Tales from the Temples

by John Keeble

Some say the events in the killing fields of Cambodia, in which around two million people died at the hands of Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge in the seventies, were then the latest drama unfolding in the sacred politics of Angkor's temples.

Angkor Wat

In essence, the theory is based on Pol Pot dreaming of turning back the clock to an agrarian society after linking his knowledge of the Khmers' great empire days with a theory that their economic life was founded on sacred lakes and the pulsing of the natural Tonle Sap lake producing enormous quantities of rice on the Angkor plain.

A thought like that makes you gasp, like a sudden fall through a trapdoor. But, as you walk through the living death of Angkor's temples - including the world's largest sacred building, Angkor Wat itself - you can somehow imagine the theory to be right; the tragedy of the 20th century as a legacy of the misleading mysteries that underpinned the power of the Khmer rulers from the ninth to the fifteenth centuries.

That strange world is there for you to read in the sacred fabric of sandstone, the carvings in rivers, and the statuary of gods and demons churning beautiful apsara - the dancing girls of heaven - from the cosmic milk of life.

It is a strange, haunting story too. Of politics and power first; of religion and art as a means of control; of wars, victories and defeats in the pursuit of wealth and glory; of great inventions in engineering and agriculture... and of the idea, just one, that started it all and turned to stone in edifices as tall as Notre Dame and bigger than Egypt's greatest pyramid.

That idea was the 'god-king': the indivisible blend of the king and the gods of a tailored cult based on Shiva worship and Hinduism. Later, when Shiva failed to protect the Khmers from the Chams, the new cult used Buddha instead. But the idea stayed the same: the king was the gods' representative on Earth and everyone must obey. The result was the growth of an empire, with a ferocious army, a stable and powerful political organisation, centralised and uniform society, excellent techniques for rice production - and all of these were informed by deep religious beliefs and artistic genius focused almost entirely on its expression through religious building and decoration.

Banteay Srie

It was the apex of a civilisation that started from the dynamic mix of local people and the ideas of Indian traders and Indian-influenced Chams from Vietnam - they introduced Hindu ideas and art that gained strength from the 5th century and fuelled the rise of the Khmer empire.

In 802, Jayavarman II began the building era as the first 'god king' embodying the power and virtues of Shiva. He declared independence from Java and set himself up as king. He built a 'temple mountain' at Phnom Kulen, 40 miles east of Angkor, to represent Shiva's mythical Mount Meru - today's Cambodians regard the mountain as the most sacred in the country.

By the 10th century, Angkor art was emerging from its Cham origins and the most beautiful of all the temples was built at Banteay Srie, the Shrine of the Women. This Hindu temple, dedicated to Shiva, was the greatest achievement of artists in the 10th century. Each of the pink sandstone buildings was distinctive with inventive architecture and decoration - there were mythical guardian animals and a structural vibrancy that still rocks the senses.

Through the 11th century, the water from the hills flowed in blessed vitality and the bizarre seasonal backward flow of the Mekong and Tonle Sap river continued to quadruple the size of the lake to provide an amazing bounty of fish and crops. The well-fed population was on its way to one million when London boasted only 35,000. And, of course, wealth and people accumulated for expansion into neighbouring regions and for labour on the temples.

In the 12th century, the ambitions of the god-king, Suryavarman II, knew such awesome bounds that he created the world's largest sacred building - Angkor Wat. But the burden of building was immense - and in 1177, the Chams took advantage of a struggling state and the Khmer army being all but destroyed by jungle fevers, and captured Ankor, destroying the city and ruining many temples. The Khmers took their revenge in 1181 after a series of ferocious battles on the lake and canals; they went on to conquer Champa (in what is now Vietnam) and building a new capital, Angkor Thom - “the great city” - surrounded by a eight-miles moat. And, because the Hindu gods had not protected them in the past, the new protector would be Buddha.

Bayon

The biggest monument, Bayon - which means Buddha - was built around 1200 in the centre of Angkor Thom. It has216 faces of the omnipresent deity watching over the temple and the people - its 54 towers, with the coldly smiling Buddha faces, coincide with the 54 provinces of that time. Historians believe it was the intention to intimidate the people of the far-flung settlements with the all-seeing watchfulness...the faces were a blend of the god-king and Buddha.

Angkor Thom was the last major work, the height of the empire with the most people and the most power: then it began a slow decline, having reached the limits of its water supply and the land available on the plain of its birth. By 1430, nearly all of Angkor had been abandoned - only Angkor Wat remained in use as a Buddhist shrine. After the empire fell, the jungle reclaimed much of the land and it was not until the French colonial explorers found it in the 1860s that there was any attempt at restoration - its full extent was not realised until aerial surveys were flown after the Second World War.

While many think Angkor is just Angkor Wat, the extent of the architectural wonder stretches over scores of temples, many huge, and the sacred networks of canals, rivers and lakes.

Today's Khmers have much to thank their ancestors for: Siem Reap, the city nearest the historic site, thrives unusually well for Cambodia and there is currently a boom in luxury hotel building. It looks like the organisation of historic area into a coach-party tour centre will be completed before the end of this decade.

But while some benefit in money, others find other contentments.

The shrines, everywhere at Angkor, are alive with the worship of people. An altar here, a broken shrine there; a fragment of an icon, a huge Buddha or Vishnu ... there are always people, the wax of candles, the flower, the fragrance of incense. The old ways may be dead, but the sacredness lives on in the people.

Others are enjoying a social role, like those reviving and extending Cambodian dance. As part of the restoration of Preah Khan - the Temple of the Sword with corridors and chambers in a square some half a mile by half a mile - the World Heritage Fund has been paying for a dance teacher for local youngsters.

Prean Khan

Originally, dance was taught at the palace and then as a state art. But the Pol Pot years destroyed the system and mostly saw the murder of the people who ran it and performed in it. Dancers and trainers who fled to Thailand kept the dances alive by teaching and performing them in the refugee camps until they could return to Phnom Penh. Now, the Preah Khan group is among those working on the traditions of dance, music and dress.

And their teacher has been visiting the villages to collect the folk dances that tell the stories of life, work on the land, religious beliefs and the seasons. Now, in Preah Khan's Hall of Dancers they perform for chosen audiences. The mortal apsara in royal splendour, and shy village lads finding shy village girls in age-old stories in paddy fields.

The god-kings are no more than ghosts in the miles of sacred stone. But life goes on ...

**

Angkor Wat is one of more than 70 temples that fit into a sacred pattern of rivers, canals and lakes and make the sacred plain of Angkor one of the wonders of the world. Here are some of the temples to see:

Angkor Wat

Built between 1113 and 1150, it is the physical representation of Hindu cosmology adapted into Khmers' unique beliefs - it is the best example of the temple mountain, used over and over again in the Khmer building.

An enclosing quadrangle symbolises the world ringed by mountains with endless oceans (the moat, 190m wide, 1.5km by 1.3km around the quadrangle) beyond; in the centre, the five lotus-bud peaks of the celestial Mount Meru where the gods live through cycles of destruction and creation. There are 12,000 bas-relief carvings portraying religious scenes, the history of the Khmers and 1,700 figures of the celestial dancers, the apsaras, who awaited the lucky in heaven. The wat has the usual east-west orientation - but what is unusual is that it faces west, the death aspect, and this has convinced many that it was both a temple and a royal mausoleum.

Bayon

Bayon is one of the most mysterious of the Angkor temples: its 54 towers each has four faces to watch over the cardinal points - all the faces are the same, the serene but watchful blend of Buddha and the builder, Jayavarman VII, constantly watching everyone in the 54 provinces.

In contrast with Mount Meru of Angkor Wat, Bayon is a model of the kingdom. But beyond this, it is also the spiritual centre - literally the centre of the 10 square miles of Angkor Thom and its sacred buildings and waterways. Jayavarman VII, Angkor's greatest king, built it after the Chams were defeated: it was the City of Angkor which would never fall again to an invader. Except, of course, it eventually did. The city and its huge temples were encircled by a 100 metre wide moat once inhabited by crocodiles and an 8 metre wall. It has five monumental gates - one each to the north, west and south and two in the direction of life. Bayon is decorated with thousands of bas-reliefs of religious and military scenes, including the defeat of the Cham army.

River of a Thousand Lingas

This quiet river flows down from the Kulan hills - part of Shiva's creative powers to irrigate the Angkor plain as a favour to the king. The walk through the jungle is part of the charm of the visit. But it is the river bed, sculpted with lingas and images of Shiva, that makes it worthwhile.

Ta Prohm

This is one of the most visited temples after Angkor Wat and Bayon - it has been only partly restored to show how the jungle had reclaimed the temples before work revealed their old magnificence. About 12 feet of loam was removed from around the roots. It was built 1186 as a Buddhist temple - it is so huge (like others) that 80,000 people were required to attend to the temple and maintain it, including 2,700 officials and 615 dancers.

Banteay Srie

The Shrine of the Women was dedicated to Shiva when it was built in the 10th century. It was the greatest achievement of artists of the time. The pink sandstone and mythical creatures still rock the senses.

Perhaps most captivating of all - and another of the enduring images of Angkor - are the apsaras, the page three girls of the Khmer period. The apsaras were the erotic beauties waiting for the good in heaven but, also, they had an earthly presence too, because they could visit the mortal, they were seen in court and temple dancing, and their representation - thousands of them - were all different, showing the (extremely scanty) clothing of the time, the fashionable jewellery and hairstyles. As the sun falls into the kingdom of death at the end of the day, the warm rays and the subtle pink of the sandstone still bring the apsaras to life at the Shrine of the Women.

Preah Khan

The temple of the Sacred Sword was built in the late 12th century. It has miles of narrow stone corridors, centring on a Shiva linga, and towards the back a beautiful open area that links to the Hall of Dancers where the lucky may find the local dance troupe performing - not for money, but for prestige groups organised by the World Heritage Fund, which is paying for the temple’s restoration. It was dedicated to 515 divinities and had 18 major festivals a year - needing thousands of people to maintain and run it.

First published in VISA issue 48 (winter 2002).

London to Reading

by David Gourley

It was the start of the year 2000 and we decided on our own millennium project. We would walk the Thames Path. Not, I hasten to add, all in one go. Rather we would do it in stages. Nine years later we have made it to Reading, reached in 16 stages. God willing, I plan to offer VISA in circa 2020 an article about the second half of the project, on from Reading to the source near Cirencester.

With the dawn of the new millennium such an important moment in time, it seemed appropriate to start our walk on the Meridian Line in Greenwich. Greenwich, with its various attractions, Park, and fine architecture is an agreeable place. At the time it still boasted as its main attraction the Cutty Sark, now under repair following a disastrous fire. But it is an enclave in the midst of the unlovely South London sprawl.

Heading west we were soon in neighbouring, and determinedly ungentrified, Deptford. But there is an interesting stretch along the Thames known as Deptford Strand. This was once the site of a dockyard, visited incognito by Peter the Great as part of his quest to modernize Russia and thus learn from western countries. The name of a nearby street, Czar Street, commemorates this visit.

We next entered the former Borough of Bermondsey, which might once have been characterized as almost 100% working class. Nowadays its riverbank is lined with executive flats and housing, and Surrey Docks, formerly the site of the only London docks south of the Thames, has been rebranded as Surrey Quays: a completely different kind of place, therefore. But if one goes a few blocks inland, the old Bermondsey soon reasserts itself.
At one point on the river there is a moving commemoration of Arthur Salter, the area’s MP between the World Wars. He was resolved to live among his mostly very poor constituents though he could easily have afforded to live elsewhere. He paid a heavy price as his nine-year-old daughter, Joyce, contracted scarlet fever and died. The statue is poignant: it shows his daughter waving to him. The tragedy did not diminish his devotion to his constituents.

If the south bank of the Thames in these parts has been transformed, the transformation on the north side is greater still. For the first couple of miles or so we were looking across to the Isle of Dogs. This once rather slummy area is now dominated by the towers of Canary Wharf and there is much upmarket housing. Further along the river, areas like Limehouse and Wapping are also considered to be rather desirable, though that certainly wasn’t always the case. But again, if one goes a few blocks inland, one will soon find oneself in the old East End. Some might call this Two Nation Britain.

We finished this first leg of the walk at Tower Bridge, taking the opportunity to walk across inside the Bridge, something that has only been possible for the past 20 years or so. The next leg was fairly short, taking us through Southwark. This was once the City’s poor relation but here, too, the riverbank has been undergoing transformation, and there are a number of attractions, above all the recreated Shakespearean theatre, the Globe. This is a fine achievement, but it is strange that it took an American to think of the idea. We finished at Waterloo, handy for our train home to Epsom.

We continued on our third leg out of the centre of London. At first we stayed south of the river, passing Lambeth Place and continuing through Vauxhall. This has not, at least until recently when it became MI5’s location, been regarded as a glamorous part of the capital. But for nearly two centuries up to 1859 it housed the legendary pleasure gardens, ‘London’s Tivoli’. In Russia and Ukraine, railway stations are to this day voksals, named from the station that served the gardens. Further on, a deviation inland was necessary to take us round Battersea Power Station, a rather sorry spectacle. There have been various projects over the years to restore this building and give it a purpose. So far all have come to nothing, but there is talk once again of redevelopment and it remains to be seen whether, this time, anything actually happens. We paused in Battersea Park for lunch, then crossed to the north bank for the first time, continuing through Chelsea and the rather soulless Chelsea Harbour development, before reaching gentrified Fulham, where we finished at Putney Bridge Underground.

The fourth leg more or less followed the route of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race. I have no connection with either city, yet feel I must take sides and have always passionately supported Cambridge. A pleasant stretch through Fulham followed, past its Palace and Football Ground. I am not greatly into football, but again I feel I must have a side and that has to be Fulham, since it is the closest to where we live without being Chelsea.

Hammersmith, with its traffic, flyover and unprepossessing shopping centre, is not generally regarded as one of the capital’s loveliest corners but, as so often on Thames-side, one can be in a different world as soon as one reaches the river. Here one finds oneself in a pleasant and tranquil environment. We had a good pub lunch and continued into upmarket Chiswick. Approaching the eponymous Bridge we were rather surprised to see a taxi and hailed it. I think the driver was just as surprised to be picking up a fare in this rather quiet spot. He took us back to Putney Bridge.

Stage 5 of our walk took us through more of Chiswick, including stylish Strand-on-the-Green. Then we crossed Kew Bridge, thereby returning to the south bank. We were also starting to come into home territory. This part of the walk skirts Kew Gardens. We have had many days out in these beautiful botanical gardens.

I am old enough to remember when the entry charge was just one old penny; unfortunately it is now a lot more than that and a visit can be rather expensive, though they have now rejoined London’s ‘2 for 1 when you go by train’ scheme. On New Year’s Day we got in for free, a one-off to commemorate the start of the year in which Kew celebrates its 250th anniversary.
Like other visitors we enjoy the main attractions, including the huge glass houses and lately the innovative tree walk, but there is a hidden gem which is our favourite. This is the Marianne North Gallery, which remains undiscovered by many visitors as it is on the edge of the Gardens, flanked by the main road outside. Miss North was a Victorian lady who, rather unusually for a woman in that era, travelled to many far-off and exotic places where she created wonderful paintings, usually of plant life. She was well-to-do and rather well connected; for example when in Washington she found herself, as one does, taking tea with the President of the USA. Establishing a gallery in Kew to display her work was her greatest project and it is a magical place, its walls covered from top to bottom with her colourful and beautiful paintings. At time of writing it is closed for refurbishment and is due to reopen later this year. The authorities assure us that will be as it was and are keen to attract more visitors. That has to be good, but a side of me wants to keep this hidden treasure to ourselves.

We finished this leg of the walk in Richmond, a green and pleasant place which, despite being in Greater London, has something of the feel of a provincial town. It is the home of such luminaries as the Dimblebys, the Attenboroughs and Bamber Gascoigne and so (maybe) has the highest collective IQ of any place in Britain. The next stage brought us right into the heart of home territory i.e. to Kingston, the closest point on the Thames to our own abode. It took us past Teddington Lock, where the river changes from tidal to fresh water.

Stage 7 was fairly short, a familiar walk along through parkland on the north side of the Thames from Kingston to Hampton Court. No time to visit the Palace - we have done so on other occasions – but we did have lunch there. Epsom once had a Henrician Palace which was at least as grand, Nonsuch. Sadly this lasted for less than 150 years, otherwise tourists would doubtless be these days flocking to Epsom in droves. The name lives on in Nonsuch Park, a green lung amidst suburbia, and the outline of the Palace is marked, but there is little else to commemorate it. I’m surprised that our local authority doesn’t make more of this asset. The Palace can’t feasibly be recreated but there could surely be some sort of centre or museum which would provide as it were a ‘Nonsuch experience’. Epsom might then attract tourists who don’t really bother with our Borough, Derby day excepted.

Stage nine took us out of Greater London and into Surrey. I’d better add that areas like Kingston and Richmond, though in Greater London, tend still to regard themselves as being in Surrey and this is indeed their postal address; their residents will not for the most part take kindly to being described as Londoners. Surrey is my home county and I am a great advocate. It offers some of the finest scenery in the South. I have to say, though, that the Thames-side scenery here is not great. We completed this section in three stages, successively finishing at Walton-on-Thames, Shepperton and Staines.

Staines is not the most fascinating of towns, but we were stuck there for some while, waiting ages for a bus. We were starting to find, as we moved away from London, that public transport can be a problem if one is doing the Thames Path. One might travel to the starting point by car but, since one wants to walk from A to B rather than do a circle, one will be dependent on public transport to get back. Rather unusually Staines, along with nearby Sunbury and Shepperton, was in Middlesex but successfully resisted incorporation into Greater London, which swallowed up that historic county. Administratively it is now in Surrey, which thus acquired a foothold north of the Thames, but, as in Kingston and Richmond, old allegiances die hard and locals consider themselves to be still living in Middlesex.

From now on the scenery has, nearly always, been great. For Stage 13 we quickly left Staines behind and carried on through Runnymede, an historic as well as a beautiful corner of England. It is not entirely English anymore since a small patch of land is now, in perpetuity, American territory. This is the memorial that was established after President Kennedy’s assassination. The inscription reads:

‘This acre of English ground was given to the United States of America by the people of Britain in memory of John F. Kennedy, born 19th May, 1917: President of the United States 1961-63: died by an assassin’s hand 22nd November,1963. "Let every Nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend or oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and success of liberty": from the inaugural address of President Kennedy, January 1961.'

After refreshments at the Magna Carta Tea Room, we crossed into Berkshire. This is the Royal County, no less, but administratively it no longer exists, the powers that be in their wisdom having broken it up into unitary authorities. Berkshire has been messed around with quite a bit by those who insist on seemingly never-ending “reforms” of local government. The county at one time reached the outskirts of Oxford but, in the seventies, a swathe of territory, including its symbol the White Horse, was moved into Oxfordshire. Berkshire was compensated with Eton and Slough, leaving it with pretty much the same population but much smaller in size. Ah well, at least they’ve brought back Rutland.

We were heading for Windsor but for security reasons the path on the south bank, which is in the grounds of the Castle, is closed to the public, necessitating deviation north of the Thames, through the town of Datchet, before re-crossing the River and continuing through Home Park into the town.

Stage 14 started and finished on the south bank, but was otherwise on the north. Crossing from Windsor, one finds oneself in Eton, a charming town noted of course for its School. I went there. I’d better add that I did so as a tourist. During the summer vacation, it opens its gates to visitors and it’s well worth going and having a look. The walk was through a very pleasant stretch of river, but the final stretch was less than idyllic. We had to get into the centre of Maidenhead, which is not near the river so requires something of a traipse. It is an affluent town and one might expect it to be nice, but it isn’t particularly. In my book it’s the dreariest of the freshwater Thames-side towns.

We grew no fonder of Maidenhead when we discovered that there were no buses back to Windsor. The lesson learnt was not to do the Thames Path on a Sunday, as so much of the public transport packs up. The general comment might be made that whilst Sunday (sadly in my view) is no longer special so shops open just as on any other day, providers of public transport are still in the era when it was special. One might have assumed that, as Maidenhead and Windsor are sizeable towns, a few miles apart and actually within the same unitary authority, there would be a bus linking them even on a Sunday. Not so. We returned to Windsor by train, changing at Slough.

If Maidenhead is the dreariest town on the fresh water Thames, Marlow has to be one of the nicest. This was our next destination. Generally the Thames Path is what it says, a path along the Thames, but from time to time there are diversions inland and there was one of them on this stretch, which was quite pleasant and took us through the village of Cookham. It was Easter Sunday and we attended a service in its church. Then it was back to the River then over to the north side, continuing through Bourne End to Marlow. Here I had a welcome pint of cider in the historic Compleat Angler hotel, where we celebrated (all too many years ago) my 40th birthday. This is across the river from the town and one gets there via the Suspension Bridge, which is a smaller version of Budapest’s celebrated Chain Bridge, having been built by the same architect. The bridges - not the towns – are twinned. Marlow has its own branch line, so getting back to Maidenhead wasn’t a problem.

There was then a gap of four years – we just didn’t seem to find the time - before we resumed, in 2008, our project. This was a fairly short stretch, from Marlow only as far as the next village, Hurley. Conditions weren’t ideal for, though it was dry, it had been raining a lot and the path was very muddy. We logged that there was – rare find! – a free car park in Hurley, and a bus into Henley, our next target. This time we did do a circle, returning to Marlow via an inland, and less muddy, route which took us past the National Sports Centre at Bisham Abbey.

Having re-started our walk, we decided not to wait another four years before continuing it. Having duly parked our car for free, we commenced Stage 16 in Hurley. This was on the south side of the river except at the very end when we crossed into Henley. This was not a Sunday, but even so public transport was once more to be a bugbear. Bus stops were poorly signed and locating the bus to Hurley was an initiative test that we failed. After more time than we would have wished in this admittedly attractive town, we opted for the bus to Marlow – routes 800 and 850 between Reading and High Wycombe can come in very handy for Thames Path walkers. For the first time we made use of our new bus passes, enabling us to travel on buses the length and breadth of England rather than just in Surrey. So we had to repeat the walk from Marlow to Hurley but it is fairly short and, as the path was no longer muddy, we enjoyed it all the more this second time.

So far we had always gone by car or public transport to the starting points of our walk, but for Stage 16 we treated ourselves to a two-night stay in a hotel. My wife, Cathy, is good at finding deals which enable us to stay in five-star hotels for three-star prices and just such a deal enabled us to stay at the Crowne Plaza in Marlow. It is not actually in or even near the centre, being located, somewhat incongruously, in an industrial estate on the outskirts. We wondered if we were in fact going to find it as we made our way through the unpromising looking area but it was there at the very end of the road and we were very pleased with our stay.

For Stage 16, the next day, we had glorious weather, a bright and sunny winter day. It was very cold but we didn’t mind for we had our layers. It was a very pleasant stretch of river, our path crossing from north to south at Sonning, a pleasant Thames-side village. We finished in Reading, something of a milestone on our journey as it is, give or take, about halfway along.
I have something of a soft spot for Reading. I am a trolleybus enthusiast! I grew up with trolleybuses and, as an 11-year-old boy, was greatly upset when they were replaced in 1959, as part of the first stage of the conversion of London’s trolleybus system, the largest in the world, to buses. I made it my business to explore what remained of the London system, which was constantly shrinking as successive phases of conversion were implemented, and finally came to an end in 1962.

I then started exploring provincial systems and effectively adopted the one in Reading which was still going strong in the early sixties and was even expanding. So I have happy memories of rides out to Tilehurst and Wokingham Road and other trolleybus destinations. Even in Reading the tide turned against trolleybuses and the system came to an end in 1968. Four years later the very last trolleybus system of all ended, in Bradford. I can’t always claim great foresight but it occurred to me even at the time that it was foolish, and not environmentally friendly, to get rid of these quiet, pollution-free vehicles and replace them with petrol-guzzling buses. Many overseas cities still have trolleybuses and there is now a chance that they will return to our streets, specifically in Leeds.

Located in the M4 corridor, Reading nowadays has something of a modern ‘hi-tech’ image; a fast road slashes through the centre and the up-to-the-minute Oracle Centre has helped make it one of the busiest shopping centres in the country. Yet I’d found not long before, when I’d ended up in Reading having gone exploring with my new pass and indulged in a bit of trolley nostalgia by riding on the old routes, that much of the city, including its centre, has hardly changed at all since the trolleybus era. I did see a Winslet House, presumably named after the city’s famous daughter. Perhaps somewhere else in Reading there’s a Gervais House.

The 800/850 again came in handy, getting us back to Henley, where Cathy took time out to look round the shops while I explored the town. Henley is the town which gave us Michael Heseltine, Boris Johnson – and Dusty Springfield. It oozes affluence yet Cathy reported that there was scarcely any shop that was of interest and reportedly Henley is not being spared from the recession. We drove back to Marlow for a second night at the Crowne Plaza, really pleased to have the halfway point of our project under our belts.

First published in VISA 86 & 88 (Aug & Dec 2009)

Go West

by Malcolm O'Brien

There are probably very few International Airport car parks in England where you can sit quietly and listen to the noise of cattle in nearby fields. Newquay Cornwall International Airport, as its marketing department would have us call it, is one such. Situated on the North Cornwall coast just a few miles north-east of Newquay, and with the end of the runway within a mile or so of the sea, it is a very typical small regional airport with only one terminal serving both domestic and international flights.

For our journey today, no passports are required, although most of the flight will be over water. If the passengers are lucky, the winds will favour a departure from the westerly runway at Newquay. This allows the little twin turbo-prop to climb out over Watergate Bay, which now houses the Cornish branch of Jamie Oliver's "fifteen" restaurant, before heading west towards Newquay itself and its famous Fistral Beach, the home of many international surfing competitions. From Newquay, the 17-seat De-Havilland DHC-6 (aka "Dash 6" or "Twin Otter") levels at around 1,000' above the sea as it picks up the coastline and starts making its way along the dramatic North Cornwall coast towards St Mary’s airport on the Isles of Scilly.
The next town passed is Perranporth, with the town lying in a gap between the hills down by the beach, followed shortly by the exposed airport sitting on the top of the cliffs overlooking the sea.

Only a short while later, those passengers sitting on the left hand side of the aircraft are treated to the sight of Godrevy Lighthouse, at the north-eastern end of St Ives bay, standing guard over the Stones, a reef stretching out for 1.5 miles. The lighthouse first lit up on 1st March 1859, and was built at a cost of £7,082 15s 7d. In 1939 the keepers were withdrawn when the lighthouse was made automatic. Since 1995 it has been solar powered, and is monitored and controlled from the Trinity House Operations Control Centre at Harwich in Essex.

As the passengers' eyes follow the large bay around, they see the town of Hayle in the middle of the bay and then St Ives itself at the south-western end of the bay. The large white building overlooking the beach is the Tate St Ives. The passengers who rushed to take the twin seats on the right hand side of the aircraft rather than the single seats on the left are probably realising by now that their views for pretty much the whole trip between Newquay and St Mary’s will be Atlantic Ocean and little else - although possibly with one exception.

Continuing down past St Ives, the aircraft passes just to the north of Gurnards Head, apparently so called because the outcrop of rock resembles that of the fish known as a Gurnard. Anticipation heightens as the aircraft rushes towards Pendeen Watch, the last lighthouse on the Northern coast of Cornwall, and also monitored and controlled from Harwich. From here, on a clear day, the passengers can look south towards the town of St Just, the most westerly town in England and one of the most ancient mining districts in Cornwall. A little further in the distance Land’s End airport can be seen, followed quickly by Sennen Cove with its beautiful sandy beach and then Cape Cornwall, the point at which the Atlantic splits into the Bristol Channel and Irish Sea or the English Channel.  Only four miles south from Cape Cornwall lies Lands End, the most westerly point of mainland England.

That's it, the mainland passes away behind, and from here to St Mary’s airport the sights from the left of the aircraft are Longships Lighthouse - with a dramatic looking helipad on the top, and then Wolfe Rock further away to the south. Around 17 miles out to sea from Land’s End, those sitting on the right hand side of the aircraft may find that they are looking down on the Seven Stones lightship, which marks the reef where the Torrey Canyon ran aground on 18 March 1967, with the resultant oil spills devastating wildlife in Cornwall and Northern France. The Seven Stones Reef is also the presumed site of the mythical City of Lions of the sunken lands of the Lyonesse.

Some 30 minutes after leaving Newquay, the Twin Otter touches down at St Mary’s airport, sometimes an interesting experience given that the airport slopes away on sides sides from its centre, and can be very susceptible to the strong Atlantic winds.
It would not do justice to the Isles of Scilly to summarise the many things to see and do around the islands in this article, so this can wait for another time. For those wishing to visit the Isles of Scilly, there are really only three options. Isles of Scilly Skybus flies from Newquay and Land’s End to St Mary’s year-round, and additionally from Bristol, Exeter and Southampton from around March to November, Isles of Scilly Steamship Company operates a seasonal ferry service from Penzance to St Mary’s (www.islesofscilly-travel.co.uk). 

First publised in VISA 78 (Apr08)

Sun, Snow and Headscarves

by Neil Harris

The road between Esfahán and Kashan is unremarkable, but it is the setting for one of the most sensitive sites in the world today. The first signs that this is not normal desert are the twin barrels of a 30mm anti-aircraft gun poking out of the stony ground. Further along the road more gun barrels become evident, then the sight of numerous watchtowers situated close to the road point to the location of Iran's infamous nuclear facility. Judging by the large mounds of spoil close by, the most sensitive areas of the plant are underground, but even so, it would seem that it is a relatively easy target should Israel or the Yanks choose to bomb it.

Esfahan

The impression of Iran fostered by the British media is of a country that hates the West and is ready to sponsor terrorism or worse. When travelling amongst the Iranians a completely different feeling is fostered, that they want to be friends with the West and, in particular, with visitors. It is hard to take photographs at times as the chances are someone will come up to talk. The assumption made is that western individuals who go to Iran are not great fans of their government, partly as many Iranians would appear to have little empathy with theirs.

Women who visit Iran are forced to cover all their hair with a headscarf and their bottom must also be behind, excuse the pun, a loose fitting jacket. All locals have to comply with these regulations, many wearing a chador, and there are dress police. Even in a coach or hotel this dress code has to be adhered to. 'No alcohol' is strictly enforced, but I understand it can be obtained by those in the know. Sharia law does not apply in Iran. So why go?
Persepolis and Esfahán were two of my ‘must see before I die’ destinations. I missed out on Iraq and Afghanistan, I was not going to miss out on Iran! Who knows what the future may bring. I’m very glad I did.

After a night in Tehran we headed north. It was mid-April and still cold and wet, spring should have arrived but was a month late...global warming! Towns in northern Iran can be extremely ugly, the sights few and far between. After spending the night at Zanjan, we headed across the mountains to Takab. At a small town called Dandi we had planned a comfort stop, but alas the teashop was closed. After Mohsen our guide asked around and we were invited into the Town Hall by the Mayor. Here we were treated to tea and offered cakes that had been brought to celebrate the birth of a child. Would this happen in England?

It got colder as we climbed to about 9000ft, the landscape became covered in white, and to our surprise packed snow on the road required the fitting of snow chains before descending slightly to Takht-I-Soleiman (Throne of Solomon), an important Zoroastrian site set around a thermal pool. The myth of Solomon was dreamed up to prevent its destruction by invaders. A nearby volcanic cone contains a feature known as Solomon’s Prison in its vent; this was climbed just as a mini-blizzard swept past. The joys of northern Iran in spring!

Hamadan Frieze

Takab, our night stop, gets my vote as ugliest town in the world. It even looked ugly under a covering of snow as we left the next morning. Hamadãn, built on the site of ancient Ecbatan, was more elegant despite every other building seeming to be a bank. The main square (it was round) contains a circular bronze frieze glorifying the revolution. I was looking at a prominent relief of Ayatollah Khomeni when a local came up. He asked “Deutsch?”. I replied “No, I’m English.” “Only Deutsch," he said as he pointed towards Khomeni’s face and added "shittenhousen", then strode off.

Nearby are the Ganjnameh Stone tablets, a kind of Iranian Rosetta Stone, carved into rock in the days of Darius. They contain the same cuneiform inscriptions in three languages, Farsi, Babylonian and Ilamid, which enabled scholars to decipher ancient Persian writings.
After returning to Tehran we flew south to Shiraz, named after a grape, or is it the other way round? Shiraz was very warm and sunny and is the gateway to Persepolis, Darius' city started c.500BC after he grabbed the Persian throne. It lies about an hour away by coach. Apart from a leaning tower on its castle, Shiraz is not that notable, although there are a few interesting mosques and a pleasant souk. We entered the site at Persepolis ahead of a large group of heavily clad schoolgirls who had lined up obediently outside awaiting entrance. Would that happen in Britain?

Persepolis

The site is vast, atop a huge base (built by the Babylonians, an honour apparently) and is entered via a monumental staircase, then through Xerxes' Gateway. So far so good. Alas, for me, it then disappoints, apart from the magnificent bas reliefs, the best being on the Apadana Staircase (although these are worth the trip alone). Buried and thus preserved under sand for almost 2000 years, they are exquisite. The detail is the best I've seen, beating the skill of the Egyptians at their height, but only made possible due to the excellent fine grained stone. To preserve these treasures they are covered by corrugated plastic in a rather makeshift way, which disfigures the whole site. The rest of the site has been cleared of the debris left when it was comprehensively sacked by Alexander the Great in 330BC, hence no fallen columns or large stone blocks. Compared to Leptis Magna, Karnak or Ephesus it lacks character and a feeling of what it originally looked like. The other highlight, on a cliff overlooking Persepolis, is the rock tombs of Artaxerses 2 and 3, but the view is uninspiring, although it is a good way of getting a feel for the vastness of the site.

The afternoon saw us going to Naqsh-E Rostam. Where? I was not aware of this site when I went to Iran but it was one of my highlights. Rock hewn tombs of various Persian kings, including Darius 1 and 2 and Xerxes 1, it compares favourably, on a much smaller scale, with the rock tombs of Petra. Whereas in Petra the tombs are lacking reliefs, these have elaborate carvings in attendance. How have the carvings survived two thousand years of weathering?
Next stop was Yazd, a long drive from Shiraz, famous for its badgirs (not burrowing animals but air conditioning towers of mud adobe) and also its qanats (a good Scrabble word). These are underground canals that pipe water from distant mountains to irrigate fields and supply water to the city. In conjunction with the badgirs they formed an early refrigeration system. Wind is harnessed by slits in the tower, this breeze is directed downwards through wet grass into an underground cavern that also has water from a qanat flowing through. It is cool in the 40C plus heat of summer, but I’m not sure about their role in the minus 10C cold of winter. This is all explained in the excellent Water Museum. Here the story of the men who keep the qanats flowing is told. Apparently their clothing consists of a white shroud in case they are buried alive and thus correctly dressed for death. Now that's forward planning!

Above ground the old part of Yazd is a maze of mud adobe dwellings, which surround the large Jameh (Friday) Mosque. Concrete table tennis tables adorn the squares in this maze, not a pretty sight. The other highlight of Yazd is the Amir Chakhmaq Complex, a three storey facade of sunken alcoves. Here I sat in the evening sun with two companions. A young girl came up and gave us a rose each, and later female students joined us for a talk, in excellent English, insisting on a group photo afterwards, a typical interaction with the Iranians.

Another long drive and we arrived in Esfahán. Built largely by Shah Abbas, its Imam Square is one of the largest in the world (Tiananmen Square is bigger). Sitting in a teahouse on a roof overlooking this square is a great way to watch the sun go down. The Ali Qapu Palace on the edge of the square was encased in scaffolding, but inside at the top is the highlight, the Quiet Room, where music would be played. Doesn’t sound much. The ceiling is made up of a series of ornate baffles that trap the echoes to give almost perfect acoustics.

In Esfahán shopping also features high on the to do list as local craftsmen sell a large range of beautifully made wares. The souk hides large courtyards, even a huge madrassah. I was invited in for a look see (but no photos please), one of the best I’ve visited. The Jameh Mosque is rather plain, but atmospheric and is more than worth the long walk from Imam Square, especially as the return journey can be taken through the souk. An enjoyable way to get lost. Esfahán is a place for lingering and wandering. The Karju Bridge must rank as the most beautiful bridge in the world when lit by the evening sun; it was built to serve both as a weir and palace for Shah Abbas. Downstream from this bridge a game of canoe volleyball was taking place, the women clad in wetsuits that conformed to the strict dress rules of Iran; a bizarre sight. On the last evening in Esfahán, we were fortunate enough to get to see the 'Ancient Sport'. Part aerobics, part religion, the male-only pastime takes place in a back street Zurkhaneh (House of Strength), a kind of gymnasium. The men swing clubs (up to 35kg), juggle and whirl, whilst chanting religious affirmations and ancient poetry. From Esfahán we drove past the nuclear facility to Kashan, where there are the Fin Gardens, another Shah Abbas project. Mountain water running alongside tree lined paths, various other water features and an ornate gazebo make for a tranquil and cool setting.

On the outskirts of Tehran we visited Ayatollah Khomeni's Mausoleum; think Stansted Airport terminal building with minarets; and the large Martyr's Cemetery. Here, buried with honour, are many of the young Iranians who died defending their country against the American-inspired Iraqi invasion of the 80s.

Before leaving there was time to photograph the large 'Down with the USA' mural painted on a building in Tehran. A sentiment many in Iran would agree with, as indeed would many in the UK.
Anyone thinking of going to Iran should do so. It's very safe, you will be welcomed as a guest and it overflows with history. One word of warning; if you are a vegetarian (I'm not), you will probably lose weight.

First published in VISA issue 75 (Oct 2007)

Mandalay to Myitkyina

by Neil Harris

The timetable, such as it was, suggested the trip would take around 24 hours. This proved rather optimistic, as was the name on the side of our carriage 'Upper Class Sleeper'. Upper compared to what?

The line north from Mandalay is single track narrow gauge, allegedly one metre wide. Those familiar with these two constraints will know that progress will be 'shaky' and potentially stopped by any obstruction of the line. Both of these would apply.

Lake Padu

The train edged out of the station soon after 1pm. The line goes south out of Mandalay through the rather shabby suburbs, then west across the Irrawaddy River before looping northwards towards Lake Padu, well actually through Lake Padu. The lake, post-monsoon, lapped the rails such that the sleepers were under water, the rail at one point becoming half submerged. I hadn't expected a boat train! Floating through a lake on a train is a rather surreal experience. After a hour or so the sleepers shook off the lake, the cue for the hawkers to emerge.

We pulled into a small unidentified halt; the only sign was in unintelligible Burmese script; to be assaulted by various vendors plying their wares along the narrow gap between rail and lake. The offerings were largely lake based; fresh water shrimps for instance; the sellers rather laid back. There was even a water taxi to take passengers to onward destinations. A co-ordinated transport system!
We continued northwards towards dusk, the waters of the lake melting away to pasture and paddy fields. A spectacular sunset led into the night. The lack of on-train lighting left options for entertainment limited and with alcoholic supplies at a minimum, a very early night beckoned. The carriage contained four bunks, my bed was to be an upper berth. As the train gained speed, so did the wobble factor (see shaky above).

This varied. A sideways sway became a roll; think force 6 on the Solent. Being over 6 foot I could wedge myself between the walls. Jim in the bunk opposite, being shorter, slid backwards and forwards across his bunk with the swishing sound of trousers sliding across plastic leather. Rather amusing; to me anyway. The more alarming and certainly more dangerous wobble, thankfully only rarely, was the rodeo ride. A sort of bucking bronco movement where one was thrown skywards off the bunk, perhaps 2-3 inches in the air, the landing cushioned by the thin foam mattress. Again rather amusing in a perverse way. I took to wondering if my insurance covered death by derailment. Sounds like an Agatha Christie novel.

The morning dawned misty, our overnight journey having lifted us into the highlands. The first stop was Indaw. Vendors swooped again, the best on offer being solid teak collapsible tables; a snip at $3. If only the weight allowance on my flights was nearer 50 kilos than 20.
Our next station stop was Mawlu. The twin lines here indicated a passing point. The word on the track was that we'd be here awhile; little did we know awhile would be 5 hours. After wandering around for a look see, we returned to our carriage in case the train left; some chance. An audience of children assembled outside the window to watch the weird farang; a rare sight, apparently, in these parts. The fly in the ointment of progress was that the south bound train had broken down to the north of Mawlu. We were going nowhere until it was mobile again. A retinue of mechanics sped north on a contraption that clung to the spare line, hope of movement heightened.

The offending south bound train eventually arrived into the station at around 3pm, soon after a hoot on the whistle indicated our imminent departure.

The late afternoon sunshine lit up the countryside with a pleasing golden glow. I sat on a plastic stool in the corridor to admire the scene. As the train swept around a right-hand curve I noticed a hawker, complete with wares, walking along the roof close to the front of the train. A whole new meaning to the job description of travelling salesman!

We should have arrived at our destination at around 1pm. As night fell another bucking bronco ride ensued, the train was making up for lost time. How nice! We trundled into Myitkyina towards midnight thankful that the journey was over, but knowing it was one I would not have missed, but one I never want to repeat.

First published in VISA issue 73 (June 2007)

Cruising the Dnieper

by David Gourley

Note: This article was first published in 2004.

Ukraine is a former Soviet Republic which became independent in 1991. It is only just starting to open up to tourism. Indeed two of the cities we visited, Dnepropetrovsk and Sevastopol, were “closed” during the Soviet era i.e. they were barred to foreign visitors and even people from elsewhere in the Soviet Union had to get special permits in order to go there. A Ukrainian identity is now being asserted and the hyrvni has replaced the rouble. The capital is now officially Kyiv but I have gone on using the Russianised version, Kiev. I might think again when M&S start offering Chicken Kyiv! Besides I am not sure we should always feel obliged to use the local variant of a city’s name. We do not after all talk about going to Firenze, München or Praha. But it is important to remember that the name of the country is simply “Ukraine”: one no more goes to “the Ukraine” than to “the France” or “the Belgium”.

This was our third visit to the former Soviet Union. A few years ago we had a long weekend in Tallinn, which almost felt western. Estonia was, after all an independent country before WW2, so had a shorter experience of Soviet Communism than Russia. It now looks firmly westwards and is on the brink of joining the EU and NATO. Altogether different was St Petersburg. This is certainly one of Europe’s most beautiful cities yet it struck me as a beauty that was preserved in aspic. There was an oppressive feel about the place still. Nor was it very safe. So far this is the only city in which we have been physically threatened for we were nearly mugged – in daylight, on the crowded main street. Admittedly this was some time ago. The Soviet Union had only just collapsed and the city had only just reverted to its pre-Revolutionary name after sixty-odd years of being known as Leningrad.

Ukraine was different yet again. It is certainly not like Estonia. By European standards it is economically backward and EU or NATO membership can only be distant dreams. But I was not reminded either of St Petersburg. Kiev struck me as a very pleasant city, with no feeling of Soviet-era repressiveness. The same goes for Odessa and Sevastopol, though down the Dnieper, in the big industrial cities of Dnepropetrovsk and Zaporizhiye, one could a lot more easily imagine oneself to be “back in the USSR”, as the Beatles would put it. In terms of crime, Kiev is about as safe as London. And the Beatles realised long ago that Ukrainian women do not at all conform to the Soviet tractor-driving stereotype: “the Ukraine girls really knock me out, they leave the West behind”.

Ukraine had a hard time of it in the 20th century. There was a short-lived attempt to create an independent state when the Russian Empire collapsed during WW1. In Russia’s ensuing Civil War it became a battleground between the Whites and the ultimately victorious Reds. It then bore the full brunt of the Stalinist experiment. Ukraine was the breadbasket of the Soviet Union, yet millions starved as the regime inflicted a manmade famine as part of its ruthless campaign against the Kulaks, or wealthier peasants. In WW2 it endured Nazi occupation. At first the invaders were welcomed by many as liberators, but it soon dawned on people that they were worse yet again than the Communists. After the War the country was united for the first time as western Ukraine, previously divided between Poland, Czechoslovakia and Romania, was annexed by the Soviet Union. Historically these areas had never been ruled from Moscow – Lvov, for example, had been a Habsburg city. The Ukrainian vote for independence in 1991 was the catalyst that led to the break-up of the Soviet Union. Post-independence Ukraine has many problems, yet there is now freedom and optimism is not lacking. It tends to be overlooked in the west just how big this country is. One day it might actually punch its weight on the European stage.

Our boat was moored in the heart of the city on the Dnieper. Straight away there was the impression of a relaxed, friendly city as couples strolled by, enjoying the evening air – a contrast indeed to our mooring spot on the Neva in St Petersburg (that holiday was also a cruise) where we had a grim view dominated by pylons and the assorted drunks, beggars and teenagers wanting Marlboroughs rather put one off the idea of an evening stroll. Kiev looks after its riverbanks. Across the river was a beach area where the locals flock on summer weekends. We could see western-style advertising where once there might have been Communist slogans. We also looked out onto a McDonald’s. In fact there are several of these in Kiev. One might regret that particular aspect of Westernisation! Our charming Ukrainian guide, Lilia, a lady of advancing years like ourselves, couldn’t understand why so many people want to eat there “when our own Ukrainian cuisine is so tasty”.

The next day was spent on organised trips around Kiev, including a visit to the intriguing Monastery of the Caves, which one explores with the aid of a lighted candle. We set sail late afternoon and the next day was simply spent cruising downstream. It has to be said that the riverside scenery, though generally pleasant, is not spectacular. For the most part, Ukraine is very flat and it was the experience of visiting the country that had brought us there, rather than any expectation of scenic splendour. But, later on, we were to travel through some fine scenery in the mountainous Crimea.

Our first shore visit was to Dnepropetrovsk. This is a large European city - a million inhabitants and boasting its own metro – yet people in the west are barely aware of its existence. The very name recalls the Soviet era, combining as it does the river and some communist official. It used to be known as Ekaterinoslav. In Russia the city of Sverdlovsk reverted to its rather similar pre-Revolutionary name, Ekaterinburg. But it is unlikely that Dnepropetrovsk will follow suit. The cities are both named from Catherine the Great – and she wasn’t Ukrainian. Lilia always pointedly referred to her and others as the “Russian” tsars.

At first the city looked a bit grim. Lenin Street runs along the banks of the river; paralleling it a few blocks inland is Karl Marx Street, which runs through the downtown area. But the latter is tree-lined and, if spruced up a bit more, would be an attractive thoroughfare. Outside the Town Hall, a huge statue of Lenin stares down enigmatically at – McDonald’s. We went inside the Cathedral. Like churches across the country, it has been handed back by the post-Soviet regime to its rightful owners. It had been, loathsomely, a museum of atheism. We found the sight of people worshipping, including some young people, rather moving. Dnepropetrovsk, I realised, is changing after all. Our one other stop on this outward part of our voyage down the Dnieper was in the town of Novaya Kakhovka, a new town dating back to the fifties. Here we were entertained to a concert by children from the local dancing school, staged in a building described, with no discernible irony, as “Stalinist Baroque”. There is “Stalinist Gothic” as well, exemplified by the Palace of Culture in Warsaw.

Our next port of call was Odessa, where we moored overnight. Known as the “Pearl of the Black Sea”, this is a handsome city. As yet it is little visited by people from the west, but maybe that will change. An international airport is due to open in the next few years and it is perhaps not fanciful to envisage that, just as tourists flocked, after the fall of the Iron Curtain, to Prague and, more recently, the Baltic capitals, so might they one day head off to Odessa. But I doubt whether western tourists will ever go in their droves to Dnepropetrovsk or Zaporizhiye for their weekend breaks!

Odessa has gone further than other cities in breaking away from the Soviet past. There was a wholesale renaming of streets in 1994 to commemorate the city’s bicentenary. The local council would also like to pull down Lenin’s statue, but presently lacks the funds. Our local guide assured us that, meantime, “He doesn’t do any harm”. Just as St Petersburg was founded by Peter the Great on territory conquered from the Swedes so was Odessa founded by Catherine the Great on territory conquered from the Ottoman Turks. Its name was romantically inspired as it was believed that the ancient Greek city of Odessos was in the vicinity. So it was rather disappointing when it was later established that it was in present-day Bulgaria!

There was a city tour, then we had time to explore by ourselves. We started with Odessa’s best-known landmark, the Potemkin Steps. There are 192 in all, divided by ten landings, which create a curious optical illusion: when standing at the bottom, only the steps are visible yet, at the top, only the landings are. The Steps famously featured in the legendary Russian film of 1925, Battleship Potemkin. This featured a pram, baby inside, bouncing down all 192 steps. It might be supposed that the Steps are named from Grigory Potemkin, the most celebrated of Catherine the Great’s lovers – some historians believe that they secretly married. In fact the name is of revolutionary origin, commemorating as it does the mutiny on the Battleship Potemkin. This took place during the 1905 Revolution. The Tsarist regime survived that one, but only at the cost of ceding a Duma, or Parliament. I had fondly imagined that the Steps cascade right down to the Black Sea but the reality is less romantic as there is a very functional and busy main road at the bottom. The street at the top, on the other hand, is the charmingly old-fashioned Prymorsky Boulevard. Our stroll from here through the city took us as far as the Voksal. This is the Russian or Ukrainian word for railway station, derived from our own Vauxhall. In the evening we went to see Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty in the elegant Opera House.

On the following day we went for an excursion to Bessarabia. I was rather surprised to see a place with this name figure in a modern itinerary. I was aware of it from my history studies – and I thought that history was where it had been consigned. It was the Region between the Prut and Dniester Rivers that was in contention between Tsarist Russia and Ottoman Turkey, and then between Soviet Russia and Romania. It passed from the latter to the former after WW2 and no longer exists in any administrative sense. Most of it now comprises the greater part of another ex-Soviet republic, Moldova, whilst the southernmost part, where we were heading, is simply an area within Ukraine’s Odessa province.

Our drive took us along the Black Sea coast and across the mouth of the Dniester (not to be confused with the Dnieper!) then upstream a bit to the town of Belgorod-Dnestrovskiy. This claims to be one of the oldest and most historic towns in Europe but one wouldn’t guess that from its undistinguished, rather unkempt, appearance. It does though have one big attraction: the huge and magnificent Akkerman (or White) Fortress. Located on the Dniester, it guarded, before WW2, Romania’s frontier with the Soviet Union. On our return to Odessa we set sail for the Crimean Peninsula and its largest city, Sevastopol.

Next morning saw our arrival in Sevastopol, the largest city in the Crimean Peninsula and our base for the next two nights. The harbour is one of the finest anywhere. It used to house the Soviet Black Sea Fleet and because of this it was a closed city. As western tourists we simply couldn’t have gone there during the Soviet era, and for a few years thereafter. Even people from elsewhere in the Soviet Union needed a permit if they wanted to go there, say to visit relatives. Complicating the picture still further, the adjoining, and far smaller, port of Balaclava was a closed city in its own right, on the grounds of it being a submarine base. Its inhabitants were free to go to Sevastopol but the reverse didn’t apply. The locals, by the way, say Se-va-STOP-ol whereas we tend to call it Se-VAST-o-pol.

After Ukraine became independent, the future of the Fleet was a matter of some contention with Russia. It was eventually agreed that the two countries would share the facility for 20 years so today one still sees Russian ships in the harbour, some of them rusting rather badly. An inducement for the Ukrainians was cheap supply of Russian energy, access to which could of course be taken for granted when both countries were in a single state, the Soviet Union.
Politically the Crimea is interesting as it enjoys a considerable degree of autonomy within the Ukrainian state. It only in fact became part of Ukraine in 1954, a gift from the Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, himself a Ukrainian, to mark the tercentenary of the union of Russia and Ukraine. The majority of its inhabitants are Russians and not all were overjoyed suddenly to find themselves in an independent Ukraine. The granting of autonomous status seems however to have reconciled people to their future as part of that country. Complicating the scene still further is that the Tatars, ruthlessly expelled from the Crimea by Stalin, are steadily returning.

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, we have heard a lot about what has gone wrong, above all in Chechnya. But quite a lot has gone right. One might instance the accommodation between Ukraine and Russia over the Black Sea Fleet and the peaceful resolution of the potentially explosive situation in The Crimea. Russians predominate as well in much of eastern Ukraine and in Odessa too yet there is no ethnic conflict. It might have been different had rabid nationalists seized the helm in either country, something that did alas happen in much of Yugoslavia, with disastrous consequences. Ukraine should also be given credit for voluntarily renouncing its share of the nuclear weaponry inherited from the Soviet Union.

Sevastopol has twice had to be virtually rebuilt from scratch, firstly after the Crimean War, then after the Nazi occupation during WW2. I had rather expected grim Soviet architecture but it is in fact an attractive city with a relaxed, almost Mediterranean, atmosphere. Lonely Planet alludes to its “surprisingly cheerful streets and squares”. A brass band serenaded us as we berthed. Then we had a city tour. The impressive Cathedral stands cheek-by-jowl with a huge statue of Lenin, looking imperiously across the harbour. (Yes, Lenin enters this narrative yet again. I don’t like the chap – but he kept being there to greet us!)

The Crimean War – the only ‘hot war’ between Britain and Russia – was a recurrent theme during our stay in Sevastopol. We were taken during our tour to Molokoi Hill, the scene of fierce fighting. A subsequent trip took us to the magnificent Painted Panorama, back in the city centre. Set inside a dome-like structure this forms a complete circle and is partly 3-D. It dramatically depicts the scene from the Hill with the battle waging all around. We also had an excursion to Balaclava. This is located in a scenic harbour and, with the former submarine base now being turned into a museum, has the makings of a tourist destination. Inkerman, on the other hand, is a rather dreary town, a few miles inland from Sevastopol. We stopped as well to see the site of the Charge of the Light Brigade, though all there is to see is an ordinary field.
Highlight of our stay was a day trip to Yalta, the Crimea’s premier resort, much favoured by the ruling classes in Tsarist and Communist days alike. There was splendid scenery as we made our way along the coastal road. As already noted, Ukraine is mostly a rather flat country, but there are mountains, here in the Crimea as well as the Carpathians in the far west. At one point we could see the dacha where Mikhail and Raisa Gorbachev were holidaying during the abortive hardline communist coup in 1991. At another point we paused to view, in the distance, what is perhaps the Crimea’s most celebrated landmark, the Swallow’s Nest, a picturesque castle perched on a sheer cliff high above the sea.

We spent some time in Livadia Palace, just to the west of Yalta. For the historian, this is a fascinating place on two counts. Firstly this was the summer residence of the last tsar, Nicholas III, and his family. They did not have long to enjoy it for it was completed only in 1912, replacing an earlier palace. After the first, or democratic, Revolution in 1917, the royal family were removed from the then capital, St Petersburg. Nicholas naturally hoped that they would be allowed to live in Livadia but instead they were packed off to Siberia. Following the second, or Bolshevik, Revolution in that year they ended up in Ekaterinburg, where they were murdered. On the other hand Nicholas’ mother, the Dowager Empress, was able to make it to the Crimea from where, just ahead of the advancing Red Army, she was able to flee. She spent her last ten years in her native Denmark. For many years she had been domiciled in Kiev, despairing of the weak rule of her son and the malign influence of Rasputin over him and his wife.

The second reason why Livadia is so historic is that it was the site of the celebrated Yalta Conference towards the end of WW2, after the Nazis had been pushed out of Ukraine. Today an exhibition commemorates this event. Stalin had been very keen to have the Conference on Soviet territory and he may have derived a certain psychological advantage. At any rate he ended up with a rather larger slice of Europe than military might alone would have earned him.

We lunched in the nearby Oreanda Hotel, a rather smart establishment which is clearly interested in catering for western visitors, who are just starting to rediscover the Crimea. There was then time to wander along the beachfront in Yalta. Again I was struck by the relaxed atmosphere, albeit the promenade is still named after Lenin and inevitably there is a statue of him. At a couple of points there was the option, not taken up by us, of being photographed with a huge python around one’s neck. A piece of Yalta trivia is that the world’s longest trolleybus route starts here. It goes inland for some fifty miles, across a mountain pass, to the Crimean capital, Simferopol.

Other excursions in Sevastopol were inland to the picturesque palace in Bakhchysaray, erstwhile stronghold of the Tatars which reminded me, oddly enough, of buildings we had seen in Bhutan. And to the ancient Greek city of Kherson, located on the harbour a few miles out of the city. The weather looked distinctly ominous as we approached. The good news is that the rain held off long enough for us to complete our guided tour of this interesting and extensive site. The bad news is that it started the moment we finished our tour, when we were at the furthest possible point from the entrance – and shelter. The rain was torrential and we got the soaking of our lives.

On the boat, we had been lucky with the dining companions who had been randomly assigned to us. They were a pleasant couple, a headmistress and her retired husband, who are avid walkers and have been on some most unusual walking holidays e.g. in Albania during the isolationist communist regime of Enver Hoxha. Even they said they had never experienced such a soaking! They had not originally planned to visit Ukraine. Their experience of booking this holiday underlines the obstacles that can confront the present day traveller. They had actually booked a holiday in China, but the SARS epidemic meant abandoning this. So they tried again, the choice this time being Kenya. That trip also failed to materialize, due to flights to that country being grounded as a result of a terrorist alert. Ukraine – about as safe a destination as any in today’s world – was their third choice and they were relieved finally to have made it to somewhere.

From Sevastopol we made our way back to the mouth of the Dnieper. As we sailed out of the Harbour, we looked across at Kherson, now bathed in sunshine. I rather felt that, on the lower reaches of the River, our tour company was scraping the barrel to find an excursion for us to do. We moored at Fisherman’s Island, located opposite the large-ish city of Kherson, which we did not get to visit (and which is not to be confused with its ruined Greek namesake in Sevastopol). This was the start of what was appealingly described in our literature as a trip, using a smaller vessel, through the canals in this area. As we made our way through fairly ordinary countryside, the realization dawned on me that this is not Eastern Europe’s answer to the Bangkok Klongs. What’s more, heavy rain made its return, and rendered much of the top deck unusable. Not the highlight of our holiday!

Our one other stop on the way back to Kiev was far more interesting. This was in Zaporizhiye. Like Dnepropetrovsk, a bit further upstream, this is a major industrial centre. It is a European city with a population approaching a million yet I’d hazard a guess that few in Britain have heard of it. On the way down we had not disembarked here though we had paused in order to go through the huge hydroelectric dam; friendly crowds had waved to us as we sailed though the lock gates. The dam was regarded as one of Stalin’s big achievements, of vital importance in his grandiose plans for industrialization, opening up as it did the Dnieper for navigation. It was built during the five years from 1927 under – irony! – American supervision.

Lonely Planet is rather schizoid about Zaporizhiye. On the one hand we are told that “it is a place to be avoided...choked by smoke and fumes”. But at the start of the chapter on Eastern Ukraine one of the listed highlights is “discovering Socialist Realism: riding a trolleybus down the length of Zaporizhiye’s Prospekt Lenina”. For this second reason, I found our visit quite fascinating, albeit it was on a coach, not a trolleybus, that we did the journey.

Even on the way down, Zaporizhiye had struck me as very Soviet, not a description I’d apply to Kiev, Odessa or Sevastopol. As well as the Dam, we saw the huge statue of Lenin – his very last mention – which dominates the quayside. This marks the start of the eponymous Prospekt, the main thoroughfare, which runs inland some half dozen miles or so. Classic Soviet architecture, rather impressive in its own way, lines its entire length – though McDonalds has found its way even here. This felt like a trip through time as well as distance. At one point, we could see through a gap in the buildings a nearby factory, a dinosaur of a place that was absolutely massive with belching chimneys and flares. There was a still clearer view later in the day, as we recommenced our cruise. Lilia, our guide, noticed us looking at it with fascination. “Sometimes,” she sighed, “I don’t point things out, in the hope people won’t notice them.”
As part of our city tour, we visited the local hydroelectric plant, a rather Soviet thing to do, I felt. It was adorned with huge portraits of the Ukrainian President, Leonid Kuchma, and his Russian counterpart, Vladimir Putin, who had recently paid a visit. The current President is not the only Leonid to have made his mark on Ukraine in recent times. Leonid Kravchuk was the first President of independent Ukraine, having previously run the country in his capacity as Chairman of the local Communist Party. And the former Soviet leader, Leonid Brezhnev, was a Dnepropetrovsk lad. Ukraine has some way to go before it is truly a Westminster-style democracy; and corruption is a problem. Yet, setting aside the Baltic States, which, with their particular histories might be regarded as special cases, Ukraine is almost certainly the freest of the former Soviet Republics. From having had only one political party, Ukraine has flipped over to the other extreme of having far too many. In Sevastopol we had gone for an evening stroll with two other couples and ended up in a bar – friendly staff but lousy wine. We discussed in a lively manner the recent history of Ukraine. Suddenly one of our number said, “Just think, we are having this conversation in Sevastopol and no-one minds, not the police, not anyone”. Next door Belarus, by contrast, has a very repressive regime; it might be ex-communist, but it is not all that ‘ex’.

Zaporizhiye is hardly an obvious tourist destination but if wants to attract visitors it does have one string to its bow i.e. its Cossack heritage. (‘Soviet chic’ could be another bow!) The Zaporizhian Cossacks for a while ran their own state in this vicinity and independent Ukraine sees this as its forerunner. Our city tour included a visit to the Cossack Museum in a nearby wooded island. A separate trip in the afternoon took us to a Cossack horseshow though I’m sorry to say we found this a bit naff, not at all like the marvellous horseshow we’d been to a few years earlier in the Hungarian Puszta or Plain.

There was a day of sailing up the Dnieper before finally getting back to Kiev, where we berthed for our last two nights. There was thus one full day to explore the capital. The morning was taken up with a tour to the open air museum in Pirogovo, right at the very edge of the city. This is the Museum of Folk Architecture and Everyday Life in Ukraine. It covers a vast area with sections devoted to the various regions of the country. There was nowhere near enough time to see everything. We made do with just the section covering the area around Kiev. This was an interesting visit and we would have gladly spent longer here, had time permitted.

The afternoon was our own. We greatly enjoyed wondering round this beautiful city. First we got the funicular from near the quayside to Podil, the most historic part of the city, located atop a cliff overlooking the river and a fascinating district to explore. There is plenty to interest the visitor to Kiev, but there are two “must sees”, the Monastery of the Caves and the St Sophia Cathedral Complex. We had been to both on our first day. The Monastery was too far out to go back to but we did spend some more time exploring the strikingly beautiful Cathedral and its surrounds. From there we made our way into the main centre, where we strolled along Vulitsya Khreshchatyk, the pedestrianized main shopping street. This is a fairly easy city in which to orientate oneself and we felt very relaxed as we wandered around.

We flew home the next day. The airport is still fairly small, despite serving the capital of one of the largest European countries, and there is not an enormous amount to do. Main attraction is an Irish Pub! Our wait was rather spoilt, unintentionally, by one of our travelling companions, a lady. Before we left home, there had been a heatwave, which we had got fed up with. We had consoled ourselves that such hot weather couldn’t possibly last in England. Ukraine had provided a respite: only once, during our trip to Bessarabia, had we experienced really hot weather. At the other extreme we had had a couple of downpours but generally the weather had been pleasant. This lady took a call on her mobile from her daughter back home. The temperature in England, she announced, was in the nineties. Not at all what we wanted to hear. And the heatwave was to go on and on and on.

First published in VISA issues 56A-57 (Jun-Sep 2004)