Hip, Hip, Hawaii

By Tess Kamara

Life couldn’t get any better than this, I reflected, as we sat in a café in Waikiki, downtown Honolulu, drinking Mai Tais and watching the sun go down. I’d always dreamed of going to Hawaii but it remained a fantasy until a round of redundancies at work made me realise that time is short and I’d better get my skates on while I was still employed. My travelling companion Elizabeth and I saved hard and now, here we were. In fact the trip was surprisingly affordable; we travelled with Page and Moy and stayed in a local self-catering Ohana hotel. The ubiquitous Ohana chain is very popular with Americans who come over for weddings and graduation parties, or to visit relatives serving in the Pacific Fleet. Relatively cheap by Hawaiian standards, the self-catering rooms have a kitchenette with fridge, hob and microwave. Honolulu has ABC mini supermarkets on every corner, the equivalent of a 711 or Budgens, where you can pick up fresh food quite cheaply. The only thing to beware of is their ATMs; I thought I was being careful taking out small amounts every day, until I checked the small print and realised I was being charged $2.50 per transaction.

Prior to leaving I had tried to make contact with Mensa Hawaii to pick up some travel tips but at the time the website consisted of nothing more than a photograph of paradise with a caption of something like “Check back in on this work in progress. Gone surfing”. Elizabeth had more luck – through her church links we met up with a very hospitable family, who took us to Pearl Harbour and even invited us home for dinner.

Most fantasies turn out to be just that, but Hawaii doesn’t disappoint; it really is the paradise you imagine it to be. The wide avenues are lined with palm trees, the skies are clear blue and the sunshine is constant. We were told that on the rare occasion it rained, kids would run outside for the novelty of getting wet. The air is fragrant with the scent of wonderfully named flowers; bougainvillea, tiaré, plumeria, heliconia, hibiscus, white ginger. Brightly coloured zebra finches scratch around everywhere like exotic sparrows. The seas are crystalline and the beaches exceptional; pebble free, with soft white sand. All the beaches are public which means the posh waterfront hotels can’t cordon off their section. You can walk along them unhindered for miles, but you’ll need shoes as the sand is scorching underfoot by noon.

On our first full day we took a bus tour of Oahu, to get an overview of the island and note which places to check out further. If you take a bus trip in Hawaii, always bring a jacket; you may be sweltering outside but the buses are air-conditioned to the point of refrigeration. Our driver and guide was a young man from Connecticut who styled himself Cap’n Rob and who had come to Hawaii on holiday and fallen in love with the place. He was an enthusiastic fund of information which he sprinkled with cheeky anecdotes; he told us whenever he met an attractive girl he would claim to be native Hawaiian and say his name was Irili Wanalaya. All the coaches were equipped with a movie screen but it seems the only film they ever played was Blue Hawaii, starring Elvis as a poor boy in love with his rich employer’s daughter. As the film is ninety minutes long and it only takes an hour to get round Oahu, we kept getting turfed off the bus two thirds of the way through the film. We saw the same unfinished movie three or four times during the holiday but we could still sleep at night knowing that Elvis always gets the girl.

The first stop was Diamond Head, where you can walk up the inside of an extinct volcano from the inside in pitch darkness, and emerge at the top to a panoramic view of the whole chain of islands. Fortunately we had no time to test this out as we were off to Sea World where you can observe dolphins, sharks, turtles, sea lions and other marine life. It does have a certain educational value but I can’t help feeling uneasy at seeing these magnificent creatures in captivity when they should have the world’s oceans at their disposal. We headed north past the Polynesian Cultural Centre, which showcases seven different island races – Fijian, Hawaiian, Marquesan, Samoan, Tahitian, Tongan and Maori. We earmarked this stop for another day and then it was off to the Bodo cemetery and temple, a Japanese Buddhist burial ground.

Buddhists are more practical than reverential about death; there were no gravestones, just small plaques to mark the family plot and little metal canisters to put flowers in. In keeping with the minimalist style there would be just one or two buds or blossoms in each canister. A small moat ran round the whole site, filled with koi carp to represent good fortune. Cap’n Rob told us that on weekends it was usual for Japanese families to come up and have a picnic round the grave, setting out food for the deceased as was the Buddhist custom. It was not unheard for graves to be decorated, not with flowers, but with a beer and a sandwich. In keeping with Buddhist pragmatism, these would be consumed later by homeless people.

We made a stop-off for lunch at a restaurant attached to a golf course. The sport must be hugely popular because there were courses everywhere, so beautifully maintained that the grass didn’t look real, although Rob assured us it was. We finished the trip with a visit to the Dole pineapple factory. Like many working businesses, this has a side-line as a tourist attraction. You hop on the Pineapple Express and are driven round the plantation as a guide tells you the history of the pineapple in Hawaii. It is one of the state’s most important exports, along with macadamia nuts and coffee.

Honolulu is home to a fascinating mix of cultures. The tourist hotels are concentrated in a few miles along Waikiki beach, about twenty minutes’ drive from the airport and half an hour from Pearl Harbour. Within that area you see mainly Americans, Europeans and Japanese, but venture out of the tourist zone and you’ll find different pockets of ethnic populations – other Polynesian groups such as Samoans and Tahitians, as well as Chinese, Japanese, Indians and Filipinos. Very few people can claim to have 100 percent Hawaiian blood and many “true Hawaiians” are descended from Captain Cook’s sailors and their Polynesian wives. The word “Ohana” refers to the Hawaiian concept of extended family. Strangers are referred to as “cousin” (very handy if you forget someone’s name), then as they know you better they will refer to you as “brother” or “sister”. I suspect if we went back we would be known as “auntie”. Of course there were surfers of all nationalities everywhere; it seems as if half the population is walking around in long shorts with a surfboard under the arm. Hawaiian children look as though they were born to live in the ocean. You can see them everywhere, out at sea basking on promontories or diving like seals.

The Ramos family kindly invited us to lunch at their house in Aiea, a smart suburb of Honolulu, then drove us out to Pearl Harbour. The memorial is a poignant reminder of when 1400 sailors lost their lives when the USS Arizona was sunk in a Japanese attack in 1944. The monument itself is built on a platform directly above the ship, with viewing panels so you can look down at the remains of the watery grave. In the visitor centre you can pay your respects at a shrine to the deceased and watch a film narrating the events that culminated in the sinking of the ship. The narration is diplomatically worded to avoid causing offence to modern Japanese visitors.

Japanese tourists come to Hawaii in droves and can be seen mainly in the expensive shops or the exquisitely manicured golf courses dotted round the island. Shopping has been raised to an art form in Honolulu. They have everything from rows of stalls selling cheap tat to cavernous malls housing the world’s most expensive boutiques – Vuitton, Ferragamo, Macy’s and Chanel for starters. In the gigantic Royal Hawaiian Shopping Centre we trawled through three floors across four blocks looking for presents until we had to get out due to sensory overload. A better bet was the Ala Moana Center, a couple of miles away on the free shuttlebus or wiki-wiki. As well as the more expensive outlets there were reasonably priced chains like The Gap and Sears, lots of street entertainment and best of all, a food mall frequented by locals where you could get cheap noodles, curry, seafood specials and so on.

The food courts are huge and it seems that people eat out all the time. In the evening, outdoor restaurants were packed and there was often music and dancing laid on. As you would expect much of the food is Asian, with a strong leaning towards Japanese. We tended to favour Korean as it is a cuisine you don’t see much of at home and I became very fond of kimchi, a pickled spiced cabbage you can find in Asian supermarkets in the UK. One of the things that tickled me about the Hawaiian diet is their absolute love of Spam, a throwback from World War II when the Americans brought it over. While tourists flock to the food malls, locals get their snacks from “hole in the wall” cafés selling Spam fritters, Spam and eggs, fried Spam with taro chips, and even Spam sushi. They even send themselves up about it: we saw tourist ads welcoming you to the “land of Spam” and showing a happy smiling Hawaiian family in flowered shirts, gazing in delight at a tin of the stuff as though it were a winning lottery ticket.

We spent our final free day at the Polynesian Cultural Centre on the North Shore. The North Shore itself is pretty spectacular, especially in winter when the temperature drops as low as seventy degrees and the waves get up to fifty feet. It attracts diehard surfers from all over the world who have unofficial competitions rather like raves – they’re not publicised but word gets out when the waves are right. The area is home to giant green turtles that come ashore to rest and bask in the sun. It’s not unusual to see a turtle lying inert a few feet away from sunbathers. We took pictures but it’s illegal to touch them – interfering with wildlife carries a fine or possible prison sentence.

The Polynesian Cultural Centre consists of seven reproduced Polynesian villages dotted about a lake, populated by locals in national costume who demonstrate their culture’s distinct arts and crafts. The villagers are actually students from the nearby Brigham Young University, who come from all over the Pacific islands and pay their way by putting in hours at the Centre. Visitors make their way around the villages experiencing different displays and presentations. I was particularly taken by the New Zealander showing us how to do a haka; with his blonde hair he looked about as Maori as Wills and Harry. There was also a Samoan with very impressive linguistic skills. He was giving a talk on Samoan history in perfect English when a German asked him to re-word something as he hadn’t understood. The Samoan man replied in German, then a French woman asked him something and he responded in French. It became a game, with the audience throwing questions at him in different languages without catching him out once.

Tattooing originated in Polynesia and I took the opportunity to acquire an ornate temporary “tattoo” although I didn’t say to the massive Tongan who put it on that he was actually applying a stencil. In the afternoon there was a pageant on the lake consisting of a parade of boats and rafts carrying dancers and musicians from the various cultures. The dance and costumes highlighted the fact that many island cultures are quite individual and distinct from each other. Hawaiian dance, for example, is quite slow and graceful in keeping with the tall, stately stature of the original inhabitants. The hip-shaking “hula” you see in the movies is actually Tahitian. When darkness descended we went to an outdoor theatre for a dinner and show. After a huge meal and an enjoyable musical evening, we came away experts on the subtle differences between the Fijian sarong and the Samoan pareo.

You can’t leave Hawaii without visiting the Hilo Hattie gift shop, named after a famous Hawaiian singer, actress and all-round national treasure. This huge emporium sells every type of Hawaiian themed gift from flowered shirts to grass skirts to sweets like chocolate covered macadamia nuts. After getting presents for everyone, I bought myself some tiaré perfume in the hope that I could bring home something of the wonderful fragrance of this beautiful island.

First published in VISA 116 (August 2014)

After the Earthquakes

By John Keeble

Nepal is open for tourism and eagerly hoping for visitors to arrive in substantial numbers despite the country facing a massive image problem. The earthquakes of April and May 2015 got worldwide coverage and shattered the tourism industry, a vital sector of employment in one of the world’s poorest nations.

 Early fears of last year's visitor total being slashed by 80% have proved too alarmist but the country's tourism industry is reeling from a massive drop - and going all out to win what business comes in. The Hotel Association of Nepal says September-December bookings for Kathmandu and the resort town of Pokhara are running at 55 to 60% of last year. Wildlife areas like Chitwan National Park are considerably down but drawing better-than-expected bookings, and remote trekking areas like Annapurna and Sagarmartha are falling far short of last year.

Nepal is experiencing the same problem as other countries hit by natural disasters: the nation is tainted by media-generated fear about a whole country when only part of it has been hit. There is no doubt that most of the country’s tourism amenities are safe and waiting. I went to some attractions ten weeks after the first earthquake and it was ‘business as normal’ except in damaged World Heritage sites.

 ‘Most of the tourist places in Nepal were not affected and tourists should come and enjoy their time here,’ said Ujjwal Upadhyay, a tourism specialist who addressed a TEDx talk that I attended in Kathmandu.

 As I started writing this article in Nepal, I was asking myself: How do you walk among the shattered homes and lives after an earthquake and two massive aftershocks in three weeks and tell people on the other side of the world: ‘This is a great country for your next big holiday’? Is it a dilemma for potential visitors? It certainly is not for me. Maybe the answer for most people is as simple as this: forget the media-generated fear and experience the jaw-dropping beauty and excitement of safe Nepal.

A community meal
A woman sits by a pot of steaming water, gently preparing a meal. A bamboo structure is nearby and a holy tree, looking a century old, is behind her. But this is no tourist photo op – she is a primary school teacher, high in the hills northeast of Kathmandu, and she is showing her welcome to six tough volunteers working nearby.

Every home in the community is wrecked. The structures, strong enough in normal times, were rocked by the earthquake on 25 April 2015. The natural rocks, bound by mud and finished with cement, were loosened. The second and third earthquakes and other aftershocks finished the process and left the homes uninhabitable.

On the peak above the village, the primary school – with 55 students from a local population of 300 – was left badly damaged and dangerous for anyone near it. The volunteers were a skilled demolition team there to make it safe and prepare it for clearance and, eventually, rebuilding.

Teacher Jamuna served the delicious spicy noodles and vegetables to the five men and one woman pulling down Shree Siddhi Ganesh primary school in the steep and remote hills above Melamchi in Sindhupalchok district. It was a three-day job to demolish the school safely with sledgehammers, crowbars and a range of smaller tools.

 ‘We are very happy to get help from the volunteers,’ said Jamuna. ‘No one else has come to help us.’

All Hands Volunteers, a US-based non-profit organisation also working in the Philippines after the typhoon disaster there, sent the team in after assessing the situation. It was one of many AHV projects in that region and in the Kathmandu Valley. 

The team members came from America, Ireland and England and were tough and skilled. And very surprising… one hammer wielder was an architect, another was a deep-injury remedial masseur, a third was a teacher… others came from working in the Philippines typhoon disaster area… they slogged their way through three days of demolition with confident determination.

The sound of their hammers mingled with the voices of the children singing in the makeshift bamboo classroom nearby. The frequent tremors by then were harmless but to traumatised children, who had seen their lives wrecked, they were terrifying – getting them to sing was a favourite distraction by teachers when the earth trembled under their feet.

Later, as we walked through the rubble of the village, past the crammed ‘homes’ thrown up ahead of the impending monsoon, we looked down 500ft or more to a long river valley stretching into the mountains. It was one of the most beautiful places on earth. And, after the earthquake, one of the most devastated.

Nepal for tourism: ‘Heaven awesome’

A Nepalese friend, Gambhir Singh Bist, a civil engineer working on earthquake relief, put together a list of places travellers can visit now. 

 ‘Many, many places in Nepal were not affected by the earthquake,’ Gambhir told me as we worked together on a demolition site above Melamchi town in Sindhupalchok province. ‘People will be able to come to my country and enjoy it, although some of the World Heritage sites have been damaged.’

Trekking will be available outside the earthquake area ‘as normal’

Kathmandu’s Thamel area, where adventurous travellers have been enjoying themselves for nearly half a century, is untouched.　 Narrow streets of locally produced goods, like clothes and bags, at very low prices; almost endless choices of restaurants and coffee shops from the sedate to the Funky Buddha and the Electric Pagoda.

World Heritage sites (Palaces & Temples) were all damaged except Pashupatinath Hindu temple. Some were lightly damaged, others suffered extensively, but they were being opened to visitors soon after the earthquake. Swayambhunath temple, aka Monkey Temple, was extensively damaged but clearance and restoration started immediately and it reopened within weeks.

Pokhara, the ‘must’ resort town that everyone likes. You can chill out there faster than a deep freeze. Beautiful lake, choice of accommodation and restaurants, attractions like a temple in the middle of a lake, famous caves, Davis Falls (named after a Swiss woman killed there in 1961). This is also the place to buy your dream microlight flight – said to be the best in the world as you take a look at the Himalayas – or organise a white-water trip or cycle trek .

Everest Base Camp You will be able to see the base camp … and may even be able to climb Everest itself. If you feel fit…

Lumbini,　the palace where Buddha was born
Wildlife and national parks - take your pick. Trekking, tigers, rhinos

 ‘From Kathmandu itself, you can get an air ticket to see Mt Everest　with your own eyes, which is heaven awesome,’ said Gambhir.

Pokhara

You think at first that the pictures of the golden tipped Himalayas of Nepal are just artistic licence, something between human dreams and a promise from the gods. Then you realise they have captured the truth, the golden crowns of sunrise and sunset in this breathtaking land where the mere spectacular gets lost in the crowd.

My brief out-of-season glimpse of that golden promise was from the back of a motorcycle on a small hill – 1,600 metres high – outside the resort town of Pokhara, about six hours west of Kathmandu. We spent five hours chasing elusive monsoon views and our rewards included a dramatic few seconds of Annapurna (8,091m).

Back in Pokhara, I sat in a Hindu holy cave with a Brahmin priest, squatted in the street watching the cows amble past as my flipflop repairer did his stuff, marvelled at a mysterious waterfall with a group of Muslim missionaries from Malaysia and two Nepalese boys… in short, I did the tourist things that my cameras like.

Surprising? Not really. Except that the world believes that Nepal has been shattered by earthquakes and aftershocks. I was having three days off in Pokhara, ten weeks after the earthquakes. It was an illustration that most of Nepal was not open for travellers and trekkers.

Pokhara, a ‘must’ resort location, welcomed me with enthusiasm and, after more than a month working in the earthquake areas without a day off, I was ready for it. The journey alone was enough reason to go. But the town and surrounding countryside were perfect for relaxing and for interest.

Almost everyone who gets past Kathmandu goes to Pokhara for rest and relaxation. Its natural attractions include a huge lake (with a temple where the priest blessed me and allowed me to take photos), the imposing Gupteshwor Mahadev cave where the water rushes in and disappears below the rocks, the Davis waterfall that feeds the cave, and tremendous scenery everywhere. In addition, it has temples and museums, microlighting and paragliding, river rafting and the world’s highest and longest zip wire ride. Oh, yes, it also has hundreds of hotels and restaurants to choose from and somehow it all seems to blend into an easy-going atmosphere. 

Ram Karki, who owns the Himalayan Inn at Pokhara Lakeside, was optimistic about the tourists returning this season. 

‘It will be quite safe for visitors here and in most other parts of Nepal,’ he told me. ‘The earthquake caused serious damage in Kathmandu, Gorkha, Sindhupalchok and some other districts but everything will be normal for visitors in other places.’

If the tourists do not arrive, the situation will be very bad for the local people. When the first earthquake stopped the flow of visitors dead, around 75% of the tourism industry’s workers in Pokhara were laid off. Most of those would normally go back to their villages for the low season anyway but this year many had no villages to go back to… they had been destroyed by the earthquake.

‘There is no reason for the tourists not to come,’ said Ram. ‘But if they do not, it will be a very serious problem for the people here. There is nothing else and the people need to earn money.’

One piece of good news that broke while I was there was that a delegation of Chinese travel operators had been touring Nepal and was expected to start sending clients again even before the new season started. 

But the anxious eyes were remaining on the main tourist season towards the end of the year. Will reason and evidence overcome fear and media images?•

Fact file

Visas on arrival: Very good computerised system at the airport: tap in your details on arrival (or let one of the helpful immigration people do it for you), pay your money, get your visa. Ditto extensions at the Kathmandu immigration office. Check the visa period and prices: after the first tourist month, prices go up sharply. Extensions are easy and can be a lot cheaper than a long visa.

Language: Nepal is very easy travelling – English is widely spoken, even in remote villages. 

Food: Enormous choice in Kathmandu and Pokhara. A main meal for between £2 and £3 – though alcohol can double it. Very good for vegetarians and vegans.

Transport: Taxis are cheap, usually between £1.50 and £3.50 anywhere in Kathmandu. Tourist buses are cheap and comfortable. Six hours from Kathmandu to Pokhara was just over £6. City minibuses and buses… are you really looking for that much adventure?

Accommodation: A lot of choice but reckon on paying £12 or more a night for a double room in low season and considerably more in peak season. However, it is likely that a lot of hotels will be offering bargain prices this coming season if tourism numbers are down. 

Earthquakes: On 25 April 2015, a magnitude 7.8 earthquake, known as the Nepal or Gorkha earthquake, killed more than 9,000 people and injured more than 23,000. On May 12, a magnitude 7.3 quake struck with its epicentre on the border of Dolakha and Sindhupalchok districts. Minutes later a magnitude 6.3 earthquake struck Ramechhap, east of Kathmandu. The second and third quakes are being called aftershocks of the first earthquake. Frequent aftershocks terrorised the people during this period.

First published in VISA 123 (October 2015)

Gone to Iceland

By Elizabeth Johnstone

In November 2013, Iceland‘s world famous rock group Sigur Rós performed in concert in London. As the opening chords of ‘Brennisteinn‘ (‘Brimstone‘) thundered round Wembley Arena, accompanied by images of spewing volcanoes, I turned to my friend and announced: ‘I am so going to Iceland!‘ And I did.

I have an interest in all things Nordic, and have long held an ambition to visit the land of ice and fire. My husband and I spent a week in Reykjavik in June 2015, alternating days in the city with day-long excursions. In view of previous happenings in Iceland (and I will return to the topic of Eyjafjallajökull), I was anxious to have full ATOL protection. I put together a Thomas Cook package comprising seven nights at the Hilton Nórdica Hotel with Easyjet flights from Gatwick.

Arriving at Keflavik Airport, most tourists opt for the Flybus or Gray Line coach transfer service which, for a small supplement, links up with minibuses in the city centre to take you to your hotel (and in reverse on the return journey) There is no other public transport from the airport, which is a good 35 miles outside the city. 

Our hotel, unsurprisingly, catered for an American clientele for whom Iceland was a picturesque stopover en route to or from Europe. It had ‘restrooms‘ but no ‘ground floor‘. Our room was spotless but somewhat small. There was little storage space – I guess few guests were there long enough to unpack! Breakfast was a lavish buffet with both US and Icelandic influences. My husband selflessly samples the bacon and eggs in every hotel we stay at, whereas I make a beeline for smoked salmon and other Nordic specialities. Both were excellent. A bottle of cod liver oil stood proudly on the counter and I saw more than one person take a little plastic glass of it. Iceland has its own yoghurt, called skyr. It is not really a yoghurt, more like fromage frais or the German quark. I enjoyed it.
The hotel was about a mile out of the city centre but offered its guests the free use of a bus pass. Public transport holds no terrors for me and soon we were jumping on and off the buses.

The population of Iceland is approximately 330,000 of whom about two thirds live in or around Reykjavik. Consequently, everything is on a small scale. We started our sightseeing at the grandly named National Museum, two nicely set-out floors of displays and artefacts in a building beside the University. Nothing is too far in this compact city centre. We walked to the Tjörnin or Pond (cognate with ‘tarn‘), the pocket-sized lake which is home to dozens of native and visiting birds. After getting pleasantly lost looking for the tourist information centre, we had a quick sandwich in a coffee shop and headed along the main shopping street, Laugavegur. This name means ‘laundry way‘, because local women used its hot springs for washing clothes. There are no department stores in the city centre, but plenty of designer shops and tourist emporia.

We walked up the hill to the Hallgrímskirkja, Iceland‘s biggest church, whose arresting architecture mimics the basalt pillars formed in the aftermath of volcanic eruptions. In truth, I preferred its sober interior. Outside the church, Leifur Eiríksson adopts a heroic pose, about to sail to America. Many of the streets in the neighbourhood are named after Norse gods. Paganism is not far beneath the surface in a land converted to Christianity only by king’s diktat in 1000 AD. The first new pagan temple in the Nordic countries for a thousand years is to be built in Reykjavik for the practitioners of the Asatru religion. Thor is still a popular name – Sigur Rós frontman Jónsi‘s full name is Jón Þór (or ‘Thor‘) Birgisson.

Heading back to the hotel, we explored the magnificent Harpa building, the city‘s pride and joy, which houses the opera and other cultural facilities. It is a photographer‘s dream, a steel framework clad with geometric shaped glass panels of different colours. Like so much in Iceland, its fate was uncertain in 2008, but it was duly completed. Walking to the bus stop, we passed the iconic ‘Sunfarer‘ sculpture, with its echoes of a Viking longboat. My camera was working overtime by now!

Our days out were arranged through the excellent Iceland Horizon, who specialise in just three trips and only use minibuses carrying up to fifteen people. The smaller numbers mean that you get in and out of the most popular tourist sights quickly and the minibuses were able to access smaller places off the beaten track for added value. We had three different driver-guides, each of whom had lots of local knowledge and personal anecdotes to keep us entertained. Each had been affected in a different way by les événements in 2008. One, for example, had lost his job as a television repair engineer. Another was a retired coastguard pilot. The repercussions of the crash are still being felt, in terms of high interest payments and house repossessions. There is national recovery, but the country is not out of the woods yet.

Our first day trip was to the 100-kilometre peninsula of Snaefelnes, with its glistening fjords, dramatic volcanic peaks, vertiginous sea cliffs and ancient lava flows. At its heart is the Snæfellsjökull, ‘snow mountain glacier‘, immortalised in Jules Verne‘s Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Unfortunately, weather conditions did not permit us to get close to the glacier, but we were told that we would benefit from its emanations of other-worldly energy. Horses everywhere! The Icelandic pony has graduated into a full horse. They are eagerly sought overseas because of their intelligence and hardiness, and horse-trekking (or ‘rental‘, as our guide put it) is a major tourist attraction. 

Next day had a maritime theme. The old harbour has been revamped into a tourist destination. We walked to the furthest part and explored the new attraction ‘Whales of Iceland‘. A simple concept – massive, life-size models of whales, in something like a hangar, with lots of information and photo opportunities. We saw two imposing ships with a prominent ‘H‘ on the funnel. If you are an English speaker from Scotland or the north, you may pronounce ‘where‘ as ‘hwhere‘. Or ‘whale‘ as ‘hwhale‘. Yes, these ships were whalers. Opinion in Iceland is divided on whaling. With year-round food availability, few Icelanders now eat whale, but it is offered to visitors who want to sample local delicacies. So tourists are perpetuating the whaling industry. The whale-watching companies – another major contribution to tourism – are keen to discourage patronage of any restaurant which serves whale. Their motto – ‘Meet us, don‘t eat us!‘

When there was literally nothing to eat over a harsh Atlantic winter, the hardy Icelanders could not afford the luxury of squeamishness. A stranded whale was a godsend that could feed a village for weeks. Puffins and guillemots were free protein. Shark was buried for months to break down the ammonia in its flesh and render it edible. Nowadays, these items are offered as curiosities to tourists but, sadly, several of these species are endangered. My advice: just say no!

We debated whether or not to go to the famous Blue Lagoon, walk-in price £35 each plus an hour‘ drive. In the end we didn‘t go but, for a fraction of the cost, (less than £4 each) we strolled to the nearby Laugardalslaug public swimming pool complex. The air temperature was about 11° C. The water temperature in the open-air pool was about mid-30°s C. and in the ‘hotpots‘ around the edge hotter still. There is no chlorine in the geothermally heated water and a stern attendant makes sure you shower thoroughly i.e. naked and with soap. Foreigners are notoriously slack about this, in Icelandic eyes. But what a fabulous facility to enjoy, for an extremely low price.

The second day trip was the South Shore tour. More wonders of nature. We started with a mini-tour of our guide‘s home town, Hveragerði, in an area so geothermally active that the steam comes up out of the ground everywhere. There are greenhouses over the heat, and the town is famous for flowers and a geothermal restaurant. On a more gruesome note, it has no cemetery, as the underground conditions are not suitable for interring bodies. Just outside the post office, in the shopping centre, you can look down to the rift between the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates.

We carried on out into the countryside, driving past the infamous Eyjafjallajökull whose emissions grounded air traffic in May 2010. As a linguist, I have made it my mission to pronounce this word correctly. The name means ‘glacier‘ (or more properly ‘ice cap‘) of the Eyjafjöll. The word jökull, meaning glacier or ice cap, is a cognate with the Middle English word ikel surviving in the -icle of English ‘icicle’. We were bombarded with facts about volcanoes, glaciers, seismic shifts and other apocalyptic events which have occurred from time to time. We drove within sight of the Westman Islands, scene of a month-long volcanic eruption in 1973, which was eventually doused with 6.8 billion litres of cold sea water.
Our guide walked us up to the very edge of the Sólheimajökull glacier. Unfortunately, its surface was dirty but, in places, you could discern the startling blue ice underneath. He brings visitors out to see it regularly and gloomily concluded that it was shrinking, almost before his eyes.

The last stopping place on this tour was the black sand beach at Höfðabrekka which you might recognise from the last scene of the film Noah, where Russell Crowe gets drunk. It was also used for Frostfangs scenes in Game of Thrones. Volcanic action has led to stunning rock formations, but the stars of the show are the puffins. Impossibly cute, they perch atop the cliffs in their nesting areas before launching themselves laboriously out to sea to find food for their pufflings.

Our last full city day was a little more relaxed. We saw the Settlement Exhibition with its special display of some original saga manuscripts. These national treasures can still be read and understood today. My husband was keen to go whale watching. I would not pay money to go onto any sort of marine craft unless my life depended on it, so we split up for the afternoon. He told me later that he enjoyed the boat trip, but that they had only fleeting glimpses of the animals, guided by a spotter high up on an observation platform. Faxafloi Bay is not an aquarium; the whales were not putting on a Seaworld display of tumbling. One fun fact was the ‘stinky minke‘. Apparently, you can smell the bad breath of a minke whale long before you see it. The whale watching company, Elding, gave us a voucher for money off in their (whale-friendly) restaurant.

Meanwhile, I was amusing myself on Laugavegur. For the first time, I bought an item tax free, at the suggestion of the shop owner. As Iceland is outside the EU, you can fill in a form and hand it in at the airport on the way home. That fur hat will feel all the cosier when those extra few pounds are refunded onto my credit card. I enjoyed lobster soup for lunch at the Sægreifinn (‘Seabaron‘) restaurant, as explored by Ainsley Harriott in the Reykjavik episode of his Streetfood series. Icelandic lobster is really crayfish, but none the less tasty for that.
Our third day trip was the classic Golden Circle excursion. There are three major stopping points. The first is the magnificent double waterfall of Gullfoss (‘golden waterfall‘). In Iceland, you can get blasé about waterfalls, but Gullfoss is a beauty. In the visitor centre car park, I saw my first ever public toilet with a credit card reader at the entrance. Very occasionally, a charge of 100 kr. (about 60p) was levied for a public or service station toilet. At Gullfoss and, later, at Þingvellir, the city fathers had decided that 200kr, about £1.20, was appropriate, possibly because there was no other option to extract money from tourists on such open sites.

The second stop was the geothermal area at Geysir. The eponymous geyser has not gushed for many years, but its companion, Strokkur, entertained and occasionally soaked the crowd. Elsewhere on the site, boiling pools plopped and seethed. A smell of sulphur hung in the air.

The third stop was the rift valley at Þingvellir (‘parliament fields‘). Viewers of ‘The Vikings‘ will remember that Ragnar and his companions periodically travelled to the ‘Thing‘ or assembly. Iceland‘s first parliament was founded here in 930 AD. The rift valley marks the crest of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are pulling apart. Once again, spectacular scenery with mind-boggling statistics underpinning it.
On the very last day, our flight was not until late afternoon, so we strolled over to the beautifully tended Botanical Gardens. The temperature had crept up to a balmy 14° and some Icelanders were in lightweight summer jackets. The floral displays reminded me of municipal planting in Scotland, quite a lot further south than this island which flirts with the Arctic Circle.

Our journey home was uneventful. The pick-up service worked perfectly and we had plenty of time to enjoy the superb facilities and shopping of Keflavik Airport, not forgetting to hand in the paperwork for my purchase tax refund. A tip: counter-intuitively, the airport shopping really is cheaper than in the city! Our return flight was too late for the last train, so we spent a night at the immaculate and good-value Premier Inn at Gatwick North Terminal. Sadly, Lenny Henry was not there to turn down the covers.

The midnight sun was quite something. I am used to late summer nights, but it was strange to go to bed at 11.30pm in perfect daylight. The Secret Solstice rock festival was in town over the weekend. No need for the rockers to stay up all night. They had 72 hours of daylight.

What were my overall impressions of Iceland and the world‘s most northerly capital city? Our day trips took us to a relatively small area in the south-east of the country. Thrill-seekers and geology aficionados have a lot more to explore further west. Reykjavik is not big; the population of the capital city area is less than that of the London Borough of Camden. It offers more than enough sightseeing, shopping and dining for a long weekend, but that is probably long enough for Reykjavik itself. 

It is interesting to chart the rapid rise of Reykjavik from a collection of fishing huts to a 21st century capital city. Many traces of its humble beginnings remain, not least in old corrugated-iron fronted cottages next to ultra-modern multi-storey buildings. There are no railways, and no MacDonalds. However, there is an app for everything, including incest prevention. (You can log into the genealogical database and check how closely-related you are to your new date.) They refuse to import the word ‘computer‘ and call it tölva or ‘number prophetess‘. It is an almost cashless society, down to the overpriced public toilets at national beauty spots. Everyone knows everyone else. You are called by your first name (all three tour guides came into the hotel asking for ‘Elizabeth‘), even in the phone book. Your second name shows that you are someone‘s ‘son‘ or dóttir. All in all, a fascinating blend of the old and the new.

And that‘s why this mum went to Iceland!

First published in VISA 123 (October 2015)

Third Time Lucky?

By Elizabeth Johnstone

I have been to Rovaniemi, Finland, twice already in pursuit of the elusive ‘foxfires’ or northern lights – and, of course, to catch up with Arctic Mensan friends.  Despite optimal conditions in January 2014, that fox stubbornly refused to swish its tail across the sky and I never saw the sparks. So I had an excuse, as if I needed one, to return in January 2015.
It was difficult to create an ATOL-bonded weekend trip through a normal travel company, so I booked flights through BA and accommodation direct with the Rantasipi Pohjanhovi Hotel. Through code-sharing, three out of my four flights were with Finnair. Things got off to a bad start with lengthy delays on the Piccadilly Line en route to Heathrow. I dropped my bag off on time but the flight to Helsinki was delayed. We made up time thanks to a fearsome tailwind that buffeted us all the way. Next came a nerve-shredding half hour transfer window. I tip my hat to the baggage handlers at Helsinki Airport who got my bag to its final destination.

The Pohjanhovi (‘Northern Court’) Hotel is a venerable institution, constructed in 1936. It has been updated over the years, and I had no complaints about my clean and cosy room. I did, however, overhear another guest asking to be moved out of the annexe into the main building with its superb view over the Ounas River. Breakfast was perhaps not quite as lavish as some of the other local hotels, but suitably fortifying for the rapidly decreasing temperatures.

I sent postcards as soon as I arrived, joking that I would return with a suntan because it was ‘only’ -5C. Over the weekend, the temperature plummeted to -30C. Almost all of me was covered but ice crystals formed on my eyelashes and in my nostrils. I have pretty much mastered the art of cold-weather dressing. Last year’s vintage fur gloves with silk liners were replaced with reindeer mitts over merino wool gloves (fewer seams to let in the cold). Disposable surgical masks raised no eyebrows in a town full of Japanese tourists. Next time, though, I might add a hat to my earwarmers. 

Rovaniemi is not a huge place and I had seen most of the sights before, so I concentrated on meeting friends and setting the world to rights over excellent coffee. I was invited to friends’ houses. One created a lavish three-course feast with local produce. Typically Finns grow, trap, fish or otherwise source their food for themselves when possible: useful people with whom to be stranded in the wilderness. Another friend apologised for whipping up something at short notice, having been out of town all day. She proceeded to bake a couple of trays of bread rolls from scratch. Not what I could have done ‘at short notice’!
My hotel had a prime location beside the river. I never tired of walking along the path, admiring the brief periods of light and the magnificent sunrises/sunsets which occurred within a few hours of each other. I had been lightheartedly warned, however, not to greet any other walkers (as I might have done at home) as this would be perceived as an invasion of the other person’s privacy!

I should have brought a Russian phrasebook. Numerous Russian families took advantage of the school holiday period to drive to Finland (possibly to enjoy non-potholed roads, as one Finnish friend suggested). Any comments about a ‘Russian invasion’ are a bit two-edged in this part of the world. Russian ladies are not keen on the baggy cold-weather suits hired out by the safari companies. With a glamour bordering on flamboyance, they either wore fur coats or their own designer ski-suits.

My main outing was to the Santa Village a few miles out of town on the line of the Arctic Circle. At this visitor attraction, Santa is to be found deep in his underground lair. You can visit him and chat with him for free (as we have done in the past), but the elves charge you handsomely for any photos. The souvenir shops are relatively tasteful, featuring real arts and crafts, and there are outlet shops for famous Finnish lifestyle brands like Marimekko and Iittala. I was thrilled to buy the latest Iittala mug from the new range Tanssi by Klaus Haapaniemi, based on the opera The Cunning Little Vixen. 

Wildly out of character, I visited Huskypark, signing up impulsively for a sledge ride pulled by huskies. Absolutely thrilling! The husky is the nearest thing to a wolf. Before the park came into view, I could hear the huskies not just barking but howling. It was their first run of the day, and they set off as though fired from a gun. I was instructed to keep everything firmly attached to myself, and to hold on tightly. Wise advice. I am not particularly an animal lover, but these handsome animals were most impressive – and cute.

After a busy morning of hurtling round on a sledge followed by souvenir shopping, it was time for refreshment. It is fatally easy to ingest too much caffeine in the Nordic countries, so I made for a tepee offering various hot drinks and salmon grilled over an open fire. It was too early for lunch (although I was sorely tempted), but the hot berry juice and gingerbread biscuits went down a treat. I got into conversation with the Belarusian proprietor and he enthused about how safe it was to live in Lapland. Suitably revitalised, I went back out into the village. There was at least one new attraction since my last visit. Snowman World offers an ice bar, hotel and restaurant plus fun activities. I was charmed by the snowman out at the front who was a Finnish ice hockey player. From his jovial expression, the Finnish snowmen’s team had just beaten the Swedish snowmen’s team.

Russian families queued up to see multilingual Santa, go on reindeer sleigh trips and toboggan down the purpose-built slopes. I spoke my first word of Russian, thanking the nice lady who took my photo for me. 

Back in town, I trawled through the supermarket, admiring the local products. I do not share my countrymen’s aversion to eating ‘Rudolph’. An all-round useful animal, the reindeer. I stocked up on lingonberry preserve, xylitol chewing gum (xylitol being one of the many by-products of the mighty forest) and the darkest rye bread known to man.

All too soon, it was time to head back. And no, I did not see the northern lights. Three out of the four nights were cloudy and snowy, fair enough, but the last night was clear and bitterly cold. There is no accounting for a natural phenomenon, although I must confess that I was disappointed. I’ll just have to go back. That fox will swish its tail across the sky for me, I know it!•

First published in VISA 120 (April 2015)

Lost in Spain

By Patrick Cavanagh

The tiny stone-built villages of Escalona, Buerbe and Vío are just a few kilometres apart, but the road which connects them is almost 25km long with some of the sharpest and scariest hairpin bends you could imagine. The rocky path joining Buerbe and Vío is only suited and safe for the most sure-footed and agile – and then only when the weather is dry and there is no ice. Over the centuries many people taking this short cut were seriously injured when loose, razor-sharp rocks and ice or wet meant they lost their footing. 

High up in the Spanish Pyrenees, life has always been very hard, and people have learned to be self-reliant. There is little point in hoping that some civil servant in faraway Madrid, sitting at a desk passing the hours until finishing time, will have the needs of tiny villages such as Escalona, Buerbe and Vío foremost on her mind. ‘Old’ Diego, and his wife ‘Old’ Maria realised this, and thought they might be able to do something about it. Diego bought a mule. He used this mule to ferry people between Buerbe and Vío. The animal was surprisingly sure-footed, and as it had grown up on the mountains, was hardy and learned to eat anything green. Good grass is a scarce commodity high up in the Pyrenees.

 Almost fifty years later, ‘Young’ Diego (now in his late 70s) is still carrying on the tradition, along with his wife ‘Young’ Maria. The official one-way fare is €2, but lots of people don’t have to pay. The doctor or the priest never need pay when making a call, nor do older or sick people. Diego, of course, knows everyone in the area and decides who can or can’t (or should) pay. His decision is final. Last June a French tourist fell on the sharp rocks, twisting her ankle badly, and was charged the maximum fee for a special call-out - €5. For that €5 she was collected from where she had fallen on the track, taken to the doctor’s house, then to the nurse’s clinic, and later back to the hostel where she was staying. Unfortunately, by the time you read this, the mule service will be no more as Diego is retiring and no one wants to take over. 

My daughter works with a Canadian engineer called Brian. Brian was getting married to a local Vío girl. My daughter, her husband and I were invited (I was working near Barcelona at the time). The newly-weds will live in Vío and are going to renovate the 17th century church and make it into a community centre (with the altar behind a curtain when not in use). 
The wedding was held in a field 1500 metres from Vío with some of the most spectacular views of snowy mountain tops, sunshine any every shade of green, grey, brown and black you could imagine. A million butterflies of all colours and sizes gatecrashed the ceremony and filled the air with a gentle whirring of their wings. An eagle slowly and majestically flew in large circles overhead keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings. In the distance goats with bronze bells around their throats kept up a continuous clanking sound as they deftly searched the rocks for that scarce juicy grass. 

Young Diego told me that sometimes people would take extraordinary risks during the war to cross the Pyrenees from occupied France to (theoretically) neutral Spain. Many of them were suffering terribly from injuries sustained, sickness or from frostbite. Local tradition was that anyone who arrived in need of help would be helped as much as possible, with no questions asked. Earlier in summer 2014 a 80+ year old Canadian veteran from World War II – obviously a very fit old man – made the trek over the Pyrenees to Vío and donated a substantial sum of money to the people of the village who had unhesitatingly risked their lives helping him recover from his arduous journey 60 years earlier. Some of this money was going to be spent on renovating the old church and converting it to a community centre. 

There is just one shop in Vío. They sell everything you can imagine, and what is not in stock can be ordered. Many tourists use the town as a base for serious walks into the mountains, where the paths are marked with coloured arrows painted on larger rocks. 

From time to time someone who is unprepared for the journey heads off into the mountains and gets injured. Everyone setting out is reminded to make sure to notify someone in the town of their planned walk and expected return – there are several signs erected during the summer months in prominent places around Vío. They should carry a fully-charged mobile phone; have a whistle and a waterproof torch. They should be prepared for any kind of horrible weather that can change in a few minutes from bright warm sunshine to sub-zero snow and sleet. 

Nevertheless people get stuck on the mountain, usually by hurting themselves on an area of the slippery sharp rocks, by not taking suitable precautions against getting lost, and then a search party must be called out. On average one tourist dies on the mountain each year, often because of inadequate preparation. 

The people are so nice to visitors who come and stay at the hostel. Many visitors brave the terrifying road in from Escalona and walk, cycle or even drive down this incredible piece of early 19th century engineering – every rock, every stone from which the road was constructed was moved by human or animal power. Escalona, Buerbe and Vío have fullspeed wifi in the hostels, mobile phones work with full-strength signals, and you can expect all the mod cons such as clean running water, reliable electricity, and a selection of free and pay TV channels. 

Many visitors come from outside Spain so locals in the hospitality business have learned bits of English, French, German, Dutch and various Scandinavian languages. For example, Young Diego worked in Florida during the early 1960s and speaks English with a distinct American twang. Young Maria worked in Germany for some years and speaks what she describes as ‘tourist German’. Their eldest son, also Diego, is a civil engineer working in Argentina, but plans to retire to Vío in about 10 years’ time. He bought a field, planted it with hardy grapes, and comes home each year for a month or so to tend to his crop. He hopes to make and sell enough costa, the local rough red wine, to pay for his old age. Tourists are never offered costa as the flavour and strength vary enormously from year to year and even from field to field – it is for local consumption only. Locals fear tourists would be put off by the sight of wine being served from a bucket! 

Escalona, Buerbe and Vío are really nice places with really nice people. However, Buerbe and Vío, in particular, are very inaccessible places, and no matter what mode of transport you choose to get there, allow lots of extra time. Locals told me there are 200 hairpin bends on the road, and most of them have nothing to stop you falling off the edge into the abyss. 
At each bend in the road be prepared for views that will blow your mind and distract you from your driving. Be prepared to pass el enferno (not of flame or smoke, but of a mountain river blasting through a gap, tossing up spray that soaks everyone who stops to investigate, and making so much noise that you have to scream into the other person’s ear). Look out for eagles with their leisurely effortless flight. Maybe a million butterflies might distract you from your worldly worries! 

First published in VISA 118 (December 2014)

Devon Jams

By Helen Matthews

Overbeck's

Our luck ran out about half-way up. We were on our way up the single-track, winding, road, and another car was coming down.  Both cars stopped.  The driver of the other car refused to move.  We couldn’t back down as there was a line of cars behind us.  It seemed that the impasse might last for some time, until the driver of the car two behind us got out.

“You’ll have to back up” he told the driver of the downward-facing vehicle.

“But I can’t” she replied.  “My engine isn’t powerful enough to reverse up this hill.”

“Well, I’m not reversing all the way down again.  I only live round that corner.” He pointed to a nearby driveway. “Why don’t you go in there until we’ve got past?”

She didn’t look happy, but there was nothing else for it.  We all reversed a few feet, she manoeuvred into the driveway, and we inched our way on up the hill, hoping that there would be somewhere a) to park or b) to turn round when we reached the top.  Fortunately, our luck had returned, and we took possession of the last space in the tiny Overbeck’s car park.

“This had better be worth it” muttered my white-faced husband, as we showed our National Trust membership cards at the kiosk and looked for the Tea Room.  If ever there was a time for an emergency cream tea, this was it.

I had received some strange looks when I told my friends and colleagues that we were going to Devon for our summer holiday this year. “Isn’t that a bit, well, mainstream, for you?” was the usual response.  Maybe, but we had something more exotic planned for December, and a complete set of membership cards (National Trust, English Heritage, Art Pass, Historic Houses Association) burning a hole in our pockets, so we thought we would go and make use of them in a county neither of us had really visited properly before.

In our innocence, we thought that Torquay would make a good base. It is a well-known resort, so there would be a good choice of hotels and it seemed to be more or less central to the various places we wanted to go. What we failed to realise was that it is impossible to drive more than about three miles out of Torquay in any direction without encountering a traffic jam.  This meant that our ambitious plan of historic house visiting had to be curtailed somewhat, as driving times were much longer than we had expected.

Powderham Castle

Our first excursion, the morning after we arrived, was a simple potter up the coast road to Powderham Castle, and from there to Cadhay, near Ottery St Mary.   It took us half an hour to get through Teignmouth, but we managed to reach Powderham just in time for the 11.00 a.m. guided tour.  The seat of the Courtenay Earls of Devon, Powderham is a genuine medieval castle. But although the current building was started in 1391, the parts that look the most medieval are in fact Victorian. The various additions and improvements over the years have led to some interesting architectural challenges including a fireplace with a window immediately above it.  As curtains are not possible, there is a retractable mirror that can be rolled across at night, though a good set of muscles are needed to work the mechanism.

Cadhay

Cadhay is a much smaller place: a Tudor gentleman’s residence, with Georgian additions.  Its opening days are less frequent than Powderham as its main business is as a holiday let and wedding venue; we had to visit that day or not at all. The house and gardens were both charming, and the tea room served an excellent coffee and walnut cake and sold pots of home-made jam. A particularly unusual feature was the ‘Court of the Sovereigns’ at the heart of the house: each wall is adorned with a statue of a monarch: Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary and Elizabeth I. If they all seem similar, it is not just the family resemblance – the same body was used for each of them and only the heads are different. I’m glad we made the effort to visit, though the return journey, through the Friday evening rush hour in Exeter was not pleasant.

Torquay Museum

The following day we opted to leave the car behind and explored Torquay on foot.  I already knew that Agatha Christie had been brought up in Torquay, and was keen to visit the Torquay Museum to see the gallery devoted to her life.  To my joy, not only did our National Art Passes entitle us to free admission, there also was a special exhibition about science-fiction, and a Dalek in the entrance, providing instant husband –appeal.  I was also impressed by the Time Ark – a child-friendly permanent exhibit about the geological history of the planet, told from the perspective of a (time) travel company. Our pedestrian-only day in Torquay also gave us time for a visit to Torre Abbey and a game on its pitch and putt course. No English seaside holiday is complete without a round or two of a putting green. This one had the added attraction of the possibility of actually hitting the proverbial barn door with a wayward shot. The course is right by the Spanish Barn, where the crew of The Nuestra Señora del Rosario, a ship of the Spanish Armada that was captured by Sir Francis Drake were temporarily incarcerated. (More on that story later.)  Torre Abbey is a former monastery which became a private house after the Dissolution and is now owned by the local Council and run as an art gallery and museum. 

The Spanish Barn at Torre Abbey

  

I had read that Greenway, the holiday home Agatha Christie purchased in later life, had very limited parking. Other means of transport were preferred. So the next day we drove only as far as Paignton, in order to catch a steam train for a short ride to connect with a shuttle bus. Once I saw the narrow approach roads, I was glad that we had left the car behind.  

From 1944 to 1945 Greenway was used by the US Coastguard as part of the D-Day preparations. When the property was finally returned to her, Agatha found they had left a mural in the library (which she kept) and 14 extra lavatories, which she insisted were removed, despite the authorities arguing that they were an ‘improvement’.  Greenway is owned by the National Trust, and presented to look as it did in the 1950s – as if the family have just popped out.  As all the family members were avid collectors, there is a great deal of stuff, from china to hats in evidence.

Greenway was used as a setting for some of Agatha Christie’s novels. It appeared as Nasse House in Dead Man’s Folly (with a corpse in the Boathouse), and Alderbury in Five Little Pigs (with the murder taking place on the Battery). Both the Boathouse and Battery can be visited. 

Greenway

Aside from the murderous connections, the grounds are worth exploring in their own right. Agatha Christie’s son-in-law developed the gardens considerably, but the historical interest of the Greenway estate, overlooking the Dart estuary, pre-dates Dame Agatha by a considerable way.  There has been a house on the site for over 400 years. The crew of the The Nuestra Señora del Rosario were put to work in the gardens at Greenway when the owner, Sir John Gilbert, was given responsibility for them whilst their ransom was negotiated.  I hope that they found this work more congenial than incarceration in the ‘Spanish barn’ at Torre Abbey.

As we made our way out to catch the shuttle bus back to the station, we were told that there was a problem.  The shuttle bus had broken down.  Taxis were being arranged to take us back to Churston station. When ours turned up, we found that the driver was one of the talkative type. She was just explaining about her bad week (the events of which had, worryingly, included being rear-ended by another car), when, in a narrow lane with no room to pass we came nose to nose with another taxi from the same company.  No one moved.

“It’s Turbo Terry” our driver announced. “He’ll have to go back.”  

Churston Station

Terry meanwhile seemed to think that our taxi should reverse, so we sat there a bit longer.  Eventually, by sheer force of will, our driver managed to persuade Terry to reverse to the nearest passing place.  He didn’t seem best pleased, especially when our driver took the trouble to stop and point out that he had a faulty brake-light.   Fortunately, we still made it back to the station in time to catch our train.

The following day we set off for Coleton Fishacre, an Arts and Crafts house built by the D’Oyley Carte family of Savoy Opera (and hotel) fame.  We found the Art Deco interior strangely lacking in character – maybe because much of it is a re-creation. It was more like a show house than a home, despite its glamorous past as the venue for society house parties between the wars. This time we were driving and it turned out that the approach roads were just as narrow as those for Greenway.  But at least they were straight, unlike the approach to our next port of call.  Overbeck’s  is named after Otto Overbeck, an inventor whose creations included the ‘Rejuvenator.’ The house itself is of no particular architectural merit, but came as a package with the gardens, which are the main attraction: sub-tropical plantings with stunning views over the bay. The interior is a museum for exhibits which include Otto Overbeck’s natural history collections and other artefacts, including a couple of examples of the ‘Rejuvenator’.

After the hair-raising drive up to the house, we were in need of rejuvenation ourselves, but made do with the aforementioned cream tea. The scones were huge, light and fluffy, though the tiny pots of Tiptree jam were a bit of a disappointment. Still, it was just as well that we had fortified ourselves. On the way back we encountered yet another Devon (traffic) jam on our way through Totnes.

After that experience, we spent more time exploring the delights of Torquay, including Living Coasts, a combination of a zoo and aquarium dealing with sea life both above and below the water, Babbacombe Model Village and Kent’s Cavern, a prehistoric cave which also featured in one of Agatha Christie’s novels (of course) with a café which also serves a delicious cream tea.

The moral of this story is that if you are going to Torbay, there is plenty to do just on foot, ferry, steam train and local bus.  Leave the car behind, and spend more time in the tea shop.  Just remember that the cream goes on first, then the jam.

First published in VISA 124 (December 2015)