Morocco 2001

By Michael Bell

In the autumn of 2001 I was single and newly retired and I wondered what I should do next. I decided to put myself to the test. I would go to Morocco because it is not very far away, but a fairly alien culture. I took a big rucksack and stayed in cheap hotels, but mostly in youth hostels.

On my first day in Casablanca I was swindled. I am ashamed to tell you the simple trick he used. It wasn't a lot of money, but it overshadowed the whole of my trip and soured the first half. A European stands out, especially one of my colouring and build and maybe dress too. It wasn't too bad in Casablanca - you just attract a few swindlers - but in Fez and Meknes, hordes of children and touts of all kinds swarm round you like flies. You can't get rid of them. Well actually, there is a way, you hire a guide to shoo them off. But there are "faux guides" - "false guides"! It's a nightmare.

Casablanca is hardly "typical Morocco". It is a big modern city, women are unfettered and it is full of cafes, with the TV high on the wall. Here I got a nasty fright. There was an aircraft crash near New York. A second 9/11? For an hour or two people watched the TV tensely. Then relief. It was an accident! They don't want trouble. It was with sadness that I heard a few years later that there had been an Al Qaeda bombing in Casablanca.

But I had to see more of Morocco. I took the train to Rabat the capital and the most traditional of the large cities, and then I went on to Meknes and Fes. I saw the abandoned Roman city of Volubilis. It seemed very out of place here in North Africa, but on second thoughts maybe less out of place than Hadrian's Wall in my home city. I saw water being used to irrigate fields - surely there are better ways of doing it? I saw olives being harvested and the amazingly crude way they are crushed and the oil squeezed out. Despite all the praise-talk about the olive being the foundation of Mediterranean cooking and culture, really they are one of the few things that will grow in this climate and they have an unpleasant taste and all this praise is simply making the best of a bad job. I ate fresh dates, to Moroccans the equivalent of apples to us, and a very different experience from the dried dates we eat.

I saw museums where the buildings were as interesting as the things on show; the lines, curves and lighting lead the eye in a very seductive way to make you savour the space. I saw displays of Arabic writing, not just in museums but on workaday things like the lettering on the sides of buses. Their writing obviously give Arabs pleasure far more than ours does to us and second only to Chinese writing.

But the touts and urchins were like flies around all the tourist spots; I tended to avoid them. So, a different kind of doubtful person latched onto me. Mostly young they claimed to want to talk to a foreigner, and Morocco is not a totally free society so there might be some truth in that, or simply have a stroll with interesting conversation. But I was always in doubt as to their motives. By "pure chance" they might call in for a cup of tea at a carpet shop run by an old friend. Too damned obvious! But travelling with only a rucksack meant that I really could not buy their goods. I walked a long way talking to a chap I met in the street, then he asked me for the taxi-fare home! Had all that been to soften me up to give him that money? I felt dirtied. They weren't all like that, but I could never be sure. So, I never got to see the famous dyeing vats of Fes. I ran away!

I took the train from Fes to Marrakech. The trains are French '70s stock, super-fast for their day, but in Morocco they run at far below the speeds they are capable of. The train moved through the landscape with the dignity of a ship at sea. It took all day.

It took me too long to realise that Marrakech and whole of the south of the country is wholly different from the north of Morocco. There was none of that following me around, offering me this deal, that deal or simply wanting to walk with me, with very uncertain motivation. I had put up my guard against that kind of thing, and I probably missed some good opportunities before I learned that there was no need for it here. I got talking to a music-shop owner who was ashamed of that behaviour and was sadly aware of how harmful it is. The tourist guidebooks say that you should be willing to be overcharged a bit, it's not much loss to you, but a big gain to them. Is this saying somehow that they can get a free lunch? But there are no free lunches, somewhere somebody must be taking a loss, probably the country as a whole because tourists don't like to be swindled. Nor does anybody. No wonder Thailand has set up a special tourist police to stop this kind of misuse.

As the bus from Marrakech to Ouarzazate drove out a roll of tear-off bags such as you find in supermarkets was passed back along the seats and the passengers tore off a bag or two. What for? I soon realised. The bus was a modern vehicle in good order, the road had a reasonable surface, but it swung from left to right along the side of the valley and if anything went wrong it would be a long way down. These were local passengers on a service bus, and those bags were sick-bags and they used them! I just enjoyed the ride as a Valkyrie-ride.

On the Sahara side of the Atlas mountains, Ouarzazate looks as if it is there as an act of human will. It is hard to see what it makes a living out of. But it has a hotel which I stayed in. The hotel was in the form of a hollow rectangle but there was no roof, no need for one in a place with (almost) no rain. But one morning there was a little bit of water on the landings.
After the only bit of hustling I got in the south, I went all the way into the desert. Along the side of the road are the amazing oases, valleys where the water that has fallen on the Atlas comes to the surface and there is mile after mile of date-palms with sandy desert on both sides. What a sight! And onwards south to a camp specialising in nights in the desert and camel rides for the foreigner. The camp's GPS coordinates were printed on the owner's card; really sensible in the desert. All the way, and here as much as anywhere else, I was impressed by the local knowledge of geology and fossils, all discussed in purely European terms.

Taking care not to get lost and using compass bearings, I walked out on the sand. It's not just sand, this is a land which was green and fertile in historical times. The "sand" is soil with the dark organic matter oxidised away. The wind can only blow away the small particles, so in places I walked over gravel pavements, in other places the sand had gathered in great dunes, which move with the wind. There was just the sun, the wind, the sand and me. What is it that is so special about that? Is it the fact that you are the only living thing in sight, and you might kick sand or stones as much you like, but there is nothing that can make a response? The only thing you can get a response from is yourself.

On the way back I decided to stop at the town of Taddart. I ordered a tagine (stew) and ate it on a very pretty terrace beside a tumbling stream and asked about the hotel I was aiming for. Ah, there was a problem! That hotel was closed for Ramadan (mindful of the tourist trade the Moroccan government tries to insist that at least one hotel in every place stays open during Ramadan, but evidently its writ doesn't run to these parts) Ah! But they had an idea! I could stay with the restauranteur's family!

So they took me in. It was a fairly modern concrete house, it didn't look out of place set into the rock face, and like so much else in Morocco, it wasn't finished. I'm sure I was a financial windfall to them. They were the grown-up children of elderly parents who lived next door. Each grown-up child had a family, and lived with that family in one room and they locked the door of each room with a padlock. They provided me with the same for my room. They were the sweetest people, but the need to lock the doors like that stuck in my throat. I stayed a couple of days with them. In the evenings round the fire we talked. It was getting on to December and bitterly cold and they shivered. They didn't think of closing the door!

I walked out on the mountains, where the rock is poor quality crumbly stuff. I saw the base of something I couldn't understand and I asked the senior brother about it. It seems that just after the war German prisoners of war were made to build a Swiss-type cable-way which ran all the way from Marrakech to Ouarzazate, but it was scrapped in the 60s. What a shame, it would have been a huge asset to the tourist industry today. There were areas where trees had been planted, not too difficult because although the mountains seem to be bare rock, if you drive a pick into it, you can very soon turn it into pocket of shale which you can put a small tree into. But tree planting had come to a stop. There was a dam and irrigation canal, expensively built on the money of those who had gone to Marrakech for work, but hopelessly badly laid out and very wasteful: and a good job too because, if it had captured and used all the water, the city of Marrakech would have gone dry. I saw fields which had been planted in the hope of rain. If rain didn't fall, then the seed and work would have been wasted, but that's life in the Atlas.

I got talking to a man in his 40s, who said how life was so hard. There is very little for anybody in the Atlas, his family, parents, brothers and sisters and their children had all gone to Marrakech to try their luck in the big city, but he had to stay behind to keep a hold of the family lands now that the family had gone and not let others seize them. Not that the land had any real value. I didn't ask, but it seemed plain that he was the bachelor of the family - always put upon.

And so onward to Marrakech on the Valkyrie-bus. My rucksack was put in the luggage compartment under the floor with the goats, front and back legs tied together, on their way to market and the goats piddled on it. A very authentic experience!

Marrakech is really a fun city. There are all sorts of cultural highlights, from high-brow museums and galleries to street musicians and jugglers, there are shops of all kinds, at night (during Ramadan, anyway) stalls are set up in Place Djemaa El Fnaa where you can eat any kind of food you want and watch all sorts of entertainments. Now that the bad impression of Moroccans that I had picked up in Northern Morocco had been cleared, I enjoyed Marrakech better. But you can't settle when you're on holiday. I took the bus to Essaouira.

Essaouira was the nicest place in the whole trip. All motor vehicles stop at bays outside the city walls and unload into hand carts which deliver or collect from the city. A very few building vehicles, diggers, forklift trucks and the like are allowed into the city, but apart from them, it is pedestrians only. The municipality is obviously in firm control. You can meander through fruit shops, cafes, fruit and vegetable shops, spice shops (always a splendid display), anything. Without the roar of traffic, people talk on the street. I found it easy to start and finish conversations. There is a fishing harbour and dunes and beaches and good hotels and shops selling interesting things. Tourists could safely bring young children here.

I stayed in a hotel in the old city. A young man, also staying there told me he was expecting a visit from his "father's wife". That's a strange way of putting it because normally you father's wife is your mother, and I wondered if I had got the words wrong, but then I realised: This is a Muslim country and this must be his father's other wife.

I also had a fright. I went to the hole in the wall to get out money. "Sorry, we cannot handle this transaction" came back the message in French. Oh dear. I went to another hole in the wall and got the same. And another! Something must be wrong with my account back home! A sick feeling arose in my belly. I was hundreds of miles from Casablanca airport and no way of getting back in a very foreign country. Then I saw a man walk away from another hole in the wall with a look of exasperation on his face. It was a general failure, not just mine. And in an hour, all the machines were working again. But it had been a nasty fright and a reminder of how thin a thread you hang by in a foreign country.

And by bus back to Casablanca. This being Ramadan, the bus loudspeakers were playing recitations from the Koran. The voices are very strange: one of the boys at Taddart had been like that; he looked 17 or 18 and his voice hadn't broken, giving his voice a not-child, not-man, not-woman quality we don't get in Europe From the youth hostel I went round the corner to cafe I had been to when I was first there. Some of these cafes are like French bistros, and like them, there can be good conversation or none, it's pot luck. A good evening in this case.
I must say I was impressed by some of the young people. So keen on their learning. Maths? Not my strong point alas! English? Ah yes, real English conversation. Geography? Where have you been? What did you think of it? Their thirst for knowledge was very impressive. But will their keenness do them any good or will it turn to frustration and sourness? I fear that the aim of many is to leave the country, and it is easy to see why. Morocco is not a desperately poor country, but it knows that very much better is possible, and not very far away, in Europe. For many years it has been the wish of some sections of Moroccan society for Morocco to join the EU. Many cars carry number plates with "EU" on them. Not only do they want European economic standards, they also want European standards of health, justice, culture. Several times it was aggressively put to me that Morocco was being denied the right to join the EU because it was a Muslim country. My answer that it was not being allowed to join because it is not a European but an African country was met with a lot of scepticism. Well, seeing that their view of Europe must mostly come from France, maybe that's not too surprising. 

I saw a market barrow, very like a market barrow in Britain, selling bananas. A crowd of men stood round it buying the bananas, in a city where women are not allowed out of the house, the men have to do the shopping. Half a dozen men bought their bananas and took them away. That was all. No more action! The other men drifted away. Their interest had been to watch other men buying bananas! They must have too little to do. Knowing nothing else, do they accept it? Or does it cause a deep inner frustration or anger?

In my time in Morocco I was offered hash at least 6 times, a woman to marry 4 times, and I am fairly certain at least one attempted homosexual seduction. I brushed them off of course. All the women were all under 20 and the youngest surely only 14. Somehow the girl would appear and father and/or elder brothers would say "Would you like to marry her? Nice girl! What are you shy about?" and the girl would smile winningly and put her hand out to me. Of course I said "no". But in their eyes it would be a good deal. However "well" or "badly" the marriage worked out, on any calculation it would better than what she would get in Morocco - looked at coldly, that is probably a correct calculation - and I would die in her young middle age and she would be a free woman in a first world country. And the family would have a finger-hold in a first world country. They took no offence and showed no surprise when I said "no"; no doubt they'll get a taker in the end.

Does it hurt to view yourself and all you know as so much less than the foreigner?

First published in VISA issue 72A (April 2007)

The Postcode

By Elizabeth Johnstone

SW1A 1AA. Did you recognise that post code?  It belongs to only one building in Britain, Buckingham Palace. Did you know that it was originally the site of a mulberry garden planted by King James I to rear silkworms?  But I digress.

Photo: Helen Matthews

In August and September, when Her Majesty enjoys the bracing pleasures of Balmoral, it is possible to visit the State Rooms at Buckingham Palace. The public rooms of this busy working palace are used extensively by the Queen and members of the Royal Family to receive and entertain their guests on State, ceremonial and official occasions.  The tour comprises some nineteen rooms including the Throne Room, used for investitures, and the Palace Ballroom, used for State banquets.

It is what the shopping channels call a ‘considered purchase’.  My ticket for the State Rooms alone cost about £20.  Pricier options combined the State Rooms with the Queen’s Gallery and the Royal Mews. Guided Tours, including ‘Garden Highlights’, sold out almost immediately despite an even heftier price-tag.  There is a considerable appetite for our royal heritage out there!

Huge numbers of visitors are processed, with timed tickets and full airport-style security. It is enormously popular with tourists: I read that about 300 are admitted per 15-minute slot.  A young, enthusiastic and extremely vigilant staff ensured the smooth running of the operation with minimal security risk.  However, armed police also patrolled outside at regular intervals.

At the beginning of the tour, you are given a multi-media guide i.e. the traditional audio-guide with some extra films.  All very classy and informative.  About two hours is recommended for the tour.  It probably takes just over an hour to walk through the rooms at a moderate pace, listening to most of the audio-guide, but there are benches for those who wish to linger amongst the historical treasures.   Photography inside the State Rooms is expressly prohibited.

Summer 2015 featured a new exhibition ‘A Royal Welcome’, describing the organisation of State banquets.  Exhibits explained the minutiae of catering, service and etiquette on such grand occasions, not forgetting some of Her Majesty’s gowns and jewels.  The Palace Ballroom was set out for a banquet, replicating the visit of the President of Singapore.  It was, by far, my favourite room.  I also enjoyed a description of the garden parties in another room.  I now have a very good idea of the Queen’s height and figure, with more dresses and hats displayed on life-sized mannequins.

Splendour followed splendour, until we reached the hospitality section at the end of the tour.  The Garden Café catered to the inner loyal subject – at a price.  ‘Toilets’ would have been too downmarket.  We were directed to the ‘Lavatories’.  A royal flush, maybe. I did not investigate the Family Room, but this avid Postcrosser picked up a packet of postcards in the amply stocked gift shop.  I saw one small child persuade his mother to buy him a replica bearskin hat.  I’m not too sure how long he wore it in the 25° heat.

The final part of the tour followed a pleasant path skirting the gardens, past a stall selling ice cream made from the milk produced by the Jersey cows on Her Majesty’s Windsor estate.  My husband selflessly – and patriotically - pronounced it delicious.  At the exit, there was a booth where tickets could be stamped for a free extra visit within the year.  You then found yourself rather unceremoniously out in the street, half way along Grosvenor Place, from where it was a ten-minute walk back round to the front of the Palace.

It was the weekend of the Prudential Ride London cycling festival.  Roads were closed off, and marshals had to operate a ‘lollipop’ system for letting us cross the road amongst the never-ending streams of cyclists.  Green Park was full of every sort of cycling-related activity and sales opportunity. The throngs of cyclists mingled with the throngs of tourists.  It was a lively atmosphere but not an experience for those who are nervous of crowds.

An entertaining postscript to our day out was provided by the youthful revellers taking the train to the Eastern Electric Festival at Hatfield House. The genre was ‘underground, house and techno’ and the vibe in the train was pure Ibiza!

First published in VISA 124 (December 2015)

Up North...

By David Gourley

Cathy and I have had two memorable holidays in Norway, each taking us right up to the North Cape.  This is generally regarded as the northernmost point in mainland European albeit it is on an island, Mageroya (the comparatively unknown Cape Nordkinn, a few miles to the east, is the actual northernmost point in the mainland).   On both occasions we enjoyed the spectacular scenery in what in our view is one of the nicest of countries. 

On the first occasion we travelled from Oslo to Helsinki taking as it were the scenic route via the North Cape.  Mostly this journey was by coach but there was a short stretch on the Hurtigruten, the renowned shipping service which operates along the coast of Norway.  This has the vital function of transporting goods and people between coastal communities, many of them quite remote.  Nowadays it also caters for tourists and our second trip took us the entire length of its route, from Bergen to Kirkenes and back.  On the return journey one calls by day at the places stopped at during the night on the way up. 

Bergen is one of Europe's loveliest cities.  The visitor does have to be prepared for the probability of rain: on average there is in any given year rainfall on 231 days.  We were lucky as we had a full day of sunshine, enabling us to enjoy to the full the magnificent view from the top of the Floibanen funicular railway.  Right at the other end of the voyage, Kirkenes is close to the Russian border.  The region was thus of strategic importance during the Cold War, as it was one of just two areas where a NATO state bordered the Soviet Union (the other being at the opposite end of Europe where Turkey adjoins Armenia and Georgia).  A shore excursion took us to the Storskog border crossing.  Although Norway is not in the EU, it has signed up to the Schengen Agreement so one can move freely across the borders with Sweden and Finland.  But woe betide anyone who tries to saunter across the border into Russia!

Having made it to the North Cape we hankered to go still further north, to Svalbard, often referred to as Spitsbergen, which is actually the largest island in this archipelago.  But the tours there seemed rather pricey.  Then we discovered a comparatively inexpensive cruise aboard the Marco Polo.  This vessel gets mixed reviews.  Our review would for the most part be favourable.  It is really a matter of expectation: if one is looking forward to five-star luxury one is going to be disappointed.  It looks though like 2013 was the last year in which it offered a cruise to Spitsbergen. 

The cruise started from Leith, the port for Edinburgh, and we had to arrange our own travel up there.  Rail travel in Britain can be very expensive but one can get very good bargains.  By booking well in advance on the internet, and getting single tickets either way, we got first class tickets for less than standard class would normally be.  And one is well looked after if travelling first class with East Coast Trains as food and drink are complimentary.  So on the way up we had a good breakfast and later on a late morning snack with, in my case, a glass of Argentinean red (at weekends the offering is downsized so only snacks and non-alcoholic beverages are complimentary).   Sadly however this complimentary service for first-class passengers is a result of the discontinuation of that once loved feature of rail travel, the restaurant car.  If one is travelling in standard class one either takes one's chances on the buffet, or brings one's own.  

We took advantage of the four-night add-on in Scotland, comprising two nights each in Edinburgh and Pitlochry, Perthshire, that our tour company was offering prior to the cruise.  We were attracted by the fact that, in Pitlochry, we would be staying in the Atholl Palace Hotel, where we had last stayed nearly thirty years previously.  On our full day in Edinburgh we had, in the morning, a walking tour along the Royal Mile with an excellent blue badge guide.  We were just over a year away from the Scottish referendum on independence but our guide eschewed this topic, other than to mention that 2014 was going to be a busy year for Scotland what with various events due to take place.  Thus was the possibility of her country becoming independent equated with the hosting by Gleneagles of the Ryder Cup!  She also pointed out the Canon's Gait, the pub from which Nigel Farage had recently been forced to flee by hostile demonstrators.

As an Englishman I was with David Bowie on the question of independence, wanting Scotland to ‘stay with us’.  But I would readily concede that, had Scotland become independent, it would have had as its capital a world-class city, fully able to hold its own with other European capitals.  Certainly it is one of Europe's loveliest cities.   The afternoon was our own.  We had stayed in Edinburgh a few years previously and on that occasion had visited what might be described as four set piece attractions: the Castle; Holyrood Palace; the Scottish Parliament; and the Royal Yacht Britannia, which is berthed in Leith.  Now, following a good lunch at the Scottish National Gallery, we visited some lesser known attractions. 

We started with the Museum on the Mound.  This is housed in the impressive former headquarters of the Bank of Scotland and thus recalls the days before Fred the Shred, when banking in Scotland, as in the rest of the UK, was a respected profession.  It is devoted to money and finance.  The exhibits include £1m worth of individual pound notes.  No point in anyone trying to steal these as they are suitably endorsed!  We then visited two contrasting National Trust for Scotland properties - members of the south of the border equivalent have reciprocal visiting rights.   Firstly, in the Royal Mile, Gladstone's Land.  Nothing to do with the Victorian Prime Minister, albeit he was for a while a local MP, conducting his celebrated Midlothian Campaign.  This Gladstone was a seventeenth century merchant, his 'Land' being his house.  In the elegant New Town we visited the Georgian House.

We transferred to and from Pitlochry by rail.  I am a great advocate of travel by rail rather than road.  Even so, a side of me regretted that, rather than have our cases loaded for us into a coach, we were having to lug them on and off trains, an easier task in Edinburgh, the terminal, than in Pitlochry, a brief stop on the way to and from Inverness.  At Pitlochry it was raining, not what we wanted when we were straight away heading to the Queen's View.  Would there be a view?  Luck in fact was with us for it stopped raining and the view over Loch Tummel was magnificent.  It is widely supposed that the Queen in question is Victoria but it is more likely that it was named from Isabella, the wife of Robert the Bruce.

The Atholl Palace lies high above the attractive resort of Pitlochry.  The view from our room was splendid.  The hotel had, in no unpleasant way, a bit of a dated feel.  We had a second tour, which was to the Edradour Distillery.  This is a David among Goliaths for its survival as one of the smallest distilleries in Scotland, producing in one week just twelve barrels of whisky, is somewhat against the odds.

Preserved steam railways abound in England and in Wales but there are hardly any in Scotland.  Our included tour the next day was to one of these, the Strathspey Railway, which takes one through beautiful Cairngorms scenery on its journey from Aviemore to Broomhill via intriguingly named Boat of Garten.  The rail company makes much of the fact that Broomhill was 'Glenbogle' Station in the BBC series Monarch of the Glen, something that was rather lost on us as we have never watched this programme.  Aviemore is a surprisingly dull place.  Its main centre brought to mind somewhere in a new town.  Yet this is Britain's foremost ski resort and on the continent such places as Kitzbühel in Austria where we once had a week's holiday, can be charming. 

We joined our vessel the next day.  We had a good first impression of the Marco Polo: a friendly and remarkably quick boarding process which compared favourably with that of the Hurtigruten, which in this respect was more bureaucratic.  We also liked the fact that the Marco Polo has a 'no children' policy.  We do in fact like to see children taking part in, and hopefully benefitting from, travel if they are reasonably well behaved.  But sometimes they aren't.  On our Hurtigruten vessel, our sailing from Bergen was marred by children messing around.  We complained to their parents who were annoyed - with us.  And, yes, we can tell the difference between high spirits and bad behaviour.

As said, my review of the Marco Polo would generally be favourable.  Not five-star luxury but pleasant, spacious and always kept meticulously clean.  For the most part staff were friendly and helpful though poker faces seemed to be the order of the day for the East European waiting staff.  However in the evening our Ukrainian waiter revealed his sense of humour.  Meals were good, with the ability to choose between a buffet and more formal waiter service; as a rule we went for the former at lunchtime and the latter in the evening.  There was a varied programme of entertainment.   Making hessian bags is not really our thing but we enjoyed some of the shows, one of which comprised Russian music, maybe in deference to the captain.  He informed us that he was from that country and had been born in the Crimea.  Doesn't that belong to, er, Ukraine?

There were four stops in mainland Norway as we travelled north to Spitsbergen.  The first two, Molde and Andalsnes, were quite close, being at either end of the Romsdalsfjord.  There was the option of travelling between the two by coach and it was reported to us that the scenery was marvellous.  But we enjoyed sailing along the Fjord.  We had shore excursions in both places.  Scheduling on this tour was tight and, except in the Svalbard capital, Longyearbyen, going on an excursion meant having no time to look round the towns where we stopped, though one was driven through them.  Molde rather blurred into the great number of stops, over thirty, on our Hurtigruten cruise though I remembered its distinctive Rica Hotel, shaped like a huge sail.  It is known as the Town of Roses.  Our excursion was to the Atlantic Road, a striking series of bridges spanning a number of small islands. 

Andalsnes, or NATO Harbour to use its nickname, is a very small place so I don't think we missed out on much by having no time to look round.  We would though have liked the chance to look inside the old railway carriage which has been converted into a chapel.  We would thus have upped our tally of places of worship in unusual buildings: the church in a rock in Helsinki, the church in a cave in Budapest and, a bit closer to home, the church in a windmill near Reigate.  Our tour took us first to Trollveggen, Europe's tallest vertical, overhanging mountain face and then up the scenic Trollstiggen, a road which winds its way up almost vertical mountainside and has eleven hairpin bends. Viewing platforms at the top afforded fantastic views.  Two doughty members of our crew jogged right the way up the road and then down again.

There was a full day of sailing before we reached our next port of call, Tromso.   There was little to see.  In contrast to the Hurtigruten, which hugs the coastline and thus affords continuous enjoyment of the coastal scenery, the Marco Polo is set on getting from A to B as quickly as possible.  We crossed the Arctic Circle.  Thankfully the Marco Polo does not replicate the ceremony held on the Hurtigruten in which 'King Neptune' puts ice cold water down passengers' backs.  We declined to take part in this.  If that makes us a miserable pair, so be it.

We had been to Tromsö on our two earlier visits to Norway and did not feel in need of an organized tour.  On our Hurtigruten trip, we had two visits, the second being to an atmospheric midnight service in the Ice Cathedral, the city's most distinctive landmark though it is not a cathedral nor is it made of ice.  Tromsö is a pleasant city though it does not strike one as meriting the soubriquet Paris of the North.  The name is maybe earned because its citizens apparently love to party, especially during the long dark winter nights.  A statue of Amundsen reminds the British visitor that the Norwegians got to the South Pole first!

Of the available options, we went for a visit to Polaria, a museum offering an ‘Arctic experience’ which is located in a strikingly designed building that replicates ice floes pressed up against the land.  Our view, shared by others on TripAdvisor, was that this was good as far it went, but one had expected it to go a bit further.  Of particular interest to us, given where we were heading, was the film depicting Svalbard as seen through the eyes of a little auk flying across it.

Our final stop in mainland Norway was in Honningsvag, the small town which is the base for visits to the North Cape.  Having been to the Cape twice, we decided against going again.  I hasten to add we had enjoyed our visits and it is certainly a place worth visiting.  There are various attractions but no tackiness.  These include a small Thai museum.  The reason for this is that in 1907 King Chulalongkom of Siam, as the country was then known - the young prince in The King and I - paid a visit.  There are also the rather moving Children of the World sculptures, seven semi-circles based on designs by children from seven countries.  They are intended as a symbol of friendship between the countries of the world.  They date back to the Cold War era so two of the sculptures are from the USA and the Soviet Union; the others span the continents: Tanzania, Brazil, Italy, Japan and, as might be expected, Thailand.

I feared that our few hours in Honningsvag might be a bit boring, but not so.  We went to the local museum.  This turned out to be a moving experience.  Honningsvag is located in the province of Finnmark where, towards the end of World War II, retreating German forces adopted a ‘scorched earth’ policy, thus razing towns and villages to the ground.  In Honningsvag the German commander evidently had something of a conscience for he spared the church, which we visited later on.  It might well be asked why, if he had a conscience, he didn't spare the whole town, but he would no doubt have been signing his own death warrant had he done so.  The Germans adopted similar tactics in the north of Finland and, in the town of Kuusamo near the Russian border, we were told that the German officer in question came back to the town after the war to help rebuild the church. 

But the story is an inspiring one for, after the war, the townsfolk returned and they are pictured rebuilding their town and looking as if they are relishing the task.  Honningsvag is once more a thriving and attractive town.  Finnmark was liberated by the Red Army who, here at least, really were liberators as they withdrew, Stalin having accepted that Norway was not going to fall within the Soviet sphere of influence.  Elsewhere in the country the German forces surrendered to the Western Allies.

We now set sail for Spitsbergen, soon seeing the North Cape as we had not seen it before i.e. from the sea.  There was a full day of sailing with just one sighting of land, tiny Bear Island.  We docked in Longyearbyen, which is named after an American,  John Munro Longyear, whose Arctic Coal Company started coal mining operations in the island in 1906.  I was somehow expecting Longyearbyen to be a ramshackle sort of place, a bit like Kotzebue in Alaska, our first foray across the Arctic Circle.  On the contrary it is a neat, well laid out town which even boasts a four-star hotel of international standard, the Radisson Blu Polar.  We went in there to get postcards and some stamps thinking that, as this was a Sunday, the downtown shops would be closed.  But they weren't: there were two cruise ships in town and the opportunity to make a bit of money was not going to be lost. 

In the geopolitical sense the archipelago has unique status, resulting from the Svalbard Treaty that took effect in 1925.  This granted sovereignty to Norway, but all signatory countries were granted rights to its resources.  Of these only Russia, formerly the Soviet Union, has taken advantage and there is thus a separate Russian coal mining settlement at Barentsburg.  The archipelago is demilitarized so NATO cannot conduct exercises there. 

Our excursion took us first to a husky farm on the outskirts of the town.  In his early days as Tory Party leader, David Cameron came to Spitsbergen and hugged some huskies.  Immediately beyond are signs warning of polar bears.  These do not venture into the capital, but otherwise there is the risk of encountering them and tragically they can and do kill human beings.  We were all right in a tour bus but otherwise the advice is to carry a powerful weapon, just in case one finds oneself up close and personal with a bear.  Coal mining continues to be one of the mainstays of the local economy, though a number of the mines have closed.  Our tour took us through wonderfully wild scenery to Mine No.7, which still operates. 

Our vessel carried on overnight to Magdalenafjord.  There was no landing but according to our itinerary we needed to be on deck between 5.00am and 8.00am in order to enjoy the scenery.  I was not very pleased at having such early start and was at first inclined to leave it till later to get up, the assumption being that we'd still be in the fjord.  Fortunately I had second thoughts.  When we got on deck we found that we were halfway along the fjord and that the boat was already turning round, the captain having judged that it was not safe to go any further, given all the ice floes.  So we left the fjord much sooner than scheduled.  

It would have been a great shame to have missed out on the fjord.  Firstly it is beautiful.  Secondly it was the northernmost point in our tour and is thus the northernmost place we have been to.  In all likelihood it will remain so as it rather unlikely, especially with old age creeping up, that we are going to make it to the North Pole!

There was one more shore visit in Spitsbergen, this time to Ny Ålesund, which takes its name from the Norwegian town of Ålesund, one of the ports of call on our Hurtigruten cruise and noted for having been rebuilt in Art Nouveau style after the disastrous fire in 1904.  Its Spitsbergen namesake houses a number of research institutes.  It is wise to stick to the main pathway, which loops round the site, as otherwise the arctic terns, protective of their young, are liable to swoop down and attack, as in the Alfred Hitchcock movie.  We in fact saw a young couple being so attacked but they had strayed away from the path and appeared to be enjoying themselves daring the birds.  

We now left Spitsbergen for the long journey back to Leith.  There were two stops en route.  The first was in Thorshavn, the capital of the Faroes.  These are part of the Kingdom of Denmark but enjoy substantial autonomy, so much so that they were allowed to take themselves out of the EU.  To forestall a Nazi takeover, the British occupied the islands after the German conquest of Denmark in 1940.

We had booked a shore excursion, taking us through Streymor, the main island, to the neighbouring island of Vagar, which lies to its west.  This meant that we did not, as we would have liked, have time to look round Thorshavn and in particular visit Tinganes which is located on a small peninsula jutting out into the harbour.  This is the oldest part of the city, very picturesque with its stone-and-timber buildings.  The original Parliament met here, making this one of the oldest parliamentary meeting locations in the world, dating back to the ninth century.  

The scenery in the Faroes is superb and the infrastructure impressive: a tunnel took us across to Vagar.  The unemployment figures are one of the lowest in Europe, even so there is dependence, or over-dependence as some would see it, on the fishing industry.  Our guide told us that as a result Faroese sometimes get our fishing ports, Grimsby and Aberdeen, muddled up in their minds - not something a British person is likely to do!  We stopped in the village of Sorvagur and went inside its church.  Our end point was Gasadolur.  This is no more than a hamlet.  Nevertheless a tunnel has recently been built through the nearby mountain to connect it to the rest of the road network.  Before that the dutiful postman used to walk over the mountain in order to deliver the mail.

One of the houses in Gasadolur is built over a rock.  Our guide explained that the owner wanted to remove the rock before building the house, but the neighbours insisted that it remain as they believe that elves live there.  In Iceland too, which we visited in the 1990s, there is a widespread belief that elves really do exist.  But we have never seen any. 

Our final stop brought us back to Scotland and to the Orkney Islands.  This too constitutes a ‘furthest north’ for us, this time within the UK.  Previously I'd not got beyond Thurso, a few miles from John O'Groats.  Again we had a shore excursion so again there was no chance to look round the capital, Kirkwall, though we saw some of it as we drove through, including its impressive cathedral, St Magnus.    

Our excursion  here was confined to the main island, known simply as Mainland.  It took us through glorious scenery to the west coast, in the vicinity of which is the Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site, where we visited the Standing Stones of Stenness and the Ring of Brodgar.  From the Yesnaby Cliffs we could just about see the Old Man of Hoy, beloved of rock climbers and abseilers. 

Certainly we would love to return to Orkney and carry on to the still unvisited Shetlands. There is a strong sense of independence here, but this doesn't necessarily translate into support for an independent Scotland.  On the contrary, rule from London is widely regarded as the better option, or at least the lesser evil, than rule from Edinburgh.  So it was no great surprise that, in the referendum, Orkney recorded the highest ‘no’ vote percentage, with Shetland not far behind.  Orkney and Shetland was also one of just three Scottish constituencies which didn't elect an SNP MP in the recent general election.  Maybe, if Scotland really did become independent, the islanders would prefer to rejoin Norway.  After all, in the case of the Shetlands, the nearest railway station is in Bergen!•

First published in VISA 122 and 123 (August-October 2015)

Roving in Finland

By Elizabeth Johnstone

In January 2016, I made my fourth attempt to see the northern lights in Rovaniemi, in Arctic Finland.  I would have fun meeting up with Finnish Mensan friends and could easily amuse myself in the shops, museums and cafés.  However I really, really wanted to see the “foxfires”! (This is the translation of the Finnish word for the northern lights - they are caused by a fox swishing its tail across the sky.)

I could not get a seat on the eight-carriage 06.52 to Kings Cross.  The joys of commuting to London.  My BA flight to Helsinki was uneventful but I had a four-hour wait there for my connection to Rovaniemi.  Booking in the previous August, I could not obtain my usual flight with its speedy turnaround.  Helsinki Airport is not the worst place to kill time.  A cosy lounge overlooking the runway has an ample supply of paperbacks. Charging points for devices are everywhere, so you will not deplete your battery when on the free wi-fi (not forgetting your VPN, of course!) A plate of salmon soup kept me going.  Never order this iconic Nordic dish as a starter.  It is a meal in itself, with huge chunks of moist salmon, potatoes and vegetables bobbing about in a creamy broth.  Eventually Finnair deposited me at Rovaniemi Airport. Only -9°C! I would be going home with a suntan.  The “Airport Taxi” is a convenient mini-bus service calling at the main hotels.  My room at the Santa Claus Hotel was clean and cosy (quadruple glazing!) and I was glad to get to bed after a full day.


Suitably fortified by the usual substantial buffet breakfast (porridge for the Finns, it is a condition of citizenship), I set out for the Santa Claus Village, less than half an hour by hourly bus service.  The great man himself lives there – his elves will charge you handsomely for a photo – and there are surprisingly tasteful gift and craft shops, restaurants, huskies and reindeer. An avid Postcrosser, I sent cards from Santa’s Main Post Office, complete with unique postmark.  I returned to town and, after lunch, visited the Arktikum, one of a trio of iconic city museums.  The building is spectacular, especially after nightfall (mid-afternoon), extending towards the river like a great illuminated icicle. I saw an excellent presentation about northern lights.  Would this be my only opportunity to see them?
My friend’s parents kindly invited me to a family dinner at their house.  I had entertained them in my home near London the previous summer.  It was a wonderful evening. The lady of the house must have spent days creating the hearty feast, including the fabulously named (and tasty) “herring in a fur coat”, with all the best glass and china. 

Next day saw the long-awaited rendezvous in the Coffee House to catch up on a year’s worth of gossip.  With Facebook, email and the rest of it, we can communicate easily with people all over the world, but it is still a rare pleasure to meet in person. Then, it was off to the Korundi Modern Art Museum for a little light culture. I watched some winter sports on television, including an hour-long documentary on the recent success of the national ice hockey youth team. Many of our dramas and lifestyle programmes are shown with Finnish subtitles.  In some cases, the format is adapted.  I am a fan of The Voice of Finland where the judges are a veteran rock star, a female heavy metal vocalist, a young male rapper and a sterner older guy. Sound familiar?  Dinner was a salad, pizza and glass of wine at the very reasonable Restaurant Martina - salmon pizza, laid on with a lavish hand.

Sunday was a lazy day of morning coffee at my friend’s house, while a pot of barley porridge (made from grains, none of this instant rubbish) bubbled away on the stove.  A walk by the mighty Ounas river, more television – ski jumping is now ski flying – then it was time to be collected by another friend to go to dinner at her home.  Delicious food, a glass of red wine, wood burning in the stove – had it really been a whole year since I’d been there?  It felt like a few weeks.

The Finns are famously taciturn.  A Finn will dig you out of a snowdrift, but do not expect conversation from him.  I conducted a small experiment.  One evening, I walked along the river bank.  I saw a nice-looking lady out walking her dogs (each had a light on its collar).  I smiled and nodded as I went past.  She gave a half smile.  My friend told me later that my flamboyant behaviour would have been excused as I was obviously a foreigner who knew no better.

My last day involved last-minute shopping.  Rye bread rolls (tosi tumma = “so dark”), lingonberry preserve, xylitol chewing gum (the nation is obsessed with xylitol for tooth protection) and Fazer chocolate. I plucked up my courage and took the local bus to the airport – a request stop and all of €3.90.  Unsurprisingly, the weather was cold.  Friday and Saturday got no lower than about -15°C but Sunday’s temperature plummeted and the lowest value I saw was -27°C. This year, I added a white fur hat to my fashion ensemble.  In my bright red coat, I looked like Mrs Claus. On Sunday, I went out with every part of my body and face covered except my eyes.  Ice crystals formed in my eyelashes.  The flight from Rovaniemi to Helsinki was delayed nearly an hour, so an easy connection became a nightmare dash. I just got on the last bus to the plane from the gate.  We stood while they de-iced the wings and fuselage, then blew hot air through the engine to defrost that, too. (The plane was late because the baggage containers had frozen in the hold and had to be prised out). As we took off into the falling snow, I watched a line of twelve snowploughs clearing the other runway.  In the end, we arrived at Heathrow only about half an hour late.

Did I see the northern lights?  No, I did not.  Needless to say, they appeared two nights after I got home. You can download various aurora apps which will alert you via text message if there is heightened aurora activity.  The Rovaniemi tourist office sells one specifically for the city.  If I go back, I will have to seriously consider getting one of these apps, although the best app cannot notify you of something that is not there.

First published in VISA 126 (April 2016)

Liquid Sunshine

By David Gourley

Around the start of 2015, Cathy and I had a rather agreeable problem.  We had accumulated a substantial number of air miles and we weren't sure what to do with them.  We had so many that we could have a free return flight with BA across the Atlantic, even upgrading to business class in one direction.  I must qualify the word “free”: since the old Air Miles company changed to Avios in 2011, you have to pay airport and fuel taxes as distinct from the actual fare.  These were not exactly nominal in our case, but even so the cash value of our free flight was substantial.

We decided to return to Bermuda.  We had been there all of 47 years previously.  As newlyweds in 1968 we embarked on a round-the world trip, centred on a stay in New Zealand and including a coast-to-coast journey across the USA by Greyhound Bus.  This might have been the Swinging Sixties, but the British economy was in a sorry state, one result being that the Government had imposed a draconian exchange rate, allowing one to take out of the country no more than £50.  This sum was worth rather more than £50 today, but was still woefully inadequate for our purpose.  There was a “get out” clause: the restriction did not apply if one was travelling within the Sterling Area.  Thus we commenced our trip by flying out to Bermuda where we were able to change our money before carrying on to the States.  We had had just two nights there, but managed to fit in a bit of sightseeing. 

We thought it would be interesting after all this time to go back to Bermuda and also see more of the island.  We booked a week at the Fairmont Hotel in Southampton.  We were familiar with the Fairmont chain, having enjoyed stays in six of its hotels in Canada and also, a bit closer to home, the one in St Andrews, Fife.  The chain has two hotels in Bermuda, the other being in the capital, Hamilton.  We had a look at this and were sure we'd made the right choice.  The Fairmont Southampton is a fine hotel located in extensive and beautiful grounds, with complimentary shuttles to and from the coast roads and beaches on either side.  Southampton lies towards the western end of Bermuda and is one of the nine parishes into which it is divided.  Confusingly there is a Hamilton Parish which does not include the capital - they are named from different people. 

We flew out business class.  Quel différence!  It was nice to walk past the massive queue snaking its way towards bag-drop and get immediate service at the dedicated desk before proceeding through fast track security to the lounge where we enjoyed a couple of glasses of champagne and tasty snacks and soup.  We liked too the comfortable seating and legroom in the flight cabin.  For our main course we had a delicious “panfried beef fillet steak, crushed celeriac with peas and a red wine and peppercorn sauce”.  I'd love to say this is our normal mode of flying but sadly that is not the case: our return journey was an overnight flight in steerage! 

The friendly taxi driver who transferred us to our hotel - nearly everyone we encountered in Bermuda was friendly - drew our attention to the distinctive white roofs of the houses.  These are stepped and designed to catch water, of which there is no fresh supply in Bermuda, apart from the rain.  Our hotel room was standard, or in Fairmont parlance moderate, but it was huge, with a walk-in wardrobe, and in just about any other hotel would have qualified as an upgrade, even a significant upgrade.

We had prepared ourselves for the fact that Bermuda is expensive.  This reflects its isolated geographical position, a small island, or more correctly archipelago, in the middle of the Atlantic, the closest land being Cape Hatteras in North Carolina, 640 miles away.  The standard of living is one of the highest in the world, being up there with the Scandinavian countries.  The currency is the Bermuda dollar, used interchangeably with the US dollar which is equal in value.  Bermuda does not, I would say, have a European feel or a North American feel.  Nor, contrary to what some would assume, does it have a Caribbean feel, being in fact a thousand or so miles to the north.  The feel is, well, Bermudian. 

Our stay was on room only terms and, predictably enough, the various dining options at the Fairmont were fairly expensive.  I had thought that, for our last night, we might push the boat out and dine at the hotel's prestigious Waterlot restaurant.  But I now examined the menu more closely and realized that the vegetables were separately charged meaning that, with taxes also to be added, a main course alone was somewhat over $100.  We enjoy dining out but this was getting to be silly money.  By and large, though, we ate well at the Fairmont and particularly liked their lovely Italian restaurant, Bacci.  The house speciality, Macaroni alla Buttera (macaroni with spicy sausages, sweet peas, tomato sauce and parmesan), is recommended. 

The view from our room took in Gibbs Hill Lighthouse.  I am something of a lighthouse addict and this is as fine an example as I've seen anywhere.  It's open to the public and was within walking distance so we went there on our first morning.  One is rewarded with a magnificent view taking in much of Bermuda, with the capital visible in the distance.  The main island is a rather curious shape that resembles a fish hook with the westernmost part, at the tip of which is the Royal Naval Dockyard, thus looping round.  From our vantage point we could see how densely populated Bermuda is.  It is beautiful, but there is very little countryside. 

We had been wondering how we were going to get around the island.  The hotel operates complimentary shuttle boats to Hamilton but we found that there was just one trip out and one back, respectively in the early morning and late afternoon.  The lady selling tickets at the lighthouse put us straight.  The island has an extensive bus network; services are frequent and fares are surprisingly cheap given this is Bermuda.  We took a bus into Hamilton.  We did not this time tarry in the capital, getting a boat across to the Dockyard.  This no longer serves its original purpose.  Its historic buildings remain, with some tastefully converted into shopping malls.  Nowadays large cruise ships will normally dock here rather in the capital.  Right at the very tip of the island is its most popular attraction, the National Museum.  There was no time for a visit, so we returned the next day.

We experienced at the Museum one of two disappointments during our stay regarding attractions.  We particularly wanted to see the Commissioners House, with its many rooms, and the surrounding ramparts but both were closed, due to damage caused by Hurricane Fay, which had ripped through Bermuda several months previously.  Mercifully there had been no fatalities.  There was enough else in the Museum to make the visit worthwhile. 

Curiously perhaps, the Museum includes the “Dolphin Quest”.  We don't as a rule go to see captive wild animals, our aversion going back to our safari in Kenya some 25 years ago.  We have been of the view ever since that wild animals should be born free and stay free.  But we got talking to a bubbly young lady who was one of the staff.  It was clear to us that she genuinely loved the dolphins: “If we opened the gates to the Atlantic they'd huddle in a corner, frightened.”   Star of the show was a baby dolphin that was just a few days old.  On our return to the hotel we diverted to Horseshoe Beach, a public beach which is adjacent to the hotel's private beach.  Some consider it to be Bermuda's loveliest  beach.  We have not checked them all out, but I think this might well be right.  The island's Kite Festival, a wonderful sight, was taking place there.  

The next day we purchased an all day bus pass.  We used this to revisit a couple of the places we'd been to back in 1968.  We had on that occasion visited two caves, Leamington and Crystal.  The former is now closed to the public, but in any case it is the latter that are truly impressive.  You descend to a subterranean lake which you cross using a pontoon bridge.  Utterly beautiful.  Rather as with the Terracotta Warriors in China, discovery was accidental, in this instance the result of two teenage boys hunting for a lost cricket ball.  A few months later we visited what in my book are the most spectacular caves anywhere, those at Postojna in Slovenia.  Even Crystal Cave must take a bow.

As in 1968 we continued to the former capital, St George’s.  Most visitors to Bermuda will find their way here.  It is a pleasant, if somewhat touristy, place whose attractions include a ducking stool.  If the timing is right one can watch a re-enactment.  We did not see this and I am quite glad we didn't.  Back home I stumbled across a YouTube video and felt just a bit uneasy watching a young black lady undergoing a ducking though obviously she was a volunteer who was, I like to think, enjoying the experience.  Mind you, having lately retired, I can think of one or two ex-colleagues whom I might, given the chance, sentence to a ducking!

If St George's is in the northwest part of Bermuda, St David's is in the northeast.  We went there because we could.  There's no other reason to go there.  There was no discernible centre and it was really a case of hanging around for the next bus back.  It does, it is true, have Bermuda's other working lighthouse.  Like Gibbs Hill, it is supposed to be open to the public but its doors were resolutely shut.  It is not as impressive.  We returned to St George's then took a scenic route back home.  This took us along the far side of Harrington Sound.  Bermuda might be tiny, but it boasts this large inland body of water.

We had, back home, been keeping an eye on the weather forecasts for Bermuda and at one point these seemed decidedly discouraging.  In the event we enjoyed good weather every day, except for one.  We had decided on the day in question to attend a church service which was scheduled to take place on the beach.  Rather ominously this had been moved inside the hotel, albeit it was not yet raining.  The rain was not long in coming and persisted for the rest of the day.  But we enjoyed the service, a lively affair, whose congregation included locals as well as hotel guests.  The preacher was introduced to us as someone who could “preach the paint off the walls”.  He undertook not to do so this time, since he wanted to remain on good terms with the Fairmont!

We had planned to visit one of Bermuda's main attractions, the Aquarium.  This seemed like a good rainy day option.  But we were in for the second of our two disappointments: it was, the concierge informed us, closed.  Nothing to do with the Hurricane, it was undergoing refurbishment.  We ended up having a lazy day in the hotel.  This was rather pleasant and something of a change for us.  We have in other places said that we should just unwind and enjoy our hotel only to find other things to do.  The Mena House Hotel in Cairo comes to mind.  During a week’s stay, a day or two of lazing round the pool was planned.  But, hey, the Pyramids were just across the road!

It was good weather again the next day, enabling us to go ahead with our plan to walk along part of the Railway Trail.  Yes, Bermuda did once boast a railway.  This ran almost the length of the island, from St George’s to Somerset, on the way to the Dockyard, with a spur into Hamilton.  It was open for just seventeen years, closing in 1948.  This was despite the fact that it had been, on a per mile basis, one of the most expensive railway lines ever built.  Until 1946, cars had not been allowed in Bermuda; their unbanning seems to have sounded the death knell for the railway.  But the money was not entirely wasted since the whole line, apart from the Hamilton spur, has been converted into a long distance footpath. 

The Trail runs through our hotel grounds.  From there we set off for Paget Marsh.  In terms of parishes this took us from Southampton to Paget crossing the length of Warwick.  We stopped a couple or so times to talk to locals.  One chap responded, when we mentioned the previous day's rain: “We don't call it that here, we call it liquid sunshine.”  In Warwick we regrettably didn't realize that, if we deviated a short distance from the Trail, we'd find Cobbs Hill Methodist Church.  This is of historical importance as it was built in the early nineteenth century for slaves and free blacks.  Most of the churches at that time allowed only whites or had separate doors for blacks.  It forms part of Bermuda's African Diaspora Heritage Trail. 

Looking at our map, I’d assumed that Paget Marsh was on, or at least close to and well signposted from, the Railway Trail.  But there was no sign of any signs!  We  ended up being driven to the Marsh by a kind lady.  The Marsh is a nature reserve that is unchanged since the first settlers arrived.   There is a boardwalk, otherwise there is no tourist infrastructure so no cafe, no toilets.  We got a bus back to our hotel and spent the afternoon on Horseshoe Beach.

Our last full day was spent in Hamilton, sightseeing and also buying presents.  We went across on the shuttle boat and were expecting to get an ordinary bus back since we weren't expecting to be long in the capital.  However, our visit was sufficiently long for us to find that the shuttle boat back, in late afternoon, was well timed.  Arrived in Hamilton we decided first to have a more leisurely cruise around Hamilton Harbour so did a round trip on the ferry which crosses over to ports of call in Warwick and Paget parishes.

Back in 1968 Hamilton, nowadays a thriving commercial centre, was a rather sleepy place.  Picturesque Front Street, the main thoroughfare which runs alongside the Harbour, is pretty much unchanged.  We tried without success to locate the Bermudiana, once one of Bermuda's best hotels but long closed and converted into a commercial building.  We had had lunch there in 1968, when we were based at a smaller establishment across the Harbour in Paget.

We made use of the main supermarket, described on the outside simply as Supermart.  A surprise awaited us when we went inside: evidence of the Waitrose brand was all around.  But we were not able to use our Waitrose cards so there was no free coffee, no free newspaper.  It is in fact a family business who are “the exclusive retailers of Waitrose products from England”  They had a tempting array of hot and cold dishes for taking away or eating outside, including goat curry.  We have yet to see this at our local Waitrose in Surbiton!

If Hamilton in 1968 was rather sleepy it was also rather troubled.  Not long before there had been riots.  There were to be more riots in the future and in 1973 the Governor, Sir Richard Sharples, was assassinated.  It so happens that he had previously been the MP for Sutton and Cheam, a constituency that adjoins ours.   Race relations was the problem.  Bermuda divides roughly 3:2, black: white, yet had been ruled by a white elite whose record was rather like that of its counterparts in the southern states of the USA - abysmal.  As in the States, the sixties saw the rise of a civil rights  movement, manifested in the Theatre Boycott, a protest against segregation in theatres and other public places. 

Obviously tourists can only get the most superficial of impressions, but nowadays it does seem that the races rub along reasonably well with both enjoying full rights.  The current Prime Minister, Michael Dunkley, is white but there have  been several black prime ministers and his cabinet comprises a mix of races.  Certainly today's Bermuda is a safe destination.  The local paper deemed worthy of a headline the fact that a man had admitted to the theft of a $7 sea bass!

We ventured into a government building on the off-chance that it might be open to the public.  It wasn't, but a friendly lady chatted to us.  It turned out that she was the Health Minister and the sister of the country's first female prime minister (who was black).  A chap said hello to us as he passed by on his way out.  “That was the Prime Minister,” she told us. 

The nearby Parliament building was open.  Here we had a complimentary tour conducted by the Sergeant at Arms.  He was, somewhat to our surprise, in casual gear: Parliament was not sitting and clearly he was not of a mind to put on his finery just for the likes of us.  The chamber is a Lilliputian version of its Westminster counterpart, with Government and Opposition thus on opposite sides, rather than arrayed Continental-style around a semi-circle.  Bermuda is, in terms of population, the largest of Britain's remaining overseas territories.  It has full self-government, with Britain appointing its Governor.  In a referendum in 1995 independence was decisively rejected (cf Scotland!)

Our sightseeing in Hamilton also included the Cathedral and the historic Perot Post Office, named from Bermuda's first Postmaster General who in 1848 produced the country's first postage stamps.  Only eleven of these are known to exist today so they are extremely valuable.   Having decided against our hotel’s pricey Waterlot Restaurant for our last meal, we returned to Gibbs Hill Lighthouse which has a cosy restaurant where we enjoyed a good meal.

We had one of those curious last days where one can still, because there is a late flight, be in holiday mode in the morning, on this occasion enjoying some more time on Horseshoe Beach, before reality asserts itself and one is going home.  Our transfer to the airport gave us one last chance to admire Bermuda's luxuriant vegetation.•

Cars, Keys and Kings

By Helen Matthews

“You must go to the Isle of Man.”

Mountain Road, Isle of Man

This was the advice I was given during a university lecture on European History 400-1200. The lecturer in question was five feet nothing tall with a will of iron and you disobeyed her at your peril. I duly entered the island on my mental list of places to go.

I have to admit that it has taken a while.  That lecture is nearly (cough) thirty years ago now, and I can’t remember anything else about it, except that early medieval trading sites are called emporia and that Visby might have been mentioned. I’ve ticked off a lot of places that were higher on my list: Crete in springtime, Albania, Khiva and Kashgar, whilst the Isle of Man has remained in a mid-table position. But when I discovered that my husband Neil also had a reason or two for wanting to pay a visit to the island and that BA operated flights from London City airport, it was time to get on with it.

The original plan had been to use public transport to get around, but we had second thoughts and hired a car. Despite the car in question being a hideous diesel powered Nissan with a baffling keyless entry system, this proved to be a good decision, as it enabled us to see a lot more with our two full and one half days.

We arrived on a Friday evening and checked in to our B&B in Douglas, where we were greeted by Victoria Wood. It may not have been the real Victoria Wood, but it was an excellent imitation.  It was slightly disappointing to find that the waitress who served our breakfast the following morning was not in the least like Julie Walters.

Laxey Wheel

Fortified with some Manx kippers, we set off up the scenic coastal road to Laxey.  Laxey was a quiet hamlet until lead mining in the area started in the 1790s. The local mining industry underwent rapid expansion after the formation in the 1840s of the Great Laxey Mining Company. The Laxey Wheel, also known as Lady Isabella, was used to pump water out the mine, but it is more than just a piece of industrial heritage.  This bright red wheel bearing the three-legged emblem of the Isle of Man occupies a beautiful setting in the Glen Mooar valley, and was a tourist attraction even when the mining activity was in full swing. Summer visitors were keen to see and climb the wheel, and enterprising local residents opened pavement cafes to supply them with refreshments. Today there are trails around the mining complex, with information boards about the industrial heritage and the local flora and fauna. 

Further up the coast is the town of Ramsey, rather smaller and quieter than Douglas.  Before exploring the town we visited the nearby Milntown estate, which was originally the home of the Christian family (Fletcher Christian of the mutiny on The Bounty was a relation). The Christians reached the peak of their power and influence in the seventeenth century when William Christian (1608-1663, popularly known as Illiam Dhone) became Governor General, but after the Restoration, he was executed as a traitor for having surrendered the island to the Parliamentary forces during the Civil War.

Milntown

For the next 150 years the family kept a low profile, living on their other estate in Cumbria and it was not until 1830 that John Christian returned to enlarge and refurbish Milntown. His improvements included the ‘Strawberry Hill Gothic’ look that that the house has to this day. In 1886, the last of the Christian family to own Milntown, William Bell Christian, died bankrupt. The estate was variously used a school and a hotel, until in the 1960s it was bought by Lady Valerie Edwards, the widow of a steel magnate from Swansea and her son, Sir Clive. Sir Clive bequeathed the house and gardens to the Manx nation in 1999 and the property is now run by a charitable trust.

The fifteen acres of gardens are probably the main attraction for visitors, though the café/restaurant, which uses produce from the Milntown kitchen garden is worth a visit in its own right, and is open throughout the year, even when the gardens are closed.  

We also took a tour of the house, which was a rather strange experience. Sir Clive and his business partner Bob Thomas had been very interested in cars and motorbikes, to the extent that the tour guide described Sir Clive as the Jeremy Clarkson of his day. On closer inspection the leather-bound volumes filling the fumed oak bookcases in the library turned out to be bound copies of Autocar magazine.  Much of the furniture in the house was brought from Lady Valerie’s former marital home in Swansea, including a very elaborate dressing table, which had been her wedding present from her husband.  It seemed slightly odd to be shown 1960s bathrooms as part of a guided tour. These were the sort of bathrooms I remembered from childhood, if rather more lavish. The tour lasted an hour and a half, probably half an hour longer than necessary, because the guide kept relating rather lame ghost stories, presumably in order to boost Milntown’s reputation as a haunted house.  I was more interested in the story about the flock wallpaper in the dining room, which was put up in the early 1970s.  Apparently a lot of the rolls were found to be substandard because it was manufactured during the three day week, and the manufacture of flock wallpaper needs a reliable electric current.

We returned from Ramsey along the A18 mountain road, which forms part of the TT circuit.  I don’t know how anyone could concentrate on racing along that road. The views were even more spectacular than those on the coast road we had driven up in the morning.

On day one we had concentrated on history and places of interest from the eighteenth century onwards. On our second and final full day we drove westwards to Peel in order to delve into the island’s more distant past and discover the Isle of Man that my lecturer had in mind all those years ago.

Peel Castle is located on St Patrick’s Isle, so called because legend has it that St Patrick actually visited this tiny island, bringing Christianity to the Isle of Man.  Whilst that may not be a historical fact, there was certainly a community of monks on the site before Magnus Barefoot, the 11^th century Viking King of Mann, built a fortress there. 

Peel Castle

I was surprised to find that there were no guidebooks for sale at the entrance, only free audio guides. I normally avoid audio guides, but there was nothing else to be done. The man at the kiosk explained that these were not at all like National Trust audio guides – each numbered stop was just one minute of recording, and you could listen in any order, or not, as you pleased.  He warned us to watch out for rabbit holes and pointed out the on-site toilet facilities: “very modern, hot running water”.  Continuing the theme, the first numbered point of interest I came to turned out to be a garderobe (a 3-seater). According to the audio guide, the sewers were the weakest part of any castle. It was necessary to make holes in the walls to let out the waste, but any way through the walls was also a potential way in.

After Peel Castle we visited the House of Manannan, named after the Isle of Man’s legendary sea god, Manannan. This is a visitor experience rather than a museum, and tells the story of the Isle of Man through audiovisual presentations, with the white-bearded Manannan. Visitors first enter a reconstruction of a Celtic roundhouse, which was much larger than I expected. Approximately 60 full-grown trees would have been required to build a house like this, which is a type unique to the island.  The island’s story continued with the coming of Christian monks and the fusion of Celtic and Viking culture, illustrated by a reconstruction of a Viking longhouse. The final exhibit on the ground floor was Odin’s Raven. This is a two-thirds replica of the Gokstad Viking longship from Norway, which was built to celebrate a thousand years of the Isle of Man’s Viking parliamentary tradition in 1979.

We must have taken a wrong turning on our way upstairs as we found ourselves in a somewhat incongruous exhibition celebrating the 100th anniversary of the Women’s Institute, before returning to the ‘Story of Man’ with the Island’s nautical heritage (including a sailmakers’ loft and a kipper smokehouse). There are still kipper smokehouses in Peel. One proclaims proudly on its wall ‘We Post Kippers.’ I enjoyed their products for breakfast during my stay, but I’m not sure that I would trust them to the Royal Mail.

Peel P50

As befits the home of the Peel P50, the world’s smallest production car, the Manx Transport Heritage Museum, a short walk from the House of Manannan, was very small museum indeed (only 60 square metres in size).  Despite its diminutive size, it contains a lot of material, including original adverts. The prize exhibit is an original Peel P50 made in 1964, manufactured at the Peel Engineering factory only 300 yards from the museum, on the other side of the river. The Peel company made various fiberglass products, including fairings for racing motorcycles before developing the P50, a tiny one-seater vehicle. An original advert claimed that the P50 was ideal for a businessman commuting into town or a housewife doing the shopping, but having examined the car closely, I have no idea where this hypothetical housewife would actually put any of her purchases.

After a brief detour northwards to Jurby, where we found an incredible second-hand bookshop, a massive hangar with books piled haphazardly all over the place, we drove along more of the island’s scenic roads to St John’s to look at the Tynwald Hill.  ‘Tynwald’ is a word of Viking origin, based on the Norwegian ‘Thing vollr’.  It is the ancient assembly ground where the Manx parliament and people meet once a year in the open air to hear the proclamation of new laws. The Tynwald dates back to the time of the Manx Kings of the Isles, the last of whom died in 1265 AD, and may even be older than the Icelandic Parliament, which was established in 930 AD. The ceremony traditionally took place on Midsummer Day, 24 June, (the feast of St John the Baptist in the Christian calendar.)  Since the change to the Gregorian calendar in 1752, the ceremony has been held on 5 July.

On our last day we drove to Castletown, the historic capital of the Isle of Man. The castle in Castletown is Castle Rushen, one of the best preserved medieval castles in Europe.   It originated in the Norse period, with the fortification of a strategic site by the Norse kings. The central stone keep is believed to date from the period of the last Viking King of Mann, Magnus, who died at the castle in 1265, according to the Chronicles of the Kings of Man and the Isles. In 1405 Henry IV granted the Island of Mann to Sir John Stanley, and it became a hereditary right of the Stanleys on payment of two peregrine falcons to all succeeding monarchs on their coronation. The Stanley family remained as Kings of Mann and the Isles until 1736. 

Castle Rushen

The castle’s excellent state of preservation was not a good thing as far as I was concerned.  Rather than admiring romantic ruins from the safety of ground level, we had to follow a route through the castle keep, which involved climbing scarily steep spiral stairs.  I was a nervous wreck by the time we reached the top.  The interior was very well presented though, dressed as it would have been in its heyday, with wall hangings, table set for a medieval banquet, complete with roast peacock, in the lord’s private dining hall. In the garrison captain’s lodgings, the captain could be found in the garderobe, complete with sound effects.

After we escaped from the Castle, we rushed back to the Old House of Keys, only to discover from the board outside that we should have bought tickets already, either from the Castle or the Old Grammar School. Having finally obtained the necessary tickets at the Old Grammar School, we were admitted to what I can only describe as a committee room, with an ‘agenda’ laid out at each seat.  This was to be an interactive experience. I have spent quite a lot of my career as a committee administrator and could not believe I had willingly gone on holiday to a committee meeting! We, together with the other visitors took the places of twenty two members of the Keys. The other two members were the Secretary (represented by the volunteer running the event), who sat at a separate desk, and the Chairman, represented by an animated sculpture, who sat on a dais.  Two of the portraits on the walls turned out to be AV screens which came to life to depict individuals who addressed the house on various matters.  We considered (and voted on) eight motions, from the dangerous and unheard of principle of allowing members of the Keys to be elected, via votes for women, and closure of the roads for motor racing, to membership of the EU (this last has yet to be considered by the real House of Keys.)

My history lecturer had a reputation for being a formidable presence in committee meetings. I wonder what she would have made of it all.

First published in VISA 126 (April 2016)