“You go so deeply and intensely on holiday,”
said a colleague and friend.
By late 2022, my
travel bug had not yet stirred from its pandemic slumber. I did have a distant eye on North America,
but no concrete plans. One evening, surfing YouTube, which has lately been my primary source of
entertainment, news and education, I stumbled upon the Royal Variety Performance 2022,
hosted by Lee Mack. I’ve known for some
time that the winner of Britain’s Got Talent gets to perform
in this show, but I’ve never been interested in watching it. I'd assumed that such a show would
be for the benefit of the Windsors only, as it would have been in medieval times.
Nevertheless, my mood led me to give it a chance, partially
because of Lee Mack, who I love in Would I Lie To You. Colour me surprised to learn that
the Royal Variety Charity, who puts on the performance, in fact takes care of
sick and elderly entertainers. Now this was much more
palatable.
The performance
included the opening sequence of Cabaret, which was being performed
in London at that time, and would continue its run well into 2023. I was enraptured. I’ve known the music for decades, and I’ve
watched a film version on YouTube.
The musical is based on a play called I Am a Camera, which is
itself based on the book titled Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher
Isherwood. Cabaret featured as
a theme through the fifth season of the multi award winning TV show Schitt’s
Creek. I loved Schitt’s
Creek, and I had read Goodbye to Berlin, but I had never enjoyed
Cabaret
on stage. There was no question: I HAD to see it.
I wasted no time contacting Katja, who lives in
London, and Kathy, who lives in Amsterdam, inviting them to join.Very soon, three tickets had been purchased.My itinerary grew gradually fleshier, and
soon I also invited my sister and her husband to meet me in the British capital.They were reluctant – their 2017 UK honeymoon had been thwarted because they’d failed to check visa requirements.Should I add a quick trip to Switzerland?Eventually, we settled on meeting in Vietnam in April.
Children’s
Day and Tomb Sweeping Day brought a 5-day weekend. Suzi and Tom were in the coastal town of Da Nang, which lies smack in the middle of the country, north-to-south. From
Zurich, they'd needed a layover in the capital, and then a domestic
flight. From Taipei, I got a direct flight, reaching Da Nang within 2 ½ hours. I flew on Sunday because the flight was half the price.
We'd made these plans so that Suzi could avoid the troublesome UK visa. If you are among those who need one, you’ll
know that it involves a series of hurdles, and costs a painful penny. Well, both Suzi and I
needed a visa for Vietnam. Karma dictated that it was both expensive and troublesome. Tom made arrangements for Suzi. Once her application was successful, he explained the procedure
to me.
Although application and approval were handled electronically, it was nevertheless necessary to get a sticker
pasted into my passport upon arrival.
My fellow passengers formed two large groups traveling with guides. The two guides raced to immigration, and I had to wait a very, very long time for my maddening permit. Now, I have traveled just a
smidge over the years, and I can confidently say that this system is
abysmal. Electronic visas are linked to
your passport number and really do not need to be plastered onto the blooming
pages. Anyhoo, I also know that there
is no point getting cross, so I remained calm, hungrily looking forward to
dinner. While
waiting, I noticed that I was the only non-Asian wearing a mask. I pulled mine off.
I had to wait again beyond immigration. Tom and Suzi were at domestic arrivals, while I was at the
international terminal. When they did
eventually find me, we ate dinner, and then ambled in
search of beer. What we found instead
was a purveyor of coffee and other refreshments – I had an avocado
smoothie. It wasn’t as good as the one
I’d had in Oman, but it was fresh and refreshing. We retired to the airbnb, chatting until well after
midnight. I was surprised to still be up
that late.
On Monday morning,
Tom and I went out without Suzi; we’d come back for her. We hopped in a cab to Chùa Linh Ứng, a Buddhist
temple just outside the city.
Incidentally, Tom had been using a ride service called Grab, which is
the “Uber” of Vietnam. The temple offered a magnificent view of the city, though the air was either misty or polluted,
slightly shrouding the vista. Tom
exclaimed that today was the first truly hot day since they arrived in early
March. I’d been expecting the swelter,
so I was prepared, both mentally and regarding my wardrobe choices. The next couple of days, though, I would
remain thoroughly wet.
Then we
got a Grab to Hoi An. This I really
wanted to see, and Tom delayed visiting until I joined them. Several of my friends have visited this town
over the years, and their pictures have always been so very alluring. Since this was my first visit to Vietnam, and
since we were so close, missing it was out of the question. Tom kept the airbnb in Da Nang, and we left
our bags there, but he booked accommodation for one night here. He chose a beautiful hotel not far from Hoi
An Old Town. We checked in and dropped
our bags.
By now it was already 5pm – my companions are
late to rise and late to slumber, the exact opposite of me. We hired bicycles and rode into Old
Town. What charm! The buildings are painted the same colour,
which accentuates the vibrancy of the art and clothing on offer. Tom went into a silkworm
studio to be fitted for a suit. Suzi followed. I found a gallery nearby and bought a year’s
supply of birthday presents.
Later, we stopped for dinner. My exposure to Vietnamese food in Taiwan has not been thrilling. I’ve
never found anything that I couldn’t live
without. Thai
food, on the other hand, I love, love, love.
I had been worried that I wouldn’t enjoy the food here. Was I in for a treat! Every morsel was delicious and fresh.
Hoi An's food and art might lead me in the future
to suffer the visa ordeal a second time and come back. After dinner, we cycled back to the hotel.
On Tuesday, I was up
early. I sank into the large
tub. It looked so luxurious, but
ultimately, the water was tepid and quickly lost all warmth in the stone tub,
so the soak was short. I waited in the
air conditioned room until Suzi and Tom were ready for breakfast. After eating, they returned to their room,
while I went for a walk away from old town.
Passing a mom-and-pop shop, I suddenly remembered that I’d been tasked
with bringing back some coffee for Joanne and Anuschka. I showed a picture to the attendant, and she
called her sister, who brought over two bags.
Networking! Grapevine
economy! I ambled further down the road,
but didn’t get far before the day’s heat reversed my steps.
When the couple
surfaced, we returned to old town. Tom
disappeared into a shop, while Suzi and I wandered towards an eatery someone in
Taiwan had recommended. I assumed that
Tom had gone off to secretly look for a gift for Suzi, but it turned out that
he’d slipped into a leather store to be fitted for a jacket. Knowing that Suzi would not approve, he’d
been cryptic about his purpose. Bwahaha.
As we wandered, I came across a Tin
Tin in Vietnam plaque. I’d
inherited one from Leanne upon her death in 2009. Then, when our mutual friend Janice came to
visit from Abu Dhabi, she asked if she could have it, as she was with Leanne in
Hoi An when she bought it. How could I
refuse? I subsequently missed it, and
now I was finally able to replace it!
I’d leave this bloody plaque in Suzi’s shopping bag when I returned to
Taiwan. Fortunately, Tom was shipping
stuff home to Switzerland, so he shipped me the plaque.
That evening, we went to the theater… Once my visa had been approved, I’d searched
for a performance. I came across Teh
Dar, which was billed as a bamboo circus, being staged at the Hoi An Lune
Center. I’d watched a video on YouTube
and was quite intrigued by it. The
creator had spent some time with a small tribe in the Vietnamese southwest
highlands. He’d observed their customs,
listened to their stories, and then created this piece of art as a reflection
of their way of life. At first, I
worried that it might be simply a disingenuous presentation of a minority in
traditional clothing made to dance for travelers, as so many of these kinds of
cultural activities are. However, I was
soon convinced that it was a proper piece of art with a real desire to portray
a culture in a healthy, respectful way.
I was not disappointed.
The stage was an
earthy colour. Bamboo poles were stacked
vertically on the sides. At the back,
there was some kind of scaffolding, ascending from right to left. Upon this scaffolding at varying heights,
instruments were placed, which would be played by the performers. There was no pre-recorded audio. Magnificent!
When the show started, the performers entered slowly from either side,
in front of the stage. They were chanting a
tribal song. One played some kind of
horn. Soon they were on the stage. Those bamboo poles were arranged and rearranged
into the set. All sets were built and
changed by the performers in front of our eyes and while performing. There was no interruption to the action, no
dropping curtain, no interval with stage hands running about. The production was entirely self-contained,
and it made seamless and efficient use of the performers to achieve every
aspect. It was mesmerizing, polished and
economical. At times, the action was
fast, other times methodical and ponderous.
At times, quiet voices spoke, other times mighty, tribal yells pulled at
my emotions. At one point, a single
woman, lit by a gas lamp she held, sang a melancholic, measured lament. It was gripping. At another point, a man entered from the left,
descending along the safety balustrade on the edge of the audience. He climbed along it in the movements of a
spider, menacing. He leapt onto the
stage. The remaining troupe was
waiting. They pounced upon the intruder,
pummeling him until he was no longer a threat.
It was so raw and powerful. At
times I wanted to jump up and scream in awe and appreciation.
Exiting afterwards,
Suzi and Tom were not as moved as I.
Suzi had hoped for more athleticism (both she and Tom are healthy, fit
and energetic), whereas I had always been looking for artistic brilliance.
We ambled to the leather shop, ate, got our bags
from the hotel, and hopped in a Grab back to Da Nang. I would be leaving the next morning. Thus ended my brief catch-up with the Swiss
contingent of my family.
I can’t properly
relate the UK trip without ranting about their visa requirements. However, to keep the mood light for now, I’ve
decided to relegate my rant to the end of the blog, among my reflections.
For me, the lead up to a holiday is almost as
fun as the actual trip.I love surfing
the net to find flights at good prices, discounted trains and cheaper ways to
ride a ferry.It’s exciting to scour
websites that identify interesting, unexpected or quintessential experiences.I spend hours zooming into destinations on Google
Maps, plotting local places of interest.On YouTube, a wealth of travelers and guides give up their secrets free and
gratis.As such, I had over planned for
this trip.There was no way I’d experience
everything that titillated my senses, so I saved my discoveries and decided
that I’d get to what I’d get to.There
were secret little bars behind apparent fridge doors, very old music houses,
castle restaurants, manor houses and a miniature reproduction of the renowned
Old London Bridge.I only got to a
fraction of what I’d planned and, despite what I’ll say in my reflections at
the end of this blog, there remains in me a desire to go back and see more.Theatrically, Cabaret was not going to
stand alone on a playbill, was it?Oh
no; I planned a veritable cultural smorgasbord.Of the seven (eight, in the end) performances I’d booked, some were hit,
some a little miss.
Among the plans, there would be a visit to
Hampton Court Palace, playground of megalomaniacal Henry VIII. Based on a fleeting comment she’d made on a
previous trip, I’d decided that Kathy, who’d be meeting me in London, would not
want to see it, and so I booked a single ticket for my second day. However, to accommodate a culinary experience
in the Cornish countryside, my HCP visit had to make way for a train ride to Penzance.
There’d be no refund. Increasing my order would make it easier to
change the date, so I contacted Kathy.
She did actually want to go, and we’d go on the Saturday.
I had to wait on the call for 40
minutes before speaking to an operator.
(This is something we don’t deal with in Taiwan – it’s easy to reach
someone who can help, though one does sometimes have to navigate recorded messages
in Chinese.) Thank heavens for
Skype! (Two decades ago, I’d been so
excited by the advent of Skype with its affordable way to contact my family and
friends in South Africa, Australia and Europe.
As technology changed, Whatsapp, Line and Messenger slowly replaced this
dated software. Now, though, ringing a
landline across the globe, I was thankful that I’d kept my Skype account, and
that there was still some credit on it.
Once my turn came around, the attendant was pleasant, and an adjustment charge
was waived because of the second ticket.
These tickets would
be changed again. Kathy was expecting a
new passport, issued by the Dutch authorities, having gone to the lengthy
effort of acquiring that citizenship following the UK’s Brexit vote. This required her to return to Amsterdam on
that very Saturday. I gave her the
number, and she was able to reschedule five days earlier.
Another
early arrangement was with a ferry company.
I wanted to visit some smaller isles around the main island of Great
Britain, which necessitated marine transportation. On the day of my outbound flight, as I slowly
readied for my 23:30 departure, I got an email.
The Isles of Scilly,
which form the southwestern most point of England, were experiencing storms.
The Scillonian might not sail. I got on Skype once more, this time queuing
for 20 minutes. It was not yet necessary
to cancel, but they’d keep me informed.
Later on the same day, it was confirmed that day trippers would not be
taken on the vessel: a delayed departure would leave no time on Scilly before a
punctual return. (This harked back to
the canceled boat trip in Oman. Oh,
man!) My payment was refunded. (I had considered getting accommodation on the
Isles of Scilly, but it was considerably more expensive than in Penzance.) Ah, well!
I’d booked several performances for my stay in
London, which would be in the second week on the isles. However, I would land in the capital first,
of course, and I soon found something for that very first night. This ticket led me to do something I’ve never
done before. Let me paint a picture.
I cannot sleep on flights; I’ve never been
able to. The only exception was when I
flew to Switzerland for 4 days in 2017 to attend my sister’s wedding. Obviously, planning a show for the day of
arrival after two 8-ish hour flights with a 4-ish hour layover is an exercise
in the absurd. It would make sense to
try and get some sleep, at the very least, on the flight. This is how, then, I justified upgrading my
outbound flight to a business class seat.
I watched the price daily, torturing myself about it for a month before
finally taking the plunge.
The intercontinental flight was with
Emirates. I was able to arrange diabetic
meals on all four flights, due to an unhappy diagnosis several weeks before
departure. It took some effort to put
aside my dislike of seafood, since this was the offered option. It was great to get my meal ahead of everyone
else, but the cabin crew then simply forgot to offer me an alcoholic beverage
(or indeed any beverage) while they served the rest of the travelers. This happened each time, twice on each leg,
eight times in total.
I had no neighbour on the first leg from Taipei
to Dubai. This was great because,
business class on this Boeing required the passenger at the window to climb
across the bed of the passenger on the aisle if he wished to get up for any
reason. This joy was slightly mitigated
by the fact that the seat didn’t seem to recline entirely flat, and the whole
thing was somewhat knobby. On the other
hand, the food was thoughtfully healthy, but way too much to finish.
At Dubai, we parked at a remote gate. Fortunately, business class passengers didn’t
have to wait for the riff-raff – we were bused to the terminal in a vehicle
that had seats! That was the first time
ever I’d been able to sit on a bus on the apron of an airport. The layover was long enough to require
several laps of the shopping area. There
were some great restaurants, but I didn’t want to eat. There were cigarettes, but I’ve quit. There was alcohol and an array of sweet and
salty snacks, but the doctor says “No.”
There were clothes, sports gear, jewelry and bags, but who decides to
afford airport prices?
Reaching the gate for the next leg to London,
all passengers were asked to show their passports. There’s another rant coming, and again, I’ve
decided to relegate it to my reflections.
The second leg was on an Airbus A380, and the business class seats were
both more private and more comfortable.
This one did recline all the way, and was smooth, if a little narrow.
Getting to the UK
(and back), I enjoyed the complete first season of Romantic Getaway, a
whacky British comedy starring Johnny Vegas, Katherine Ryan and Ramesh
Ranganathan. Another short series I got
to see was Agatha Christie: Lucy Worsley on the Mystery Queen.
I arrived in London at 12:45pm. I’d booked my train with Southern Rail from
the airport to London Bridge, so that was easy, but I couldn’t figure out how
to get to the train station. I walked
this way, then that way, then back again.
Finally I noticed a shuttle train, and I asked someone how to pay for
it. It was free! Awesome!
This took me to the station where I could get the train I’d already
booked. Arriving at London Bridge, I
ummed and ahhed about using the Underground or taking a taxi. I walked this way, then that way, then back
again. Finally, I decided to take the
Underground. Now I had to look for a
ticket office. I’d researched the weekly
ticket I used when I lived here more than two decades ago, and it seemed to
still be available, but what certainly wasn’t available was a manned ticket
booth. More stress. Eventually I went to the attendant at the
turnstile to express my need. He said
that weekly tickets are so expensive and that I should simply tap my credit
card to enter and exit the system. This
was cheaper because there was a daily cap, and once that was reached, the card
would not be charged for additional rides.
“But my card is foreign.” That
will work too.
By 3:30pm, I’d checked into the hotel near
Paddington Station. By 7:30pm, I’d
walked all the way to Arts Theatre on Great Newport Street, stopping en route
first for dinner, then for a Middle Eastern snack. I passed an unexpected number of buskers
belting Arabic tunes. Also en route, I
got to see one of London’s blue plaques, which adorn buildings in which notable
men and women from the past lived or worked.
Choir of Man was described as such:
It’s a great night at your local pub brought to glorious musical life on stage. Nine
talented performers deliver reinventions of your favorite chart-topping
classics, with songs by Adele, Guns'N'Roses, Sia, and Paul Simon among the
disparate numbers, all brought to roaring life.
Fresh
harmonies mean you'll hear classic songs like you've never heard them before,
mixed with meditations on community and resilience delivered in-between
rip-roaring musical numbers. It's like no pub concert you've ever seen before.
The show's
set also includes a working bar. The
Choir of Man London audiences are welcome on stage to grab a pint and
meet the boys before the show begins. A few lucky audience members might even
be pulled up on stage during the show to experience a number up close. Wherever
you are sitting, the musical's tap dancing and exuberant stomping is
choreography like nothing you've experienced on the West End.
I had some idea what I was going to see, but
hadn’t seen this previous paragraph, so when I arrived, the scene was rather
chaotic. I knew that it was set in a
pub, but couldn’t have known that access to Arts Theatre was through an actual
pub, in the back, downstairs. The stage
was itself a functioning bar, above which was a platform where the drummer, a
guitarist and one other instrumentalist sat.
I didn’t see the drummer come down at all, but both of the others were
up and down, sometimes on stage, sometimes on the bar counter and sometimes on
the platform above with the drummer. My
seat was number R1 in Circle Slips Right.
This was a single row of seats in a gallery, above the main body of
audience, overlooking the stage from a height.
Across from me was Circle Slips Left, an identical row above and to the
left of the stage. This left me too far
away from the stage-bar to want to go and get a drink. I abstained.
I really loved Choir of Man. The tale was of what the pub means to its
regulars, how they share their lives, their joys, their losses with each other,
while also sharing bubbles. The
actor-singer-instrumentalists rocked the house.
It was all quite engrossing. My
favorites were, naturally, the ones which showed real musical talent. These were 1) a brilliant harmonisation of Somebody
to Love by Queen, and 2) the pièce de rèsistance, a magnificent
harmonisation of Chandelier by Sia. This
was a great way to start the trip.
Willkommen!
Bienvenue! Welcome!
I returned to my
hotel, the gorgeously named Orchard Hotel. Unlike an orchard, the rooms were
pokey. Bending down to brush my teeth,
my bum knocked the opposite wall and prevented my face from getting close
enough to the basin. Showering, I felt
like an octopus forcing itself through a narrow tube.
In the morning,
before making my way to Paddington Station, I had breakfast on the ground
floor. The woman who helped me had a Slavic accent, starting a theme for the
trip. The meal was not worth mentioning
here, and that’s what you get for choosing one of the cheapest hotels in the
area.
The first train journey started a second theme
– it was late.The adjusted departure
was initially unknown, but I think we departed within an hour.The Great Western Railway train was again
delayed en route!There were not many
passengers.The driver and the hostess,
who made announcements, were apologetic and pass-the-buck-ish.“The delays have been caused by a freight
train.”They let passengers know that
the crew would be changing, and might we kindly excuse sluggish service while this
happens?I found this a little off-key.On the other hand, the driver also informed
us that we could apply for partial or total refunds, depending on how late we
actually got to our destination.I took
a picture of the clock as we arrived in Penzance, and then decided to drop it.
Somewhere along the route, some noisy, odd
characters got on.The first seemed a
reprobate, a hard man, perhaps drunk.The second turned out to have a disability that made his speech
difficult and loud.The first, hard man made
way for the guy in the wheelchair, moving to a different seat and quieting
down.Perhaps not so hard and brutish
after all.
(Later in the trip, a taxi driver lamented how
expensive everything had become, and how much the UK government took from
everyone in taxes.“And what do they do
for us?”Well, this train and indeed all
the transport around the island, is certainly one thing that the government
does for them.The transportation
system, though all too frequently delayed, is nevertheless phenomenal.)
I was meant to ride this train up to Plymouth,
where I’d have to change to another train to Penzance.The driver announced over the PA that anyone
who had been planning to change at Plymouth was welcome to stay on until a
later stop because the next Great Western train was hot on this one’s
heals.I changed at Par.Waiting on the platform, the English
mid-summer weather was windy, cold and rainy.
I was frustrated with the SIM card I’d bought
just the previous day at Gatwick Airport.It was likely my own fault.Having
done my homework in Taiwan, I grabbed the product I wanted, never stopping to
ask questions.Within just 24 hours, I
was no longer connected to 4G.I was
livid.However, I didn’t care to go
through the small print.On the walk
from the station to my Airbnb, I simply stopped to get a new SIM.This time, I asked for advice, and this data
lasted right to the end of my trip.
I checked in to the accommodation, which was a
spacious room in the attic of a Victorian house occupied by a family.Richard met me and led me upstairs.I met his wife Charlotte the next day.I didn’t ever see their two sons.Richard also found the number of a taxi
service in Redruth.
I was leaving
shortly by train, back in the direction I’d just come, for my first exciting
dining experience.Getting to Redruth a
little early, a taxi driver called the restaurant for me to see if I could
arrive before 6pm.They said no.I took a short walk through the downtown
area.This town offered nothing to
see.(Back in Taiwan, I’d stumbled upon
a YouTube channel called Turdtowns.One
episode focused on small towns in Cornwall.It was funny and quite irreverent.Redruth was listed as a town not worth seeing.Never mind, I was only here to get to an
eatery.)
When I could take it
no more, I returned to the station with its waiting taxis. Richard’s helpful number remained unused. The same Pakistani who’d called the
restaurant drove me out of the village, passed some peripheral houses on quiet
lanes, then up a hill on a very bouncy road.
Tall grass and low bushes on both sides of the track scratched at the
paint on the van’s doors. Before the
restaurant came into view he stopped, saying this is as far as he’d go because
the road got worse from here. I was to
walk the last 100 metres, and I’d see the restaurant just around yonder
boulder. He agreed to come pick me up
afterwards and I took his number.
Carn Brea Castle Restaurant was one of the places I’d stumbled
upon on Google Maps. The minutest little
castle, partially built precariously upon surrounding boulders, on a hill in
the Cornish countryside was attractive enough.
When I then discovered that it housed a restaurant serving Jordanian
food, I knew this could not be missed.
My palate is particularly fond of Arabic flavours, and I’d already
visited and loved Jordan. It was this
discovery that demanded the first rescheduling of Hampton Court Palace.
Arriving at the entrance after rounding yonder
boulder, two others waited just outside the locked door. We chatted for a bit in the blustering wind. It felt like the start of a horror movie,
as the mist rolled in, awaiting shadows to actualise before our very
eyes. After a little while, it seemed
impossible that no one could let us in, so the woman pressed the bell
again. When she’d first pressed, she
admitted, there’d been no audible ring.
This time, we heard it clearly; the door opened, granting us refuge from
the icy apparitions. It was locked behind
us on account of the fine weather. Ah,
the British summer!
Beyond the door was a sparsely furnished
reception area with a single heavy wooden chair at the foot of a narrow
stairway. Up the first set of stone
steps were the toilets to the right and a small dining area with three tables
to the left. No one was seated here during
my visit. Up another set of steps was a
bigger dining area, and here most of the tables were occupied. This is where I was shown my seat. From this level, the stairs now consisted of
a very narrow metal frame and wooden steps.
Up the first set of these was a room that seemed only for display, and
up the second was a door to the rooftop, where one could look out over the
surrounding countryside.
I ordered a glass of lager. Then I started with baba ghanoush, hot pita and
olives. It would have been rude not to
follow this with lamb chops. I asked for
no rice (doctor’s orders) and got several roast potatoes instead. For dessert, there was never a doubt I would
choose the knafeh, which has lately become my favorite dessert of all
time. I thoroughly enjoyed every aspect
of this experience.
It Couldn’t Please Me More
All too soon, it was
time to call the Pakistani to pick me up.
At the station, he conveniently dropped me on the side of the tracks I
needed for my return to Penzance. One other
man waited, and we got chatting. He was
a Scot who had spent several decades living in the Philippines. We had an animated exchange about the East,
the places we had visited, the English weather, and the things I should not
miss in Cornwall. He told me of the
hop-on-hop-off bus service, a dayrider ticket that carries visitors around all
of Cornwall. Since my ferry tomorrow had
been canceled, I decided I’d make use of this service and see some places near
Penzance.
After a great sleep,
for breakfast I ate the salad bought yesterday before leaving London. I hadn’t refrigerated it but, given the
frigid temperatures and the absence of meat, I reckoned it would still be fine,
and there were no rumblings in my guts, so I was right. Next, I headed to a Laundromat, stopping
briefly at a gallery across from Lloyds Bank.
I saw very quickly that I’d be returning to Taiwan with no art, given
the prices here. My washing would be
done by noon, so I decided to hang around in Penzance until then. I walked to Sainsbury’s to get supplies.
Returning, I stopped
in at Cornish Oven. This was clearly a
large-scale commercial bakery, though there was a counter at the window. I got myself the Cornish pasty I’d been
dreaming of. It was good, but in truth,
I prefer sausage rolls and traditional meat pies. This one was fine, only I found it somewhat
bland. It did, however, satisfy my curiosity,
being my first ever.
I made my way to tourist information, bought a
ticket for the COASTER bus and dropped off my clean clothes. Then I boarded a bus to St. Ives. The lanes were narrow and jammed, and it was
a slow ride, but very pretty. At times,
roadside bushes scratched at the paint on both sides of the bus. Behind me, a woman hacked and groaned, and I
wanted to turn and ask her to put on a mask.
Knowing how people in the West responded to this during the pandemic, I
knew it would not be wise. Fortunately,
I caught nothing from her or indeed throughout my stay.
St. Ives is really beautiful. It was as busy as a Taiwanese night
market! What a treat to walk around its
steep streets and peer into the various shops!
I’d soon find its quintessential offering: magnificent smelling
fudge. Oh, woe is me that I was not
permitted to eat any! As tempting as it
was, I pulled myself away without stepping inside. I hurried on.
When I was done, I asked to be directed to the
bus stop. This service operates a
clockwise and an anticlockwise route, up one end of Penwith Peninsula and down
the other. I opted to continue
anticlockwise and stop at Land’s End and the Minack Theatre before returning to
Penzance. Well, the wait at the stop was
an hour, and then we advanced very slowly indeed; there was a constant need to
carefully avoid oncoming vehicles.
The
vegetation reminded me of the Eastern Cape of South Africa. It was lush.
Wild horses dotted the hills. The
people on the bus sounded joyous, and two couples at the front of the top deck
gave a running commentary of the traffic situation. Our progress began to feel excruciating. All I’d eaten today was the salad for
breakfast and the Cornish pasty at 10:30.
I did not get off at Land’s End and also stayed on as we passed the
Minack Theatre. I just wanted to get
back to the room. Tomorrow was also
going to be full.
After another restful night, I brought my
suitcase down the treacherously narrow attic staircase, bid my hosts farewell
and made my way back to the train station. On the way, I pulled into a bakery to get
another treat – a sausage roll. From
Europcar, I picked up my first hired vehicle; this Volkswagen would bring me
back to London over the next three days.
It had a manual transmission. I
was a little nervous. I last drove stick
in 2015, and before that in the mid-90s.
Never mind.
A technicality made me nervous again. Although the car was physically present, it
had not yet been electronically recorded as returned, so would I kindly fill in
the forms by hand and also provide my credit card details in full on the
paperwork? “Fraud!” yelled the back of
my mind. I’d not installed this bank’s
app on my phone. I tried now, but after
two failed attempts, it was best to leave until after I’d returned to
Taiwan. “Fraud!” he chimed again. I shushed him, submitting the paperwork.
Now the controls had me flummoxed. I spent ages trying to adjust the lights,
wipers and air conditioning. I returned
to the attendant and he, too, was stumped.
He guided me nervously through the dashboard computer, and it was here
the a/c controls were located. The
lights and wipers would be controlled automatically by the car. It was modern, fancy and convenient, but only
if you knew how to operate it. The handbrake
was replaced by a button, equally frightening, but in the end, super easy to
use. As I got underway, I saw no road
signs indicating speed limits. Was I
driving too fast, too slowly? How could
traffic be controlled this way? I was eventually
astonished to find the speed limit on the dashboard, visible through the
steering wheel. What sophistication!
My first stop today would be at my first manor
house. Planning several months ago, it
became clear that to satisfy my lust, it would be economical to join the
National Trust. This is a charity that preserves
heritage in England, Wales and Northern Ireland. It was started in 1895, but its possessions
really took off after World War II, when swathes of the aristocracy collapsed. The National Trust has bought or been gifted
many properties that were formerly privately owned. Its collection, if one might call it that,
includess more than 500 historic houses, castles, archaeological and industrial
monuments, gardens, parks, and nature reserves.
A year’s membership costs £84 and offers free
access to and parking at all their locations.
After visiting six, I’d made back the membership fee, and I visited two
more. Score! On the other hand, some places that enticed
me are not owned by National Trust.
There, I had to cough up the entrance fee. Hampton Court Palace was one of these, and
two more would freeze in my headlights later.
It wasn’t easy to choose from the multitude of
places I’d saved on Google Maps. All I
could do was point my finger and select randomly. I headed to Trerice. Although I had seen this yesterday and the
day before, I was now surprised by how choked the country lanes are. The vegetation on each side scratched at the
paint on the car’s doors. This in itself
is not terrible; what terrified me was that these were two-way lanes! They were snaky, too, so sometimes oncoming
vehicles were a total surprise. Clearly
the people who live around these parts have been doing this for a long time and
have avoidance down pat, but I was nervous.
At one point, having to suddenly reverse, I backed into a low stone
wall. Or so I thought. The car suddenly stopped and stalled. I turned it back on and continued the
reverse, allowing the oncoming vehicle to pass.
I continued towards my destination.
Arriving there, I inspected the back of the car. I was embarrassed, but not worried: I had
full cover with zero excess. To my
surprise, there was no sign of a crash.
It seems the car was smart enough to stop itself and stall when it
sensed a crash about to happen.
Trerice is an Elizabethan manor in the Cornish
countryside. There is the main house,
and behind it the barn which these days houses a cafeteria. Pretty gardens surround the buildings. You can read about the history here. It
was a little sparsely furnished and not really what I’d been expecting, but I
liked it anyhow.
While here, I received a message via
Booking.com, asking for me to pay for tonight’s accommodation. I spent quite some time standing in the barn,......
......trying to get this sorted while continuously failing to connect to the
internet. I eventually asked the staff
at the cafeteria, and they said, yes, mobile signals were not strong here, and
wifi was unfortunately not available. I
was at least able during one moment of connectivity to reply to the
accommodation to let them know the trouble I was having.
Leaving Trerice, I was surprised to see a
Taiwanese style scooter in the parking area.
As soon as I had a signal, I stopped on the side of the road and got the
payment done.
It was now time to head to Lanhydrock. This
is a Jacobean house, restored in Victorian style after a fire. Parking was so far from the house that it
wasn’t clear I was in the right place.
It was also a little confusing finding the entrance to the parking. I found myself turning around on one of these
narrow lanes, and this time, reversing up an incline, I was certain that I’d
crashed the car. However, on inspection,
it had again saved my bacon. This was
fortunately the last “crash” although in one of the parking lots, an unknown someone
opened their door into mine, leaving a fresh dent. Thank goodness for comprehensive
insurance!
When the house did come into view, it was quite
spectacular. You can read about the
history here. This was one of my favorite
visits. The house itself was plush and
luxurious, while the kitchens were also open to get a taste of life downstairs. I was astounded to find the separation of
food types. This room was for poultry,
that for mammals, this one for pastries, that one for cheeses. The list went on. The gardens and fields surrounding it were
vast! I didn’t visit any of the gardens
because it was the architecture and art that caught my imagination, and because
I wanted to get to as many houses as I could.
This was all I’d get to today. I hadn’t anticipated the time it would take
to traverse the country lanes, and in the afternoon, I’d be meeting friends in
Plymouth. Jill and I had worked together
between 1996 and 1998 at the Wild Fig Restaurant in Mowbray, Cape Town. If you’ve read any of my blogs, then you may
have come across this name. Several
friendships I made in those two years have stood the test of time. Mike, her boyfriend at the time, didn’t work
with us but was also sometimes around at gatherings.
After I moved to London and took a job at
Rules Restaurant with Debbie and Tiziana (who’d also worked at the Wild Fig),
Jill and Mike rejoined our group when they, too, arrived and took jobs with
us. They returned briefly to South
Africa to get married, and I attended their wedding. Then,
after leaving Rules, I didn’t get to see them again, except one night as I was
getting ready to leave London.
In subsequent years, we’d remained in infrequent
contact on Facebook. Now, planning to be
in their neighbourhood (Dawlish, Devon, if my memory could be trusted), I got
in touch. They’d subsequently moved to
Plymouth, and they’d raised Mikayla and James.
It was so good to see them, catch up, and to meet the teenagers. We talked about travel, beliefs and Rules
Restaurant. The man who’d been the
general manager when we’d worked there was now the owner, a Scotsman called
Ricky.
Jill provided dinner – pizza with homemade oat
crust. It was really tasty, and I loved
the crunchiness – like an oatmeal cookie without the sweetness. I highly recommend it. Mikayla showed me some of her art, and I
expressed an interest in buying some.
After selecting the ones that interested me, I didn’t hear any more
about it, so I guess she’s not that keen to part with it. Jill had arranged a parking token, permitting
me to park just outside their house.
They suggested I leave it there overnight. They drove me to the show.
After finding Jill
and Mike in Plymouth, I looked for performances. One stood out. Alice in Wonderland was billed as
such:
When
tech-savvy teen Alice tries to repair her dear Dad’s much-loved old stereo, a
slip of the screwdriver hurtles her into a strange new world. As the tape
unravels, she meets a host of unlikely new friends and meets her musical match
against the infamous Queen of Charts.
Spinning
together a familiar story with a company of awesomely talented actor-musicians,
this new remix, lovingly created with our friends at Liverpool Everyman &
Playhouse and Stockroom Productions, is bursting with brilliant original music
inspired by the best of British pop.
Come with
us down the rabbit hole, through the looking glass and into a Wonderland like you’ve
never seen before!
Jill got the tickets
for all of us, and in we went. The
Theatre Royal Plymouth was not very full, and there were lots of children. Nothing unusual so far. The costumes were outlandish, the music was
indeed interesting, and the premise was fun.
However, when the kids in the audience were asked for help to warn the
characters of lurking danger, or to find a missing item, the penny finally
dropped that we were watching a show for children. Never mind, it was pretty fun all the same. If I’d been here on my own, I might have left
at intermission, but I’m glad I didn’t.
The music and my company were both worth it.
After the show, they drove me down Southside
Street and through the Barbican, which they said is the lively part of the city
with lots of food and entertainment.
Then they dropped me at my accommodation.
I had checked in to
my hotel, for which I’d paid on the side of the road, before the show. We were in a great hurry so I paid no
attention dropping my bags. Now, back at
Fox House Studios after Wonderland, I was quite impressed. It was really only one room with separate,
private bathroom, but the room was large.
There was a kitchen stocked for two, a kettle, instant coffee, and tea
bags. There were enough plugs for me to
boil the kettle and charge my phone and camera at the same time. I was restricted by my single British adaptor. The bed was comfortable, and the room was
warm.
After arriving at
Jill’s around 4pm, I’d received a message on Whatsapp saying, “We are unable to
send your access code until you have signed our registration card. Please sign it here.” A link was provided. I didn’t want to touch that message, except
that they’d named me in person. “Excuse
me, who is this?” It turned out to be
the next provider of accommodation, for my night in Southampton tomorrow. This was an unmanned hotel. They then explained all I needed to know. Like some Airbnbs, this property (and indeed
the rooms within) was accessed by entering a code. It seemed unnecessarily complicated in
2023. It also drove home the fact that
traveling without a smart phone is absolutely not advisable.
The next morning,
Mike picked me up as promised and drove me back to their place. He showed me James’ set up of musical
equipment. Talented kids! I stayed for a cuppa and then got on the
road.
I would stop first at Saltram, just outside Plymouth. This
lovely house was grander than Trerice, but not as grand as Lanhydrock. You can read about its history here. Three things stood out for
me. The first was the “ticket”. Entrance was granted by handing back an old
key that was issued by the receptionist.
What a perfect quirk!
The second
was that there was a lot of Chinese art, and even Chinese wallpaper, throughout
the house. Thirdly, in one room above a
doorway, two very old horns were hung.
These had a double interest for me.
The musical appeal of these is obvious, but there was a second, less
obvious reason I was transfixed. I
recently turned part of a saxophone into a lamp, and I want to continue making
lamps out of wind instruments. I’m
really looking for completely battered, well used pieces, instead of gleaming
new ones. These horns fit the bill
perfectly, and I asked if I could put them in my bag!
My second stop was at
Killerton. This Georgian beauty is in the
Devon countryside, not far from Exeter.
You can read about its history here. As with most of the houses,
there were several musical instruments, including (oh my word) a miniature pipe
organ! Returning to the parking lot
afterwards, I found this classic vehicle near mine!
The next stop would bring me out of Devon and
into Somerset. Montacute is an Elizabethan Renaissance building. You will find information on its history here. There
was more Chinese art here, and I loved the grand stone stairways. In the last room I saw, I chatted briefly
with an attendant. When I mentioned
Lanhydrock, and how surprised I’d been to discover that each type of food was
prepared in a different kitchen, he corrected that the kitchens had been
redesigned during the pandemic to keep people socially distant. When I look back at the pictures now, I do
wonder……….
My last stop of the day was not at a house, but
rather at the Cerne Giant. This is a
giant naked figure sculpted into a chalk hillside in Dorset. Its origin is disputed and at least as
uncertain as Stonehenge. You can read
about it here and here. It was raining and cold, so from the viewing
point set up by the National Trust, there was no clear view of the figure.
I didn’t stay long. It was time to make my way to Southampton and
to eat dinner. Tomorrow promised to be
fun… and full. I started today in western
Devon and would end it three counties to the east in Hampshire.
I parked the car and
let myself in at Starboard Stays with the access code I’d been sent on Whatsapp. I
initially went to the wrong room, and its occupant opened his door to see who
was trying to gain entry. Fortunately,
he didn’t seem annoyed. Once in my room,
I was not amused. It was even more pokey
than the room in London. This one, like
the one in London, had a single bed. I
roll a lot when I sleep, so I knew instantly that tonight’s sleep would
frequently be interrupted as I tried not to fall off. I wasted no time; food had to be eaten. I walked a little way down the road, where a
perpendicular lane had restaurants down both sides. I chose a pub. The meal was pleasing, but I was soon back in
the room. This is when the last discomfort
showed itself. I was one floor up from
the street, which was very noisy throughout the night. Ah, well, you win some and you lose some.
An unexpected joy waited
the next morning. It was not so much
unexpected today, but it was only three weeks earlier that I’d read on Ben
Padmore’s Facebook page that he and his family had relocated from Cape Town to
Southampton. I hadn’t been planning to
stop here, but the minute I got that news, I changed my plans. I was terribly excited about seeing
them. In order to also satisfy my travel
lust, I decided to book us a ferry to the Isle of Wight. (I’d lost a Scilly and gained a Wight.) Since I already had a car, it was one fare
for all of us. They met me outside
Starboard Stays, and I was happy to be saying goodbye to this place. We jumped in the car and drove to the port.
The Red Funnel carried us and the car across
The Solent. Boarding and disembarking were
seamless, and our conversation was animated.
Given the political and economic situation in South Africa, and the
ruinous repercussions of the pandemic, Ben and Simeon made the decision to sell
their house in Noordhoek and use the proceeds to get themselves and their kids,
Liam and Raegen, here to start fresh lives. I couldn't be happier about it. I wish that
everyone I love would leave.
I had additionally planned something I hoped
the kids would like, but I kept it secret until we got there: Model Village
Godshill. The kids did indeed love it,
and so did the three of us. This is a
miniature of the village in which it is located. Within the minitown stands a smaller replica,
and within that, yet another smaller replica.
Four incarnations of Godshill; how fun!
After this joy, we got some lunch in the
garden of The Taverners right across the road.
Here I had my first of many run-ins with bees. I say run-in, but I just mean that the pesky
insect buzzed about us, resting on the rims of our glasses and refusing to leave
us be. (Ahem!) I don’t remember lots of bees when I lived in
the UK 23 years ago, but they certainly made appearances on this trip.
There was not much time left, so we took a
roundabout route back to East Cowes, from where we’d return to Southampton on the
Red Funnel. While waiting to board, I
saw this flag for the first time, and began quietly wondering what it
meant.
Disembarking on the northern
coast of The Solent, I drove them back to the place they’d rented. They are in a terraced house overlooking a
river. It is spacious and what a
view! I didn’t stay long, though, as I
still had to make it into London and check in at the Airbnb.
