The Laird's Tour

By Anne Rothwell 

There’s a great package organised by Caledonian MacBrayne ferries in Scotland, called the ‘Hopscotch’. This allows you to island hop with your car around the Western isles. There are several different routes and we have tried two. The first was to the Outer Hebrides -Barra, North and South Uist, Harris and Lewis. The other, less far flung, was to Arran, Kintyre and Islay.

Although Kintyre is a very long peninsula, not an island, it’s a convenient stopping place by boat between Arran and Islay.At the southern tip, near the Mull of Kintyre, we stayed in a farm B&B upa very narrow country road and way off the beaten track. Looking out at the sweeping rural views from our bedroom window gave an almost physical balm to the mind, far away as it was from the rat race.

However, the most memorable event of our trip occurred as we were travelling north up the west of Kintyre when we came across Glenbarr Abbey. As I’d read something about this place and the fact that the laird (head of the McAllister clan) showed people around personally, we turned up the drive, drove through the trees and parked in front of a beautiful large ivy-clad house.  

As I got out of the car, the front door opened and a lady with grey hair, tartan trousers and an American accent came out to greet me - the laird’s wife no less (lairdess?) She told me that her husband did a continuous circuit of the house, that one joined at any point and left when they reached that point again. She took me upstairs to join the group of two, who shortly left, leaving me to my personal tour with the laird.

He was quite impressive in his kilt with all the accessories, and it was clear that his spiel was memorised word for word through constant use and it took a few moments to realise that he wasn’t always being as serious as he appeared, but had a dry sense of humour.  

The house astounded me. Although there were obviously valuables and family heirlooms, much had been sold off and he was clearly struggling to make ends meet. Much of the space was filled with his wife’s collections -one of dolls, one of thimbles, one Christmas arrangement on a mantelpiece which he said she’d insisted should stay up all year. 

There was also a very amateurish portrait of them, which had been painted by a friend. But the pièce de resistance was a model railway running round one of the drawing rooms. None of your ‘OO’ gauge either; this was ‘O’ gauge for you train buffs. Who says the English have a monopoly on eccentricity?

First published in VISA 120 (April 2014)

Where Sleeping Dogs Lie

By Tess Kamara

Taj Mahal

India is such a vast country that you can only see highlights on a two week holiday – in this case the golden triangle of Delhi, Agra and Jaipur. It was basically a whistle-stop tour of north India taking is some of the country’s most famous monuments such as the Taj Mahal. You don’t need many clothes for the trip – I wish I’d taken out half the clothing and filled the suitcase with Imodium and Dioralyte. The hotels are very luxurious but once out in public the sanitation and facilities are somewhat basic, to put it mildly.

Old Delhi is a maze of narrow streets pulsating with humanity, mostly male. India’s population is around 1.2 billion and most of them seem to spend their time outdoors. Nothing is finished – there were broken paving stones and piles of new stones waiting to be laid everywhere. Street drainage is minimal, if in fact it exists.  Everyone seems to have a job, no matter how small – shoeshiner, fruit and veg seller, newspaper vendors selling to drivers stuck in traffic, self-appointed tourist guide and so on. Men with little stoves squat on every street corner, making and selling chapattis. Even one-legged beggars could earn a few rupees helping foreigners cross the road. There are no crossings even on the main roads and the only way to stop traffic is to walk straight into it. Our guide advised us to walk like a cow – move steadily and without hesitation so the oncoming vehicles could decide which side to swerve round you. I tried to cross the road by myself once to get to an ATM and after about ten minutes wavering on one side of the road, I followed an elderly Indian lady as she strolled sedately into the path of a truck. The “cow walk” worked.

There was an inordinate number of stray dogs everywhere; not at all feral but rather placid, they were lying sprawled out in energy-saving style on the hot pavements. For strays they looked very well kept, although on the skinny side, and we were told the locals consider them lucky and like to feed them. I find it remarkable that people who can barely make a living can share what they have with stray animals. Whenever we went to visit temples we would see puppies – presumably the bitches liked to give birth in a quiet sheltered place out of the sun.

Traffic in Delhi is very dense and drivers seem to be able to do what they like. Officially they drive on the right in India but everyone weaves in and out, tooting furiously. I thought it was out of impatience but our tour guide said beeping the horn was considered a polite way to let the driver in front know which side you were overtaking. A feature of traffic is the ubiquitous green and yellow tuk-tuk, or motorised rickshaw - little three-wheelers that look like something Del Boy Trotter would drive. They are only supposed to hold two passengers but you would see seven or eight men in one, sitting on each other’s laps or clinging to the sides like barnacles.

Large animals amble through traffic everywhere – domestic cows, huge white Brahma cattle and water buffalo. They would wander back and forth across the road wherever a grass verge caught their eye and graze away, completely oblivious to the traffic roaring past them. I found out that cows very rarely got hurt in accidents – if you hit one you would have to pay its value, and were also subject to a heavy fine and possible imprisonment.

Old Delhi is home to the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, built by Shah Jahan. On special occasions and religious festivals it can hold 25,000 people. It stands right in the middle of an old market in a warren of very narrow streets – I still can’t work out how the coaches get down there. Dangerous electrical wiring was strung precariously across the buildings and our guide remarked drily that in Delhi everyone pays the electricity bill, they’re just not sure whose bill they’re paying.

There are little shanty settlements all over old Delhi known officially as slums. That seems a bit unfair because the inhabitants don’t have any social security safety net – they have to scrape a living where they can. They are clearly resourceful because they could make a shelter from almost anything – cardboard, corrugated iron or a blanket slung between two trees. Delhi is extremely crowded and any nook or cranny between buildings was turned into a dwelling. We even saw a little house on the side of the motorway made from doors. In a country with so many poor people, nothing is really wasted. There were rubbish tips everywhere which looked unsightly but in fact were recycling centres. Vegetable waste was put on one side and the cows would come by and eat old fruit and flowers. Kids would look through the tips for things like sim cards and batteries, then the real waste would be burned. At one tip I saw a stray dog chewing determinedly on withered string beans.

The new part of Delhi was like another country. Government buildings are surrounded by well-appointed blocks of flats in tree-lined streets occupied by civil servants. Government employees get free housing and medical care until retirement, by when they will have saved enough to make their own provision. Normally tourists can photograph the government complex but security was tight due to a visit from the Israeli foreign minister, and our bus was turned away. Undeterred, the driver went round the roundabout several times so we could get pictures, each time held at bay by a guard with a bayonet. Security is generally tight in India and every hotel, monument and temple had metal detectors and armed guards conducting bag searches.

We visited the nearby India Gate war memorial, which looks rather like Marble Arch. It commemorates some 13,000 Indian soldiers who fell in World War 2. Opposite the gate is the George V Canopy, a relic of colonialism. The statue of the king was removed leaving just the canopy, accessorised by the inevitable sleeping dogs.One of the legacies of the British Raj was to give India a single unifying language, since the country has 22 official languages and about 16,000 minority languages. Most road signs and hoardings were in English, Hindi and Urdu. Some of the English business signs lost a little in translation, such as Harsh Services, Hovel auto shop, and my favourite, NIT (North India Technology) University.

We set off on a long drive to Jaipur in Rajasthan, the largest state in India, passing the headquarters of Tata Computer Services, a massive space age building in the town of Harayana. Evidence of Tata’s business interests is everywhere – trucks carry the livery of Tata Transport, we stayed in a Tata hotel and I even saw a sachet of Tata coffee next to the kettle. Harayana is known as the town of huge call centres that serve clients all over the world. In contrast to all these skyscrapers you’d see warthogs and water buffalo scratching around on the side of the motorway. Apparently the locals don’t eat pigs but they make handy waste disposal units. Buffalo dung is collected and left to dry in little patties that will be used later as fuel briquettes.

Just beyond Haryana there is a large monkey colony. Truckers stop to feed them because they consider them to be the embodiment of Hanuman, the monkey god. The monkeys are a real nuisance, break into houses and ransacking them, but the locals are reluctant to cull them.

On the way north we started seeing pairs of elephants on the street, being driven to weddings. Apparently February this year was a lucky month so as many couples as possible were getting hitched, and we were kept awake at night by wedding parties. The owners like to decorate their animals – many of them had painted toenails and makeup on their faces.

We spent two days at a resort in the Ranthambore game reserve in north India for a tiger photo safari. I thought it would take place from the safety of enclosed vehicles so was a bit shocked to find that we were being driven there in open sided jeeps. I was reluctant to go because if I can see a tiger, then a tiger can see me. We all soon got carried away with the wonder of it all and when we saw two of them close up, I was practically hanging out of the jeep taking pictures like everyone else. There was plenty of other wildlife to photograph such as monkeys, lynx, antelope and peacocks. Even when surrounded by five or six jeeps, the animals completely ignored us. At one point a tiger stalked majestically past two feet away from us, patrolling its territory. I didn’t even feel in fear of attack, reasoning that an animal with big juicy antelope and deer at its disposal wouldn’t bother with canned meat. At this stage, the party started to come down with the inevitable stomach upsets. Two women became violently ill, which they put down to the bumpy ride on the jeeps. By the time we got back to camp, there was a mass stampede for the toilets.

Arriving in Agra, we took an evening spin past the Taj Mahal on the banks of the Yamuna River to see it in the dusk. Traffic was terrible but the Taj looked impressive even in the gloaming. February 15^th had been declared an auspicious day so all sorts was going on – wedding carriages with decorated horses trotting by, processions celebrating the festival of Shiva, and cremations by the riverside. By now I’d succumbed to Delhi belly like everyone else but I was still up at 4am for a dawn visit to the Taj Mahal. Pictures don’t do justice to it but we were snapping away as it gradually emerged from the mist. The Taj is built from white marble with specks of mineral in it that shimmer and sparkle as the sun hits them. Of course this didn’t show up in the photos but at least I have the memory of it. We also posed for the classic tourist “Diana” photo, depicting the day she told the world about her failing marriage by sitting all alone on a bench in front of a magnificent monument to one man’s love for his wife.

By now some of us were so ill with dysentery that we had to call a doctor to the hotel. We’d been advised by the tour operator to use hand sanitiser gel after handling money but most of us hadn’t, and that was probably our downfall. It was unlikely to have been food poisoning as we only ate in recommended establishments where the food was delicious and obviously fresh. In fact if it hadn’t been for illness I probably would have come home a stone heavier. I assumed I’d be making an insurance claim but the doctor’s visit was surprisingly cheap – the equivalent of about £12 including antibiotics

We took a trip to Varanasi (formerly Benares, which the locals still call it) to take a boat trip on the Ganges. February is the month of the festival of Shiva so the town was crammed with devout pilgrims in orange robes. A lot of them are rake thin and have walked for hundreds of miles barefoot. The ceremonies take place at dawn and after dark so it was another 4am start then a rickshaw ride to the riverside, as the roads are too narrow for buses to get through. It was very atmospheric - processions of musicians drumming and chanting, hawkers everywhere selling food and flowers and the red dot or bindi on the forehead. It was extremely crowded and someone put a bindi on me before I could stop him. Then he asked for money, when I had no rupees on me. He followed me for a while shouting "Dollar! Euro!" We took a boat ride and were immediately followed by rowing boats laden with tourist tat. One rower pulled alongside us and called out hopefully "Supermarket?" 

Swimmers bathe in the Ganges, which looks very murky, but apparently nobody ever caught anything from it. There were dobie wallahs on the bank, washermen who pound laundry on the rocks then spread the washing out to dry. Again the banks looked muddy and murky but due to the miraculous powers of the Ganges, the blankets end up clean. They also burn bodies because devout Hindus want their ashes scattered on the river. There are men building huge pyres all along the bank but you don't really see anything apart from smoke and mist.

Even though the trip was somewhat marred by sickness, it was still a marvellous experience, the highlight of course being the Taj Mahal. I’d recommend it to anybody but I’d say make sure you have all your injections and take along the suggested medication. Don’t forget your best friend, the hand sanitiser gel. Oh, and learn to walk like a cow.

Roads from Damascus

By David Gourley

One of the things about travel is that the range of possibilities changes over time with the political situation. David has given me permission to post this article about his visit to Syria from the VISA archive. He says "It was a bit over ten years ago that we went there, a time when Syria could justly be described as a safe and friendly destination and when Lebanon was re-establishing itself as  a tourist destination after its own civil war.  Makes for some poignant reading."

“Travel broadens the mind” might be a tired cliché but it is nonetheless true.  Just about every country I have visited turns out to be different – and usually this means better – from what I might have imagined.  Syria in particular gets a rather bad press these days.  It is portrayed as a rogue state yet it is one of the friendliest countries I have visited.  Syrians are aware of their isolation and the mere fact that one has chosen to visit their country gives one a certain kudos.  Certainly we encountered no anti-western feeling whatever, which is more than can be said of an earlier visit to Jordan, generally regarded as much friendlier to the west than Syria.  There we had one of those touristic experiences which sounds good but turns out to be awful: a dinner in the desert at which the parting shot of our Bedouin “hosts’” was that ours was an “ugly culture”. 

I occasionally write for the sister SIG for Politics and have to be careful not to bring too much travel into their magazine or too much politics into ours.  A little on the subject might nevertheless be said.  I hold no brief for the Assad regime, which functions almost like a monarchy, with son succeeding father as surely as in next door Jordan, a real monarchy.  Nowhere else have I seen anything like the huge number of posters in the street depicting a ruler, in this instance the President, Bashir al-Assad, more often than not accompanied by one of his late father, Hafez, and occasionally one of his elder brother, Basil, previously regarded as the heir to the presidency whose life was cut short by a car crash.  This is, no mistake, a repressive regime and there is disappointment in the country that it has not opened up more under its new young president.

Yet the regime has provided stability, and for the most part peace, since the late president seized power in 1970.  Those who would like to see “regime change” might ponder whether “letting go of nurse” would “lead to something worse”; peaceful change from within might well be the desirable way forward.  As in Iraq under Saddam the Baathists are the ruling party but there was never much love lost between the two countries and Hafez al-Assad never descended to the depths of brutality displayed by his Iraqi counterpart.  This is a secular society in which women can choose for themselves whether to wear a veil and one can enjoy wine or beer, some of which is locally produced.  The fairly large Christian community (comprising around 10% of the population, our guide included) and the Moslem majority intermingle without any problem.  If forced to choose, I would rather have pictures of President Assad in his suit and tie to some wild-eyed cleric with flowing beard (the occasional picture of Ayatollah Khomeini adorns the roadside in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley).

In respect of international relations, there is a question whether Syria is more sinning or sinned against.  Undoubtedly the regime wants to make peace with Israel and President Clinton makes clear in his biography his belief that Israeli intransigence was the reason why the talks he brokered between the two countries foundered.  The Syrians may not have behaved at all times impeccably in Lebanon but they did play a vital role in restoring peace to that country, after fifteen years of civil war.

Syria’s isolation means that tourism, despite its tremendous potential, has not greatly developed compared to that in Egypt, say, or Turkey.  This has its minuses but maybe a few more pluses.  One can wonder around its historic sites for the most part unbothered by crowds or by tradesmen.  In her farewell speech to our very likeable guide, Fatih (pronounced ‘fatty’), a member of our party was cheered by us all when she referred to the absence of a McDonalds in Damascus.  On the other hand accommodation is not generally of western standards (though the new Four Seasons in Damascus, not yet open when we visited, might help to change that).  Our flight to Damascus with Syrianair  provided a foretaste of this.  Our hotels were four-star but one needs to remove at least one star to get the equivalent western rating.  If gourmet dining is essential to one’s holiday, it might be best to go elsewhere.  The ubiquitous but seldom varying mezze rather lost their novelty after a while.

Syria is also remarkably safe.  Fatih welcomed us to “the safest country in the Middle East – and in the world”.  A slight exaggeration, maybe, but, very unusually, the Lonely Planet guide to Syria does not include a section on “dangers and annoyances”.  Crime is very low  - and we found it hard to believe in this peaceful country that we were next door to Iraq!

We started in Damascus, where we had a full day guided tour.  The modern downtown is nothing very special but the historic old city is a real gem.  Damascus vies with its great rival Aleppo for the claim to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world.  There is no definitive founding date in either case so the two cities have to make do with sharing the accolade.  What can be said is that Damascus dates back at least to the third millennium BC.  Wandering around the narrow and picturesque alleyways of the old city is a delight.  Here too are the atmospheric souks. Centrally located in this area is the magnificent Umayyad Mosque, in terms of sanctity second only to the mosques in Medina and Mecca.  Unlike in those Saudi mosques, non-Moslem visitors are welcomed.

There are strong Biblical associations.  It was of course on the road to Damascus that Saul, soon to be Paul, was stuck by a blinding light.  That experience eluded us but we did stroll along the Street called Straight, the route Ananias was instructed to take when summoned by God to go and meet Paul, whom he cured of his blindness.  This picturesque street is fairly straight but not exactly so, hence the appellation “called Straight”.  At the end of the Street is the Church of Ananias wherein is a beautiful set of pictures depicting the life of Paul.  Close by is the chapel which is held to be – there is some historical controversy here – the one from which Paul was subsequently lowered in a basket to escape arrest and begin his new life as an Apostle.

We next had a day trip to Bosra, which is close to the Jordanian border and is not to be confused with its Iraqi near-namesake, Basra.  We were to see some fine scenery in Syria but not on this trip.  The drive was through rather grim desert, very similar to what we had seen on the other side of the border when driving between Petra, Amman and Jerash.  Main interest was seeing the Israeli-occupied Golan Heights in the distance.  I had rather expected Bosra to be like the magnificent Roman site at Jerash, which is quite close by.  I was thus in for a surprise for whereas the site at Jerash is standalone, Bosra is a living city, its inhabitants dwelling amidst the ruins of the old town.  So Bosra is for free, apart from the separately located Roman Theatre, one of the finest such constructions anywhere.  On the way back we paused in Izra (no, we’re not in Israel, quipped Fatih) to visit one of Syria’s oldest churches, the Greek Orthodox Basilica of St George.

The next four nights were to be spent away from Damascus.  We headed first for Palmyra, in the east of the country.  This too entailed a trip through the desert but, once we’d left the environs of the capital, it was quite pleasant.  We had a refreshment stop at a small establishment which continues to call itself the Baghdad Café and a bit beyond is the junction of the road to Iraq, some seventy miles or so to our south.  I was glad we were continuing east!  Signs to borders simply give the name of the country: “Jordan 20 km” or whatever.  The sign here to Iraq is, we were told, much photographed these days and we ourselves took this photo-opportunity.  

Palmyra has to be one of the highlights of a visit to Syria.   I am undecided whether it is the number one highlight and might settle for ranking it equal first with the Old City in Damascus, Krak des Chevaliers, and the Citadel in Aleppo.  By any standards the Roman ruins constitute one of the greatest historical sites anywhere.  The magnificent and well preserved Temple of Bel would, on its own, be worth the long traipse into the desert but there is plenty else to see here and we had a fascinating afternoon, which finished with a drive up to the castle, from where there was a fine view over the complex.

There is a modern town of Palmyra, adjacent to the ruined city, but we got only a brief glimpse of this as our overnight stay was to be in Homs, Syria’s third city after Damascus and Aleppo.  This was November, giving the advantage of reasonable temperatures, Palmyra in particular being baking hot in summer.  The downside was that it got dark very early and our lengthy journey across the desert was entirely in darkness so a bit boring.  Lonely Planet is rather unkind about Homs, quoting the joke that the only thing that is refined about the city is its oil – it boasts a huge oil refinery, which we saw the following day.  We did not get much chance to judge for ourselves, as a city tour was not included. 

Syria is not all desert.  There are mountains and much fine scenery in the western part of the country and the next few days gave us a chance to enjoy some of this.  On the first of these days our main port of call was the magnificent Crusaders’ castle, Krak des Chevaliers.  This was our first visit to such a castle though rather tantalizingly we had seen the one in Kerak, Jordan, in the distance.  There was some other sightseeing to be fitted in.  First we stopped in Safita, a charming mountain town that almost had an Italian feel about it.  Here we visited the White Castle.  Next on our itinerary was Sulaiman Fort, a ruin and not, in truth, overly interesting. 

We then took what Fatih, an architect by profession who only does occasional tour guiding, called a “short cut” to the Krak.  Some mistake surely as it seemed to be never-ending.  We thus got to see rather more of Syria than we’d expected - and maybe the same went for our driver, who from time to time stopped to ask people the way!  The scenery was great but I started to fret we’d have insufficient time at the Krak and was thus rather relieved when we at last got there.  In fact we didn’t have quite enough time.  There is a lot to see and Fatih gave us a comprehensive tour.  The one thing however that I wanted to do above all was to go up to the roof and admire the superb view.  Come closing time, we had just about seen everything else but Fatih said that there was not time to go up on the roof.  I sneaked up anyway.

Fairly close by is the Monastery of St George, which was also on our itinerary.  George might be the patron saint of England but he is also rather big among Christians in the Middle East, vanquished dragon and all.  This is a lovely building.  It was dark by the time we got there but it looked all the more atmospheric.  We then headed back for our second night in Homs.

Generally the weather during our stay in Syria was good but the following day, as we headed for Ugarit, the heavens opened and there was driving rain as we made our way up the Mediterranean coast and through the port of Latakia.  But luck didn’t desert us. The rain stopped just as we reached Ugarit, which is a few miles to the north of Latakia.  The rest of the day was showery.  Ugarit is a smallish but important site, and well worth a visit.  It lays claim to be the founding place of one of the earliest alphabets, Ugaritic (the Syrians will tell you that it was the very first), developed some 4000 years ago.  Before that written language had depended on pictograms, as in hieroglyphics.  Ugarit’s other claim to fame is that it was the world’s first international port.  An interesting visit.

We then headed inland to Qa’alat Salah ad-Din, described by T E Lawrence as “the most sensational thing in castle building I’ve seen”.  I don’t think he was far wrong.  The Krak is the more splendid of the two buildings but what this other castle has going for it is its dramatic location, sited on a ridge between two steep ravines in mountainous terrain.  Night soon fell after we finished our visit and we now headed for Aleppo, where we were to spend two nights.  By day our journey would have been fascinating, through small towns and villages and plenty of fine scenery.  But as nighttime soon fell after we commenced our drive it became a bit tedious.  Before long it will be possible to do the trip by the motorway which is being built between Aleppo and the coast.  Motorways in Syria are designated in the same way as in Britain.  The M1 for example runs from Aleppo to Damascus, then on to the Jordanian border.

We at last made it to Aleppo and here a pleasant surprise awaited us.  We had not been greatly impressed by our hotel in Damascus (a better one was to be used when we returned to that city), the one in Homs had been an improvement and here in Aleppo we were in one of the city’s charming boutique hotels, the Diwan Ramsy, quite recently opened and formerly two separate historic houses.  It is attractively located amidst narrow lanes in the old city and from its rooftop courtyard there is a stunning view of Aleppo’s massive Citadel, which is floodlit at night.  We were pleased with our room though on the downside dinner was somewhat mediocre and breakfast decidedly poor.  Not all in our party welcomed the fact that (unlike other places we stayed in) this is a dry hotel but we could be smug as we had our own supply of wine.

Sightseeing the next morning took us to the ruins of the Church of St Simeon, which enjoys a commanding hilltop location with views into Turkey.  This is a rather sore point with Syrians for the territory in question was once theirs.  The area, formerly know as the Sanjak of Alexandretta and bordering the Mediterranean, was ceded to the Turks by the French, who ruled Syria between the two World Wars and are not fondly remembered.  The Syrians thus lost the ancient site of Antioch.  Fatih told us that some of his in-laws were among the displaced persons who fled to Syria.  St Simeons is a fascinating site though the saint himself sounds rather an oddball character, who spent some 30 years atop a pillar, preaching to his audience, with women, including his own mother, barred.  There was a railing around the top, and an iron collar round his neck, chained to the pillar to prevent him falling off when asleep. 

Back in Aleppo we had a fascinating tour of the mighty Citadel, followed by a walking tour around the old city and the souks.  There was a break before we started the walk, during which we got into conversation with an Iraqi family, who were on holiday and no doubt enjoying a respite from the problems in their own country.  The father was a congenial former airforce pilot.  We talked a bit about the situation in Iraq and ventured the suggestion that it might be another year or so before there is peace there.  One of his beautiful teenage daughters looked at us sadly: “no, it will be about ten years”, she said.  Fatih chipped in: “maybe it will be our turn next”. 

There was an included meal in a local restaurant that evening.  Fatih, who lives in Aleppo, waxed lyrical about the distinctive local cuisine which we’d be enjoying.  Yet what turned up were the usual mezze and, for the main course, some not particularly distinctive kebabs!  But it was a pleasant meal nevertheless and there was a convivial atmosphere.  A few of us on the walk back to our hotel went into the Baron Hotel for a drink.  This was once one of the foremost hotels in the Middle East, a place where travellers on the Near Eastern extension of the Orient Express would linger a while, and some famous people have stayed there, including T E Lawrence, whose bar bill is displayed in the lounge.  This hotel has known better days and is no longer especially grand, but there is a certain charm still and, if tourism in Syria ever seriously takes off, it might yet regain its former glory.  

The next day was out final day of touring in Syria.  We headed back to Damascus, visiting en route the Roman ruins at Apamea.  These are less well-known than Palmyra but are almost as impressive.  In contrast to the desert which surrounds Palmyra, there is a backdrop of green hills.  We had a brief stop in Hama, Syria’s fourth city, so we could look at its celebrated water wheels.  The city centre has been extensively rebuilt in recent years, as much of it was destroyed in 1982 when a rather serious fundamentalist uprising was put down.  This uprising was confined to Hama.  Final stop was in Maalula, a predominantly Christian village which is an easy half-day trip from Damascus.  As it was now dark, and the village is renowned for its dramatic location and beautiful houses, we rather wondered if there was any point, especially as it entailed a lengthy diversion.  But we enjoyed our visit to the ancient Monastery of St Sergius, whose priest gave us an introductory talk.  Maalula is of one the few places where Aramaic, the language of Jesus, is still spoken. 

Like most in our rather large party, we’d booked a two-night add-on in Lebanon and this included two full days back in Damascus.  A chance once more therefore to roam around the Old City.  We had one disappointment.  We had planned to revisit the National Museum, reasoning that we’d appreciate its contents all the more now that we were better acquainted with the country.  We knew that, like many public buildings, it closes on Tuesdays so headed for it on our first afternoon, a Monday.  There we found another couple from our party waiting outside.  They’d been hanging around for some time, having been led to believe the Museum was closed for lunch.  However, further enquiry revealed that it was closed for the rest of the day, as preparations were in hand for a reception in the evening, which was to mark a major new exhibition and would be attended by various dignitaries.

The four of us hotfooted it back to the Old City so we could be in time to go to as yet unvisited Azem Palace, which closes remarkably early and would not be open the next day.  We made it with just enough time to look round.  We ended up feeling rather glad that the Museum was closed for the Palace really shouldn’t be missed.  This is a fine example of the distinctive Damascene architecture.  This is not, as one might imagine, a single complex, rather one goes in and out of various rooms located around courtyards.  There are mannequin displays in each room for the Palace also serves as the Museum of the Arts and Popular Traditions of Syria.  

Another “must see” in Damascus is the main railway station.  That might sound a rather odd thing to say but here we are talking about the Hejaz Station, so named from the legendary railway which was supposed to convey pilgrims to and from Mecca.  It has a beautiful interior.  The railway of course never got to Mecca, and nowadays stops well short of the Hejaz region, which is now part of Saudi Arabia.  Once or twice a week, though, a train trundles down to the Jordanian capital, Amman.  Currently there are no trains running from the Station, the terminus for now being a bit further out.  The authorities are in the midst of a massive construction project which will bring the trains back to Hejaz Station using a tunnel.  Damascus is certainly in dire need of better public transport.

We transferred by road to our hotel in Beirut.  At the border we were met by our lovely Lebanese guide, Suzanna.  During our stay in Lebanon, she spoke very frankly about the Civil War, which lasted some fifteen years.  She had lived in Beirut throughout that period.  She stressed that it was not about religion or politics: “we still don’t know why the war started – or why it ended”.  The assassination earlier in the year of former President Rafiq Hariri had led to the so-called “Cedar Revolution” and the departure of Syrian troops.  There had been comparisons with the “Orange Revolution” in Ukraine, with Beirut thus transformed into “Kiev-on-the-Mediterranean”.  I did not really buy into this view.  Ukraine, which we have visited (VISA, June and September 2004), was for many decades subjected to Soviet rule whereas Lebanon had been a genuinely independent state since WW2.  It had, quite simply, imploded.

We had had qualms about visiting Lebanon. Terrible scenes from the civil war were still in our mind but it seemed a shame not to take advantage of the reasonably priced add-on offer and in any case the country has been at peace for 15 years.  “Lebanon is a safe country”, Suzanna told us, with no sense of irony.  She meant that crime is low.  It is also the case that tourists can now go just about anywhere.  A work colleague told me that, a few years after the civil war, she’d been to Beirut but not Baalbek “because it wasn’t safe”.  Another colleague told me that, a bit later on, she’d been to Baalbek but not Sidon “because it wasn’t safe”.  We went to both.

We first drove to Baalbek, one of the most magnificent anywhere of Roman sites.  It is a huge complex, the Temple of Bacchus being the most impressive of all as it is still almost entire.  Baalbek is located in the Bekaa Valley which is a stronghold of Hizbollah.  Nowadays they operate within the Parliamentary system.  It was still a bit offputting though to see their symbol at regular intervals along the road, together with the occasional pictures of Ayatollah Khomeini already mentioned.  One of our party purchased a Hizbollah T-shirt and was no doubt looking forward to shocking the folk back home.

Despite the years of civil war, Lebanon is a lot more westernized than Syria and there is a reasonably good tourist infrastructure.  We nevertheless preferred Syria.  Our hotel was in Beirut, a stone’s throw from the Corniche which runs along the sea front.  The next day we visited the National  Museum, which closed during the Civil War, re-opening a few years afterwards.  The staff did their best to protect the priceless exhibits during the years of conflict, which in some instances meant encasing statues in concrete.  There was a rather moving video of the preparations for re-opening the Museum, with assorted treasures once more seeing the light of day.  Suzanna told us she had wept when she heard about the looting of the Museum in Baghdad.

We then had a walking tour of the rebuilt downtown area, sometimes known as Solideré, after the company set up for this purpose by President Hariri.  It has been tastefully done in traditional style, and is rather impressive.  Yet, I was not alone in our party in thinking it was a bit soulless.  Before the Civil War, Beirut was a lively and cosmopolitan city, the unofficial capital of the Middle East and the official capital of a country that was regarded as the “Switzerland of the Middle East”.  One fears that, what was lost during those appalling years, will never come back.  The city is effectively having to reinvent itself.  On a more positive note we on various occasions drove across the once-notorious “Green Line” which separated Christian East and Moslem West Beirut.  Today there is no trace of it and amidst the bustle of heavy traffic going in all directions, it is impossible to imagine it ever having been there.  It all seemed reassuringly normal.

I would not describe Beirut as a lovely city.  There is nothing to compare with the old cities in Damascus or Aleppo.  It sprawls for many miles in all directions.  This sprawl followed us all the way to Byblos, some 25 miles up the coast.  On the way we passed through Jounieh, which was just a fishing village before the War.  Now, with its high rise buildings, it merges indistinguishably into the capital.  During the War it was the main base of the Christian Maronites.  Byblos itself is a haven amidst the sprawl, with its Roman site, Crusader Castle, and souk.

Before heading out of Beirut, Suzanna had taken us to a shrine for the assassinated former President.  We were to go somewhere rather similar in Sidon, where feelings are if anything stronger still, since he was a son of that city.  Suzanna clearly felt very strongly.  It was obvious that she was not in the pro-Syrian camp though tact prevented her from saying very much given we had ourselves been touring Syria and liked the country, if not the regime.  She clearly believed the allegations that the Syrian regime, or elements thereof, had some hand in the assassination.  There is now under UN auspices an investigation into whether there is any substance to these allegations.  There is no doubt that Rafiq Hariri had been a dynamic leader, to be credited with great energy in driving forward the rebuilding of his devastated country, not just in downtown Beirut but elsewhere. 

Our final day’s itinerary took us down the coast to Sidon, where we explored the Crusader Castle, located on a small island which is reached by a bridge.  Another attraction here is the Soap Museum which was however closed (soap as in ‘wash your face’ rather than TV!)  We then had a scenic drive through the Chouf Mountains, stronghold of the Druze community, to Beiteddine Palace.  It was from this impressive complex that the Ottomans once ruled.  The Druze leader Walid Jumblatt restored the building after the extensive damage during the civil war, when it was in the path of the invading Israeli army.  He declared it to be a “Palace of the People” and his family have donated many of the exhibits. 

Having completed this visit we made out way back to the border with Syria, where we said farewell to Suzanna.  She had been an excellent guide who was clearly proud of her country, despite the terrible times she had lived through.  She lamented the fact that there was a lot of it we hadn’t seen.  “You haven’t been to Tripoli or Tyre – you could change your minds and come back to Beirut with me!”  We had one more night in Damascus and an early flight home the next day.  Altogether an enjoyable and interesting two weeks.

 First published in VISA 66 and 67 (April - June 2006)

Around the Isles (part 2)

By David Gourley

This is the second part of David's account of a driving holiday that took him to all the component countries of the British Isles. Read part 1 here.

Taking our car by ferry was a new experience for us.  Given that they drive on the wrong side of the road, we have never driven on the Continent. We disembarked in Larne, an unlovely town where sectarian graffiti was in evidence.  We hit the road up the Antrim coast.  A good thing about this road is that one very quickly loses sight of Larne!  More positively, we were at the start of one of the most beautiful coastal drives, not just in the British Isles but in Europe.  We were staying at the somewhat idiosyncratic Ballygally Castle hotel.  Most guests stay in the large modern wing but there is an old castle complete with haunted room, now just an attraction and not used to accommodate anyone. 

There was time for us to do a drive up one of the Antrim Glens, finishing in Ballymena.  It was fairly easy at this time, when the Golden Jubilee was being celebrated, to tell which towns are nationalist and which are unionist, by whether or not they’d put up bunting.  In Ballymena, which is in Ian Paisley’s constituency, there was a lot of bunting!  Smaller Northern Irish towns like this, on either side of the religious divide, are often quite pleasant, rather old-fashioned places.  In Ballymena we wanted to buy a map of the island of Ireland, having realized our map of the entire British Islands, was not adequate.  I wondered whether, in this citadel of unionism, one would dare ask!  But in the town’s old-fashioned bookstore we acquired one with no trouble.  Something that was also becoming evident was that people in Northern Ireland, again regardless of religious divide and despite the many years of the Troubles, tend to be very friendly.  On a scale of friendliness across Europe I might put Northern Ireland at the opposite end to Croatia, a country we have just visited, where poker faces seem to be the order of the day. 

Back at our hotel we were served a gargantuan dinner.  For Cathy it was far too much and it was almost so for me, albeit my appetite would hardly be described as delicate.  Next evening Cathy tried to obviate a repeat of this experience by ordering an “8 oz” steak but their idea of “8 oz” and ours are not the same so she still had too much for her liking.  The next day we drove over to County Fermanagh, in the western part of the Province, almost as long a drive as one can do within its borders.  We noticed en route signs to “Londonderry” with the “London” crossed out: Nationalists of course know it simply as “Derry”.  To avoid offending anyone, radio and TV staff have taken to calling it “Derry stroke Londonderry”, earning it the sobriquet “Stroke City”.  Back home, I tried out on a Northern Irish friend my theory that one can tell the religion of someone from Northern Ireland by what they call the province’s second city.  “That’s nonsense”, he snapped, “I’m a Protestant and I call it Derry”.  We weren’t going there so didn’t have to call it anything. 

Our drive took us through Omagh and on to Enniskillen, where we had lunch.  Both these town maybe tried a bit harder than most to stay out of the Troubles, yet both were afflicted by appalling IRA bombings.  No doubt the scars are there still but for the visitor they are handsome towns and the person driving through Omagh might remember it for its complicated road system.  We then had a drive along Lough Erne, a quiet corner of the Province that attracted visitors, particularly anglers, even during the height of the Troubles.  We came back via a different route which took us through the Sperrin Mountains.

The next day we moved on to Belfast but first drove north, along the coastal road, to visit County Antrim’s top two attractions.  The first was the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, which does feel rather precarious as one walks across.  This is not there just for the tourist; its purpose is functional and it has been there for hundreds of years.  The other was, as might be guessed, the Giant’s Causeway, a remarkable coastal formation.  Legend has it that the same giant who created the Causeway, simultaneously created Lough Neagh, the large lake in the middle of Northern Ireland, and the Isle of Man, by taking a huge chunk of the mainland and hurling it into the Irish sea.  Maybe there’s some truth in this - they are roughly the same size!

We had a charming guide who pointed out the northernmost part of Ireland, which can be seen from here.  Contrary to what one might assume, it is not in Northern Ireland, being in County Donegal and thus in the Republic.  The Good Friday agreement, which effectively ended the Troubles and at this time had been in place for some four years, had, she told us, given a big boost to the tourist industry in Northern Ireland.  For all too many years the very idea of a tourist industry in Northern Ireland had seemed rather ridiculous yet there is great tourist potential, not least along the Antrim Coast.  With the DUP and Sinn Fein having just agreed to form a power-sharing government – something that would have been inconceivable at the time of our visit – the prospects for a long-lasting peace have never looked better.

We now headed for Belfast.  I still had a somewhat negative view of this city, the result of the years of sectarian violence.  I’d wondered about heading straight for the South but Cathy felt that we should have a look.  We stayed at the Europa, which in the seventies had the doubtful distinction of being the most bombed hotel in Europe.  Even at the time of our visit there was unrest to the south of the city, in the Donegall Pass area.  But from our window high up a peaceful city was spread before us.  We wondered into nearby Donegal Square, in the heart of the city centre.  There was a vaguely menacing feel – but no more than in any other British city when the shops shut and the chavs take over the pedestrianized centres.  The best part of the city, which we didn’t get to, is supposed to be around the University, an area that has been likened to the trendier parts of Dublin. 

We had just one night in Belfast and next day headed south to Dublin.  We decided to take a scenic route and thus meander along the coast.  We thought that en route we would take a look at Stormont, the seat of Governemnt.  We got directions from our hotel and reckoned we were in the right area when we passed shops that took their name from it.  However, we then found ourselves in a rather rundown area whereas Stormont, I knew, is in a leafy district on the outskirts of the city.  Graffiti artists informed us that “Ulster will never be part of Eire” (though actually part of it is, since only six of its nine counties were hived off into Northern Ireland at time of partition).  It occurred to us we had taken a wrong turning.  We stopped the car and spoke to a soldier, who turned out to be from our home county of Surrey.  He advised us to turn round there and then.  We were in “loyalist” East Belfast but heading straight for the troubled Catholic enclave of Short Strand, scene of recent riots which had been triggered by, of all things, someone putting up bunting to celebrate the golden jubilee.

Now back on the right road, we found Stormont and were allowed by the guards to drive up its impressive drive and have a look from the outside – there was no question of being able to go in.  Rather provocatively, it might be thought, a statue of Sir Edward Carson still stands outside.  He was the politician who masterminded the separation of the Six Counties from the rest of Ireland and this makes him something of a hero for Unionists, and rather the opposite for Nationalists.  Maybe the miserable weather had something to do with it, but the part of Northern Ireland we now drove through, on the way to the border, didn’t appeal to us in the same way as areas previously visited.  We had a brief stop in the resort of Newcastle, which looked rather grim. 

We crossed the border to the south of Newry.  This is one of the most contentious borders in Europe and is of course the UK’s only land frontier.  Yet we only realized that we’d crossed it when we noticed that our ‘A’ road had become an ‘N’ road!  This rather unpretty area is not really the best of introductions to the Republic Ireland.  First town was Dundalk, also unpretty and noted during the Troubles as a hotbed of IRA activity.  Drogheda, the next town going south, seemed rather more pleasant.

Finding our hotel in Dublin was challenging.  We’d decided to treat ourselves and stay in the historic Shelburne, a five-star establishment.  It’s located in St Stephen’s Green, in the fashionable south of the city, and road signs were confusing – I’ve read somewhere they are deliberately so, to discourage motorists.  We managed to find the hotel but there was nowhere to stop so we got swept up in the traffic, to get lost once more before finally finding it again and being able to stop long enough for one of their staff to take possession and put it in a nearby car park. 

The Shelburne was a disappointment.  It struck us as one of those places that coast along on their reputation but are no longer that great.  We rather felt that it was our privilege to be their guest rather than vice versa.  The legendary Irish friendliness was hard to find, since nearly all the staff were unsmiling.  I was annoyed above all to find that, this being a Monday, the fine Dining Restaurant was closed; it closed on Tuesdays as well.  We’d arranged for some friends who live in Dublin to join us for a meal.  The hotel’s website had said nothing about this and they had not otherwise forewarned us.  By contrast the Europa in Belfast had written to us advising that their fine dining restaurant is closed on Sundays.  We only found out when we went to book with reception.  The young lady took the booking but we asked her to contact the restaurant so we could reserve a table.  She then revealed, as if this was a mildly interesting discovery on her part, that the restaurant was closed.

We saw a manager and were told that the closure was because of – yes! – 9/11.   There were no longer enough American tourists, apparently.  A more enterprising management might have taken the view that shutting down facilities was not the best way of attracting customers!  We got them to book a nearby restaurant though this turned out to be disappointing: it cost an arm and a leg but the service was slow and the meal indifferent. 

The next day we pressed on to our final stop, Kinsale on the southwest coast.  There was not much time to explore Dublin.  We walked up Grafton Street, visited Trinity College and saw the Book of Kells, and made our way north of the Liffey to O’Connell Street and the GPO, epicentre of the 1916 uprising.  Getting out of the city was somewhat easier than getting in, as we just had to go up to the river and then drive along the parallel road.  Before long we were in open country.  We took an indirect route, heading first to Kilkenny for our lunchtime stop. This town, perhaps the most attractive in Ireland, is a gem and we enjoyed our stroll through it, finishing at a delicatessen where we got a good takeaway lunch.  We carried on through Clonmel to Fermoy where a pedestrian walked straight out in front of us – the village nearly lost its idiot.  We by-passed the City of Cork via the Jack Lynch Tunnel, named from a former taisoeach and son of the city.

Kinsale is a town of great charm set amidst magnificent coastal scenery.  We were staying at Actons Hotel, only three-star but much better than the Shelburne.  The staff were friendly and a room change so we could get a seaview was arranged with no trouble.  Rather like Ludlow, Kinsale has acquired something of a gourmet reputation, and there was a good choice of restaurants.  But we were only there for two nights and stuck to the hotel, a choice not regretted as the meals were excellent.  The starter, which I had both times, was one of my best ever, a simple dish of wild mushrooms cooked in a spiced butter. 

The next day was spent exploring the vicinity and then the day came for the rather long drive home.  Not a fun day, especially as there was heavy rain as we headed for Rosslare and the ferry; Waterford, where we stopped for a somewhat indifferent lunch, seemed all too aptly named.  Wales, I fear, was getting short shrift compared to the other four countries visited: we were simply passing through.   So we drove non-stop through the lovely county of Pembrokeshire, which we have however stayed in on earlier occasions.  Our only stop in fact was at a motorway service station for the second indifferent meal of the day.  But overall we had had a thoroughly enjoyable trip.

First published in VISA 75 (October 2007)

The Day the Earth Stood Still

By Tess Kamara

In April 2010 my friend Elizabeth and I decided to take a writers’ holiday, choosing a self-catering apartment in Lagos on the Algarve. It was outside the season, making it cheaper and quieter than in the height of summer. With sunshine, the beach close by and few distractions, we could knuckle down to some serious work. Nothing could go wrong – could it?

We touched down on Saturday and enjoyed a scenic ride to our villa in Meia Praia, just outside the town centre. Opposite the beach, the apartments have all mod cons and a sunny terrace. There is a supermarket within walking distance and a regular bus to the town centre. The complex was only half occupied so we had peace and quiet to work in.

We soon settled into a routine – work in the morning, lunch, stroll into town to check email at a sleepy internet café, a dip in the waves then home for more work on the terrace, usually with a bottle of wine to hand. It seems hard to believe in the 21^st century but we were pretty cut off.  Satellite TV was extra so we hadn’t bothered to book it, and as neither of us speaks Portuguese, telly was restricted to a half hour American sitcom in the evening. Neither of us had an iPhone although Elizabeth had a mobile, and English newspapers were a few days old so we remained in blissful ignorance as Europe began to close down.

Surf lesson

On Tuesday we were off to surf school; I was trying to fulfil an ambition of standing up on a surfboard before I die. The Eyjafjallaj̈okull volcano had been active for some weeks by then which is normal for Iceland – the earth’s crust is so thin there that you can see hot water bubbling up on the side of the roads in Reykjavik. Back in Lagos, our hunky instructor Jez drove us out to Zavial Bay, an ideal spot for beginners as it’s fairly sheltered so the waves don’t get up to a scary height. I spent an enjoyable afternoon falling off the board – or “wiping out” as we surfer types call it. Elizabeth took to it like a duck to water and even managed to kneel up on the board, despite never having surfed before.

Next morning we went to buy presents, stopping at the internet café for coffee. It was much busier than usual and their wall TV, which normally showed football on a loop, had been switched to some sort of nature programme featuring volcanoes. Later, as we looked at tourist tat in town, Elizabeth got a short text asking whether the volcano was affecting our holiday. Mystified, we asked the shopkeeper. She assured us that no volcanic activity had occurred in Portugal and we must be thinking of the mini-tornado that had hit Lisbon the previous day.

A quiet internet cafe - but not for long

On our strolls into Lagos we sometimes came across an elderly British lady who I dubbed Ex Pat, who’d sit drinking tea and reading papers in the main square. She was typical of a certain type of Brit who retires abroad; well into her eighties but skinny and wiry, brimming with energy and tanned a deep mahogany from years in the sun. We saw her outside a café and went over to ask if she’d heard anything. “Oh, yes dear” said Pat. “There’s been flooding at Tavira, just down the coast. A storm made the marina to burst its banks, upending boats and flooding the streets. And it turns out Iceland have let off a volcano and it’s making its way across Europe, affecting air travel.” I made a joke about Armageddon, saying that after the volcanic eruption, tornado and flood, all we needed now was a plague of locusts. “Not locusts, dear, Asian hornets” said Pat, showing us an article in the Daily Mail. “There’s an invasion of them heading to Britain across the Channel.” At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the four horsemen of the Apocalypse gallop past; at least they had their own transport.

We didn’t think anything in faraway Iceland could affect us but we stopped off at the café to try and get more news. It was packed now, with people queuing for the six computers. Elizabeth rang Monarch airlines but kept getting a recording telling callers to check the website. From looking over the shoulders of others, it became clear that the major travel websites had crashed; Monarch’s had a message referring users to their phone number.

We got chatting with a friendly Scottish couple, Brian and Gayle. They were seasoned travellers; Brian was a master builder who spent several months a year overseeing projects in Spain and Portugal, accompanied by his wife.  They had been due to go home on the same flight as us, and were busy working out a plan B. At this stage nobody knew anything and the café was swirling with rumours and speculation in different languages. Because foreign roaming charges were so steep Elizabeth’s friend would only send the most laconic texts, but of course she had no more clue than we had. The stories grew wilder; I got the impression that the UK was covered in a pall of white ash and people were afraid to go outside. Someone confirmed that all European flights had been grounded and even if they were to resume in the near future, there was already a backlog of passengers trying to leave. It slowly dawned on us that we weren’t flying anywhere that Saturday. We briefly considered road travel, but that was impractical by now; every taxi and hire car had already been commandeered, while congestion was causing the continent’s motorways to close up like clogged arteries.

We did what the British do best in adversity and ordered drinks. Eventually Gayle waved us over; Brian had had a breakthrough. He’d managed to get on to the Brittany Ferries website and was booking them on the next available sailing, on the following Wednesday. He strongly advised us to do the same while the website was still open. After a moment’s wavering we did so. We found out later that shortly after we booked, all sailings filled up for the next month.  Trains out of Lagos were full for the foreseeable future but luckily the café was a not far from the bus station. The four of us pelted down there and joined a long queue, not knowing what we were buying tickets for. When we reached the front we found we could get tickets to Seville for Monday morning; we snapped them up, joking wryly that when we arrived in Seville we’d wing it.

All hope of a peaceful break evaporated as we bustled about, rearranging schedules and informing our employers. We were able to stay on at the villa paying a daily rate but we heard horror stories from other British tourists asking them to leave their hotels or pay double because of a sudden increase in demand. Of course there was no extra demand as the incomers were stranded as well; it was just a nasty trick to get money from already overstretched families. One family of five we met later in Madrid said they were forced to sleep on the beach because they simply couldn’t stump up the extra cash. We kept the TV on all evening and looked up every time a news bulletin came on. Although we don’t speak the language we both know French and Spanish and it’s amazing what you can learn when you have to.

News was coming in from all over Europe, with Britain low in the pecking order. The Queen of Denmark’s birthday was ruined because her extended family couldn’t make it. The funeral of the Polish prime minister, who’d died in a plane crash on the day we arrived, would have to be postponed because no heads of state could attend. Queen of the world Angela Merkel was stuck in Belgium, to no-one’s dismay. Over in Paris, taxi companies were making a fortune sending fleets to ferry passengers between the airport and the station as people scrabbled frantically for ways out. Wags were calling it the two-centre holiday; three days hanging around Orly airport waiting for a flight, followed by three nights sleeping in the Gare du Nord in the vain hope of getting on Eurostar. The only news item from the UK was a comic one – Dan Snow setting off with a fleet of rubber dinghies to ferry stranded Brits from Calais.

Local TV showed scenes of utter bedlam at Faro airport. Families who’d run out of money were camped out in the grounds. Mothers were putting babies to bed in open suitcases as kids ran amok, enjoying the chaos. Stories emerged of people paying hundreds of pounds for taxis to take them to the nearest port, but even that option failed as the roads of Europe became gridlocked. I’ve always taken air travel for granted but this was the first time I realised how dependent on it we are. Watching the world grind to a halt seemed surreal. I had the feeling I sometimes get commuting in the rush hour while thousands travel in the opposite direction; why does everybody always need to be everywhere else?

Monday morning saw us on the bus to Seville when we should have been back at our desks. We got quite a few texts congratulating us on the extended holiday, but the joke got old after half a day on a packed bus. In Seville we followed Brian and Gayle’s lead and bought train tickets to Madrid, booking hotel rooms as we would be arriving late. Madrid looked promising but I was too tired to explore it after a long day’s travel and went straight to bed. The hotel rooms had satellite TV so we could catch up on world news. The stories were the same everywhere – business and government paralysed except, apparently in Norway, where the Prime Minister was pictured running the country from his iPad. The saddest story was a report from a Kenyan farmer’s collective; they relied heavily on sending shipments of roses to Europe and now their entire summer’s livelihood was wilting in an aircraft hangar.

Next morning we spent four hours in a massive queue at Madrid station, wilting like Kenyan roses in the stifling heat. Once we confirmed we could actually get on a train to Santander, we booked hotel rooms near the ferry dock. The whole experience was proving very expensive although we did eventually get the return fare refunded by Monarch Airways. However we were still much better off than the British families we kept bumping into as they made the same trek across Spain as us. Most of them had no idea what to do when they reached Santander as the sailings were sold out. One couple with three small children said that if they couldn’t get on a crossing they’d schlep across to Bilbao and try their luck there.

Once in Santander I felt I could breathe out; we had our ferry tickets and could finally kick back and relax. Our hotel, the Central Ignacia, was eccentrically painted bright blue, which was handy when asking for directions as I couldn’t understand the local dialect. It was also only ten minutes’ walk from the port and in a busy area packed with shops and restaurants, so we had a chance to stroll around and shake out the kinks after two days of almost continuous travel.

Wednesday dawned, a gloriously sunny day. The ferry didn’t leave until late afternoon so we had plenty of time to check out this elegant and cultured city. I’d only been to the Costas before so my predominant impression of Spain has been one of concrete hotels slung up to accommodate British hen and stag parties. Santander remains unspoiled despite being a popular tourist destination and the hotels tend to be traditional and gracious. The shops and restaurants are upmarket and somewhat expensive, which I suppose helps to deter the party crowd. We took in an art exhibition before heading back to the beachfront for lunch. An impressive sight awaited us; a British warship, the HMS Albion, had arrived to take home stranded passengers and a long queue of hopefuls was forming, snaking along the seafront. Far out at sea, we caught a glimpse of our ferry coming in. We chose an al fresco tapas bar and settled back to enjoy the view.

The crew of the Albion were moving along the lines, prioritising disabled people and families with babies. People who weren’t chosen were becoming quite frustrated – understandable under the circumstances. I’m not sure I’d want to go home on a warship (although it makes a great story) because it looked very basic – they had rows of camp beds laid out on an open deck. Because there were no proper facilities for civilians the only way they could get wheelchair-bound people onto the deck was to carry them. As this was happening our ferry loomed into view. It took about three hours to disembark the inbound passengers and let us on. We stayed at the bar until the last moment as we already had reserved cabins.

The staff of Brittany Ferries couldn’t have been more helpful. They allowed a thousand extra people on as foot passengers and left the restaurant eating areas open all night so they could sleep on the comfortable banquettes. Elizabeth and I had a twin bed cabin – small but well appointed. On Friday morning we docked at Plymouth, almost a week later than planned. The information desk on the boat had done its homework and posted a list of travel options to London and the south. It was rather short; all trains were fully booked and a local airline was offering first come first serve flights to Gatwick for £50, but it had very limited capacity. It began to seem that we would have to try and get a B&B in Plymouth before all the other thousands pouring off the ferry had the same idea.  We’d lost sight of Brian and Gayle by now but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were first in the queue for cheap flights. Just then someone (he later introduced himself as Jim) came up to the information desk and said he could take two extra passengers to Reading in his delivery van.

As we drove off the ferry squeezed into the van, I could have hugged Jim. He had to take a convoluted route to make his various drop-offs, but the weather was wonderful and the countryside was breathtaking. It was election time and as we drove through different counties we would see the same light blue Conservative posters on hoardings and banners fluttering on telegraph poles; I hadn’t realised before how true blue Middle England really is. The vehicle was cramped but we were able to spread out as each delivery emptied it. In any case, it was so miraculous to be back on British soil, we might as well be riding in Cinderella’s carriage. I texted my manager that we were back in Blighty and on the way home in a furniture van – she thought it was hilarious. When we finally got back to work, the week’s lateness was written off as the whole ash cloud situation was unprecedented.

By the time Jim dropped us off at Reading, we’d traversed five counties – Devon, Somerset, Wiltshire, Reading and Berkshire. Driving past Chippenham, I saw the great sight of Stonehenge for the first time in my life. Jim took us right into the station, helped carry our bags in and refused to take any petrol money – the perfect gentleman. I’ve never been so happy to return from an alleged holiday, and the counties of England have never looked more picturesque. I wondered briefly why anybody would ever want to go abroad when dear old Britain has this much to offer.

First published in VISA 117 (August 2014)