-01-22T16:02:18.299+00:00Rock in Vaduz<span style="font-family: inherit;">Vaduz is a neat village masquerading as a capital city and I stayed a night while hopping between Austria & Switzerland. Pricey business hotels lined the main street but cheaper accommodation lay just outside the centre and I was drawn in by a tall brick B&B sporting a wall of blinking flashbulbs. The manager of the pension was a little unwelcoming; “Rock band” he said glumly, and pointed to the floor. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Steps led down from the lobby to a door marked “DISCO BAR”. I asked for a top floor bedroom but still the percussion rattled my shutters. I couldn’t beat the noise so I joined it. Who knew Liechtenstein had an alternative rock scene? Well here it was, squashed loud & sweaty into the basement of my pension. Pierced Goths, tattooed metalheads and, incongruously, a smartly dressed 50 something couple were all shoehorned into this tight space.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A band, sounding like a Germanic Black Sabbath played forever. The singer wrapped himself around the microphone as the band ran through the usual rock clichés. They even had a stage-diver although there’s little danger in leaping from a foot high stage onto an empty dancefloor. After four unearned encores the band shuffled off. “Goodnight, Vaduz!” shouted the singer swaggering off in leather trousers and sunglasses. He headed directly over to the 50 somethings and gave them both a kiss, blowing his cool somewhat as they turned out to be his parents.</span><br />
<br />The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-16829930016301827702014-01-20T15:37:00.000+00:002014-02-20T18:28:17.843+00:00Catching the bus from Dilijan to Vanadzor<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__v0ry1oaCKRO3-rZdlybHQBhZ795WujBv-VGW945qtfo4Zi6BR_6hIfwHqI3PLvjPr4OVS67Zpz718GbcEykrXkCJPQeOrwvU0BvU-bzmkk6dY1_TR-K81r6G7NbM4xvkb1hsIJ8OP0/s1600/L1050792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__v0ry1oaCKRO3-rZdlybHQBhZ795WujBv-VGW945qtfo4Zi6BR_6hIfwHqI3PLvjPr4OVS67Zpz718GbcEykrXkCJPQeOrwvU0BvU-bzmkk6dY1_TR-K81r6G7NbM4xvkb1hsIJ8OP0/s1600/L1050792.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I bought my ticket and sat outside the small bus station in Dilijan. This pretty Armenian spa town quietly markets itself as <em>Little Switzerland</em> & is perched high in the green hills, far away from the dusty earthquake-battered capital, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Yerevan</st1:place></st1:city>. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">It was the final bus of the day and the sun was dipping into the horizon. It was also twenty minutes late and the driver, in a bid to recover time, accelerated past the terminal. I stood up, flapping my arms around. Two staff from the bus station came out, also flapping their arms & then disappeared back into the station. The bus turned a corner and left town. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">If I didn’t get to Vanadzor, I couldn’t get to <st1:city w:st="on">Tbilisi</st1:city> in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. If I couldn’t get to <st1:city w:st="on">Tbilisi</st1:city>, I couldn’t get home to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>. I was travel-stained & tired. So, I did what I always do in situations of utter hopelessness. I kicked my rucksack.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Concrete Beauty</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLpUaH_tggyHaDQwB32RZQvR8xm5nAvSxyfnTQ-H-QbcJOzVOJpMVx8HJ78gIJHRWKa-ESAQtSM28c3axuV-wCV9hxGK5fFVgX7bGImhl_uWUsft7yywh1TZ8pMWfAlofCPpO7txydkA/s1600/L1050780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">But then the two bus station employees reappeared & ushered me into a mud-splattered minivan. We raced off in pursuit, running red lights and leaning on the horn to scatter the traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily our target was an old American school bus and we glimpsed its taillights a mile out of town, crawling up an incline in first gear. The minivan shunted past and drew to an abrupt stop in front of the startled driver. There followed a further series of arm signals until the bus door hissed open and I climbed the steps waving my ticket and pointing back to the town trying to explain the situation in the absence of shared language.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">After this unlikely start, the bus inched up a narrow ridge riding above the beautiful villages belonging to the Molokans. Rejecting orthodoxy, the Molokans are an ultra-conservative group who face away from the modern world and live in steep green valley settlements like Fioletovo. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zEMRIB3R-Pj19NsJQxKabaZ_60JIT-9t5rJjWiBcQvmCEIKAun-1PzyOKg0VHPx5YztnNnHbvlcaOgR_7nYvWXt5JEMn8PBVdHmPEb9bOpFQTkG3d07f2PeSbs1ennnV9ADEePQEhn4/s1600/L1050799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zEMRIB3R-Pj19NsJQxKabaZ_60JIT-9t5rJjWiBcQvmCEIKAun-1PzyOKg0VHPx5YztnNnHbvlcaOgR_7nYvWXt5JEMn8PBVdHmPEb9bOpFQTkG3d07f2PeSbs1ennnV9ADEePQEhn4/s1600/L1050799.JPG" height="132" width="200" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">The bus crunched through the narrow passes with the valley spread out below; patterned by hayricks and smoking chimneys & populated by men on horseback and women in black headscarves. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Lilac dusk dropped across the valley and as the light diminished and the senses readjusted, the tang of woodsmoke drifted into the bus and I slept the final miles into Vanadzor. This is how I will always remember <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Armenia</st1:place></st1:country-region>; a beautiful journey made possible by a spontaneous act of kindness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-33468650947031311092011-02-21T16:09:00.007+00:002011-02-25T12:33:29.929+00:00Lake Ohrid, Macedonia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtcJt-M11jDFCKqsME0Dg4g7cEJFa0O7RoAOYOLDIBfqLes7D_HQ4oGxik_LNYYg9wl5bL0ITqoQLg09YY9niQmcRdidIFlfgqCOk9SE26Lc5RTxONCWVGPn3DrA8HBuKUWS5QzGpHzJQ/s1600/L1040090.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576226397297885986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtcJt-M11jDFCKqsME0Dg4g7cEJFa0O7RoAOYOLDIBfqLes7D_HQ4oGxik_LNYYg9wl5bL0ITqoQLg09YY9niQmcRdidIFlfgqCOk9SE26Lc5RTxONCWVGPn3DrA8HBuKUWS5QzGpHzJQ/s200/L1040090.JPG" border="0" /></a>I took a stroll on my first morning around the rim of Lake Ohrid, photographing the sun as it filtered through the reeds. A local fisherman, fluent in English and pushy in business, tried to sell me a 50 euro boat ride to Albania. I thanked him and kept walking.<br /><br />Around the headland the path dipped to the rocks below and a controlled stumble brought into view a half-moon of sharp white stones; a hidden beach! I came back each morning, slowly building a tan.<br /><br />Ohrid’s beauty is characterized by a single church; St. John Kaneo; set high above the lakefront. The spare beauty of this 13th century church & the power of its position have made the site famous across the Balkans. I walked this way just after dawn, in the heat of the day and then in twilight, just to see the church and lake in different lights.<br /><br />I bumped into the Ohrid fisherman again. “Albania, 40 euros” he said. I spread my arms in a “why would I wish to leave here” gesture. “No problem” he smiled and I brushed past.<br /><br />Ohrid was a tourist hotspot but also an architectural town. Layers of history were woven into the fabric of the place; A classical amphitheatre, Byzantine churches, an Ottoman bazaar. On the waterfront were pizzerias, ice-cream parlours and tourist tat shops. The Cyrillic language developed in Ohrid but since Yugoslavia broke up the young people have schooled themselves in English and spoke it better than I did.<br /><br />I stayed longer than I intended, relaxing on <em>my</em> beach, planning the next step to Kosovo and enjoying the lazy days. On my final night, I photographed the church in moonlight and headed home to pack. A recognizable figure barred my path. This time it was 30 euros, “final offer.” “I really don’t want to go to Albania” I pleaded.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-60011416388726500632011-02-21T14:36:00.003+00:002011-02-21T20:03:39.453+00:00Pristina Newborn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAwicGfJTdhNeusuUYg8w72G-957S230XekA_b3ZUxMANBIBO8NkAPu3S9gLplMnJHq2JzkOPvT4i3FTry2OAOEQdgppdUzMe72IFAUhMQIHWAaoN3Zs95oHX7VDUWZe6Qy7Kx7zp_gY/s1600/L1040199.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAwicGfJTdhNeusuUYg8w72G-957S230XekA_b3ZUxMANBIBO8NkAPu3S9gLplMnJHq2JzkOPvT4i3FTry2OAOEQdgppdUzMe72IFAUhMQIHWAaoN3Zs95oHX7VDUWZe6Qy7Kx7zp_gY/s200/L1040199.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576226135565543218" /></a>The Republic of Kosova isn't universally recognized but it winked at me from across the Macedonian border and represented the final piece of my Yugoslavian jigsaw.<br /><br />I boarded an old diesel bus which crunched up the hill from Skopje, joined at the border by KFOR-trained dogs, who sniffed and snapped at my rucksack but found nothing more dangerous than dirty underwear.<br /><br />My highly visible Kosovan passport stamp virtually rules out any further visits to Serbia, it's non-acceptance of the succession territory pivotal to the Serbian Government. So be it, Belgrade. Once into Kosovan territory, the green border hills looked stunning and alive in the November sunshine.<br /><br />The bus dropped to a dusty plateau, a countrywide construction site as Kosovo rebuilds. The capital, Pristina was a typical Balkan mixture of Ottoman market and Soviet slab-blocks. I walked through graffiti heavy streets as traffic noise competed with the call to prayer and followed Bill Clinton Boulevard, flanked by giant posters of Tony Blair; "Leader, Friend, Hero". You won't see these in England. In the centre of town sits the National Library, a boxy defensive building, dressed with chainmail. Perhaps the weight of history has forced Kosovans to protect their literature or maybe it's just another architectural adventure in post-modernism from central planning.<br /><br />Although never too far from a bullet-scored wall or a weed-filled plot of blasted masonry, Pristina was full of life. Half of its population is under 25. The cafes and bars were full of smart teenagers, talking into phones on borrowed mobile networks and able to flip to fluent English in an instant. A concrete sculpture spells it out; NEWBORN. Pristina is finding a new voice and the young carry it.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-46516751687559491942009-11-24T15:46:00.004+00:002014-01-22T15:49:25.499+00:00Reszel Castle, Poland<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCJAEDbWuquxkO3KPiu6nQKz3txG08f-PIvBeqgzEaUQBlXzxhCsILrXzDn_4NrwSirc-SQof6zCm8Aw3CHfG5_20ov5so0k9fDDXu11AnyTwwDq1_VYr-JVWB7LB7ZeUq7dc5X2FYjE/s1600/L1020459.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCJAEDbWuquxkO3KPiu6nQKz3txG08f-PIvBeqgzEaUQBlXzxhCsILrXzDn_4NrwSirc-SQof6zCm8Aw3CHfG5_20ov5so0k9fDDXu11AnyTwwDq1_VYr-JVWB7LB7ZeUq7dc5X2FYjE/s200/L1020459.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407754379225105522" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>An atmospheric wood-paneled apothecary stood near the main square. A tiny bell chimed as I opened the door. High on a shelf rested black iron scales. The language barrier was a problem so I just pointed at my head and said “Boom!”, the universal expression of headache.<br />
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Armed with a couple of tablets I walked back through the old town to the castle under a deep blue November sky.<br />
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Then, the mist rolled in. That deep blue sky from a paragraph ago quickly blanked and smudged. From a clear view of smoky chimneys, you suddenly couldn’t see the hand on the end of your arm. The mist lay thick and low and as the streetlights flickered on, dim yellows swirled into the mix.<br />
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Bordered by the Russian exclave of Kaliningrad to the east and buffeted on the north by the Baltic Sea, this remote Polish region of lakes and giant brick churches is quiet in the winter months. The castle dates back to the 14th century but battered by wars and requisitioned by Prussians and communists, what’s left is a medieval keep surrounded by crumbling stone walls. The remaining rooms have been converted into a lovely hotel.<br />
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Our room was an atmospheric circular guard tower. Wooden stairs twined around the inner wall and each floor had its own microclimate. Old arrow slits looked across the town’s twisting river and a squadron of mosquitoes hiked over to feast on us at night. The castle’s furniture had been carved by the Polish sculptor Boleslaw Marschall and fitted snugly against the curved tower walls. A television and downstairs toilet muted the medieval atmosphere and we bathed our six month old baby in the Jacuzzi.<br />
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In the evening, branches flitted against the skylights and threw shadows around the walls. We walked to the church. Inside a lone figure rocked back and forth in the pew, eyes closed, hands clasped. We tiptoed out, passing a woman in rags poking into litter bins with her walking stick.<br />
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The last woman hanged in Europe for witchcraft supposedly haunted the castle, but we never saw her. Instead we bolted the door and watched a scarily bad Jean-Claude Van Damme film, dubbed into Polish. We drank Hungarian Tokai and cheap Latvian sparkling wine. In the morning I was back at the apothecary, pointing once more at my head and saying “Boom!”The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-16695322825449447182009-04-30T15:01:00.006+01:002014-01-22T15:50:19.024+00:00Pixel im Hof, Linz, Austria<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBgxXKpvUip4BcNJ8CYWtJ4eIgjA8wmLGB74dqk9MDc37Q9PCyi7NmhX58UVFNUEHRL8qzfqtQ6crAPgL7jK0iBGn8pMb4q3a4go1FoMY-LM16eTW5dEN9xnpBj0oCvSIWpi5EJSclv0/s1600-h/L1000449.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBgxXKpvUip4BcNJ8CYWtJ4eIgjA8wmLGB74dqk9MDc37Q9PCyi7NmhX58UVFNUEHRL8qzfqtQ6crAPgL7jK0iBGn8pMb4q3a4go1FoMY-LM16eTW5dEN9xnpBj0oCvSIWpi5EJSclv0/s200/L1000449.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330587458233874578" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>“It is an unusual room,” says my contact at the Pixel-Hotel in Linz. <br />
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I’m a little flustered having missed a bus connection from the airport and then losing my way in the evening drizzle. </div>
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I collapse onto an uncomfortable wire chair as she demonstrates keys and lights. “Don’t forget the cloakroom is in the industrial elevator,” she says. “Bye!”<br />
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Linz, in Northern Austria, is 2009’s European Capital of Culture. <a href="http://www.pixelhotel.at/en/">PixelHotel</a> is a project running in tandem with the city’s moment in the spotlight, converting a cluster of urban spaces into unusual accommodations. There are more conventional hotels in Linz, but given the choice why not stay in a garage, or an art gallery or even a tugboat?<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3398884859/">The Pixel im Hof</a> is a former workshop & garage set around a courtyard dating back to the 18th century. A square low double bed is pressed against one wall and a green mosaic <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3398880359/in/photostream/">bathroom</a> lies tucked around the corner. To complete the scene, parked at the bottom of the bed, is a 1960s caravan.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3399695154/in/photostream/">caravan</a> retains the musty smell of an old-fashioned holiday. I feel as if I am stepping back into my childhood with its concealed cupboards and squeaky-hinged bedding. The only nod to the caravan’s post-modern life is an espresso machine and minibar. I bounce on the seat and decades of dust dance around me.<br />
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A <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3399699464/in/photostream/">wall of lights</a> runs behind the caravan; three rows of 12 white bulbs set behind a screen. Each bulb has its own switch for guests to suit their mood. There is a television in the corner, but why watch TV when you can create light sculptures or drink beer in a caravan?<br />
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It doesn’t stop raining for a single second during my time in Linz, but hunger eventually drives me out and I find a vegetarian restaurant; a totally unexpected discovery. I check with the waitress that the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3405215614/in/photostream/">bratwurst</a> is really vegetarian. “Yes,” she says, after a pause, “this is a vegetarian restaurant”. I blush and eat.<br />
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I walk home past the Mozarthaus where a bust of the composer guards a buttonpress which erupts with the opening adagio of the Linzer Symphony. I cross back to the main square, circle the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3405223866/in/photostream/">plague column</a> and cross the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3404411227/in/photostream/">Danube</a>. The rain defeats me and I scurry back to the Pixel-Hotel; a bottle of Grüner Veltliner tucked under my arm.<br />
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For breakfast there is a folder containing three things; a voucher, a local café list and a map. There’s no room service, of course, because there’s no room; just a former workshop with a caravan parked at the bottom of the bed.</div>
The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-8918679248714973842009-04-23T12:43:00.011+01:002009-04-27T12:04:26.270+01:00Wrexham & Shropshire Railway – Journeys in Manners<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFawzWbBhzD8copeNfs6sDibqZlGvHKtLld1jrET2Bn6-rCJVTSkVRNFCSIKaBivdWJ1WuRCueQiuyrwcQk4HGGL-qlzPZ3trs9hPfE4CzUUeaH050-aFb_pVqGb_eiMS03QUYn-RK2K0/s1600-h/L1000772.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328331992176339682" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFawzWbBhzD8copeNfs6sDibqZlGvHKtLld1jrET2Bn6-rCJVTSkVRNFCSIKaBivdWJ1WuRCueQiuyrwcQk4HGGL-qlzPZ3trs9hPfE4CzUUeaH050-aFb_pVqGb_eiMS03QUYn-RK2K0/s200/L1000772.JPG" border="0" /></a>Sometimes traveling is about the destination and at other times it is about the journey. Ryanair is pure destination travel; scrumming for seats, fending off scratchcards, unjustifiable card fees etc. But it’s direct. Direct & unpleasant.<br /><br />Wrexham & Shropshire Railway isn’t direct, but if you’re not in a hurry, it is very pleasant.<br /><br />The southern terminus is Marylebone, rare in London in that it looks like a real railway station rather than a shopping mall with trains. The 6.45am to Wrexham service was hidden away on Platform 5 as if the big franchises can’t even bear to look at it. I took my reserved seat but there were plenty of spares. The staff apologised for the buffet car being the wrong way round and then we were off; out through <em>Metroland</em> and into pretty <em>Midsomer</em> country, all wrapped in morning mist.<br /><br />We skirted the Cotswolds, rarely stopping and then only to pick up the odd passenger. There are restrictions on which stations the company can use and where they can pick up and put down. It became more apparent that W&S is a small player when we hit Birmingham. We creeped around the rusty outskirts and sat outside Villa Park for a while. “Scum of the earth” muttered a Brummie voice in the seat behind, referring, I think, to the Villa rather than inertia.<br /><br />The delays are due to a pecking order established by the franchises. Our service is bullied down the signal queue by the other train operators. In fairness, these delays are factored into the timetable and both legs of my journey were on time.<br /><br />Once clear of Birmingham we cruised through middle England. Lapworth, Dorridge, & Widney Manor flew past and I’d heard of none of these places. My destination was Shrewsbury, a tudor town currently drawing visitors through a Darwin anniversary theme. As we neared the Shropshire border, announcements were added in Welsh.<br /><br />On the journey back the Marketing Director came through the carriage asking passengers if the journey met expectations. It’s a good question, what expectations do we have for our railways now? By traveling on a service like this that you realize what’s wrong with them, they've become dehumanized with their complex fares that are often undercut by the brash budget airlines.<br /><br />Press articles on the W&S service regularly namecheck the <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0046436/">Titfield Thunderbolt</a></em> as if good manners and personalized service is something that can only be found in an Ealing studio.<br /><br />W&S receives no government subsidy and has a simple fare structure. The sachets of mayonnaise were free and they stocked peppermint tea. The steward from the wrong-way-round buffet car bought my [freshly made] sandwich to my seat. In Standard Class! It’s tiny things like this that make a journey.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-69257699498765316832008-12-03T13:01:00.004+00:002008-12-21T18:34:36.994+00:00Slovakia - Bardejov<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4EKfYALNqRoJz_eGC3QAwEIsLIHU8jRj-7RFxZ2L4m45N1yKC10sWd-arciHoQKJN75nLVuvzB75CoQ12Hwzs7KP9n40QMzVLNQeX-YAb_17ce_iWXt4qO37RBhNElrA5wSI_6XyJtU/s1600-h/DSCF5429.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4EKfYALNqRoJz_eGC3QAwEIsLIHU8jRj-7RFxZ2L4m45N1yKC10sWd-arciHoQKJN75nLVuvzB75CoQ12Hwzs7KP9n40QMzVLNQeX-YAb_17ce_iWXt4qO37RBhNElrA5wSI_6XyJtU/s200/DSCF5429.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282313444053754994" /></a><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Bardejov</span> was a tale of two towns. The first was an initial impression, a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3071380064/">beautiful square</a> surrounded by renaissance buildings and watched over protectively by UNESCO. The blue skies had followed me from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Košice</span> and I squeezed up the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3070540287/">church tower</a> for a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3071380952/">panoramic view</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>The bright facades hid museums and restaurants but also fast food and an Irish pub, although it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wasn</span>’t obvious from first glance. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Bardejov</span> was as beautiful a town as I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ve</span> seen in Europe, architecturally similar to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/1342890358/">Telč</a></span> in the Czech Republic but quite unknown to western tourists and shielded by its remoteness.<br /><br />The second <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Bardejov</span> appeared in the early evening. The afternoon cold had driven me indoors and I closed the blinds in my pension and turned the radiators up. A desire for coffee forced me out some hours later and the whole town was covered in snow. Few people were about and the only sound I heard were church bells ringing the hour, muffled by thick snowy skies. I explored the town afresh, its <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3077575171/">beauty</a> transformed. Even when my fingers could take no more and the silent freezing air had drained my camera battery, I found it tough to head back to my room. Twice in a day I’d been charmed by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Bardejov</span> and the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3078420378/">next morning</a> I <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3078420378/">photographed</a> it <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3078407914/">yet</a> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3077590675/in/photostream/">again</a>, enticed back to the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3078409256/in/photostream/">main square</a> by the chatter of locals on their way to mass<br /><br />I dragged myself away eventually, and for such a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3078415512/">pretty town</a> it had a less attractive Soviet-era <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3078415512/">bus station</a>. No UNESCO protection here but a true statement of the layers of history. The dim station <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">café</span> was home to a group of morning beer drinkers. I headed away, the bus skirting the outskirts of town as if it too, was reluctant to leave.</div>The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-60895532962350123312008-12-03T12:58:00.005+00:002008-12-21T18:36:11.046+00:00Slovakia - Košice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKv640WRfZBrwHp73Mgfbt3s6Zoys2RFrcF-OAPchih1yGHRCYg8u66TsvNxbNSCLOVVh6_ysxbU-V2wqkx_fCd9lBkARK7CGR0fW9Wp_ZHDL6xtfk9t7SHQmNF8E2Ue9F9eJmidbP-0/s1600-h/DSCF5320.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKv640WRfZBrwHp73Mgfbt3s6Zoys2RFrcF-OAPchih1yGHRCYg8u66TsvNxbNSCLOVVh6_ysxbU-V2wqkx_fCd9lBkARK7CGR0fW9Wp_ZHDL6xtfk9t7SHQmNF8E2Ue9F9eJmidbP-0/s200/DSCF5320.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282313938298567362" /></a>I nearly left my winter coat at home. How cold could Slovakia be? In the end it was colder than Antarctica; minus eight, and my rucksack was as light as a feather as I needed to wear all my clothes at once.<br /><br />Things <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span>’t start too well in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Košice</span>. I opened the door to my pension and the handle came off. The room faced an internal courtyard where a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3062254840/">wedding reception</a> was in full swing. <em>Wind of Change</em> bellowed from the speakers and shook the cabinets by my bed.<br /><br />The filmy rain and cold made for an uninviting perception of the city as I walked around later that night. I heard shouting behind me and saw a man running in my direction. My heart jumped but he quickly smiled, returning my umbrella from the pizzeria where I’d eaten dinner. A musical fountain played the Beatles’ Yesterday and the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3062257528/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gothic</span> cathedral</a> looked sinister as I hurried back to my pension with its noisy revelers and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">handleless</span> door.<br /><br />The following morning brought <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3061415301/">blue skies</a> and what had appeared threatening in the dark now looked <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3061416715/">imposing</a> and <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/3062256294/">elegant</a> in the sunshine.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-64539343095316531182008-10-28T12:17:00.011+00:002008-11-03T10:39:34.621+00:00Cantabria, Spain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsRPk8-eu4ccvxRmT4FguIr8pxPtPaCNh6dqe4X1bnnMkVIw-ABzcNk9JNe2f9a99VGZV0InCFr6t3se_20L8uctQAtTOGfCmH23k2A4vIZ32Ta4I4jDKixX3ZydG76rkk81H-7rE-oA/s1600-h/DSCF5219.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263036507907184946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsRPk8-eu4ccvxRmT4FguIr8pxPtPaCNh6dqe4X1bnnMkVIw-ABzcNk9JNe2f9a99VGZV0InCFr6t3se_20L8uctQAtTOGfCmH23k2A4vIZ32Ta4I4jDKixX3ZydG76rkk81H-7rE-oA/s200/DSCF5219.JPG" border="0" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Santander</span> was full of places to eat. Even vegetarians could dine in public. It reminded me a little of Brighton; the royal-patronised seafront shielding lanes of bars and cafes. In front of the town hall was a shock though; a large statue of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2982695022/">Franco</a> astride a horse [admittedly Brighton <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">doesn</span>’t have one of these]. Red paint splattered the horse’s flank, so perhaps not everyone was happy with it. I only stayed a single night because <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Santander</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">didn</span>’t have the atmosphere I was looking for. Instead I headed west through rural <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Cantabria</span>, and back in time, to medieval Spain.<br /><br />The bus dipped among hills of snooker-baize green to <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2982695084/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Santillana</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">del</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Mar</span></a>. Jean-Paul Sartre thought <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2982695064/in/photostream/">Santillana</a></span> the loveliest village in Spain. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">wasn</span>’t alone; coachloads swarmed through the cobbled streets and perhaps Sartre’s <em>hell is other people</em> quote was also formulated here. I walked to the caves at <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2982695050/in/photostream/">Altamira</a>; an expertly presented <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2982695036/in/photostream/">recreation</a> of the original, yet minus the thrill of walking through ancient history.<br /><br />I stayed in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Santillana</span>’s honey-stone <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2986714931/">Parador</a></span> [my tenth!]. Across the plaza an English <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2987570412/in/photostream/">wedding</a> was in full flow and later that night the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Parador</span>’s lounge was full of sloshed relatives. I headed to a local bar to watch the Madrid derby; drinking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Asturian</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">sidra</span> with the aid of a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2989221443/">small pump-barrel</a> to oxidize the bubbles. It looked daft and tasted great.<br /><br />West of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Santillana</span> lies <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2991794797/">Comillas</a></span>, a seaside town full of outrageous architecture. The <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2992646068/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Casa</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Capricho</span></a> had an extensive menu, quickly whittled down to a single vegetarian option. The waiter seated me out the back and round a corner just in case my vegetable dish frightened other diners. In any case, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">didn</span>’t really come for the food. The <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2992648710/in/photostream/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Casa</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Capricho</span></a> is an early Antoni <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Gaudi</span> building; swarmed in tiles and turrets, and topped by a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2992649996/in/photostream/">minaret</a>.<br /><br />I walked off lunch along the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2992643660/">beach</a>, rolling up my trousers and dipping my toes into the ocean. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Cantabria</span> is heavily promoted as <em>Green Spain</em> but today the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2992644922/in/photostream/">autumn skies</a> were blue and the sun hung in a haze over the coast. I fell in love with Spain all over again.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-83948545802919611132008-10-07T15:51:00.004+01:002008-10-13T22:16:14.431+01:00Albania - Gjirokaster<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC67bjzumYOF1jzPz-vQCvOlyNcdqtcll4xW3AFKdAc0qxo3fQpJlrCp8PQ0QmKQ73liqC1NwPsLP6CYWOgpO5e_IfWVLdpgABvPgG8yKMHQqew2RzfGlmY2o_KDf-Rrnz4rhs_BxWECw/s1600-h/DSCF4943.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC67bjzumYOF1jzPz-vQCvOlyNcdqtcll4xW3AFKdAc0qxo3fQpJlrCp8PQ0QmKQ73liqC1NwPsLP6CYWOgpO5e_IfWVLdpgABvPgG8yKMHQqew2RzfGlmY2o_KDf-Rrnz4rhs_BxWECw/s200/DSCF4943.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254482268602538258" /></a>From Sarande we folded ourselves into a stuffy bus for the journey to Gjirokaster, high in the hills. Our <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2933476211/">hotel</a> was a restored Ottoman house, full of charm and cheap as chips. Stone arches, carved wooden ceilings and <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2933476219/in/photostream/">lacy white covers</a> ran throughout. Our room, unfortunately, had none of these things, so we moved our books and music into the lounge and made ourselves comfortable.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2931448100/">old town</a> had a brooding presence, swamped in mist and rain. Steep cobbled streets plus sharp corners equaled exhausting walks and juddering taxi rides. The call to prayer drifted over the wind from a rare surviving <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2931449318/in/photostream/">mosque</a> squeezed among houses. In Enver Hoxha’s time Albania was officially atheist and the country’s brand of nutty communism had its origins in Gjirokaster. A huge statue of the dictator has been toppled, replaced by a restaurant car park, but fresh pro-Hoxha <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2931447616/">graffiti</a> was sprayed in the streets.<br /><br />Perched above the old town sat an Ottoman castle. The silver shell of a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2930589701/">US fighter jet</a> was on display in the courtyard, ‘shot down’ in the cold war and left as rusting propaganda. Beside the plane but tucked inside the castle was a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2933476193/in/photostream/">bar</a> selling Turkish coffee in espresso cups.<br /><br />There’s no clearer proof of Hoxha’s paranoia than the thousands of concrete bunkers which freckle the landscape. Regimented lines of these grey domes strike across the valley floor between Sarande and Gjirokaster, ready to repel invasion from Albania’s enemies [of which there were plenty]. Yugoslavia, Russia and China were Albania’s only cold war mates. Hoxha then fell out with all of them. Shops in Gjirokaster sold miniature bunkers converted to paperweights and ashtrays; the whole surreal spectacle reborn as tourist tat.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-34085351369908010642008-09-29T12:58:00.007+01:002008-10-13T22:20:02.203+01:00Albania - Sarandë & Butrint<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MOozyqlo9WzrAX5ZbHMES495KiFPQWoy7EWg2NKExLWDQShVUYRX_WE3mROvTGaB6ld8uZ0BnZIbrTgIjrrP-H77nGk0pgrCiZjhYjm664mG2KPUWniY6luaNoBMkvfBWGbXTfRoxJ8/s1600-h/DSCF4881.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254482872514402642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MOozyqlo9WzrAX5ZbHMES495KiFPQWoy7EWg2NKExLWDQShVUYRX_WE3mROvTGaB6ld8uZ0BnZIbrTgIjrrP-H77nGk0pgrCiZjhYjm664mG2KPUWniY6luaNoBMkvfBWGbXTfRoxJ8/s200/DSCF4881.JPG" border="0" /></a> A wiry old man latched onto me as I pulled my rucksack from the bus in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Sarandë</span>. “Hotel?” he asked. “No,” I said and shook my head. Ten steps down the road he was hot on my tail, “Hotel?” “No!” I said again and shook my head with more vigour. Still he followed.<br /><br />For my whole life I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ve</span> been conditioned to nod my head for yes and shake it for no. Unfortunately a shake of the head in Albania is a confirmation and the poor Albanian whose only English word was ‘hotel’ was clearly confused. I walked quicker and he dropped back, no doubt reassured that all foreigners were stupid.<br /><br />Albania is barely a mile from Corfu at its narrowest and was once part of the same landmass. However, isolationist politics and economic madness have pushed it down an alternative path and looking across the narrow stretch of Ionian Sea, it even looks different; the bald hills devoid of the cypress trees that shade Corfu in green.<br /><br />There’s an undercurrent of Italian culture in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Sarandë</span> but it’s tempered with a third world feel. There are pizzas, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">gelataries</span> and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">passeggiata but there are holes in the roads and <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2912367540/">cows</a> in the plaza</span>. Our <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2911517423/in/photostream/">hotel</a> was even named after Mussolini’s daughter, Eda, a throwback to an era when the whole town bore her name. The town also suffers from a cruise ship trade which passes through to the ruined city of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Butrint</span> but rarely sticks around in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Sarandë</span>.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2926859213/">Butrint</a></span> is a fascinating place, a vast collection of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2926857511/in/photostream/">ruins</a> featuring all the notable European empires. Roman, Greek, Byzantine and Venetian all had a build here and the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2927716448/in/photostream/">city</a> is now protected by UNESCO in case anyone else should fancy a go. Even in Summer it was empty of people but full of white butterflies. I think we timed it well; in the distance the ominous orange of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">EasyCruise</span> boat was slipping into port at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Sarandë</span>.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-17333944320912426912008-08-18T12:59:00.006+01:002008-10-11T11:56:37.891+01:00Coventry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_i5aaYD-zbloDTs1kweNs_CBEvQJBL20YNAsFqR-B_te89XgMQ8o2VuGCZ1KUtGCxP3ZZa6oaExK3EwwjDGQHveP4syF60P0GOO1X2XyWzeTq9tMDH-XoIZ7_Rdwiq5eJCh4Z01zg83k/s1600-h/IMG_3707.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_i5aaYD-zbloDTs1kweNs_CBEvQJBL20YNAsFqR-B_te89XgMQ8o2VuGCZ1KUtGCxP3ZZa6oaExK3EwwjDGQHveP4syF60P0GOO1X2XyWzeTq9tMDH-XoIZ7_Rdwiq5eJCh4Z01zg83k/s200/IMG_3707.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255847637052151362" /></a>I headed through a typical British shopping center full of tracksuited teens and concrete canopies. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2769831871/">Lady Godiva</a> sat outside Burger King and <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2770679782/in/photostream/">Peeping Tom</a> craned his neck for a sneaky eyeful. I ignored them both and, spotting a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2770668882/">priest</a>, followed him into the old cathedral.<br /><br />Coventry’s cathedral was flattened in the second world war. The Allies revenged its destruction by pointlessly razing Dresden to the ground. Both cities have dealt with their ruins in different ways; Dresden rebuilt her Frauenkirche whereas Coventry has left its church <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2770674602/">open to the heavens</a> and built another next door. Both are symbols of their respective skylines and the cities are formally twinned.<br /><br />On a blue-sky August day the bombed-out interior was popular with lunchtime office workers. Linked to the old church was the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2769829959/">new one</a>; designed postwar by Basil Spence in bricky modernist style. Inside, the windows trapped the midday sun and I had to look up just to make sure it had a roof. Most churches ask you not to use a camera flash but in Coventry you didn’t need one at all; one cathedral was open to the sky and the other <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2770672880/">full of sunlight</a>.<br /><br />Spon Street is an attempt to cluster the city’s medieval architecture into one area. St John’s Church, the source of the <em>Sent to Coventry</em> phrase sits at one end but several of the timber-framed cottages have been relocated from elsewhere in the city and fast food signs have been tacked onto many of the fronts. One of the more sympathetic conversions housed the <a href="http://www.thetinangel.co.uk/">Tin Angel</a>. It was both record shop and café, all mismatched furniture and paper flyers. 60s garage rock filtered through from the adjoining space and it reminded me of my student days and how much I miss places like these.The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634855622208321342.post-11883504824524282732008-07-29T10:59:00.007+01:002008-08-12T20:20:32.527+01:00Folkestone Triennial<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsJgJronvGWe89B54QCeICjfvTsatiskrBJE6QF0i1k_t-YQ9Ef4IutPEKX105HxFufTENtZDYdT25Nr0pfLoPO_8bDGUOTnU4l7QkZX78nt8jZcZ39wgSfrmmDV4ppgMlLEYD_mUSdg/s1600-h/DSCF4626.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsJgJronvGWe89B54QCeICjfvTsatiskrBJE6QF0i1k_t-YQ9Ef4IutPEKX105HxFufTENtZDYdT25Nr0pfLoPO_8bDGUOTnU4l7QkZX78nt8jZcZ39wgSfrmmDV4ppgMlLEYD_mUSdg/s200/DSCF4626.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233713143156881170" /></a>The Triennial is an interesting idea; a rich businessman gathers together a collection of modern art, throws it up in the air over Folkestone and sees where it lands.<br /><br />Mark Wallinger focused on the Somme. Folkestone was the main departure point for many of the 19240 killed on the first day of the battle and the artist numbered a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2704350846/">stone</a> for each soldier. Kids clambered over the stones while their parents wondered if they should show more respect. But hang on; was this even a war memorial?<br /><br />Further along the clifftop, I sat on a bench overlooking the sea as a loudspeaker hummed into life sharing poignant letters between lovers and Somme-bound soldiers. I looked across the channel to Normandy on a hot summer’s day and couldn’t begin to imagine the trenches.<br /><br />Tracey Emin’s bronze baby accessories were a popular quest. They’re tucked away <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2703538887/">under benches</a> and <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2703536383/in/photostream/">over railings</a>; a tiny sock or a dropped teddy bear. They were harder to find than the mobiles of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2704354436/in/photostream/">plastic sunglasses</a> in the Metropole ballroom or the illuminated talking head of a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2704408676/in/photostream/">sign</a> stating “HEAVEN IS A PLACE WHERE NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.”<br /><br />I initially picked up a false impression of the town with its Creative Quarter, neon installations and wholefood cafes. Behind this façade lay the prosaic Folkestone; a working-class port with plenty of chip shops and chintzy b&bs. There was too much wasted space serving as overspill car parks. Two communities were here; a young art crowd in the cafes and the families drinking tinned beer on the beaches.<br /><br />People talked to me as I studied my Triennial map. “Do you know where you’re going?” asked a lady on a bench, noting my hesitant walk. “Yes”, I lied. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask an octogenerian, “where is the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/g_travels/2704352456/in/photostream/">mobile</a> science fiction library?”The Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09859394422202982461noreply@blogger.com0